tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67551191671258335592024-02-19T03:22:54.582-08:00Old Guys RuleRollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.comBlogger323125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-13193868750914503412018-06-12T08:30:00.000-07:002019-06-10T20:11:50.219-07:00In Defense of Neckties<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">I haven't published lately. Sorry for that. Maybe there's no one out there looking for my posts, and my comment is irrelevant. But just in case, here is a vintage post that I find amusing, and I hope you may too. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Being a minister, decorum often dictates that I wear a necktie. Retirement tends to relax that demand somewhat, and living in southern California grants everyone a few more degrees of informality. Nevertheless there are occasions when a tie must be worn. And on those occasions I wear a tie with playful design, and it makes it worth the ordeal just to be a trifle rebellious. Nothing too outrageous, just Winnie the Poo or Mickey Mouse. I especially like Charlie Brown characters and Snoopy playing tennis or something like that.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">My friend, Jay Adams, shamelessly rails against this timeless convention as the sole reason women outlive men. He claims that men slowly choke themselves to death with this silky rag. I don’t know if Insurance companies have made it an actual study, but my personal anecdotal testimony claims at least two good reasons to wear a tie (in spite of the risk).</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">The first reason is one I discovered as a young father. By the time I had two boys who liked to play “boys climb on daddy” I had observed the first practical use of the cravat. Carrying a two-year old boy on my arm was a safer proposition when he used my necktie as a sort of trolley strap. And when I held two little boys at the same time, and they insisted, “Daddy, run with us” that trolley strap was quite useful.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Well those days are long gone. I am not the man I was then. In fact I am closer to being twice the man I was then. But that is a circumstance that occasioned the discovery of the second practical use of neckties by this corpulent clergyman. It makes a great cover for the strained buttons down the front of my shirt. It seems that a tie, like love, can cover a multitude of sins.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Actually there is another very practical use of a tie that I have found, but it does not involve the wearing of it as a fashion statement around the neck. Old miserable ties make the perfect bond for a three legged race at the Sunday School Picnic. The tie is just long enough to bind the legs of these contestants, and yet it is soft enough so as not to cut into the flesh of rambunctious runners. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Ties, like other fashions, run in cycles. The wide tie will occasionally experience a revival, as will the narrow one. You may like to save for those fashion revivals. But once you commit your tie to the three-legged race, it is not likely to see another fashionable day.</span>Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-58065038792490579192017-09-01T17:50:00.000-07:002017-09-01T17:50:36.356-07:00Growing OldWell, of course, nobody grows young. But when one crosses the threshold from middle aged to just plain "old" many thoughts come to mind. For one thing there is the enormous amount of pills required to keep me alive. I take 12 prescription pills every day. They must be working. Add to that the number of pills my wife is convinced will keep me alive and kicking (fish oil, cranberry, probiotics, etc.). But truth be told, I have learned to admit that I'm alive and shuffling. I don't kick any more.<br />
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Then there are the frequent memorials and funerals for old friends. Yogi Berra says I should attend other people's funerals or else they won't attend mine. Okay, I get that, but now all my contemporaries are keeling over. I used to think that only "old people" died. How many times have you been told that so-and-so died of old age? Now that I'm an octogenarian, I've joined the croaking generation. My father in law used to say he refused to buy green bananas. It was funnier when he said it. He lived to be 100.<br />
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Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the memory fades as the years advance. Like my old friend, Dr. Joe Garrisi used to say, "I've been thinking about the hereafter more and more. Why just the other day I went into the kitchen and stopped and said, 'Now what am I here after?'" But there is an upside to this phenomenon. When we watch old recorded TV dramas we often realize that we have seen it before, but since we have forgotten who done it we can enjoy it all over again.<br />
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I've learned to say, "I didn't see it." rather than "It's not in there." This is especially true of my wife's purse (which I have nicknamed "the black hole"). When she says something can be found in her purse I have learned to say, "Can you be more specific?"<br />
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I have talked to the Lord about this, and I have pleaded for a quick and easy departure, like during my nap. Is that so much to ask? Somehow He has not gotten back to me about that. Okay that sudden stuff is hard on those left behind, but they'll get over it. <br />
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I've decided that it's my turn first. My wife, bless her sweet heart, has many ailments, but they seem to rob her of the quality of life. They are not life-threatening. Her genetic history seems to predict a long (though miserable) life span. My gene pool, on the other hand, tells me that I have been living on borrowed time for the last 30 years. I've long past the time that I was afraid I might die young. <br />
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I no longer wonder what I'm going to be when I grow up. I've already been there and done that. But I have to admit that I am so grateful to God for allowing me to preach the gospel for over 50 years. I have built no great cathedrals. I have not converted thousands of people. I was never mistaken for an authoritative theologian. Only once was I asked to be the featured speaker at a family conference. That's okay, I've had the privilege of teaching and preaching the word of God for 65 years in the local church. I pray there have been many more saved and helped by my ministry than I know anything about. But as poorly as I have accomplished my calling, it has been a blessing to me, and by God's grace to a few others too.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-10968421009706941752016-07-30T18:08:00.000-07:002016-07-30T18:08:06.892-07:00Speaking of TrainsThis summer we took a big trip, and experienced many adventures for posting. I must begin with the train. Yes, we took the train. We took the train to Philadelphia, and back here to Los Angeles, with a lot of stuff in between.<br />
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We had often talked about taking a long trip by train for many years now. When I was invited to preach in Wilmington, DE, and then appointed as a commissioner to General Assembly, we decided this was the time to put the two events together and travel by the good old iron horse. Actually I think the iron horse reference means the old fashioned steam locomotive. And how that would have been a blast! But no, this was standard AMTRAK diesel. <br />
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But it was still adventurous. We had a great time, and will probably take another trek by train, one of these days. It's delightful to see the scenery in such a relaxed atmosphere. There was a sort of adventurous thrill I experienced when the train first began to move. It was diminished, but still fun every time the train began to move again.<br />
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But there were some modifications to my somewhat romantic notion of travel by rail. I had anticipated night travel to gently rock me to sleep as the mesmerizing clickety-clack of rail seams created the perfect white noise. Well, not so much. To be sure there were many stretches that almost fulfilled that fantasy. But for the most part we had to get used to violent jerking that would challenge agile young people to keep their feet--and we are neither agile nor are we young. The compartment was small enough that we could hold on to something or other whenever we needed to move around. The hallway leading to the dining car was narrow enough that instead of throwing us to the floor, we merely bumped our shoulders first on one wall then on the other. Yes, it was a challenge, but I thought it was fun.<br />
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When the conductor adjusts our couch to become a bunk bed, we discovered another challenge. Climbing up to that upper bunk was designed for a contortionist. Okay, I'm no contortionist, and I did make it up there, but I assure you it was not without pain. During one leg of our journey we had a less spacious compartment. This one not only required a contortionist of sorts, but I learned something about myself. I have a mild case of claustrophobia. I was sure I could not get to the top bunk, but I did. And then the ceiling began to creep down upon me. I panicked. I even cried out. I couldn't get down, and yet I did--rather rapidly in fact.<br />
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Believe it or not, we learned to use this narrow bunk as a double bed. It's so wonderful being married to a tolerant spouse. That bunk was so narrow (and we are NOT narrow) that I slept with my feet near my wife's face, and she the opposite. That was just one night. The rest of the time we had the deluxe accommodations in which the bed was a more believable double. Again I thank God for a tolerant companion.<br />
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I made it sound as though we didn't sleep, but we did. We learned to adjust, and any hours we missed at night we could always make up during nap time.<br />
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The meals were worth a blog post of their own. When one buys the deluxe accommodations the meals are included in the price. The food was good and very well prepared. Though the menu provided variety, it did become rather limited when we spent six days on the train. A seasoned traveler warned us to order the steak dinner the first night because they sometimes run out. We did so, and it was not disappointing. Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-6515920707955295162016-07-29T12:49:00.002-07:002016-07-29T12:49:28.316-07:00The Spooky Train RideMy great grandfather (or was it my great, great?) was some exec with the Swiss railroad. I think this story came down from him. At least my mother told me this story, and attributed it to him. The line of transmission for some old family stories becomes blurred with time. Anyway, here is what my mother told me.<br />
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On a dark and foggy night the train chugged along the mountainside when the engineer began to notice an ominous image in the fog ahead. It appeared to be an angel beckoning him to stop the train. He called to his fireman to see if he had the same view. These two men rubbed their eyes and stared into the foggy night, they concurred that there was a definite image of an angel, persistently urging them to stop the train.<br />
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It seemed irresponsible to stop the loaded train halfway up the mountain, but the more they talked it over, the more they began to spook one another. Finally the engineer brought the iron horse to a stop. The image was still looming ahead of them in the fog. With its wings spread wide, the angel was demanding that they halt their progress. Just then the conductor came up the tracks from several cars behind the engine. "Hey, we're not scheduled to stop for several miles. What are you doing?"<br />
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"Don't you see that angel in the fog, there ahead of the train?" answered the engineer. "I'll take the responsibility for an unscheduled stop, but I just felt I had to stop."<br />
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"Oh, yeah. I see what you mean. Let me look up ahead along the tracks and see if I can find anything." agreed the conductor. He strode ahead along the tracks for a hundred or more feet when he suddenly stopped and let him mouth fall open. He ran back to tell the engineer what had happened.<br />
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As he approached the halted train, the engineer called out, "Hey Fritz, get back on the train. It was nothing. We found a dead moth was caught right inside the headlamp with its wings spread apart. In the fog it gave the eery appearance of an angel. You can tell your grandchildren how silly your engineer friend was when he saw that image in the fog."<br />
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"I will tell my grandchildren, alright, but it won't be about a silly engineer. Barely a hundred yards ahead of us the bridge is washed away!"Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-84140460388755896062016-04-28T18:08:00.000-07:002016-04-28T18:08:43.642-07:00Tent CampingExperiences from the terrifying to the humorous come to mind merely by those two words: tent camping.<br />
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My parents taught me to love camping, having taken me to the Mammoth Lakes every year for vacation for several years in a row. A nine year old boy finds great delight in living in the dirt, digging a hole to poop and swimming once a week instead of taking a bath.<br />
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We camped in tents at June Lake before there were condos. Hey, it was before there was a paved road. (Yes, I am that old.) The latrine was behind a tree up the hill. I had my own pup tent, and didn't mind sleeping on the ground. That was then. Now not so much.<br />
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I actually rose at dawn to catch a trout and fry it for breakfast. Camp food was wonderful. The ashes that drifted into the beans just made them taste better.<br />
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Now my wife has taught me the sensible pleasure of camping at resort hotels. On a recent junket she ordered lobster eggs Benedict. And as for the pup tent and earthy mattress, I've come to the place that I am unable to get down to the ground, and if I do, I need serious help getting back up. Now for an octogenarian whose bladder demands attention at 4 in the morning, that routine is way out of the question.<br />
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There were several years that Barbara and I took our boys camping, however. It was not because I had convinced her of the joys of the rugged life. No, it was an economic necessity on the preacher's impecunious salary. <br />
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There was the time we traveled from Front Royal into the Blue Ridge Mountains to find a camping spot all by ourselves. I kept the boys busy hiking and Barbara fixed meals. It was a beautiful sight. Some people just do not appreciate the experience of cooking and doing dishes in refugee conditions.<br />
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When we visited Williamsburg for the first time, we pitched the tent not far from the town and made daily trips. Very educational. On the Lord's day we took a drive to see Yorktown, but there was a rainstorm that stopped traffic. It was like we were parked under a waterfall. Later, when we returned to our campsite, we discovered that a tree branch had fallen through our tent, ruining the tent and drenching the contents. Wasn't that funny? No, actually it was not. Other campers let us use their station wagon so, between their's and ours, we housed the family for one last night. Later it was reported that that storm produced 2 inches of rain in half an hour.<br />
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Fast forward a few years. The kids are grown, and we have camping friends. I weighed my chances of giving my wife a pleasant camping experience, and decided I should cook. I determined to cook gourmet meals. Steak from the freezer would take two days to thaw completely, and a favorite of ours was cornish game hens. I simply doused them with generous amounts of salt, pepper and garlic. then I double wrapped them in heavy foil. I rolled them back and forth over the grill, listening to the spit and crackle of rendering meat. Couple that with potatoes baked the same way and maybe some corn or a veggie bought from a farmers' market on the way, and we had a worthy meal. <br />
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This became our planned routine for camping until we ran into hornets. Camping with our dear friends, Bob and Susan Lee and their two children, I treated everyone to this cornish game hen banquet. However, who knew that there was a hornet nest nearby? And who knew that they would be frenzied by the scent of grease? It turns out we were more in danger of eating a live hornet than we were of being stung by one. This definitely modified the pleasure intended for this meal.<br />
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They say with age there comes wisdom. I think the point is with age more mistakes have been experienced by all the dumb things one has done. If this is wisdom, so be it. The wisdom I have gained in lo these many years has me enjoying the camping we do at resort hotels.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-21028863012741310672016-02-10T16:40:00.000-08:002016-02-10T16:43:54.647-08:00Termites and their work<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Many years ago when I was up studying for a sermon late at night, I heard a distant noise, sorta like Horton hearing a Who. It is amazing what sounds can be made by an old house when there are so few competing decibels to mask them. It was a tiny cross cut saw, or like the distant crunching of a corn-on-the-cob eating contest. I rose from the table and crept about the room, where ever my ears detected the source of this curious sound.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My keen hearing (remember, this was <u>many</u> years ago) brought me to the fireplace. In this clean and seldom used fireplace was one old log, cradled on the andirons. And it was definitely from this log that the sound was emanating. It wasn't a constant sound. It wasn't a freak or capricious sound. It came in a deliberate series of cadences. It was too tiny to be creepy, but it was--in its own way--ominous. I concluded that it was an army of termites, so I kindled a fire and consumed the log.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fast forward many years. A friend in the building trade, a contractor who does a little of everything, told me that, yes, you can hear termites at work, but usually it requires a stethoscope.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm sorry, my ears are not as sensitive as a stethoscope, but I <u>did</u> hear those dastardly beasts at work in my fire place. I can't imagine any other explanation for that tiny munching sound.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The reason I was reminded of that silly experience is that recently my wife awakened me to listen to the definite sound of gnawing. No, this was far too noisy for termites. In the middle of the night, my judgment being muddled, I told her that it was probably a tree in the wind rubbing against the house. Not a bad description of the sound, actually. But in the light of day it was obvious there was no tree anywhere near the house to comply with that simple explanation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next night I heard the noise myself before the narcotic of sleep dulled my senses. It may have been a rat or raccoon (please, not a beaver) chewing a two-by-four in the crawl space under the house. I haven't heard it again, but it is on my mind. I may have to ask some daring, slender young man to inspect the foundational timbers under our bedroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My friend says, just be certain it isn't in the attic. He claims that rats, and other assorted rodents, tend to chew on the insulation of electrical wiring. This may cause the house to catch fire, or at least it may electrocute the varmint, creating a growing stench</span>Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-49981001528434970232015-12-23T16:43:00.001-08:002015-12-23T16:43:08.981-08:00Traditions<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Okay, I cheated. The following post was written a couple years ago, but I'm too occupied with other stuff to take the time to write another Christmas post right now. So this will have to do. I hope you will forgive me.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I enjoy hearing of family traditions for the holidays. Thanksgiving is still relatively free of commercialism, so they are infringing on it with Black Friday's now. But most folk still like to get family together for turkey and all the trimmings. If you like turkey sandwiches, it is best to be sure you host this meal. After picking and burping, the men retire to the couch to watch football, the kids play outside, and the ladies clean up. No, it's not fair, but that is the tradition.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Then there are myriads of differing Christmas traditions. Some make certain to find a church that has a Christmas Day worship service. Others may read the Christmas story as recorded in the gospel of Luke. In our home we actually memorized this portion of scripture and recited it together. In most of our homes, however, Jesus got little more than a tip of the hat. We piously proclaimed that we were celebrating His birth (and we actually convinced ourselves this was true), but the main event always comes down to the fun of opening presents on Christmas morning.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Some homes allow for one curious present to be opened Christmas eve, as the remainder wait for the morning. I've heard of some homes where the presents are opened Christmas eve. I forgot to ask them what they did in the morning. Slept in, I suppose. It is so difficult for a kid to wait past 6 o'clock to get out of bed and begin the arduous task of ripping open all those pretty packages. If dad was up the night before, assembling a complicated toy until the wee hours of the morning, 6 o'clock is mighty early. But that was part of the tradition when I grew up.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">I don't know when I began to realize that it really was more fun to give than to receive, but parents get even more fun than their spoiled little ones, seeing the twinkle in their excited little eyes. We teach them so easily about greed and indulgence. Then, as they grow, we hope to teach them that a man's life does not consist in the abundance of things he possesses.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Since my Barbara's birthday is December 24, and since we got married on December 26, you might think we developed unique traditions. It might have been nice to have a routine that would give proper emphasis on each of these significant calendar events. But we never found a way to do that. When we tried to go to a fancy restaurant on our anniversary, we were still so full of Christmas goodies that we couldn't enjoy a meal as we might on a different night. So I suppose you might say our tradition began to be to celebrate our anniversary on any night, but not Dec. 26. That works much better. On our first anniversary, we were in Philadelphia to attend Westminster Seminary. We did go to Old Bookbinders restaurant, and I learned to eat a whole Maine lobster. I told the waiter I would order it on the provision that he taught me how to eat it. He came with a complete bib, a nutcracker and a tiny fork and showed me the finesse of dismantling one of these delicious beasts.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">Then, because we usually had a Christmas eve service, Barbara constantly had her special day trampled with other plans. Seldom did she get her chocolate cake (unless she herself broke down and bought one). What does a family do with a chocolate cake when the house if already full of candy canes, pfeffernusse cookies, fruitcake, hard candies, fudge, etc.?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">She was frequently short-changed, even when growing up because her father too was a minister. Yet it was my dear wife who supported and encouraged us to have Christmas eve services where ever we were. And, of course, she played the piano for the service.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">We do share fond memories of one special Christmas eve service in our fledgling chapel in Neptune, NJ. when the first snow of the season arrived in the form of a blizzard that night. Our neighborhood came out for the service in unusual numbers. Ushers had a snow shovel by the door with which they periodically cleared the porch. And when we lit candles and sang "Silent Night" to conclude the service, we had a tradition that almost everyone there cherished. It was necessary to dig cars out of the parking lot, and at least one of them needed a passing cowboy with a rope to pull him out of the slippery stuff.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">We had taken an enjoyable Christmas Carol and scripture reading service, with a pointed sermon for the holiday visitor, and made it a time to point to Jesus, the author of all of our good times.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-50309478366291749132015-12-04T17:42:00.004-08:002015-12-04T23:49:38.617-08:00Controlling PowerI discovered that braking on black ice is like riding a bobsled. This southern California boy moved east to attend Seminary in Philadelphia. On my way to school one chilly morning I jammed the brake to prevent hitting the car that had incomprehensibly stopped in the middle of the intersection. What I learned later was that the train tressel just above had been dripping water on the roadway below all night long. And that roadway was freezing that water into a large, invisible lake of ice ("black ice"). I swear the car accelerated, and I ran into the car ahead. Had to total it out and shop for another car, but that's another story.<br />
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My point is simply this: that scary moment when I realized I was not in control of this car. There are moments in our lives when we must admit that awkward or dangerous truth: I can't stop this immanent calamity.<br />
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Fast forward 10 years or so. A special musical group was singing at our church. We had invited the community. I met a young man who told me how he had become a Christian. It seems that the lead female singer in this group had been a long time friend of this guy. After a few years during which their paths went different directions, they met again. Only everything was different. She was now singing for the Lord, but he was still doing drugs. He told me that he decided to give up the drug scene and straighten out his life, but terror struck when he found he couldn't do it. All along he thought he was taking drugs and alcohol as a matter of choice which he could quit whenever he chose. It really spooked him that he was not really in control. He asked his long time friend how she dumped the drug scene, and she simply told him that Jesus turned her around.<br />
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Just one of many accounts of the terrifying power of sin in our lives. The girl who develops an obsession with her figure. She wants to be slim, and so refuses to eat. It becomes a fixation which is out of her control. We call it anorexia, but it has the power to kill. It begins with a prideful obsession with her appearance. Okay, you may want to argue the point, but it is still an illustration of how we lose control.<br />
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One who is managing money for others and finds himself in serious financial need may cross the line and "borrow" some of that money which will never be missed. But as the conscience grows a callous, he finds the second and third time a little easier until he is overwhelmed and finally uncovered as a thief.<br />
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The managing of the half truth is an art with many people. Instead of having a concern for the truth, this person finds verbal spin to work for social advantage. It gains friends and influences people. He doesn't see himself as the inveterate liar he has become.<br />
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It is so easy to view or read porn with just a little search. No one needs to know, so why not a little indulgence. No harm, no foul. But we hear of those who wake up to realize this is an addiction which they are powerless to control. "Having eyes full off adultery and that cannot cease from sin" (II Peter 2:14).<br />
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There is a point when we decide to play with sin, but it is like opening the door for a malicious giant who pins you to the floor. At this point, try as we might, we cannot get up. To use another analogy, sin is like a virus within us. I keep seeing the commercial encouraging me to get my shingles shot. They remind me that if I have had chicken pox, I already have the virus in me. Even so when sin is triggered by a little "indulgence" we set off powers that overwhelm us, and the virus of sin is fatal.<br />
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The fallen condition of human nature is no joke. Scripture tells us that Joseph's brothers were not able to speak kindly to him. They had become controlled by jealousy and hatred that it was not possible for them to break the cycle.<br />
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The good news about Jesus is that He died to deliver us from sin. He paid the penalty, yes, but He also rose again to break the power of sin. He is the only real "higher power" that can deliver the 12 step alcoholic. He can throw that giant that has you pinned. He is the great physician who can cure that virus. <br />
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Oh dear reader, come to Christ today!<br />
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"But now being made free from sin, and become servants of God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life." (Romans 6:22)Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-31062611234975546192015-06-09T14:26:00.001-07:002015-06-09T14:26:11.112-07:00Saying "Goodbye"Final goodbyes are packed with emotion. <br />
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One of our very dear friends is currently headed for the finish line, and we must cheer her on to victory. What a difference it is when there is a living hope in the finished work of Christ. He has canceled our guilt by his work on the cross. And He has fired our confidence in the future by rising again from the dead to prove His promises. How hopeless it is to face death without this.<br />
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In my 50 plus years in the ministry I have said "goodbye" to many people, and some very dear friends.<br />
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Before even getting to seminary (and before we were married) Barbara and I experienced the passing of her grandfather--on her 20th birthday. He was convinced that he had been sent to a nursing home to die, and so he did. It was not, therefore, a pleasant birthday for her.<br />
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Then there was the dear old lady friend from our church who was dying of heart problems. While we were visiting her, we three began to sing something like "What a Friend we have in Jesus" and she stopped singing to grasp her chest. When Barbara and I also stopped singing, she made motion for us to continue singing as her pain subsided. Singing the love of Jesus was more important to her than death pains. Not long after this she passed into glory.<br />
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I'll never forget the time I was visiting a dear saint who had labored in service of the Lord for many years. Even though she knew many scriptures, I have learned to go with the familiar. God's children always seem to appreciate the old, familiar verses. She was not well enough to communicate at this time, but she knew me and knew I was there at her hospital bed. I decided to recite Psalm 23 without use of a Bible. It was one of those things when the very familiar plays tricks on you. I left out a phrase of this Psalm, and I know she knew it. I can imagine the two of us laughing about this when I see her in heaven.<br />
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It has to be a priority of every pastor to visit his people when they are in the hospital. I have always tried to keep this responsibility at or near the top of my list. When I haven't visited in a day or two, or when I have heard of a change in condition, I always made it a point to be there quickly. One such character was in our Wilmington congregation, languishing with cancer tumors popping up here and there. When I came to his bedside one afternoon, he was choking on growths in his throat. He looked at me and said, "You show up at the damnedest times!" To this day I'm not sure that was a compliment or a complaint.<br />
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When I'm not certain of the spiritual condition of the one I am visiting, I stay with the familiar, and usually read John 14:1-6, making emphasis in my comments about Jesus saying no one goes to the Father except through Him. <br />
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People don't want to talk about dying, but when they are in the process, the subject can hardly be avoided. Even though I may have a man as a captive audience, it's not fair (or helpful) to overwhelm him with nagging toward repentance. But just to lay upon him the simple claims of Christ on him by reading John 3:16; John 5:24 or Romans 6:23 and praying that the Holy Spirit will use it as He pleases.<br />
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Those visits must be about Jesus. Certainly it is not about me (how convincing I can be), and not even about my dying friend (pleasant memories or false comfort). I must tell myself, "Keep it simple, Stupid! Keep it simple."Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-74823143080066584852015-05-30T13:52:00.000-07:002015-06-07T17:40:48.897-07:00Baseball prowessI got a base hit off a major leaguer. It's true. It's true, but admittedly a managed truth. Politics has certainly taught us a lot about putting a spin on our reports. We have learned to manipulate the facts to obtain a calculated effect, and I must admit that I am guilty of just that.<br />
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Here's my story.<br />
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Way, way back when I was almost 20 years old, I frequently found myself on a baseball diamond some place or other. On this day I was on the field of La Cienega Park, near Dorsey High School. When we had finished our game a pickup game was beginning to form. There weren't enough players to reject me, so I was chosen to play on one of the teams. You know, good old fashioned sandlot baseball. <br />
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The pitcher for the other team was a young star named Billy Consolo. On one of my trips to the bat I got a broken bat single, and that is my claim to fame boasted in the first sentence above. Shortly after this Billy Consolo was drafted by the Boston Red Sox as an amateur in 1953. They called them "bonus babies" in those days. When offered a certain amount of money the team was required to keep him on the roster for at least a year. Billy played third base for Boston, and though he was never spectacular, he managed to stay in the majors with one team or other for nine years.<br />
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As for me, well my career went from sandlot to Municipal Ball (about two cuts below semi-pro) with the Southern Pacific Railroad team. I was only a utility man, but played every game, nevertheless. Sometimes I played third base (I understand why it's called the hot corner), short stop, second base or left field. I never hit a home run, but one day I had four hits in five at bats.<br />
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I don't consider my time on the baseball diamond a waste of time. I was participating in the American experience at it's best. Even the greatest players of the game fail two-thirds of the time at bat. That's closer to the reality of life than other sports experiences. In life too, I probably failed at least two-thirds of the time. But when God gives you the exhilaration of a "base hit" in life, it's so much more joyful in contrast to the last two defeats.<br />
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Well I have reconciled myself to the fact that I will never play baseball again. That's okay. When you get to be 80 there are a lot of things you will never do again. I no longer wonder what I will be when I grow up. Actually I no longer fear that I might die young and miss something. God has been so good to me that the only things I regret are my sins. Yes, and I really regret them. If it weren't for God's declaration of "once for all" (Hebrews 7:27) in the covering of my sins, I would certainly despair. <br />
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I may have failed two-thirds of the time, but my pinch hitter bats a thousand!Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-9860446635820816522015-05-28T18:22:00.002-07:002015-05-28T18:22:59.067-07:00Memorable Anniversary<br />
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There's a moment in time when a tragedy becomes a hilarious memory. One of those moments occurred on or about our 17th wedding anniversary. I was pastor of our church in Wilmington, DE, and it had to be a Monday night. That was the day I took away from the weighty thoughts of the church to enjoy my wife. We had made reservations for dinner at a nice restaurant, and were anticipating a special evening together.</div>
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Well, the evening was special, but the way God planned, and not the way we had planned. </div>
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Let me prepare the scene by telling you that our station wagon had taken our family to a camping vacation earlier in the year. At that time I backed into a rock that was just low enough to fit under the back bumper, and just high enough to hit the tail pipe. This makes for an interesting experience. </div>
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The tail pipe bent just enough to make a shorter route from the holding bracket at the bumper and the holding bracket at the muffler. This created a tension on the junction of the pipe with the muffler which shortly worked the muffler joint loose. Now when the tailpipe comes loose from the muffler, it can be jerryrigged with a wire coat hanger until a more permanent fix can be done. But if that tension happens to dislodge the muffler from the exhaust pipe coming from the engine, it is an entirely different experience. It is the sound of an airplane engine. It cannot be ignored or postponed. </div>
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We jerryrigged it nevertheless, and all was well. That is, all was well until we took the car for our anniversary outing.</div>
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I wore my tweed suit and gussied up for my special girl. We were on our way to the restaurant when we were rudely reminded that wire coat hanger jerryrigs don't last forever. We were making prop plane imitations that could turn heads for miles. And yet we happened to be on a portion of highway that was relatively uninhabited. Like it or not, this racket had to be abated and right now. </div>
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There was a light rain falling. The roadway was wet, but not flooded. My tweed suit was not my best suit, but until now, looked rather nice. I resigned myself to the fact that I had to crawl under the car, suit and all, to make the repair. While struggling with the wire and the hot tail pipe in the gritty puddle I began to see the humor in our situation. We usually tend to take ourselves too seriously anyway. It was during this struggle that I noticed the seam in the crotch of my trousers was ripping open. By the time I had concluded the second jerryrig, I had opened a slit several inches long, just at the crucially private section of my anatomy.</div>
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Now we had to make a decision. Undaunted, we chose to complete our special date night with the dinner reservation. After parking the car we engaged strategy for me to follow close behind Barbara so as to block the view of my embarrassing exposure. It seemed to work well, but we may have looked strange as I walked so closely behind her that we seemed to be playing the game of shadow. When we were shown to our table, I had another challenge. The table cloth was not long and did not fall much over the edge of the table. My exposure would be evident to the whole world if I didn't keep my legs crossed. Suddenly I realized how modest young ladies must be trained, and I needed to learn in just a few minutes.</div>
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So between the airplane noise of the exhaust pipe, the drippy environment and the ripped crotch of my suit, we began to giggle about the evening. I have no idea what we had to eat that night, but I will never forget the loud car and the torn pants. It was a special evening after, but it was providential humor that made it special.</div>
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Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-69545334478658176382015-03-30T18:05:00.001-07:002015-03-30T23:14:07.277-07:00First church and first homeFresh out of seminary and trying to plant a church is not an easy situation. The men who were earmarked for leadership had a poor notion of seminary education and a consequent faulty set of expectations of me. I think they adopted the caricatured model of seminary being some magical institution that opened my head and poured into it all the knowledge of Scripture and theology I would ever need. They were quite puzzled that I needed to spend my mornings in the study rather than going door to door and winning converts to fill our chapel.<br />
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I did go door to door, but since no one ever taught me how to be effective at this, it yielded few results. A nice atheist couple with whom I had extensive conversation never attended church. And yet a year later they called me on the phone, asking if I was willing to christen their new baby. I did learn that the longer I could engage strangers in friendly talk, the more inclined they were to receive an invitation from me.<br />
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We lived on Railroad Avenue in Neptune, NJ. As you might have guessed, across the street from out second floor apartment were railroad tracks. It was a shabby apartment in the shabby part of town. There were large patches of pealing paint in the stairwell, and the roaches ran for cover when we turned on the light at night.<br />
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Philip, our first born, was a rug rat here. He was 16 months when Calvin was born, but hadn't decided to walk as yet. We had a borrowed little 6 mo. crib in the middle of our living room, and that is where we laid our precious new family member. We thought it a good idea to tell Phil that we were bringing home a baby for him. He took well to this catechizing, and he used to crawl over to the crib, pull himself up and reach into the crib. He would gently stroke baby Calvin's head and say, "Baby, baby". It was really quite cute.<br />
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But Calvin had developed jaundice and returned to the hospital at 8 days of age. His bilirubin count was just a few points below demanding a transfusion before his body caught up with the process. My poor wife had to commute to and from the hospital to nurse him (even though the medical community discouraged it). When the Sabbath came, these nascent leaders demanded that she continue to play the piano for services. I was too foolish and too weak to stand up for my wife, and she carried the burden.<br />
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When Phil crawled over to the crib and did his routine, he reached his hand into the empty crib and said with an inquisitive tone of voice, "Baby?". We both wept.<br />
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Phil may have enjoyed that apartment more than anyone else. He loved standing at the front windows, watching the choo choo chug by.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-41738078190286659672015-02-24T12:28:00.000-08:002015-02-24T12:28:53.355-08:00ProcrastinationI've heard it said that procrastination is the main doctrine of the Presbyterian church. I'm thinking this ignorant quip may be unintentionally close to the truth. I used to have a motto sign on my desk which said, "I'm going to stop putting things off, starting tomorrow." <br />
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If it weren't for the last minute, I wouldn't get anything done.<br />
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"Procrastination always gives you something to look forward to." (Joan Konner)<br />
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"One of the greatest labor-saving inventions of today is tomorrow." (Vincent T. Foss)<br />
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We like to make jokes of procrastination, but there are occasions that it is anything but funny. <br />
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New Year resolutions are a strange twist on procrastination. We put off committing ourselves to a course of action that we know is the right thing to do (lose 10 pounds, for example), but we wait until New Year's Day to begin. If it is something good and right to do (either for self or others) then why in the world did we wait until the first of the year to do it? <br />
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Christopher Parker said, "Procrastination is like a credit card; it's a lot of fun until you get the bill."<br />
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In fact James 4:17 says there is a kind of procrastination that is sin. They are called sins of omission. "Therefore, to one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, to him it is sin."<br />
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James gives good reasons not to procrastinate. For one thing life is short. Our life is but a vapor. For another thing, providence is quite unpredictable. You do not know what a day may bring forth.<br />
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And for all that you'll never know how long I put off publishing this post. Where is that sign that used to be on my desk?Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-78105180273335776312014-12-27T10:46:00.000-08:002014-12-27T10:46:02.643-08:00Jehovah and the JitneyAs a young pastor I fancied myself as a pastor for the youth group. Whenever there was an activity I was driving a carload of kids to attend. We went to snow camp. We went to youth rallies. Sometimes our weekly meeting required some transportation by me.<br />
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I found my joy in being accepted by high schoolers as not only the leader, but part of the group. It's my opinion that kids take me more seriously if they see that I like to play and have a more balanced personality than they may have originally thought.<br />
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In my first church I couldn't seem to get the group started on the right foot until one of the girls in the church determined that she was going to make it work. She had a strong character and a commanding manor. I think she may have threatened some of her school friends, I don't really know this, but she showed me how important it was for the young people themselves to take ownership of the project.<br />
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Anyway, Bonnie's brow-beating invitations brought together 20 or more kids to the first meeting at her house. A couple of the boys took turns leading the Bible study portion of our meetings. Then we had refreshments and played some special games and just hung out (before that term was actually invented). What was so remarkable was that this meeting took place on Friday nights, competing with the local basketball games. And the kids kept coming back. Only when I thought there was needed supplementation or that we were straying from the meat of the text did I offer my comments. The Lord was with us. These kids even talked about spiritual matters during the "hanging out" part of the meeting. <br />
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One of the neighbor kids who had visited the group came knocking on my door one night, asking me to tell her what made them tick. She said she could see these kids had something she did not have, and she wanted to know what it was. Talk about a straight line! We talked about Jesus as I explained the gospel and she asked Christ to come into her life.<br />
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One year, coming home from a winter camp, my Rambler American stuffed with kids, we were delayed by freezing rain and snow. This wasn't the fluffy stuff that blows and drifts like baby powder before a fan. This was crunchy stuff that hit and stuck and froze up my windshield wipers more than once during our treacherous journey. I stopped and relieved the wiper blades of ice formations more than once. Here I was leaning over this slushy car, whacking the nascent glaciers off as the traffic squished by, throwing dirty slushy snow at my feet.<br />
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All I could think about is how the parents of these young people must be worried about them, and how I could get them home sooner. Oh yeah, this was long before the day when everyone owned a cell phone. In fact they had not yet been invented. <br />
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The final stop before heading home was to drop off the daughter of an important business man in Westfield, NJ. My home was still 40 miles south and it was dinner time and I wanted to get home. It seems that this family was holding a formal dinner with friends, and they invited me to stay and eat with them. I squirmed at the invitation because although I was hungry, I could hardly be more inappropriately dressed with my dirty, wet blue jeans and sweat shirt. The girl's father was so genuine and disarming that I did stay and sit amid these suits and ties and gowns. He said he could always trust me to take good care of the kids, and that he really wanted me to dine with them. <br />
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We don't deserve to sit with Jesus at the marriage supper of the Lamb either. It is only at His gracious invitation that we dare to come. But when Jesus calls you just can't say "No". In that case He actually takes away our filthy garments and clothes us with spotless clothing, reflective of the holiness that He drapes over every believer who heeds His call.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-9238058573330115732014-12-07T22:36:00.000-08:002014-12-07T22:36:08.495-08:009 out of 10Nine out of 10 readers of this blog are of Mensa intelligence. Since you are now reading this blog, you want to believe this statistic, and are willing to accept it. Of course, I made it up out of my own fertile imagination. It is possible that I have taken a scientific survey. I tested 10 of my friends and found 9 of them to be so intelligent. But, alas, I didn't even do that. I just flat out lied. We all know that old hack, figures don't lie, but liars can figure.<br />
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If I told you that 9 out of 10 statistics are drawn out of thin air, you might be willing to accept that because of your own experience with alleged and suspicious published statistics. But that would simply be praying on your unfortunate anecdotal evidence. But anecdotal is no more scientific than my fertile imagination or polemical guesswork.<br />
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I remember reading that coliform bacterium can travel through 12 sheets of toilet paper in 4 seconds. I suspect that this is one of those phony statistics, but it's graphic image has improved my sanitary habits by a large degree.<br />
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I guess it all goes back to the truism that we tend to believe what we want to believe. Isn't there any source of statistics that we can trust?<br />
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Even scientific statistics are subject to our skeptical scrutiny. We were told of the danger of eating butter with all the fat content. Now they are saying that margarine is worse for us than the butter. We learned that artificial sweeteners are a must because of the dangers of too much sugar. Then a study came out to show us that artificial sweeteners create formaldehyde on the brain. We get the idea that these scientific studies draw conclusions most complimentary to the interests that are funding the study.<br />
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We seem to do best by listening to someone who really knows, and taking it on his authority. It's good to have a PhD chemist or engineer as a friend. He may have read both studies and can explain how there is partial truth in each camp. He may be able to read between the lines of esoteric phraseology and tell you what the study report really means. It's nice to hear from someone who really knows.<br />
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When you find yourself stuck in the middle of a mine field, it would be a good thing to know who drew up the map you decide to use.<br />
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And, of course, that brings me to our Lord, Jesus Christ. He didn't have an engineering degree, but He knows. And He is the one who said, "I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father but by me." He also said, "Truly, truly I say to you, he who hears my word and believes in Him who sent me has eternal life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death into life." (John 5:24)<br />
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You ask me, "What are his credentials? Why should we believe him?" That's a fair question. The short answer is: because he came out of the grave to prove it. Jesus predicted His death by crucifixion and his resurrection 3 days later. Then those who were eye witnesses gave us their dossiers. You find them in the first four books of the New Testament. Don't scoff until you read them.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-1592812003564497792014-11-05T12:43:00.000-08:002014-11-05T12:52:04.239-08:00Let's hear it for cloth diapers!Progress always leaves a wake of nostalgia. This post is a ripple in that wake. Undoubtedly paper diapers are a wonderful invention, I applaud the advantages of this bit of progress. But there is a whimper of nostalgia I need to raise for the old cloth diapers, lest they be completely forgotten by a culture that fails to appreciate it's history.<br />
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Some kind person (or church group) gave us a month's subscription to a diaper service. Now the invention of paper diapers has destroyed an entire industry. The delivery driver would pick up our bag of nasty diapers, and leave us with a neat stack of folded, sanitized fresh diapers. This replaced a disgusting chore that we soon intimately experienced because we couldn't afford to continue the subscription. Now just think of the several small business entrepreneurs who have been frustrated or bankrupted in the crisis of change. No self respecting Republican can be proud of that record.<br />
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Cloth diapers were soft and cuddly for baby's chubby little buns. We learned to fold them in effective triangles that covered the vital areas with maximum comfort to junior. We learned to pin them with one hand in the diaper between the cloth and baby's skin for obvious reasons. An experienced mom (or dad) could quickly change these diapers without sticking herself (or himself). Part of that experience was to construe the contour of the installed diaper so as to keep it from falling from these little hips. Such costume malfunctions were embarrassing at least, and sometimes disastrous. <br />
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Oh yes, diaper pins are now antiques I suppose. I can't remember the last one I saw. These were safety pins with plastic heads that were about 2 inches long. Sometimes the heavy cloth resisted easy piercing, so we learned the trick of dragging the pin through our hair to apply just enough grease to run the pin through the diaper most smoothly. I'll bet there are few, if any, reading this blog who remember that little trick.<br />
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A serendipity development was the discovery that cloth diapers make wonderful dust cloths. They were also wonderful clean up rags for spilled milk and other liquids. After all isn't that what they were manufactured to do?<br />
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In cold climates one can determine that diapers on the clothesline were dry when they freely flapped in the breeze. Before this they would swing stiffly back and forth like a board in the frosty air.<br />
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Of course when junior did his thing in these diapers it would drip on the floor. You would get wet, your furniture would get wet or your company (who insisted on holding baby) would get wet. And, of course, this was not just water. We then invented plastic pants to cover diapers, with elastic waist and leg openings to hold the urine inside. This gave way to concentrated ammonia and diaper rash which hit us in epidemic proportions.<br />
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And so it became necessary to invent paper diapers. Well, I'm sure this was progress, but it still leaves a little wake of nostalgia ripples.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-10828913342561133592014-10-26T22:03:00.000-07:002014-10-27T09:25:17.023-07:00The Big eight oh!Okay, last year I ragged on why my 79th birthday was a big nothing. It was no round number. No one aspires to be 79. It's never recognized as a remarkable milestone.<br />
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But now I'm 80. That number is round. It's a milestone: "You have reached 80." <br />
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Poo!<br />
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As I thought about this blog my mind could not stop thinking of Moses. When he reached 80 God was just now ready to use him to deliver the children of Israel out of Egypt. One big difference "His vigor was not abated" (Deuteronomy 34:7).<br />
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Our forebears left us with some quaint expressions. For example, when one is an old duck, the Presbytery calls him one of the "fathers" of the church. That doesn't mean that he has begotten a whole congregation. It means he has become one of the elite wise men of the body. Now that scares the liver out of me. The idea that any of these sharp, intelligent young men now in our Presbytery might look to me for wisdom is absolutely terrifying. Wisdom is not a matter of chronology. The longer experience I've had only means that I have learned how many blunders can be made in one lifetime.<br />
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There are things I can get away with now that I couldn't as a younger man. I can be crotchety, and people take it in stride. "Oh don't mind that insult. The man is 80 years old."<br />
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I can opt out of activity because it is nap time. "I can't possibly go to that committee meeting. I have a previous engagement."<br />
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When someone else is driving, he tends to drop me off at the destination and then find a parking place. When I'm looking for a parking place I find a blue wheel chair symbol near the front door. We have a handicap license.<br />
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Would you believe that the Presbytery actually sang "Happy Birthday" to me during the recent meeting? I groaned inside and thought we have more important business than this. But as they started to sing, I realized how much better any song sounds when this group of 40 plus men belt it out.<br />
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On the actual day (Oct 21) I was dumbfounded to see my dearest friend in this world (other than my sweet wife) who came 3,000 miles just to be with me on this occasion. <br />
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Okay, now the celebration is over (hey, I still have a free meal at Hoff's Hut to redeem!) I can get back to shuffling along to the tune of the loving kindness of my Father in heaven. Now that is sweet.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-33362290157795311952014-10-01T13:35:00.000-07:002014-10-01T14:06:05.079-07:00Old CarsI told you about my first car. It was a "Crosley". They also make home appliances and stuff like that. The car they made was quite like a shipping box with a sewing machine engine. We had many adventures in this tinny machine, but I have reported these in old blogs.<br />
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I learned to drive on my dad's '39 Mercury. It was a black 4 door sedan. In those days we had windows you rolled down with a hand crank. In fact that was how you could turn on the air conditioning. It was crude, but effective. There were obvious disadvantages noticed when driving past a stock yard or through a dust storm. But we were young and rugged in those days. <br />
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May Company was closed on Sundays back then, and that made for a great student driver venue in the parking lot. One day I froze with my foot on the accelerator instead of the brake. My dad grabbed the wheel and thus we avoided wiping out a stop sign (yes they had several of these strategically placed around the parking lot). Following that traumatic crisis, dad thought we had spent enough time for the day. In spite of all this grief, dad was a skillful and patient teacher, and I eventually passed my exam and received a "Junior Driver's License" when I was just 14. <br />
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Actually, I'm screwing up the story, dad's preparation was for my real driver's license. The Junior model was for my doodle bug motor scooter two years before this. Well that's another story.<br />
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The 39 Merc had four on the floor, you know, a long handled gear shift poking up from the floor board with a shiny black round handle on top. I had to learn the "H" pattern for selecting the gears, and there was the clutch with which to reckon. Fewer and fewer cars come with a clutch these days, and that is an experience too many modern drivers have missed. <br />
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The clutch disengaged spinning gears beneath the floor board and thus enabled me to shove the stick into position for first gear. This being the gear with the highest disparity of spinning ratio between the gear coming from the engine and gear sending torque to the wheels. When the clutch was pressed, and gears at rest, engaging the gears was a smooth operation. If one forgot to depress the clutch and yet attempted to engage the gears, a hideous grinding racket would emerge from the gear box. "Hey, why don't you grind me a pound!" was a frequent sarcastic quip that has now disappeared from our vocabulary.<br />
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The front seat was like a wide, padded bench. Sorta like the back seat in most cars today. Of course we hadn't thought of seat belts yet, and that made for some cool dating. We were never distracted by some cell phone or other electronic device. But there was a considerable distraction from driving with one hand on the steering wheel and the other arm around my girl friend who was cuddling up next to me. Only race cars, or very expensive sports cars, had bucket seats. And dating teenagers really didn't want that kind of seating arrangement. Couples learned team driving with the girl shifting the gears while the guy drove with one hand (often on a knicker nob mounted on the steering wheel to enable strong turns by easily spinning the wheel).<br />
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And there actually were some things you could do for maintenance that are out of the question today. That's because modern cars are half computer and half car. So in the old days most of us learned to be amateur auto mechanics simply by necessity. I remember replacing second gear in my old Rambler American. I was clearly in over my head, and when I had to replace second gear again the next month, we decided to save money and buy a new car.<br />
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But changing the oil and cleaning the carburetor and replacing the points were all things one could do to tune up his own car. They don't even have points any more.<br />
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One summer we packed up the whole tribe and headed out to visit the grandparents. Barbara's parents lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, and mine were in Los Angeles. When we got to the border of Nebraska, a frightening, rhythmic knock developed in the engine. But that station wagon was an eight cylinder auto, and it still maintained highway speed without over heating. So we kept going another 40 or so miles to the Piper house. One of dad Piper's parishioners had recently retired from the maintenance yard for a major utility company. I paid him a mere $20 to look over my shoulder while I opened the engine. It was a simple case of a broken valve lifter. He even knew where to buy the part at dirt cheap prices. When we closed the engine again and it purred, I said, "Doesn't it make you feel good to know you fixed it?" I was feeling quite elated, I know. But after 25 years on the job he was ready to retire so he said, "No."<br />
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I began thinking how the internal combustion engine is similar to the human body. We can have a lot of things wrong with us and still be able to operate. And even though the soul is cut off from God and spiritually dead, a man can appreciate life and be thankful. He just doesn't know who to thank. But when he realizes that his life is messy and he will be judged by the Creator for every irresponsibility, he needs to cry out to someone to help him get repaired by the original Manufacturer. That's when I need to be there to point him to Jesus, who is the way, the truth and the life.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-57701052382565377142014-08-19T17:14:00.000-07:002014-08-19T17:14:40.836-07:00Some like it hotI never appreciated the common metaphorical reference to a beautiful young woman as "hot". She may be outrageous. She may be flirtatious. She may be very attractive. But "hot" is not my choice of epithet with which to label feminine eye candy. I'd rather use "cool" or "sweet".<br />
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And when it comes to climate, I also shun the hot. I guess that's why we ended up back here in Southern California.<br />
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My daughter and her husband, however, like it hot. It was a carefully planned move that took them to Havasu City, Arizona. Why someone would deliberately choose to live there is beyond my comprehension.<br />
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"But it's a dry heat." Jim keeps telling me. And my response is always: "Yeah, and so is my oven."<br />
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Barbara warned them that we would not be visiting any time during the blast-furnace summer. But love for great grandchildren (who have subsequently moved there with their mother) has compelled us to relent.<br />
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"We'll come if you turn down the thermostat below 80 degrees, but we can't stay more than a few days." Barbara finally agreed.<br />
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Isn't it amazing how such little people can mean so very much to one's life? We need to get a hug from these tiny humans every now and again. So we packed and drove 300 miles just to see them (yes, and their mom and grand parents too). Let's see now, where is my bathing suit. I know we will spend some time in their swimming pool. I'd better take two swim suits.<br />
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It is very difficult for me to admit this, but the dry heat is quite a bit easier to bear than 90 degrees with humid air around here. I hope we didn't break the bank on their electric bill, but the AC made it just possible for us to enjoy our stay. And the pool was not a disappointment. After dinner the second night, we ventured into the pool after dark. The thermometer read 100 degrees. The water (still warm from the sun) felt so good that we stayed and chatted for an hour or so. But the strangest sensation occurred when I stepped out of the pool. I actually got chilled in the 100 degree air when I climbed out of the pool. It was uncanny. I thought I was going to be sick or some of my organs would shut down. I mean it was eerie. I toweled off and headed straight for the bedroom where I climbed under the covers and laid still until my aged body adjusted. There is something spooky about hot places.<br />
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Forty years ago, when we moved to Modesto, I asked the daughter of the former pastor what the city was like. She gave me a one syllable answer: "Hot!" She was so right. Every year there seemed to be at least one week in which the temperature topped the century mark every day. I don't care where you live, I call that hot. In Havasu, however, it's hot like that for the entire summer. <br />
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Trying to be friendly in my new city, I struck up a conversation with the lady who lived next door to the church. She was complaining about how humid it was. My image was more like a dry dusty desert. I asked where she lived before coming to Modesto, and she said, "Mojave". Okay, now she made sense. Irrigation canals laced the region around Modesto, and she felt it in the air. Being new to the area, I just thought it was hot. That was just one lesson among many that things are perceived differently by different people, depending on their life experience.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-78943256525081761212014-07-08T19:55:00.000-07:002014-07-08T19:55:14.552-07:00Children learning to walkNo, actually they are not my children, but I have a claim on their lives. As a retired minister I can understand the apostle John's feelings when he wrote, "I have no greater joy than this, to hear of my children walking in the truth." (III John 4) John is not talking about genetic relationships. During his long ministry in Ephesus, John had to see children, raised in the church and latching on to Jesus Christ with the same faith their parents exercised years ahead of them.<br />
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Perhaps he had in mind those who as adults first came to know our Savior under his ministry. Trials had confused many and injured the faith that many had confessed. In the early days of the church it was illegal to be a Christian. Some had moved away and John had lost track of them. John himself had been sent to exile on the island of Patmos. And what goes through the mind of a pastor who has learned to love his people so? He wonders how it is with their souls.<br />
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What a joy, then, when someone brings a good report about one of these "children" of the apostle. His circumstances were transformed by the news that one of his children was still walking with the Lord. He is walking in the truth. In spite of the bombardment of propaganda about the divinity of Caesar (not to mention the threat against those who denied it) John heard that his children were walking in the truth. This is what brought greater joy to the heart of this aged apostle than anything else.<br />
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That is the joy I recently experienced, seeing dear ones to whom I had the awesome privilege of ministering the gospel in years past. This young lady who has now finished two years of college was a precocious two year old when I first loved her. She shows every evidence that she sincerely loves Jesus, and is doing her best to walk with Him in her daily life. She has done short-term missionary service and she chooses godly Christian friends. She still delights her parents without a hint of rebellion. <br />
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Her adorable sister used to dance across the floor more often than walk. I knew her, and spoke to her even before she was born. She is making the same good friends and walking the same path with the same Lord Jesus. The brothers seem to be headed the right direction also. It brings me great joy to hear and see these things.<br />
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Her inseparable friend is another case in point. Geography finally did separate these two, but in kindred spirits they have maintained their mutually edifying friendship. This second girl's mother is another whom I would like to claim as one of my children in the Lord. Though I did not bring her to initial faith in Christ, I had the privilege of encouraging her through some hard places, and the evidence of her love for Jesus has never been more obvious in any one's life. It makes her one of the most beautiful women I have ever known. She and her daughter are walking in the truth, and I find it an emotional and spiritual high to see them again, knowing they love the same Savior.<br />
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Of course I am pleased to hear that these friends are well. It is a joy to know they are happy. But you need to know that I have no greater joy than to hear that these "children" are walking in the truth. They love Jesus, and I anticipate hearing even greater things from them and abut them.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-87775035164197541972014-04-17T17:47:00.002-07:002014-04-17T17:47:55.221-07:00Resurrection epistemologyHow is it that you know you are not just a butterfly having a dream?<br />
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How do you know the sun will come up tomorrow?<br />
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How do you know you are going to heaven?<br />
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The answer to these--and so many more questions--is that Jesus Christ rose from the dead three days after His crucifixion.<br />
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You might say that you are going to heaven because Christ died for your sins. This is not a wrong answer, but it is not complete. Jesus died for your sins--and rose again the third day!<br />
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Thousands of criminals were executed by Roman crucifixion over the years of the empire. Enthusiastic friends of any one of them might make the same claim. "Hey, Simeon said he would die for my sins, and I believe him." What's to prove him wrong...or right? He may have died right enough, but what evidence is there that Simeon's death, or Christ's death, had any significance for you?<br />
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The only One who can forgive sins is God. And the only One who can raise the dead is also God. Christ was declared to be the Son of God with power by the resurrection. (Rom. 1:4) "Christ died for our sins, and he was buried and he was raised again on the third day, according to the Scriptures." (I Cor. 15:3, 4)<br />
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Without the resurrection of Christ, we would be left to blind faith--the kind of faith unbelievers smirkingly think we Christians exercise. Faith is not just wanting something to be true. Christian faith is based on evidence that we consider trustworthy. That's the way human beings think. Christian faith is not blind faith. It is faith in facts. Not much different than faith that the sun will rise tomorrow that is based on facts about our universe and about earth's rotation.<br />
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But Christian facts include those that are revealed in the Bible. Unbelievers are denied access to all this data by choice. They think it is no loss, because they suppose the Bible is made up of fairy tales and other stuff that requires blind faith.<br />
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Christians believe the Bible because Jesus said it was true. He said the Scriptures cannot be broken. He said in that book we have eternal life. And He also said that the Scriptures speak of Him. The thing is, Jesus predicted His death by crucifixion and His resurrection three days later. He taught it over and over again. Then these same disciples whom He taught were caught by surprise and were discouraged and confused by His death. Moreover they were shocked out of their proverbial socks to see and touch the risen Christ. When the apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians in about 55 AD, he mentioned an occasion on which more than 500 people saw the resurrected Christ at the same time. This was but 20 some years after the event, but no one came forth to challenge that claim. The tomb was empty. The body was nowhere to be found by His enemies.<br />
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There are many who began to read the Bible just to discount the Christian faith who had their head (and heart) turned by the power of the Holy Spirit as they read the Scriptures. Please don't mock until you have read it for yourself. Honesty will then require you to at least admit that the accounts of Jesus' death and resurrection were written by sober men who themselves believed the resurrection to be fact.<br />
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Of course we know that it is impossible for dead people to come alive again. Brain tissue begins to deteriorate within minutes, and the rest is not far behind. Every Christian also knows this. The only possible exception to this scientific fact must be accomplished by God, who created human flesh in the first place. It had to be impossible in order for God to make His point. Christ is risen, and therefore He is right. No one else in the history of the world can make that claim. It's not that we Christians are light minded dolts who swallow every story told them. The difference between being a Christian and not being one, is not a matter of intelligence. It comes down to a different source of data with which to make informed decisions.<br />
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If you're not a Christian, and you are reading this (of course you are), my plea is simply that you would read through the Gospel of John, and see if God is speaking to you in these words. Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-4612750704688598502014-04-07T17:39:00.000-07:002014-04-07T17:39:10.805-07:00Dodger RejectI can remember the day I woke up to the reality that I would never play professional baseball. Admittedly it came rather late in life, but it was a definite point in my personal history. Many years before that realization I had already turned in my uniform to attend church instead. Nevertheless, that thought enjoyed lingering in the back of my mind for much too long.<br />
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But that's not when the Dodgers rejected me. No, that was a rejection by the Southern Pacific Railroad municipal league team. In fact the Dodgers couldn't care less about my baseball skills. That doesn't break my heart. <br />
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What does break my heart is that the Dodgers couldn't care less about my prowess as a Dodger fan. It is as a devoted, 60 year commitment, blue blooded rooter that I have been rejected by the Dodgers. I learned to listen to Dodger games<br />
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In order to pay obscene salaries to their stars, the Dodgers have contracted with filthy lucre for 4 billion (yes, with a "B") dollars to own their own TV channel, which is exclusively available through Time Warner Cable. Since I have DirecTV, this is not an option for me. I found out that about 70% of Southern California has also been cut off from TV access. If my provider will not contract for exorbitant fees, I'm left out in the cold. <br />
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The Dodgers advertise that I should write my provider, asking them to pay the extortion to give me this access. Even Clayton Kershaw, a beloved Christian brother, has been contracted to be a barker for this sideshow flimflam, beseeching fans to lobby for this service by paying the extraordinary extortion.<br />
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When the O'Mally family owned the Dodgers, we were proud of this baseball club. They developed their own players in a well-developed farm team system. While other teams were shamelessly out to buy winning teams, we used to take comfort that our Dodgers were still a traditional baseball organization rather than just another multi-million dollar business. We thought they were a "class act", but now we are forced to admit that they are just another "crass act", trying to buy a World Series trophy. Did I hear that they are in fact the highest salaried team in baseball?<br />
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To see a game fleeces me of $15 to park, $35 for a seat and $5 for a hot dog. I guess I am able to afford this once or twice a season, but I'm not sure I want to any more. I feel like a Dodger reject. They don't want me to follow the progress of the team during the season. They don't want me to be able to see them play on TV. So why should I care whether they win or lose? <br />
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Loyalty dies hard. I still care too much how Kershaw pitches this year. I am pulling for Dee Gordon to hit so well that they dare not send him down. I desperately want to see Puig learn from his foolish mistakes and childish attitude. I guess I am doomed to remain a Dodger fan for this year at least, but I am going to try my best to break the habit.<br />
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"Those who want to get rich fall into temptation and a snare and many foolish and harmful desires which plunge men into ruin and destruction." (I Timothy 6:9)Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-45509921885649558862014-03-29T22:23:00.000-07:002014-03-29T22:23:09.439-07:00On being grace-mindedNo matter how long you've walked with God, there is that remnant nub of works-righteousness hiding in our reborn hearts.<br />
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"How can I expect God to bless my day when I so recently sinned against Him?" <br />
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"I need to read a lot of scripture and bring dinner to a needy family before I will feel confident to ask God for anything."<br />
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Imagine how David must have felt when he had to flee Jerusalem and the palace because of reports that his rebel son, Absolom, was closing in upon him, stealing the hearts of Israel and seizing the palace.<br />
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Samuel records him trudging up Mt. Olivet with his head slumped and tears forcing their way down his rugged cheeks. How dreadfully he had sinned with Bathsheba, and how miserably he multiplied his guilt by planning the death of her husband. Though David repented, and though Nathan, the prophet of God, told him his sin was forgiven, there were consequences with which David would be haunted. One of those consequences was trouble in his own household. Now it was coming in more dramatic form than David could have guessed.<br />
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Shimei threw gravel at David and cursed him from the hill top as David was making his way out of town. David restrained his faithful companion from wreaking vengeance, saying, "Let him alone, and let him curse for the Lord has told him." <br />
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But David was grace-minded. He knew God as few people do. Later God calls him the man after "my own heart". When God forgives sin, He actually puts it from us as far as the east is from the west. A forgiven sinner is always a recipient of God's blessings. He always enjoys direct communication to God. <br />
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Fast forward to Psalm 3. This Psalm specifically identifies itself as being composed on the occasion of David's flight from Absolom. He bemoans the fact that his enemies are multiplying, and they are saying that God will not help him. It was tempting to believe those taunts because David was forever aware of his sin. <br />
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But David knows that God is a friend for forgiven sinners, and He is never a fickle friend. He says, "But You, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory and the One who lifts my head." Leaving Zion, David's head was bowed, but God lifted that dear head in due time.<br />
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"Salvation belongs to the Lord" David shouts at the crescendo of the Psalm. Only one who is grace-minded can do that in such circumstances. Sin disqualifies us from the favor of God. Our shame would take us to the mat and hold us there except for one thing: Salvation belongs to the Lord. Once He has declared His love for you, there is no way He will change His mind. After all, He knows the end from the beginning so what could possibly make Him change His mind? Since salvation is dependent upon what God has done, rather than upon anything you have done, it is secure for now and for eternity.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-25327369753154355912014-02-25T10:08:00.000-08:002014-02-24T21:52:12.118-08:00Running BoardsJust when I thought this term was obsolete I see an advertisement for truck running boards. It seems to be the latest and coolest accessory for your chic truck. A running board is a fancy step just under the door of your truck to help you climb into your monster. Baloney! I remember when all cars (and trucks) had a running board. Ecclesiastes is right: there is nothing new under the sun. <br />
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I fondly remember my Aunt Rose's model A Ford. It had a rumble seat (go grab your dictionary for that one), and it had running boards. It was so cool to stand on her running board and cling to the window frame as she drove slowly down our street. For a nine year old boy this was such daring fun. But in my youthful judgement the ground was not going past me all that fast. Before my Aunt could stop me I jumped from the running board to the pavement and said, "Bye!" only to discover my running gait was not as quick as I had calculated. I hit the pavement with a resounding "splat". Of course Aunt Rose immediately stopped the car to see if I was injured. When she discovered that it was only my pride that was damaged, she breathed a sigh of relief. And from that day forward she loved to tell the story, with great dramatic flair, especially with the onomatopoetic "splat" to finish the account. I was (and I guess I still am) sensitive to the "dissing" of embarrassing stories about me. <br />
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Then there was LeRoy Rafner's running board. He was a high school buddy of mine. When the "gang" wanted to go to the movies or play a little over-the-line, it was not uncommon for us to help LeRoy deliver papers on his route so we could get going sooner. He must have had an old Chevy sedan circa 1938, with running boards from which we would toss the papers at his direction. One of the guys handed a paper out the window to one of us on the running board on either side of the car, depending on which side of the street was the next target house. To tell the truth I'm not sure we saved all that much time, but we did it because it was fun. <br />
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Looking back on these intimate experiences with running boards, I'm wondering how long it will take our nanny government to pass laws against the stuff we did as kids with these new fangled things called "running boards".Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6755119167125833559.post-83277312515182334182014-02-20T15:14:00.001-08:002014-02-20T15:14:11.038-08:00Dental RecordsOkay, so I watch too many crime dramas. One of the educational benefits is how to identify bodies burned beyond recognition. Now we don't have to deal with this issue on a day to day basis, but it is interesting that such identities are usually made by comparing dental records.<br />
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The older a person gets he realizes just how unique each person's set of teeth and assisting faux implements might be.<br />
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This came to my mind simply because I have recently been rendered in need of repair to these faux implements. I was innocently chewing on a dried peach when I heard a dreadful "crunch". At first I feared that I had found a seed in the peach. But I soon learned that the problem was a broken front bridge when three connected front teeth fell into my lap.<br />
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I saved them in a discarded medicine bottle. But the immediate problem was this was Saturday night, and the next day I was scheduled to minister the Lord's Supper and teach adult class in Sunday School at our church in Costa Mesa. The thought briefly occurred to me that a little Krazy Glue might create another cute little endorsement story, but I chickened out.<br />
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My wife suggested I might get by as long as I don't smile. You want me to live a day without smiling? That's not going to happen. I checked out the mirror, and she was right, so I compromised. During the Lord's Supper I kept the stiff upper lip, and not a soul noticed my problem. But these are my friends, so when it came time for Sunday School (in this church SS follows worship hour) I just had a little fun explaining my problem, and then turned to the Psalm for study.<br />
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I told them the story of the guy who was scheduled to be an after dinner speaker, but during dinner he broke his teeth. In frustration he turned to the man seated next to him and explained his dilemma. To his surprise the man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a set of teeth. He thought his problem was temporarily solved until he discovered the teeth were too large for his mouth. "Great try, but I'm afraid these won't fit. Thanks for the effort." But to his utter shock, the man reached into the other coat pocket and produced another set of teeth. They fit just well enough for him to deliver his brief message and sit down. "Wow, am I glad that's over. And what luck was that for me to sit right next to a dentist!" "What dentist?" the man said, "I'm an undertaker."<br />
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That may have been a tactical error, because it was with difficulty I helped the crowd to give serious minded devotion to the text of Psalm 3 (which, ironically, has the line "you have shattered the teeth of the wicked").<br />
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Now the dentist says I have an abscess beneath one of those anchor teeth. I need to get them extracted, let the swelling subside, and then begin molds for the eventual installation of a removable plate. This stuff happens when you are the local fossil. I don't need to be concerned about dying in a fiery crash. My dentist can identify me as one in a million.<br />
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All that dental work will take time, of course, and now I am scheduled to preach in Tucson, AZ on March 2, and my mouth will have no aesthetic improvement between now and then. As God says to Moses who was "slow of speech": "Who made man's mouth?" I pray His word will be clear and plain even from my crooked mouth.Rollie Kellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04404783252284121329noreply@blogger.com0