Names that have history

As we traveled today we noticed some names of remote places. The one that stuck in my craw was "Horse thief Gulch". There is a sign for the turnoff to reach this infamous spot right along the highway somewhere in Arizona. To scan the horizon is useless. There is no town there. There is no landmark there. In fact, as far as we could tell from the highway, there is absolutely nothing there. But it is a location and it bears this name, and I figure there must be a reason. Was this the gulch in which a wild west bad guy committed his dastardly deed of purloining another man's essential transportation? Maybe he got away and was never caught, and that is why he is just known as a "horse thief". Perhaps before the turn of the 20th century, this gulch was the natural corral for a herd of horses filched by a gang of iniquitous cowboys who later became the forebears of modern day owners of a chain of used car sales lots. Or maybe this was the spot when wild western justice saw a mob of vigilantes string up a local yokel for the unforgivable crime of pilfering a cowboy's most valuable possession. No, no. You know what? The most likely scenario is simply a few old duffers who live in the vicinity made up the name out of thin air. They like to lean their chairs back near the old pot bellied stove at the general store and spin yarns to entertain one another and mystify the children and city slickers who may have stopped by for directions. I sense the evolution of a myth in the over active imaginations of a few crusty cowboys who have long since moseyed over to that great corral in the sky. Yeah, that's gotta be it. At any rate, the sign along the highway does it's work. Just the name itself conjures up the most bizarre thoughts just when a driver is tempted to be bored with a long day's drive. Thank you, Arizona, for all those interesting stories launched by posting this most intriguing name for a local spot on the map.

Trees and My wife

I thought it only fair to publish some of my doggerel from Barbara's point of view, so after my blog on Sequoia I also put this one out.  The experience was uncanny, as we drove down the mountain and into the city of Fresno, I could hear her head clear.


I love to see these giant trees
If only for a day.
They aggravate my allergies
And so I cannot stay.

The storm brought heavy thunder
The rain came steady down.
The clouds of moist congestion
Brought pain and forced a frown.

For though the sun is shining
And skies are clear and blue,
The raging tumult in my head
Drones on without a clue.

Some day the clouds will dissipate.
Some day the rain will stop.
But now my nose precipitates.
My head swears it will pop.

Fresno is so flat and hot!
Who’d ever choose this place?
But wait, my sinuses unstop.
A painless smile now forms my face.

That world is worth a photograph
A periodic visit to revel,
But I was made to live and laugh
In cities at sea level.

Infant Baptism?

I was fairly new to the reformed church scene when I went off to Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, presumably to become a minister in the Orthodox Presbyterian Church.  During my middler year, something wonderful and dramatic happened.  My wife gave birth to my firstborn son.  I couldn't stop grinning.  I was a daddy, and I thought that was so amazing.

I told Professor Clowney that I needed to delay my hermeneutics sermon because I was not able to study due to the birth of my son.  I thought he would understand (after all, he was a family man), but he didn't.  "Oh no, you're scheduled to preach, and you will preach."  I preached, and it wasn't what I would call eloquent.  Fact is, the 3 he gave me was a gracious gift.

But the story I wanted to share with you is how I was faced with an important decision while my wife was in labor.  Barbara was in labor for 24 hours with our firstborn, Philip.  In the old days dad was relegated to the fathers' waiting room, far away from the action.  It wasn't 'til my fourth child was born that I became part of the team in the delivery room.  But that's another story.  I realized that the question of infant baptism was no longer academic.  Was I going to seek baptism for my new baby, or would my reluctance carry the day?  So I read John Murray's book, "Baptism".

When a man is awaiting the arrival of his first child, it is rather near impossible for him to think straight or deep.  And John Murray is not an easy writer to read.  There were times I read the same sentence a second and even a third time.  Needless to say, I was forced to read it again following Philip's birth.

I was fully convinced that the new covenant of Jeremiah 31 was fulfilled in the church (Hebrews 8).  I knew that the sacraments of the old covenant were paralleled in the New Testament with non-bloody sacraments, namely baptism and the Lord's Supper, replacing circumcision and Passover.  So far, so good.  But what gave me deep reservations was the fact that baptism very clearly is designed for believers.  After disciples confessed their faith they were "initiated" into the church with the sign of baptism.  My little baby was incapable of doing that, and so shouldn't he be ineligible for baptism?  Weren't the Baptists right in declaring "believers baptism"?

It was while pondering this question that the apostle Paul knocked the pins out from under me.  I was rendered speechless by the clear implications of Romans 4:11.  This verse refers to circumcision as both a sign and a seal.  This is true of all sacraments.  Of what was it a seal?  Paul teaches us that it is a seal of the righteousness which Abraham had by faith.  First he believed, then righteousness was imputed to him, and then he was circumcised as the seal of this saving faith.  That is not just parallel to baptism, that is exactly what baptism is.  First we believe, then we are accounted as righteous, and then we receive the sign and seal of baptism.

This sounds like an argument for the baptist position.  But wait a minute.  Even though circumcision was specifically designed as a sacrament for believers, God specifically commanded Abraham to circumcise his children when they were eight days old (Genesis 17).  The sign of the covenant was a sign for believers--AND their children.  The New covenant replacement for circumcision was baptism, and though it too is a sign for believers, it too includes the children of believers.  There are a few household baptisms recorded in scripture to confirm this (I Cor. 1:16; Acts 16:15, 33).  No one can argue against baptizing babies on the basis of the fact that they aren't able to believe unless he can also explain why God commanded Abraham to circumcise his babies.

So as soon as mother and son came home from the hospital, we scheduled him for baptism.  I hope this may help someone wrestling with the same reservations.

From the other side of the pulpit

When you sit in the average congregation (especially if the church has more than 100 people) you might feel hidden in the crowd.  But let me assure you that this is a false assumption.  In most church auditoriums (auditoria?) each individual member can be clearly seen by whoever is occupying the pulpit.  So if you're a nose picker or a head nodder or an addicted whisperer, your pastor knows all about it.

There are exceptions, of course.  Our auditorium here in Long Beach arranges its lighting as though interrogating a suspect behind the pulpit.  Congregation members are in the shadow land and the preacher is in the spotlight.  In this case I can vouch for the fact that this does not mean our church has adopted the unfortunate posture of audience and performer.  We know that God is the only "audience" and all of us are participating in worship.

I recently filled the pulpit in Westminster OPC, Westminster, California.  I enjoy ministering in this congregation because they are very receptive.  While I am speaking I can see each member sitting very still and giving me complete attention.  The body language is quite clear.  I attribute this to the fact that they are used to listening to a very good preacher, and they have become "eloquent" listeners.

Now I realize that there are those who are well practiced at appearing to be paying attention although their minds are far from the present scene.  But he is an exception, and body language sometimes even gives this away.  If some bit of unintended humor comes across the pulpit and the congregation chuckles with me, the zombie dude is still staring into space.

In the Carson Church we had an old duffer (hey! I resemble that remark.) who routinely fell asleep sometime during my sermon.  If I didn't finish before noon, his watch alarm would rhythmically beep until someone shook him (never happened) or the technology simply fatigued.

I've seen mothers pace the rear of the auditorium with a whimpering baby on the shoulder, just because she was a faithful saint who wanted to hear something edifying.  Then there are the preteen boys who are looking through the Bible for funny stuff.  Actually I think that went out when our churches began using versions other than the King James.

I'll never forget the experience I had in the pulpit of our Wilmington, Delaware, church.  I had the joy of an enthusiastic German listener (somehow he never actually became a member) who might be expected to cry out "Amen!" on any given Sunday.  Rudolph would get antsy on the edge of his pew, and when a crescendo of the message was delivered, he would respond with a lusty "Amen."  But on the particular Sunday I have in mind, Rudolph was mounting a peak of excitement when I happened to glance to the other side of the auditorium.  There I saw one of our cooler members, leaning on the side of his pew, checking his watch.  It was at the same high point of the message!  Right then and there I learned that although there certainly are some preachers more eloquent than others, there are also some listeners who are more eloquent than others.

By the way, if you think your preacher needs to learn more eloquence, why don't you pray for him.  Ask God to make him so excited about what he has found in the text that all of that joy and excitement will come across the pulpit next week.

And start practicing eloquent listening.

About being an old duck

I can remember when I first took a 10% discount because I was 55.  I was reticent at first, as though I was cheating.  Some restaurants issue a card for seniors, but even then I had the feeling that I was stealing.  I feel fine.  Why should I pay less than others for this meal?

A few more places joined the benevolent policy when I turned 60.  Then it was 62 or 65 or I don't know.  Those increments are all so irrelevant now.  And I no longer feel a qualm.  There are too many other reasons to lose sleep now.  I'll take all the courtesies merchants will offer, thank you.  They don't really compensate for the pains of aging.  Getting old is a bummer!  But as they say, it's a lot better than the alternative.  Yet even that is not true for the Christian.  God is still reminding us that to depart and be with Christ is far better.  Hey, all this and heaven too!

I can remember the first time a little teen age girl, a bagger at the supermarket, offered to help me out to the car with my groceries.  Are you kidding, Missie?  I could carry you and the groceries myself.  That was then.  Now I am frequently tempted to take the offer.  Walking the full circuit of the market, toting my stuff home and putting it away is now a day's work.

It was much later in my life than it should have been when I first realized I would never play professional baseball.  I did have a few memorable highlights in the church softball league.  The day I made "the catch" for example.  Or the night I hit home runs in two consecutive times at bat.  Evidently my son, Bobby, remembered my prowess and yet discounted what all the intervening years (and several "Outback" meals) had done to my constitution.  When we visited him on a night when his team from work was playing, he asked me to be the ringer for a missing player.  I asked to play catcher so that I wouldn't be required to run.  But he wrote me into the batting order in clean up position.  Traditionally the fourth hitter was the heaviest hitter so he could bring in the men who had reached base before him.  Well I was the heaviest hitter, alright, but only when you can appreciate the double entendre.

Social gatherings find women discussing recipes and the men talking about exploits and skirmishes from their places of employment.  But when we become seniors, we talk about other things.  My lengthy hospital stay with pneumonia for example, or my heart attack or my hip replacement surgery.  Someone has cleverly dubbed this "the organ recital".

I remember when I felt sorry for the old duffer who was struggling to cross the street.  Now I AM that old duffer.  I used to rise to the challenge of little things that broke and fix them, feeling so smug about saving repair bills.  Now I'm planning to hire some strapping young man to dig up a pernicious plant that is gradually invading our flower bed.  It takes enough of my fleeting energy just to prune the roses, pick tomatoes and zucchini and water the crops.

God has his own way of encouraging us to long for heaven, and not all of my motives are noble and pious.

The Old Rugged Cross

It's been a favorite of Christians for so many years.  I cringe to say this, but I do not like to sing this song.  For many years I conducted a hymn sing/devotional time at the local retirement home.  They frequently asked that we sing this old gospel hymn, and we usually had no pianist, so I had to lead out loud and strong to get them to sing.  I wasn't comfortable doing this, and once in a while I would make a few comments as to why.

Many wonderful truths are celebrated when we sing this song.  "In the old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine, a wondrous beauty I see; for 'twas on that old cross Jesus suffered and died to pardon and sanctify me."  This references the blood of Christ as "divine".  Strictly speaking, God has no blood.  But on the basis of Acts 20:28 we appreciate that it was with His own blood that God purchased His church.

The real meaning and beauty of that cross is found in the work of Christ that accomplished our justification and our sanctification.  "Jesus suffered and died to pardon and sanctify me."  Every Christian wants to sing this in one form or another.  It is the joy that carries us through this broken world into glory.  It is the only hope for sinners to gain the eternal city who's builder and maker is God. It is the substitutionary atonement that opens the door for grace to flood and govern our lives forever.

So why do I find any discomfort when I sing this gospel song?

Well, I want to know why George Bennard planned to exchange that cross for a crown.  If we are singing about the cross of pain and persecution we might bear in life, yes, I will exchange that for a crown.  But in the words of this hymn it is that old rugged cross--the one on which my Savior died for me--it is THAT cross that gets exchanged for a crown.  

No, no, Georgie boy, we will never exchange that cross for anything here or in eternity to come.  In glory it will be the cross that brought us there that we celebrate.  More accurately, of course, it will be the Savior who died on that cross who will be the focus of our devotion.  As surely as the resurrected Jesus bore the print of the nails and spear for Thomas to examine, he will show us that same, marked, resurrected body in heaven.  No crown that He is pleased to give any of us in glory will ever be an exchange for the old rugged cross.  If I receive a crown in glory, I know I will follow the example of the 24 elders who throw their crowns at Jesus' feet and say, "Worthy are you, our Lord and God..."

There's the exchange.  Crowns for the Cross-bearer.

Unforgettable "Red" Gage

When he thought he was having a heart attack he drove himself to the hospital.
"Red, why didn't you call.  I would have been glad to take you there."
"No need.  I know how to get there, and it was faster than calling anyone."

If there was an appliance or gimmick that you needed to acquire, it was wise to ask Red if he knew where you could get it before shelling out the money for a new one.  If it wasn't in his remarkably stuffed garage, he probably knew someone who knew someone else, etc.  We once visited a naval cadet.  She must have visited the church in order for me to have contact with her, I don't remember just now.  But she was this cute young girl who had a baby and was divorced and short of cash.  In conversation she revealed her need of a washer and dryer in her new quarters at the local base.  It was Red who located the machines which we delivered to her home.  She was delighted, and I thought we were making points to be cashed in by getting her to church again (and perhaps getting her to come to Christ, Who was the real source of this blessing).  But we never saw her again.  When I called again two weeks later, I found she had taken off with a suitor.

When I knew Red, he was no longer red haired, but rather grey, including his scruffy facial hair.  He could have passed for one of the homeless people he was forever helping.  I'm not quite sure with which agency he was once employed, but I know he talked about when he used to carry a 45 to enforce the law.  We became fast friends, and often found a lunch counter or diner to hang out together.  Most places seemed to know Red, and were glad to see him.  I think he had more friends in town than I ever did.

Red made a deal with the manager at a local supermarket and loaded day old bread and other goods in the back of his pickup which he distributed to homeless folks.  He seemed to know where to find them all.  At certain addresses of people who were scraping to get by, and in back alleys he knew how to give away all these leftover donuts, cakes, breads and other stuff.  Red never considered himself an evangelist, but he made sure the recipients of his generosity were aware that these provisions came as the compliments of the "good Lord Jesus."  He paid a little to obtain the supply, but he very seldom asked the church to reimburse him.  Red always had his resources.  He was a deacon long before the church finally ordained him a deacon.

I used to ride along with sheriff deputies.  That's an interesting story all its own.  But I remember one night we needed Red.  We had a call that said there was a homeless man sleeping by a certain dentist office, scaring away the patients.  Soccer moms who finally dragged their little ones to the dentist would park the car and had to walk by this scruffy, snoring dirt bag to get to the office.  He had been chased out of there before, but just brought his shopping carts and vermin-infested mattress back in a few hours.

Neither the deputy nor I could form a plan that might disenchant this vagrant of his favorite sleeping accommodation.  I recommended my street-wise deacon friend to this deputy, and we called Red out to help us.  He took the lead like a drill sergeant, barking orders to this mumbling urchin.  He told him to throw half his stuff in the trash bin at the grocery, and keep all his stuff in only one shopping cart.  After hassling him, he was intimidated enough to stay away from the dentist's office.

Melford "Red" Gage was never confused as a Rhodes Scholar, but he was really a loving man who was interesting to engage in conversation and had street smarts, learned from his manifold experiences.