Cell service in my office is spotty, and my calls are often dropped. Sometimes when this happens, I am unaware until I end a sentence and wait for the other person to respond and only hear silence. Not sure if they are in thought, still waiting on me to say something else, or no longer on the line, I ask, "are you still there"? I know that I have been talking to myself when this question is met with more silence.

You may have been wondering if I am still here. It has been over a month since I have written a blog post or sent out an email. My lack of activity has not been for lack of desire but rather circumstances not entirely of my choosing.

It was early one Sunday morning while we were still at home getting ready for church. First Baptist Church of Jacksonville services was on our TV, and Mac Brunson was preaching. Molly said to me as she watched Brunson preach, "Dad, what you need to do is write down everything that he says and just preach that." I guess she recognized that his preaching was better than anything she had seen me do. I was a little wounded and asked her what she thought the difference was between his preaching and mine. Her response was simple and direct. She said, "Well, he is a pro."

And with that, a family joke was born. I told the story of our conversation during my sermon later that morning at church (watch the video here) and have told it many times since. Since then, whenever someone in our family wants to acknowledge someone's achievement, they call them a pro. Likewise, whenever someone recognizes a personal shortcoming, they say, "I'm not a pro." So, by the summer of 2016, being or not being a pro was a well-established family trope.

I felt a sadness as I explored the three church buildings of Cades Cove. I felt a longing for what was and grieved for what would never be again. Each building retains the same beauty of its construction and ornamentation as they held before their congregations moved away. Though lacking modern accoutrements, all three church buildings have been well maintained and still house the accommodations and furniture employed by their former members. Unfortunately, they are today essentially museum exhibits, preserved for observation but not for use. This designation was a source of sadness and grief for me as I walked through these empty church buildings.

The architecture of church buildings often is designed for beauty, but esthetics is not the primary concern for the design of a church building. Church buildings may be beautiful, but they are not constructed singularly for esthetics but primarily for action. The three church buildings of Cades Cove are functional in form and simplistic in nature, built for ministry. While it is true that more sophisticated and moneyed congregations have built more elaborate and ornate structures than those that grace Cades Cove, they too are mostly functional in their architecture. Whether it be for preaching, teaching, or meeting a need in the community, church buildings are designed to support the church's ministry. And it is ministry that is at the heart of a church's existence.

These buildings were constructed with one purpose in mind – preaching. Preaching is a relatively simple activity. It is singular in focus and defined in its goal. The very structure of these buildings gives testimony to the singular focus and defined goals of their congregations. The proclamation of the Word of God was their aim. There is something refreshing about such simplicity. For those who worshiped in these structures, church meetings were a time to hear the Word proclaimed. They certainly sang hymns together. They prayed together and for one another. However, the primary focus and the defining element of their gatherings was preaching. The architecture of these buildings gives witness to this singular focus. The buildings were built to provide a place for preaching. The furniture is arranged to facilitate preaching. These congregations certainly participated in other activities associated with their ministries, but the testimony of the buildings is that their primary activity was preaching God’s word.

The problem with nostalgic thoughts is they are but sentimental imaginations, not necessarily accurate recollections. These places of worship are simplistic, yes – but perfect, no. There is value in simplicity, yet there is also foolishness in holding to the past out of nostalgia alone. I am thankful that my church in South Georgia, where humidity, heat, and gnats create a summer environment that can wilt a rock, has air-conditioned buildings. With the blessing of air-conditioning comes related aggravations, but these are considered small compared to the unpleasantness of enduring south Georgia’s oppressive heat and humidity.

Several years ago, I played the role of tourist while staying in the smoky mountains of southern Tennessee. We loaded the kids in the van, got out our area attractions map, and headed to a nearby national park called Cades Cove. It was a simple affair. A cove nestled in the bosom of mist-shrouded mountains. A pastoral valley cleared and tamed as the first settlers of European descent arrived some 200 plus years ago. It remained the home of the first settlers and their descendants until the 1930s, when the U.S. government acquired it for a national park. Today it remains not dissimilar from what it was in the 1930s. A potted and bumpy paved road now traverses what was once a potted and bumpy dirt road that encircles the valley.

Today, only a few cabins and farm buildings remain. These structures no longer have a purpose as part of working farms but now are preserved as museum pieces. What once was a place where life was hard and laborious is now a scenic drive full of valley vistas and remarkable sightings of turkey, deer, and other wildlife that have grown accustomed to the slow-moving vehicles with their staring faces and clicking cameras. And yet they do remain. The cabins still show the hewing marks of their builders and original owners. The barns, still holding hollowed logs, worn smooth from their former duty of offering the grain and straw to hungry livestock. The cabins, mills, smokehouses, and barns, the plows, wagons, and planters warn and seasoned with use and age still look as though they could return to duty at this very moment. Yet every visitor knows that all these things– the houses, the mill, and the barns - the wagons, the plows, and farm implements have life no longer as useful tools but rather as museum relics of the past. They represent not what is or will be but what was and will be no longer.

I remember school discussions of the First World War and how it was supposed to be the war to end war. It did not. I remember school discussions of how after the First World War, there was a period of significant industrialization and medical and technological advancements that many thought would usher in a new area of human prosperity and tranquility. It did not. It is easy to see previous generations' hubris and recognize their foolishness. No war can create lasting peace. There is no advancement of technology, no matter the laudable intentions of its creator, that will not also be used for nefarious means. No medical advancement comes without ethical dilemmas and malicious applications. In contrast to the clarity we recognize past hubris, it is difficult to see our own in the present.

It is so common among the church culture that I grew up in and now pastor that few, if any, notice it. An overly harsh judgment would declare this behavior as pseudo-humility, even willfully fake humility. A more gracious judgment would recognize a need for a better and deeper understanding of what salvation does to sin and our lives. I am talking about how many Christians speak with hopeless defeat about their struggle with sin and obedience to God’s word. There is even an overly used, often misunderstood, and theologically deficient phrase that embodies this issue – “I am just a sinner saved by grace.”

Sometimes “just a sinner saved by grace” is employed to excuse or rationalize the behavior of an unrepentant sinner. However, more often, it is spoken by one who truly desires to live righteously before the Lord but feels a need to show humility rather than confidence. Sometimes this same sentiment shows up more subtly. A teacher teaching on an issue of sin will preference their comments with “I fail at this all the time.” A preacher proclaiming from a text that calls the saints to a specific response may temper his words with “we all fall short of this.” In all these things, there is a prominent attitude of defeat. There is an assumption that failure, disobedience, and inadequacy are the norm. Such an attitude recognizes that we should feel bad about not perfectly obeying the commands and expectations of scripture but offers no hope that anything, but a perpetual state of disappointment, can be known.

Years ago, after moving to a new town and a new ministry position, I decided that it would be good to meet the other pastors in the community. One church in the community I recognized was a significant connection to make. This church was of another denomination than my church. Yet, our two churches had historically partnered in community service endeavors because of our proximity to one another and equivalent prominence in the community. Knowing this history, I thought a relationship with this church’s pastor would be beneficial. I called the church and made an appointment. The pastor’s secretary greeted me and escorted me to the pastor’s office when I arrived. I imagined that the pastor would be welcoming, warm, and open to connecting with me. I was unpleasantly surprised.

When I entered his office, his disinterest was apparent, and he seemed annoyed that I had bothered to interrupt his time. I told him who I was and how I hoped we could be good partners for the gospel in our community. To say he was not interested would be a gross understatement. He made it clear that I could do whatever I wanted, but he was not interested in participating. He explained that he was within a year or two of retiring and was biding his time until that day. I was flabbergasted. He was not ashamed nor secretive about his plan. He intended to perform the minimum requirements of his pastoral duties until he could retire and move on to other things.

I thought about using the title "That Time I Got Arrested in Prague," but being arrested is not actually what happened, but it does make for a more dramatic title. Here is the real story.

In 1996 I traveled to Europe with the Shorter University (then Shorter College) Chorale. The choir sang in wonderful venues in Austria, Germany, and the Czech Republic. While we were in Prague, we had time to explore the ancient city and take in the beautiful architecture and history.

After a full day of exploration, the day grew short, and we realized that it was getting close to the time we needed to be back at the hotel to prepare for the next event. We could have walked back, but the fastest way was to use public transportation. The problem was that we did not know how or where to purchase tickets to ride. We had been told that tram tickets were sold in many of the shops but not knowing the language meant we were not able to read the signs or ask for directions to find a shop that sold tickets. Our inability to read signs, along with feeling pressed for time, led us to make a very poor decision. Without much forethought or planning, we got on the tram without a ticket.

A friend of mine once told me that they were planning to take a family member out to dinner for their birthday, but they were not looking forward to the event. I assumed that this meant that there was an ongoing conflict between the two and asked what the source of the conflict was. My friend told me that there was no conflict but that when their family member interacted with servers at a restaurant, they often were overly demanding, hyper-critical, and rude. He said that it seemed that his family member was never satisfied and consistently critical to a point that he was embarrassed to share a meal with him.

I fear the consumer-focused world we live in encourages a complaintive spirit. Business owners rightly are concerned that a bad review, fair or unfair, could hurt their business. Consumers today are well versed in all the ways that opinions and reviews can be posted online about businesses. This, along with the often-repeated mantra that “the customer is always right,” creates an atmosphere where entitlement and selfishness can run amuck.

This weekend I am in Atlanta, GA for the Georgia high school state swimming championship. Our son, Micah, is competing in the meet. I will spend the weekend with parents from all over the state, cheering on our kids with great enthusiasm.

It does not matter what the sport or activity is, most parents happily spend great resources in time, effort, and money to support their children’s interests. Our family has spent hours and hours at rifle ranges watching air-rifle matches, in the unforgiving heat of softball tournaments, and swim meets that seem to go on forever. I have waited at the finish line of cross country meets anxiously scanning the distance for the first site of our runner. I have held my breath as our daughter went in for a basketball layup or sprinted from first base to steal second in softball. I have shouted until my voice gave out at swim meets, trying to motivate our swimmer to give that extra effort to cut a fraction of a second off their time. I have experienced moments of great anxiety at rifle meets when the accuracy of the next shot would be the difference between a great win or a disappointing loss. There have been moments of wonderful joy when games were won, and there has been long silent car rides home because of the sting of losing.

We talk a lot about our bodies. We talk about what hurts. We talk about what is not working as it should. We talk about the things we are doing to accommodate injuries or treatment for maladies. We are embodied beings. We relate to our world and all that is in it through our bodies. We know the world around us by what we see, hear, smell, and feel. Our life is dependent on the well-being of our bodies. For these reasons and many others, we tend to be very aware of and concerned for our bodies.

My wife and I are both runners. We regularly talk about how our recent runs have gone. We also talk a lot about how well our bodies are doing. Daily exercise makes you very aware of the ever-changing state of your body. You become aware of new pains and discomforts. You notice when a run goes well and when you struggle to finish. You pay close attention to how different shoes affect your speed, endurance, and recovery. As with any regular physical activity, you develop areas of soreness and related injuries. You tend to track if particular areas of discomfort are improving or growing worse. When runners get together, a large part of our conversations is about our bodies. We discuss injuries and share treatments we have found to be helpful. We discuss training regiments and how these can improve performance. We discuss shoes and other running-related equipment and how they can help performance, address a chronic injury, or provide comfort.

I have often heard it said that sheep are dumb. Generally, this assessment of the deficient intelligence of the ovine mind is used to explain the propensity of sheep to wander off from the herd and become lost. The Bible often uses sheep as a metaphor for God’s people. As such, when biblical passages are taught that deal with the imagery of sheep and their shepherds the negative assessment of being dumb and stupid is often applied both to the sheep and to Christians. This negative description of sheep is so commonly used that it gives the impression that the biblical perspective of sheep is universally negative.

Personal experience and academic knowledge are related but not the same. They are distant cousins. One can have a vast academic and technical understanding of something, even being able to describe it in the most specific details without personally and experientially knowing what they are describing.

In October of 1735, the trustees for the establishment of the colony of Georgia appointed Francis Moore to be the keeper of the stores for the new fort and town that was to be established on the banks of the Mackay River. Both the fort and the town would be named Frederica. Moore would travel to Georgia with James Oglethorpe to this new town on what today is known as St. Simons Island. Moore would return to England a year later only to come again to Frederica in 1738 as recorder. He would live in Georgia until 1746, witnessing the siege of St. Augustine and the Spanish invasion of Georgia in 1742. Moore kept journals detailing the establishment of the fort and town, the people, flora and fauna, and events he witnessed. Some of his journals were published.

When I was a kid, my church did a Living Christmas Tree program each Christmas season. The event was very much a product of 1980s church culture. It featured a massive steel-framed Christmas tree that rose from the base of the stage to inches from the high ceiling. The tree was constructed to support ascending rows of choir members who stood behind the tree's greenery with only their heads and shoulders exposed. The large choir would perform from the tree, while drama skits and small musical ensembles would perform on stages to the left and right of the tree. The event featured a full orchestra and the spectacle of lights on the tree. I loved it and looked forward to it each year. Over the years, there were common themes that were used year after year. One of those was a narration that made a distinction between this tree and that tree.

They were newlyweds returning from their honeymoon. As the 21-year-old Granger Kent and his new bride traveled toward home, surely their thoughts were on their future and the excitement of establishing a home and building a family. Seated not far from the newlyweds were two men, both engaged, and traveling to meet their brides and celebrate their weddings. 154 years ago, these and many more were gathered on a train traveling from Cleveland to Buffalo, New York.

The New York Express departed Cleveland in the early hours of December 18, 1867. As it made its way toward its destination it struggled to keep up with the appointed schedule, and by the time it reached Angola, NY, it was running nearly three hours late. The train engineers had no hope of arriving on time, but they were doing all they could to minimize the severity of their tardiness.

Other than the frustration of anticipated schedules being missed the trip was mundane. These were the days when passenger trains were the primary way of travel. It is likely that every passenger on the train that day had taken many similar trips and gave little thought to the significance of this trip. As they passed through Angola, they knew they were getting close to their destination and likely began to turn their thoughts to what they would do when they arrived. Angola was not a planned stop, so the train passed by the little wooded depot at a steady speed. The telegraph operator in the station noted her passing and surely waved at the engineers as they passed.

“The good old days weren’t so good.” That was my grandfather’s response to the impulse to remember the days of old as being better than the present day. Every generation is tempted to allow nostalgia to cover the hardships and brokenness of the past. As a kid, I would listen to the adults talk about how good things used to be and how broken things were becoming. Now I am an adult and often find myself being an enthusiastic participant in similar conversations.

My grandfather used to say that when he was a child, he carried enough water to float a battleship. He grew up in a home that did not have running water, and one of his regular chores was to bring in water for household use. He would say this to communicate how thankful he was for the modern convenience of in-home running water and to encourage me to be thankful for the goodness and convenience of in-home running water. I often imagined what life must have been like for him growing up with chamber pots and an outhouse. I imagined how uncomfortable it must have been on cold and rainy days and how inconvenient and time-consuming taking a bath must have been. But the truth is, I was never able to appreciate household plumbing with as much thanksgiving as my grandfather did.

The earliest disagreement I can remember having with my wife came in the early days of our courtship. We were both students at Shorter University and in the last year of our studies. Though we had known each other since our freshman year, we had only recently begun a serious relationship and were excited to spend as much time together as possible. I had invited Dana over to my apartment and was preparing a meal for her. The specifics of the meal have long since evaporated from my memory, but the particulars of our disagreement remain fresh. I had recently purchased a 4lbs. bag of sugar and was preparing to use the new sugar in whatever I was making. When I opened the sugar container, Dana noticed a singular black ant crawling across the top of the sugar. The building my apartment was in was an older building and thus the occasional bug was just part of living there. When Dana pointed out the little ant, I scooped it out and went on with my business of preparing food. Dana immediately protested and demanded that I throw away the entire container of sugar. I countered that the majority of the sugar was untouched by the ant and throwing out all of it would be wasteful. She contended that it was all contaminated by the presence of the little ant.

I have an odd collection of rocks on the bookshelf in my office. Among the collection are a jagged chunk of concrete, two broken bricks, three red cylinders cut from a brick wall, and a large cement cylinder cut out of a floor.

The first of the collection is the large cement cylinder. It stands about 4 inches tall. The sides are smooth from the blade that cut it. The smooth sides reveal the rock and rebar that were once part of the first floor of Roberts Hall, a men’s dormitory on the Rome, GA campus of Shorter University. During my sophomore year of college, the building was being wired for a new campus phone system and computer network. To provide access to each floor for the needed wiring, holes were drilled through the concrete floors. The new phone system was rendering the payphones on each floor obsolete, so their closets made convenient spaces through which to run the new wiring. The payphone closet was adjacent to the place at the end of the hallway, where I would often go late at night to read scripture and pray. The circular coring blade that cut through the concrete produced smooth-sided cement cylinders that the workmen left on the floor when they finished. One night, as I was reading scripture and praying, I noticed the forsaken remnants of the previous day’s work and decided to take one piece to be a reminder of how the Lord had been so gracious in those days and at that spot to draw me to Himself. It became a treasured reminder to me of God’s grace to convict me of sin and to deepen my obedience to His word.

We are people of stories. We tell stories to chronicle our history and express who we are. The stories we tell about ourselves paint the mural of who we are, what events have shaped us, what we hope to become, and how we hope to be remembered. Our stories are living things. How we tell them, when we tell them, who we tell them too, and what details we include (and exclude) all are part of the living story. Listening to others tell their stories helps you understand and know their heart. Understanding and knowing another’s heart goes a long way to helping you be more gracious towards them.