a little jesus

This past Sunday, our Methodist friends from Mount Vernon were given a “little Jesus,” like the one pictured above. Pastor Betsy explained that “everybody needs a little Jesus.” I had seen these things online but had not really paid much attention to them.

When Betsy explained to me that she was going to hand them out in her worship service I thought, “Okay. Whatever. Another one of those weird things that Methodists do.”

But then I saw the reaction of her congregation on Sunday. People would walk through the door, and they were greeted with, “Good morning! Have a little Jesus.” They would immediately smile and put him in their pocket. As the service progressed, I noticed little Jesus’ popping up all over the place. They were on the table at the back of the sanctuary, sitting on top of Bibles and hymnals, and, of course, one was prominently displayed on the pulpit. The lady sitting in front of me had three of them sitting on the top of her pew looking at the pulpit.

When it came time for the Baptists to worship, I showed my little Jesus to one of our members and expected them to say, “Is this one of those Methodist things?” But instead, they said, “Oh, how cute!”

I’ve got my little Jesus sitting on my desk, and every time I look at him my heart is warmed. It is a subtle, gentle reminder that Jesus is with me. It’s true. We DO all need a little Jesus from time to time

valley forge

Just a few weeks ago I finished reading the book Valley Forge by Bob Drury and Tom Clavin. It was a Christmas present from my brother, Rick.

I learned in school that the conditions at Valley Forge were harsh, but this book opened my eyes to a better understanding of what soldiers experienced there. About 1/3 of the army had no shoes. There was not enough food, and many of the soldiers died of starvation. Desertion was rampant because of the deplorable conditions.

The problem was the Continental Army supply lines. Many who were hired to transfer supplies were unreliable. One story tells how a farmer was delivering food supplies when his wagon got stuck in the mud. He just left it there and went home.

My favorite part of the book tells of the arrival that winter of Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben. Von Steuben was a Prussian military officer who crossed the ocean to participate in the Revolutionary War. He spent that winter training the troops in the art of warfare. He is pictured here in a painting by Edwin Austin Abbey.

When the war started, General Washington was leading a group of rag-tag volunteers. Most of them had no military training, and it showed. There were numerous defeats in the early days of the war. During that winter in Valley Forge, von Steuben taught them how to fight. It is said that he was relentless in his training methods.

When the fighting resumed in the spring, the British were not expecting to face an army of professional soldiers. But the training, and the harsh conditions, made them battle worthy. At the Battle of Monmouth, the British faced a disciplined, toughened, well trained fighting force. The Americans more than held their own.

None of us likes going without shoes in the winter. And drilling from sunup to sundown is no fun. But sometimes God places us in difficult situations to harden us for the challenges we will face. As Benjamin Franklin once said, “No pain, no gain.”

3rd lieutenant

This past Sunday my wife and I visited Lincoln’s Summer Cottage in Washington D.C. The cottage shares space with the Soldiers Home, which is a home for retired veterans, even today.

I learned a lot during our tour of the building, things I had never heard of before. For example, President Lincoln spent about 1/4th of his presidency living at the cottage. It was a place where he could escape the summer heat as well as the stress of the White House. It was in a room on the second floor where he wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. He loved visiting the soldiers at the soldiers home, and he loved talking to the infantry guards that were camped across the yard.

Historian Matthew Pinsker writes that Lincoln’s son, Tad, was a frequent visitor to the camp. He would participate in drills and even eat with the soldiers. Their sergeant wrote that he was a great favorite among the men, and they bestowed upon him the title “3rd Lieutenant”, even providing him with his own uniform. He is the only 3rd lieutenant in the history of the U.S. Army.

One of the reasons Lincoln spent so much time at the cottage was that his son, Willy, had died at the White House in 1862, probably of Typhoid Fever. Naturally, his death at age 11 had a profound effect on Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln. The cottage gave them a respite from the place where Willy died.

I was touched by this story and the soldiers’ affection for Tad. I can imagine how they could have reacted to this eight year-old showing up for drills and “getting in the way.” But the child was treated with respect and dignity, and it seems that he was genuinely loved by the soldiers. There is something in the heart of man that is warmed by the presence of a child. Especially when that child appears during the ghastly circumstances of civil war. Maybe that’s why our preschoolers have come to mean so much to me. When we are surrounded by hatred, cruelty, and death, it’s good to spend time with a kid.

discombobulated

This past Sunday I was feeling discombobulated. Did you know that discombobulated is a real word? I remember my dad using it occasionally, but I always thought it was something he made up.

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary says discombobulated is an adjective used in informal speech. The definition is: characterized by confusion or disorder. It’s first known use was in the 1820s in the northern United States. The word reflects a trend where educated individuals would create new words by combining Latin prefixes, suffixes, and roots in a playful way.

The word has no etymological root; its sound was meant to be suggestive of its meaning. Other words coined in the era include confusticate (to confuse or muddle), absquatulate (to leave the room suddenly), and toploftical (arrogant or haughty).

Sunday was an off day for me. We were late getting to church because my son’s Metro train got stuck on the tracks just north of Huntington Station. We got to the Methodist Church’s worship service to run the A/V system, which did not want to cooperate. Someone had unplugged the power cord to screen #2, the tie mic faded in and out, and feedback from the pulpit mic ruptured the eardrums of everyone present.

When it came time for us to start our Baptist service, the list of announcements I’d worked on the night before was nowhere to be seen. I tried to remember what I had to say, but my discombobulation wiped my brain clean. One of the things I had wanted to announce was that Pastor Betsy, from the Methodist Church, would be preaching for me this Sunday. My wife and I will be out of town celebrating our anniversary and Betsy offered to fill in.

“Scientific studies” have suggested that discombobulation can be caused by hunger, lack of sleep, or stress. The quotation marks at the beginning of that last sentence indicate that I just made that up. But I’m pretty sure that statement is true.

I wonder if Jesus ever got discombobulated. Maybe that’s what was going on when he chased out the money changers at the temple. Or maybe he felt discombobulated in the Garden of Gethsemane when he asked God to let the cup of suffering pass over him. Or when he woke up from a deep sleep and didn’t know what day it was. I’m sure he did, because Jesus was fully human as well as fully divine. Discombobulation is a part of life. We all experience it from time to time. Fortunately, the Lord gives us a chance to start over the next day. Each day is an opportunity for a new beginning.

harry homeowner

Oh, the joys of home ownership! Three weeks ago, we started having trouble with our washing machine. The appliance that we bought a little less than two years ago started acting up. It was having trouble completing the rinse cycle.

I’m not “Mr. Fixit,” but I did spend a few hours trying to figure out the problem. But they don’t teach washing machine repair in seminary, so my Old Testament Survey class didn’t do me much good. Finally, I called the repair guy.

When he arrived, he looked at our machine and said, “Oh, I see the problem. You bought an X brand washer. They are not very good. You should have bought a Y brand. Armed with this knowledge, I was confident I could avoid this mistake next time I bought a washer. But that was not very helpful to someone who is running out of clean socks. When I asked if he could fix it, he said, “Sure. I CAN fix it, but I would need to come back with a helper, and it would cost an arm and a leg.” He recommended I just buy a new washer. Which, ALSO costs an arm and a leg.

So, it was off to Lowes to buy an appliance. We made arrangements to have it delivered ASAP, which in this case was the following week. Which meant I had even fewer clean socks.

The big day came for the delivery, and they brought it, just like they promised, “between 8:00 and 4:00.” They hauled it in, hooked it up, and took away the old washer. “Finally,” I thought to myself. “I can wash a load of socks.” About ten minutes into the wash cycle, however, the floor drain started backing up and it was time to call the plumber.

The plumber arrived, as promised, between 8:00 and 4:00 the next day and unclogged my drain. (Which cost TWO arms and a leg) By that time I was completely out of socks and critically low on other essentials as well. Long story short, I spent the next day (between 8:00 and 4:00) doing three weeks of accumulated laundry.

So, the bad news is that this whole episode cost me a bunch of time and money. The good news is that I have a clear drain, a new washing machine, and a drawer full of clean socks. I also am blessed to have indoor plumbing. I can wash my dishes in the dishwasher, and don’t have to use an outhouse. Indoor plumbing is great! Even if it means I have an occasionally clogged pipe. And I don’t have to haul my laundry down to the creek to wash my clothes, which would be hard on both my socks and knees. Do I complain a lot? Yes, I suppose I do. Perhaps God can teach me to count my blessings instead.

physical therapy

Several months ago, I had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. I was experiencing some pain in my right hip.

I found out several years ago that my hip was malformed, possibly because of a childhood disease called “Perthes.” At the time, I was told I would probably need a hip replacement by the time I was 50.

Well, since I passed 50 a long time ago, I just figured it was time to get that hip replacement. But when the doctor examined me and looked at the x-rays, he said that the hip itself did not look that bad. But he said the location of the pain suggested a “labral hip tear.” I didn’t even know I had a Labrum, much less that it could be torn.

The doctor suggested that I get six weeks of physical therapy and then come back to see him, and if it still hurt, he would order an MRI. His referral sat on top of my bookshelf for the next six months. (Cause, you know, life happens!)

So last week I finally got in to see the physical therapist. She began by moving my leg in every which direction.

“Does this hurt?” she asked.

“No” I said.

“How about this?”

“Nope.”

“And this?”

“Holy Jumping Jehosaphat!” I said. (Or something like that) “That smarted.” She then proceeded to massage, stretch, pull, and twist my leg. Some of what she did felt kinda nice, like when you wrap yourself in a warm blanket on a cold, rainy day and have three dachshunds on your lap. Others felt like she was sticking a cattle prod in my leg.

When I asked why she was torturing me, she explained that the hip and thigh muscles were tight and the first step in the healing process was to loosen them up.

As with many things in life, first steps can be painful. When we first start walking, we fall down a lot. When our leg gets broken, the doctor has to set it. When our labrum gets torn, we have to do physical therapy. (With a specially trained sadist, no less)

We want the healing process to be easy. We want God to snap his fingers and make it all better. But sometimes the way to healing is painful. Sometimes it takes hard work. So now I have to get busy. I have stretching to do today, for tomorrow I go back to the sadist therapist.

retirement celebration

This past Sunday afternoon, Jeannine and I traveled to the Upper Essex Baptist Church in Caret, Virginia. We went to support our good friends, Roy & Missi Foster, who are soon to retire after 36 years of pastoral ministry to this church. The congregation had a reception to honor them.

I met Roy when we were both freshmen at Averett College in 1977. We followed one another to Southeastern Seminary where we graduated in 1984. Roy and I have had many shared experiences over the years. I was a groomsman at his wedding, he officiated mine. When his dad died, I preached the funeral service for him. When my father died, he preached the funeral for me. When my wife was very sick and in the hospital, he was one of the first people I called.

We have attended preaching conferences, annual meetings of the Baptist General Association of Virginia, and met a couple times a year for lunch at the Five Guys in Fredericksburg. We have shared heartaches and sermon illustrations and jokes. We have shared advice, grief, and dreams. Roy is one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

After the celebration on Sunday afternoon, we stopped by Roy’s house for a while. We sat in his living room, and he asked me, “So, Bart. When are YOU going to retire?” Roy is a few years older than me so it makes sense that he would retire first. I know that transition is on the horizon, but I’m not ready to go there just yet. I feel like God has not yet released me from this calling. Whenever it comes, I’m glad Roy will be able to show me the way.

trinity episcopal- part two

Last week I shared how my brother and I attended the funeral service of my cousin Bernie’s wife. The service was held at the Trinity Episcopal Church in St. Mary’s County, MD.

Buried in this church cemetery is Bernie’s dad, Murvin. His tombstone is pictured here. Murvin was the son of my dad’s brother, Alfred Murvin Purdy, Sr. Uncle Murvin was born in 1907, 14 years before my dad. Murvin Jr. was born in 1930, 9 years after my father was born. Because of the age difference between my dad and my uncle, dad always said that he was closer to Murvin Jr. than he was to his brother. Since Uncle Murvin died when I was two, I don’t remember him at all. But I remember Murvin, Jr. well.

Murvin Jr. was a carpenter by trade. I remember as a kid, watching “Cousin Murvin” refinishing our basement. He took an old garage and turned it into a nice family room. It was amazing to me what the man could do with a hammer and nails. Even as a teenager I could sense the skill that the man had. The kind of skill that only comes from years of experience.

While walking back to the church from Murvin’s grave, his granddaughter mentioned how the Purdys need to have a family reunion. We do indeed. Especially since I barely know some of these people who share my surname.

What I learned from this experience is that these people are worth knowing. Not only are they talented, gifted, interesting people, but we share the Purdy sense of humor, as well as the oversized Purdy ears!

My brother and I have often talked about a Purdy family reunion. A gathering of the Richmond Purdys, and the St. Mary’s Purdys, and the Shenandoah Purdys. Everyone agrees we should do this. But life gets in the way. We get caught up in our daily lives and forget all about it until someone dies and we gather for their funeral.

It has been suggested that the “Alexandria Purdys” (That would be me) are centrally located to the rest of the family and therefore would be the most logical choice to host said reunion. (Ah…right) Perhaps this time next year, when a new church has been erected on Telegraph Road, we can host a family gathering in our new fellowship hall. Oh, if only Murvin was here to help build it!

trinity episcopal

This past Saturday, my brother and I traveled to Trinity Episcopal Church in St. Mary’s County, MD. The occasion was the funeral service for my cousin’s wife. Bernie Purdy is my 2nd cousin once removed on my father’s side. His wife, Patricia, passed away on February 13th after a long battle with COPD.

To tell you the truth, I don’t think I ever met Patricia. But I remember Bernie visiting our house when I was a kid. It had been years since I’d seen him, and during the service I met cousins I didn’t even know I had. There were some in attendance I had never met face to face but had become friends with on Facebook.

Trinity is an old historic church. It was originally founded in 1638 (more than 300 years before Virginia Hills was founded!) It is surrounded by tombstones, some of which were erected this year, and some of which are so old you cannot read the inscription. Several of these tombstones bear the name Purdy. They are about 100 yards west of the church pictured above.

Trinity is a tiny little church. It looked like it would seat about 75. But it is a beautiful place of worship that is still an active congregation. The pastor is Rev. Charity Humm, whom I was told is a “young, energetic woman who will keep this congregation on its toes.”

The service was marked by a traditional, liturgical funeral service, interspersed with digital music loved by the family. The pews look ancient, but the pulpit has a modern-day microphone. And the service was live streamed on Facebook!

They may be small, but they are making a difference in St. Mary’s County. I was inspired by this congregation that has been active for 387 years. What will Virginia Hills look like in 300 years?

mission statement

For several years our church mission statement has been: “To provide a loving, friendly, family atmosphere where people can meet and serve Christ, community, and one another.”

When we adopted this statement, it was a lot of work. We polled the congregation, asking them what key words described our church. We had multiple meetings to brainstorm and discuss it. Finally, we had a business meeting to vote on it.

At our constitution study committee last Sunday we were discussing whether it might be time to update our mission statement. I have thought about this in recent years but was resistant because of the amount of work involved. But it occurred to me on Sunday that our current mission statement is about 20 years old. The people who helped write it are all gone now. Is it still relevant? Especially as we look forward to opening a new building.

When I shared our current statement with Pastor Betsy not long ago her opinion was it is too long and clunky. You want a mission statement that precisely and accurately describes what you are all about. It should be a guiding light for what you are hoping to accomplish. It should emphasize what is different about OUR church and it should be easy to remember.

What do you think of when you think of our calling as a church? What words stand out? How are we different from Mount Vernon Methodist or Franconia Baptist?

Over the past three days I have been reconsidering who we are. In my mind I can think of several things that describe us: we welcome everybody, we are uplifting and affirming, we are a safe place, we respect women and invite them to be leaders, and we want to love on people. We especially want to love on families that need childcare, and the seniors that will live at Brightview Senior Living. We want to create an atmosphere where people can experience Jesus.

What else describes who Virginia Hills Church is? Text, email, or call me with your thoughts. I’d love to get your input.

Bart

vhbcpastor@verizon.net

703-541-8144

the giving crisis

I’ve been reading the book “The Giving Crisis,” by Andrew McNair. I’m not sure how I came to have this book, but it’s been sitting on my desk for several months. McNair describes how many churches are struggling financially. While many churches describe this as a “financial crisis,” McNair suggests it would be more accurate to call it a “Giving Crisis.”

In the opening pages of his book, he shares some eye opening statistics:

• Some 247 million U.S. citizens identify as Christian, but only 1.5 million tithe.

• The average weekly giver contributes less than $1,000 a year

• Of those who attend church, only 5 percent tithe.

• Eighty percent of contributors only give 2 percent.

• Only 1 percent of households making over $75,000 tithe.

McNair goes on to say, “We tithe less now than we did during the Great Depression, during which we had almost 50 percent unemployment. We are the richest generation in human history. And yet more prosperity has not made us more generous.”

McNair tells how, when he was a teenager, he worked several jobs and saved as much as he could. By the time he was 16 he had $160,000 in the bank. By the time he was 26 he had earned his first million. And yet, for all his money, he had a nagging sense of unfulfillment.

What he discovered was that money couldn’t buy happiness. He eventually learned about the joy that comes from generosity. He arranged his finances so that he would live on 20 percent of his income and give away 80 percent. He gave, not because God needed the money, but because he liked the feeling of being able to make a difference.

Now, not all of us have McNair’s gift for making money. And not all of us can make enough to live on 20 percent of our paycheck. The question is, “How much CAN we give?”

What would happen if all of our active members became tithers? We would add hundreds of thousands of dollars to our budget. Think of the impact we could have on our community. I’m not one of those pastors who always talks about money. And my intent is not to guilt anyone into giving beyond their means. But friends, we can do better! We MUST do better.

somebody to blame it on

When I was a teenager, growing up at Franconia Baptist Church, my pastor was Dr. C.L. Bishop. Dr. Bishop hired me part time to help run the offset printing press at the church. I was responsible for printing the worship bulletin, the weekly newsletter, and the Wednesday night prayer list.

I remember one day I made a mistake. I screwed up the weekly prayer list so badly that the church secretary had to retype the whole thing. I’ll never forget having to tell my pastor that I had messed up. And I’ll never forget his response. With a twinkle in his eye, and a smile on his face, he said, “That’s okay. We’ll find somebody else to blame it on.”

He was kidding, of course. The secretary retyped the list and I ran it off without incident. But my pastor taught me a valuable lesson. We all make mistakes. None of us is perfect. When you goof things up, admit it, fix it, and move on.

I was reminded of this yesterday. I had been asked to officiate a funeral service at Everly-Wheatley Funeral Home and put it on my calendar for 12:00 noon. The problem was the service was at 11:00. The funeral director called at 11:15 asking where I was. I’m not sure what happened. Maybe I was given the wrong time, maybe I put it in my calendar wrong. The point is, I was late.

When I arrived at the funeral home I apologized profusely to the funeral director and family. As we were walking into the chapel the funeral director, Andrea, said, “We all make mistakes. Nobody’s perfect.”

As it turned out, the service turned out to be a comedy of errors. The sound system wasn’t working, the wrong song was played in the middle of the service, and even though everyone was asked to turn off their cell phones, one went off in the middle of the eulogy. The family said the deceased would have laughed his bottom off.

As I was talking to Andrea after the service I said, “You seemed pretty unflappable in the midst of all that chaos. How do you maintain your composure when things go wrong?" She replied, “Well pastor, my philosophy of life is this. If I can do something about it, I’ll do it. If I can’t do anything, I let it go.”

I’m grateful that I live among forgiving people. My family, my congregation, and the local funeral directors cut me a lot of slack. And as you know, few people need more slack than me!

i’m having a girl

This morning, during the preschool before-care program, one of our little boys came in with some good news. He ran up to me with a big smile on his face and said, “Guess what Pasta Bort. I am going to have a girl!”

I thought I knew what he was telling me, but I was not sure. So, I asked him, “Is Mommy having a baby?” He said, “No. Mommy has a baby in her tummy. And it is a girl.” He then proceeded to tell everyone in his classroom about “his girl.”

The more I think about it, the more I understand how right he was. It is not just mommy that is having a baby. It is the whole family. And his parents have wisely explained that he is an important part of this event.

What an exciting time in the life of this family! I am sure there will be a time of adjustment. There will be challenges along the way. But this young man has so much to look forward to. He will be the big brother, the protector, the teacher. He will show her the ropes. He has an important job in this family’s journey.

So it is in the lives of all of God’s children. God gives us blessings, but he also gives us responsibilities. Each of us is gifted in such a way that we can make a real contribution to His kingdom. It is important work, and the Lord asks us to be a part of it.

This kid was absolutely right. He IS having a girl. And what a lucky little girl she is. I cannot wait to meet her and welcome her to our preschool!

god sightings

In our Wednesday night book study, we are joining our Methodist friends on Zoom to study the book “Get Their Name.” This book was written to help us learn to share our faith in a natural, effective way.

Last week, we focused on chapters 1 & 2, and part of the discussion revolved around the question, “How have you experienced God in the past week?”

If I asked you that question what would your answer be? If you are like me, a question like that causes immediate brain freeze. You know God has been there, you know you have been blessed, but for the life of you, you can’t think of examples.

It’s only when we think about it for a while that the answers become clear. So, it is helpful to our evangelistic efforts to practice answering that question. In our congregational life we can practice whenever we meet: When we meet for worship, or Bible study, or choir practice, or Thursday night dinner, or fellowship meals on the first Sunday of the month.

Being able to identify God’s presence and share it with others takes practice. So, let’s practice that for a moment. How have you experienced God lately? Perhaps you have seen the face of God in a preschooler’s smile. Or in the way the preschool staff rallies and works twice as hard as usual because five of their colleagues are out sick, (and their heroism drips off them like a boss.) Or when you get an unexpected email from a church member who wants to volunteer to be on the constitution study committee. When you step outside after a polar vortex and temperature is rising, and the day will be the warmest in weeks. When you share a Bible story with preschoolers and one of them impulsively jumps up and gives you a big hug. (And you think to yourself, “How did she know I needed that?”)

Yup, He’s there alright. We just need to look for Him.

the view from my window

On Monday morning I looked out my office window and thought I saw a deer. When I looked carefully, however, there was no sight of him. Sometimes, when you are looking for something, you think you see what is not there. What you thought was antlers are actually the branches of a tree.

About an hour later I looked out the window again and there was a six-point buck staring back at me. He was about 100 feet from me. I called my daughter, who works in the preschool office downstairs, and said, “Come up to the office! Right now!” A few moments later she came running into the office saying, “What is wrong? Are you okay?”

I told her to look out the window and when she did, she said, “I don’t see anything.” I told her to look again and after a few seconds she said, “OH WOW! He is gorgeous!”

I spent the next hour staring out my window at this magnificent creature. He was lying in the snow just kind of taking it easy. It felt to me like a sacred moment, a holy experience. It was the same feeling when I see a beautiful sunset, the Grand Canyon, or Niagara Falls.

I could have watched him all day but alas, I had work to do so I turned back to my desk. The next time I looked out the window, he was gone. The next day when I got to the office, I looked for him again but could not see him. About an hour later I looked again and there he was! Almost in the exact same place, only this time he was standing, and I had a much better view. He was standing in the sunshine instead of the shadows. That is when I snapped the picture above.

Since then, I have wondered, “How often has this deer been outside my window and I just did not notice him?” Likewise, how often do we miss the presence of God because we are not paying attention? If we look for Him, we will find Him. He is always there.

Santas dragon

Last week a ferocious windstorm blew through my neighborhood. It came just a few days after I finished decorating the exterior of our house for the holidays. I’m sorry to say that the storm killed my Santa dragon.

I was at home when this murder took place. I could hear the wind howling and was wondering if I should take shelter. The trash cans wound up in the neighbor’s yard and when I retrieved them, I noticed my dragon was no longer in the front yard.

My wife bought this thing two years ago at the end of the Christmas season. Last year we proudly displayed him for the first time. He looked a lot like the dragon above. At the end of last year’s Christmas season, I noticed he sustained some damage. The loops used to stake him into the ground were all torn.

Santa’s dragon looked a little sickly this year, but we were able to make do. I found that if I tied ropes around Santa’s neck, the dragon’s tail and one of his arms, I could make him stand up straight. He was listing to starboard a little, but it was something I could live with.

And then came the big storm. Apparently, he took to flight and sailed over the roof before landing in the back yard. It took me awhile to find him, and when I did, he didn’t look so good. I dragged him back to the front yard and plugged him into the extension cord to blow him up. But alas, his injuries were terminal. His motor was no longer working.

Even as I write, the dragon lies in our front yard. I have not had time to bury him yet. His body lies lifeless, deflated, and torn. Come to think of it, I feel kind of deflated and torn myself. Mostly from putting up Christmas decorations. Christmas has a way of doing that to you. Many of us get to the end of the season and feel a little beat up.

So, beware my friends. Don’t let the hectic season blow you away. Remember that the Christ child will still get himself born, even if we don’t find the perfect gift for Aunt Margaret. Santa dragons can be replaced… or they can be buried and forgotten. I vote for the latter.

I’ve never lived this long before

A few weeks ago, I discovered a song by the Statler Brothers called “I’ve Never Lived This Long Before” The lyrics, in part, go like this: I′ve met all my heroes and shook all the hands, of all that I wanted to meet I've kissed all the women that once were the girls, I dreamed about falling asleep. I′ve looked up the bullies from grade and high school & gave them a piece of my mind I've even looked up some old teachers I had and 'pologized for being unkind. I′ve talked to my mama and told her I knew; I had not done all that I could She just smiled and kissed me and said after all, prayers answered late are still good. There's nothing I've done that I wish I′d done less but there′s a few I wish I'd done more And the thing I find hardest to believe is I′m here, 'cause I′ve never lived this long before. My favorite part of the song is the line that says, “Prayers answered late are still good.” I’ve been thinking about that line a lot in the past week as I’ve prepared my sermons for Advent. Traditionally, the second Sunday of Advent focuses on John the Baptist and how he was conceived in his parents’ old age. They had been praying for a child a long time, and just when it seemed like the answer was “no,” God gave them John. Like the song says, “Prayers answered late are still good.” Homer Hammersley, one of our long-time members, used to say that “God answers prayer in three ways: Sometimes he says “yes,” sometimes he says “no,” and sometimes he says “wait.”

no talking in heaven

Last week, while I was sharing a Bible story with our preschoolers, I mentioned something about people talking to one another in heaven. I no longer remember exactly what I was talking about or the point I was trying to make. But while I was talking, one little girl said, “Pastor Bart, there’s no talking in heaven.” She said it with an air of authority, but this was something I had never heard before.

So, I said, “No talking in heaven? Why not?”

She looked at me with exasperation on her face and said, “Because they are all dead!” It cracked me up, and I’ve been telling this story to anyone who will listen ever since. Apparently, I was absent from my Systematic Theology class when they discussed the no talking in heaven rule.

I’m not sure if I agree with her theology, but her statement got me thinking. How will we communicate in heaven? Will we speak words in English? Will everyone in heaven be able to understand each other in their own language, like they did in the 2nd chapter of Acts? Will we have to learn a universal language? Or will we be able to understand each other without using language, like reading one another’s minds?

I’m not sure about how we will communicate, but I do believe that we will NOT be dead. And I believe that whatever heaven might be, it will be different.

This incident reminds me of a conversation Jesus had with the Sadducees in Mark 12. They spoke of a woman who was married seven times and asked whose wife she would be in the resurrection. Jesus replied that there would be no marriage in heaven.

That doesn’t mean that we will not know our spouses in eternity, or that we will not love them. But I think what Jesus means is that our relationships will be different. Wonderful? Yes! Marvelous? Absolutely! Will we get there and want to turn back? Not a chance! But everything will be different.

I look forward to having the opportunity to experience the heavenly realm. I just need to remember that there is no talking.

BGAV

Last week my wife and I attended the 201st meeting of the Baptist General Association of Virginia (BGAV). The meeting was held at First Baptist Church of Alexandria. Pictured here is Wayne Faison, the Executive Director of the BGAV, delivering the closing sermon.

It was 40 years ago this month that I attended my first annual meeting while I was on staff at Chestnut Hill Baptist Church in Lynchburg. That meeting was held at the Virginia Beach Convention Center. Over the years we have met in Roanoke, Richmond, Williamsburg, Woodbridge, Salem, Virginia Beach, and Hampton. This was the first year we’ve met in Alexandria since I have been attending.

I have always loved going to the annual meeting. Messengers from participating churches across the commonwealth meet to elect officers, vote on resolutions, hear reports from the various agencies of the association, and worship.

I have fond memories of seeing friends from college and seminary, catching up with former church members, and going out for dinner after the business of the day. I loved touching base with Alden Hicks, the pastor at Chestnut Hill where I was his associate pastor. I loved seeing Kirk Lashley, my campus minister when I was at Averett College. I loved watching Bill Cumbie, Executive Director of Mount Vernon Baptist Association, acting as moderator for the business sessions.

I have to say, this year’s meeting was different. I didn’t recognize as many faces as I used to. Almost all of my college and seminary friends have retired. Alden, Kirk, and Bill are all deceased. It used to be that you would use a book of ballots to vote on motions. Now, you vote through an app that is on your phone. In the old days, every worship service included the old familiar hymns. This year, several of the worship experiences featured songs I had never heard before.

Every year, there is a memorial service on the last day of the meeting to honor those from the association who have passed away in the last year. I was a little shaken to see the photos of colleagues I did not know had died.

So, this was an emotional meeting for me. Things aren’t like they used to be. But that doesn’t mean it was not a good meeting! I learned a little about the new organizational structure of the association. I was introduced to new people, I listened to some excellent speakers, and I experienced awesome worship.

I’m not sure how many more of these annual meetings I will be attending. Retirement is on the horizon in the next few years. But I am glad I had the opportunity to add this meeting to my collection of memories. I hope you will join me in praying for the work of the BGAV.

functioning

I saw this picture on the internet a few weeks ago. The caption read, “When you ask me how I’m doing and I say, ‘I’m functioning,’ this is what I mean.” Several people have asked me lately how I’m doing. It might not be as bad as the picture indicates, but I am indeed functioning.

So why have people been asking me this question? Is it the dark circles under my eyes? Is it the dark countenance? Or perhaps the haggard appearance, irritability, stooped shoulders, or tendency to groan loudly when I get up from my chair.

Life can be stressful sometimes, can’t it? When the car won’t start, and your daughter comes down with Covid, and someone breaks into the church, and a preschooler sneezes in your face, and especially when the new building (which was supposed to be finished last year) has not even started construction yet.

One of our former church members was Mr. James Purdham. Mr. Purdham has long since gone to his eternal reward, but I remember many times asking him how he was doing. Whenever I asked, he would smile and say, “Well, I’m hanging in there.” It didn’t matter what was going on in his life. When his brother died, when his wife passed away, when his health began to decline, and when he left his home to spend his final days in the nursing home, it was always, “Well, I’m hanging in there.”

I remember one visit in particular where Mr. Purdham was telling me about his World War II experiences. He served under General George Patton and was one of the troops who liberated prisoners from the Jewish Extermination Camps. He spoke of the emaciated bodies, the horrendous conditions, and the prisoners who kissed his boots when he set them free. It had been 60 years since the events he told me of that day, but there were tears in his eyes when he spoke of them.

I look at the above picture and I’m reminded of Mr. Purdham. He had seen and experienced great suffering, but he was still hanging in there. As we observe Veterans Day this coming Monday, let’s be mindful of the Jim Purdhams of our world. The real deal heroes who stood against tyranny, were broken in the process, and continued to function. How am I doing? I’ve really got nothing compared to that.