I hear the train a comin'
It's rolling round the bend
And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when,
I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on
But that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antone..

Mike’s dad would come home from a long, hot day at the weld shop.  As I remember he was not much for niceties at that moment.  His son was my best buddy.  We would be sitting at his kitchen table engaged in another marathon round of Stratomatic Baseball or flip football.  Frank would walk through the room without a word.  I liked to call him “Frank”, although only to his son, just as a matter of irritation.  Mike often stated that we should show more respect, and so of course I would try hard not to.  Anyhow, the man had a ritual at that time of the day.  He would crank up the stereo, full blast, and listen to Johnny Cash for an hour or two.  It was an old, stack-type 33 rpm record player, which allowed him to listen to half-a-dozen albums in succession.  

Frank was my introduction to the Man In Black.  I remember the horror of “A Boy Named Sue”, “Look At Them Beans” and “Ring Of Fire”.  We could hear him showering and singing to “One Piece At A Time”, and when we could stand it no longer and seem forced to leave the house and find something else to do.  The man was not stupid.

I hated Johnny Cash.

Frank was also my introduction to fatherhood.  My father passed away when I was 9, and what I could remember about him was not pleasant.  I had a step-dad, but we never gelled into a family.  Some of my friend had intact families but their fathers seemed to be hollow characters.  They were absent, and the moms did the raising of the kids.  Not so with Frank.  My buddies and I tried to shape him into a caricature, because, well….that is what pre-adolescent boys tend to do.  And we viewed Frank as a Fred Flintstone type.  He had a really loud mouth, contrasting with his quiet little wife.  Sometimes he tended to curse.  And even if you were not interested, you always heard Frank’s opinion.  We poked gentle fun at his slicked-back pompadour.  And, also toward his affinity for Johnny Cash music…

When I was just a baby my mama told me. Son,
Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns.
But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die
When I hear that whistle blowing, I hang my head and cry..

Often I would hang out at his house, eating supper or playing games or simply watching the interaction.  They did not pamper me, but they at least tolerated me.  I remember one time Frank showed me his bank deposit receipts, kept crinkled in his wallet.  These were monies he was saving to one day buy a house.  Looking back, I do not think he ever saved enough to actually make the purchase.  And I remember that Frank would not attend church, although there was a big Baptist church directly behind his house.  I faintly remember he said they were all a “bunch of asses”.  His wife began to attend for a few Sundays.  Then one bright Sunday afternoon, Frank walked out to his driveway to discover that some anonymous church-attender had backed into his 55 Chevy, leaving a huge and ugly dent across the side.  Just starting to think seriously about church myself, I was curious about his response.  Interestingly, he did not blow his stack.  He simply resolved to park the car in his yard, as closely as possible to the church, with the ruined side in full view of the congregants.  As I remember, he never traded and he never repaired the old car.  And he always parked it in that very special spot for Sunday mornings.  And he never attended church.

I bet there's rich folks eating in a fancy dining car
They're probably drinkin' coffee and smoking big cigars.
Well I know I had it coming, I know I can't be free
But those people keep a movin'
And that's what tortures me...

Frank would serve as quarterback for Mike and I, and he would actually do a pretty good job for an old, fat guy.  One time he brought me along for his family vacation at Calloway Gardens.  I thought it funny how he would prod his wife to steal tomatoes from the show gardens.  He instilled in me a love for Alabama Crimson Tide Football, probably his greatest passion.  Sometimes Frank would sit in the living room and talk with me. Simply talk.

The last time I saw Frank was shortly after High School Graduation.  Mike and I had drifted apart, which sometimes happens with friends.  I was standing in the living room, and Frank was lying on his easy chair.  I can’t recall if he was in his t-shirt and polka dot underwear, but it would have been a fitting picture.  He knew I was planning to study for the ministry.  And, as I recall, he said something like the following:  “David, I remember you ever since you were a little boy, hanging around here playing ball and eatin’ my food.  I’ve watched you grow up.  You know I don’t go to church.  But that don’t mean I don’t believe in God.”  Then he hesitated, and said, “David, you’re a good boy.  I’m proud of you.”

I love Johnny Cash.

Ten short sentences that seem to make sense on this Saturday morning:

(1) Genarlow Wilson is free; thank God, and it's about time.

(2) I hope he finds a way to successfully sue, and incarcerate, the District Attorney of Douglas County.

(3) Key Lime Pie yogurt is not good.

(4) "Away From Her" is a tremendous movie, with much to say about the effects of Altheimers and enduring love.

(5) Lots of kids and families should participate in the Trunk-Or-Treat at my church this Sunday, 5-7 p.m.

(6) Rudy Giuliani would make a good president.

(7) Social conservatives would be foolish to run a third-party candidate.

(8) My dog, Oreo, is old and deaf and farts, but I can't give him up.

(9) Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

(10) The Georgia Bulldogs will beat the Florida Gators later this day.

"What has God been schooling and equipping me to do?"

It is a good question.  And it continues to have a hold upon me.  The answer needs to be discovered.

The speaker tonight talked about the rapid change that is taking place in the area where I live.  In the last 20 years, our County has transitioned from a sleepy, rural area into an affluent, multi-cultural suburbia of over 700,000.  Twelve years ago it was 98.5% Anglo.  Now, it is less than 50%!  That is an amazing transition!  I can only imagine how difficult it must be for those who grew up in a sleepy little town, only to awaken one day to find it almost unrecognizable.  And now we're experiencing "white flight".  The affluent and retirees are moving further toward the mountains and away from Atlanta.  I guess it is understandable to tire of the noise, traffic, confusion, and change, and seek to move where life would be simpler and golf course readily available.

The speaker was focusing upon the attitude of our churches toward such change.  Our leaders and most dependable supporters, the ones colored like us and most comfortable to us, are moving away.  The folks next door no longer look like us, and church attendance is not part of their culture.  So, what do we do about it?  The change is inevitable.  The place will never be the same.  What do we do?  Flee?  Fight?  Or, embrace the change?

Like I said, it is a good question for the church.  It is also a good question for my life.

I feel there is a metamorphosis going on in my life.  The difference is significant from ten years ago, or five, or even two.  What has God been schooling and equipping me to do?

I've got a good 20 years of involvement in full-time work left.  At least!  Significant things have happened that I believe have been an intentional part of the equipping process of life.  Not accidents, but integral to God's schooling process.  Given the unique person God has evolved me into being at this time, and the process that yet continues...questions emerge.  What do I do?  Where?  Life has closed some doors, and I'm becoming comfortable with that.  But why settle for "safe"?  There is significant service yet to be rendered.  How?

One would think by now that life would be clearer.  And I guess for many such is the case.  Sometimes I envy those who seem to have smooth, consistent, and successful sailing through life.  It just does not seem that easy to me.  But, then again, as much as I would like to have security and safety- and those are important traits whenever I view life through the lens of the conventional- I've got to believe that energy and zest and essential joy just are not to be found in conventionality.  So, guess I choose to keep on brooding, and plodding, and wrestling with life.

Maybe, I'll awaken one day to find myself 80-years-of-age and still seeking my place in life.  And if you happen to be visiting the nursing home that day, and find me, then spare me the sympathy and platitudes.  It's a mighty fine journey, this life of mine, and I'm pretty sure I'll not live to regret it.

Out in the yard today, I came across a couple of amazing spiders. So I grabbed the camera and proceeded to try to take some photos.

I love spiders. Spiders are noble creatures. They do not feed off carrion, or the leftovers from the labors of others. A spider builds a magnificent web, symmetrical and shiny and deadly. He works so very hard to gain a meal for the day. I love the glistening sheen of the morning dew reflected from an intricate web. And there is equally something fascinating about watching the beast methodically move in for the kill, it's prey hopelessly entrapped. The spider knows it, and thus has no hurry.

This lady fashioned her handiwork across my front porch. She had an interesting marking upon her belly, red and looking like an even more menacing version of arachnid. I try to avoid disturbing a web, because I'm aware that it takes the better part of the night for the tireless production. Besides, a spider is simply doing what it does best, and who am I to disturb the task and accompanying work of art? But this web has been woven in a busy place, and could entrap the mailman or a visiting friend. So for human sake, the web had to go. I was careful not to hurt the little creature. Her displeasure was obvious as she spewed some kind of venom generally in my direction. I used a stick to transplant her to the corner of the yard.

Now, this lady lives in the corner of the house, a safe place for her and my fellow humans. She did not like my meddling presence, and proceeded to shake her web in a rhythmic and strangely mesmerizing manner. I watched for a while, and then left her alone. I'm sure she soon forgot about my intrusion, and resumed the task of insect vampirism. Yes, it is strange, but I like spiders.

Here's some pictures of flowers that have somehow, amazingly, survived the drought to pop up from last year's planting. I think they are pretty. Not as pretty as spiders, of course.

7 1/2 years ago I left a troublesome pastorate, to take on my current place of ministry.  Last Sunday I returned to that church to be the guest speaker for Homecoming.

Homecoming is primarily a tradition of Southern Protestant congregations.  It is a yearly time of gathering and celebration.  All who are in any way connected with the church, past and present, are invited for the festivities.  The worship time is an extended occasion involving guest musicians and various ceremonies, and usually highlighting a previous pastor as the preacher.  And, afterwards will be a big dinner, involving all kinds of special delicacies especially prepared for the day.

A few years ago, this church asked me to be their featured speaker for the gathering.  I thought about it, and remembered much of the difficult experience for my family and myself, and called them back to politely decline the invitation.  So, I was surprised when they called me yet again.  I thought I had made it plain that I was uncomfortable with the matter.  Thus I prayed about it, a lot.  And I called them back to accept the offer.

7 1/2 years ago I left the church, rather broken.  I had tried very hard to be a good minister for them.  The church moved forward in just about all categories.  However there was a great uproar on the part of many of the members because I, their pastor, brought black children into their church for Vacation Bible School.  These people were incredulous because I did not just invite them- I actually drove the church van to their homes, to give them a ride.  Several were angry.  From that point, their faces were set in unwavering opposition to my continuance as their pastor.  I tried explaining and reconciling.  But I did not back down, because I felt I was right.

It's amazing there are still people with this kind of attitude.  But they exist in hundreds of churches scattered, I would surmise, in mostly rural areas.  Here where I now live, the diversity of the communities and the fast pace of change all around, has forced the integration of the churches.  It is a matter of survival.  Some of us embrace it, and some simply endure it.  But it is a battle that has already been fought.  Not so as you move further from the major metro areas.  There, many of the churches still embrace with silence but surity the philosophy of "seperate but equal".  I'm not sure why the church is now the most segregated part of rural Southern society, in 2007.  I could be unkind, yet probably most honest, in saying it is the last vestage of power for the redneck.  However, a "redneck" ;, although poor and uneducated, can be a person of character and quality.  I see neither character or quality in the labeling of a black person as being unworthy of opportunity to worship in your church.  It is simply sad.  And, ungodly.

Well, as you and I can see as I continue to write, I guess I have not exactly forgiven and forgotten with this matter.  Still, my wife and I went down to participate in Homecoming with these folks.  I was very nervous about the matter.  We pulled into the parking lot, and I had difficulty getting out of the car.  It was hard.  But somehow I continued to feel this was the right thing for me to do.

The day went well.  We renewed acquaintances and connections with many good friends.  I'm not going to continue to beat-up on this church.  But, the congregation and even the building seemed to have a pall over it.  A darkness.  And I found that to be doubly sad, for there was goodness and kindness in so many of these people.  We talked, and hugged.  They responded well to my preaching.  I was reminded that the vast majority of these people loved me.  Most likely they would have hung in with me, had I decided to stay and fight the battle.  As a matter of fact, the ones most angry about how I had supposedly "dirtied" their church, are now no longer a part of this church.  They did not like me.  Apparently they did not like the next couple of pastors who came along.  And now they have taken their unhappiness and self-righteousness to other places.  Or they simply stay home and do not attend church, in what I perceive to be a last-ditch effort for attention and pity.  My wife has often told me that I could have stayed.  I could have won the fight.  But my heart was broken.  I was not wanting to fight.  I left, figuring God could handle those people better than me.

I preached from Psalm 37:25, "I have been young, & now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread".  I shared how this has proven true in my life.  God has always been there as a source of strength.  He has taught me to trust Him when life gets tough.  And I have learned to trust His people, out of necessity.  And I have found great comfort from both sources.  It was an uplifiting and encouraging sermon.  Many spoke afterwards of how the sermon served to soothe and comfort. 

One man came to me afterwards to talk.  I faintly remembered him as one of those who "sat on the fence" when I needed his support.  I guess I can't blame him too much.  He had family and friends on the other side, and he was going to stay in that community and church.  In other words, as much as he might have liked me, a pastor is a temporary part of the situation while these troublesome people would be permanent.  And so he watched, and hung his head, and I eventually left.  Now it was 7 1/2 years later.  He told me, with sincerity, that his estimation of me was now much higher because of how I've handled this day and what I shared in the sermon.  I smiled and thanked him.  It was a nice thing to say.

Forgiveness is not neat and easy.  Sometimes it does not come quickly.  And if it means forgetting, or no longer having pain with the remembrance, then I guess it is sometimes impossible.  But I suspect that forgiveness is something higher and nobler.  I think it means to move on.  It means to wish the best even for your enemy.  It is to not gloat over his misfortune.  And I am pretty sure it necessitates that you take his halting, stammering, and imperfect effort to say "I'm sorry" and you simply accept it.  I think that is what happened, last Sunday.

MY DARKNESS, by Brandon Turner 

------------------------- --------------------
I've traveled through life knowing nothing about Emo. Well, I was thinking it had something to do with Sesame Street. I was wrong.

Here goes a third-grade understanding of this musical genre, gleaned from surfing the internet and listening to the music on GarageBand . Apparently one of the problems with trying to characterize a musical style is that, almost by nature, music is ever evolving. I know such to be true simply by my rudimentary connections with Country, Gospel, Contemporary Christian, and even the stubborn RockaBilly that remains popular in my rapidly changing part of the country.

So, how do you recognize Emo when you hear it? Apparently it is a rather primitive and emotive form of music. The name itself is obviously a truncating of the word "emotion". It emerges from the characteristic angst of youth. I would think all of us can understand. Those times of seeking emotional and social understanding are very tough. For most it involves lots of inner pain and negative emotions. Cathartic for the developing young person is the explosive and furious outburst of expression. Take all of the aforementioned, wrap it up in a song, and I think you have Emo.

I surmise that a two-hour concert of this stuff might encourage an already unstable person to do harmful things to self and others. Or at least to pursue relief with some mind-numbing substance. But, such is likely not so. Like with violent video games, and some dark trends of social custom , most are pretty good at compartmentalizing such matters and thus will not be driven to destructive acts. Most. And, perhaps Emo is therapeutic; better to let-it-all-out at a concert or while listening with headphones, than with a more destructive kind of outburst.

So let's check out some Emo at GarageBand . From what I have read, purists of this genre believe their raw brand of music has been diluted and compromised by many for the sake of popularity and profit. I'm familiar with such human tendency- it is called greed. And, indeed, as I have listened to several of the songs, many of them do seem to stray from the angst that is supposed to be at the heart.

Thus, I have moved down the chart to select My Darkness, by Brandon Turner , as the example of Emo that I would like to pass along. Brandon is a 15-year-old from DeFuniak Springs, Florida. He would like to practice with his band, but none of the members have a driver's license. His song is ranked #46 of 47 in the active rank category, and #1651 of 1658 all-time. He was awarded Stupidest Song for two strait weeks in August. And I will have to admit that it appears the presentation of his talent is still a work in progress. Your guess is as good as mine, the words of this song. But he sure gives the guitar a workout, and sometimes the semblance of music comes through. And I am surmising that Brandon really does not care what some guy like myself, three times his age, thinks about his music. It is a release for him.

Maybe Brandon is a child prodigy, a young genius, or a millionaire in the making. I'm thinking he is a puzzle to his parents, conflicted within himself, and spends lots of time alone in his room listening to loud music and banging on his guitar. He is what Emo is all about.

Keep going, Brandon!

Which do you think is the most accurate image of Jesus?

(1) American Jesus

(2) Black Jesus





(3) Jewish Jesus




(4) 50-Year-Old Heroine Addict, Homeless