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Coming Attractions

Good morning church family,

About 85% of all the silent films produced in the early twentieth century are now lost to us. Due to the highly flammable and unstable nitrate film that was used when shooting these movies, many of the reels suffered spontaneous combustion and were destroyed. Films that didn’t go up in flames were often stored haphazardly and scattered pell-mell with no consideration given to their preservation. Many were simply thrown in the trash. In most cases, all that remains now of these films are the posters created to promote them to the public. While these large prints are works of art in their own right and wonderful to view; beside supplying us with the title of the movie and the names of the actors and actresses that would have been on the marquee, we really learn very little about the actual stories.

The purpose of a movie poster isn’t to tell the tale but to get patrons to buy tickets to the show. Posters plastered to the wall beside the box office are filled with images of romantic embraces, daredevil rescues, menacing figures lurking in shadows, and flint-jawed cowboys standing hand-on-holster in the middle of dusty streets. Folks read the titles, look for stars in the listings, and weigh the rosy reviews. If any of the highly stylized images on the posters capture their imaginations or any headliners entice them to want to see more, they’ll plunk down the unholy sum necessary to get past the velvet ropes.

But when they stroll out of the theater a couple hours later, what will they think when they glance again at the poster that drew them in? Having sat through the telling of the tale, will they feel the glossy sheet was honest in its pitch and faithful in its presentation? Or will they shake their heads at what they see now as a shameless come-on? Either way, it’s unlikely that the patron will hold the poster accountable. Americans live their entire lives as the targets of advertisers and are savvy to the craft and hyperbole of the sales pitch. No one puts full faith in any commercial; no matter the claim or its spokesman. To put it bluntly, we’re well accustomed to being lied to.

As Christians, the story that we’re working so hard to get folks to hear and to see is so much more important than any of the romances, thrillers, comedies, or shoot-em-ups that Hollywood regularly churns out. The Gospel is the story that writes every single person in the audience into its plot. And what that hearer does with the story when he finds himself center-stage with the spotlight on him, has everything to do with whether that Gospel story, at least for him, has a happy or a sad ending. For all that are created in God’s image are cast in His play and all must deliver a line – either confessing faith in the hero, Jesus, or denying Him.

I believe that God calls every Christian to be a movie poster of sorts and that He then plasters us up on the walls of our workplaces, schools, apartment complexes, coffee shops, downtowns, uptowns, and all-arounds. Our new lives of love and righteousness point passersby to the good news of Jesus’s love and salvation. Folks see it on our faces, hear it in our speech, and feel it in our outstretched hand. They understand it by how we spend our time and money, locate it by where we take our stands, and solve its mysteries by the “why” we give to every question. And in this way, we’re dissimilar to the movie posters we see beside the box office. We’re not selling anything. We are, instead, the best evidence of the power of the story itself. We’re Heaven’s down payment on the treasure that is His to give at the return of Christ. We are posters that bear witness to the story’s power!

“But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of Him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life. Who is sufficient for these things? For we are not, like so many, peddlers of God’s word, but as men of sincerity, as commissioned by God, in the sight of God we speak in Christ.” (2Corinthians 2:14-17)

If all the Bibles in the world spontaneously combusted today and a virus erased all the digital copies stored on computers and in the cloud, the Gospel would still go forth. The world would still have the posters and because of the power of Christ in all of us, the posters would tell the whole tale. So, let’s not be peddlers but proclaimers!

We’re looking forward to getting together tomorrow morning to worship – we the unworthy declaring our praise to the only One who is worthy. We the redeemed placing our lives in the hands of the One who saw the value in us and bought us with a price. We the lost taking the hand of the One who led us out of death’s valley. What a wonderful opportunity! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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No Stooges

October 5, 2025

Matthew 7:15-20

Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will recognize them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? So, every healthy tree bears good fruit, but the diseased tree bears bad fruit. A healthy tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a diseased tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will recognize them by their fruits.

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Star-struck

Good morning church family,

On top of the dresser in Brooks’s bedroom sits a baseball signed by Hall of famer, Brooks Robinson. How I happened to get that signature is a memory I enjoy pulling up and reliving now and again. I see that baseball most every night when I go in to read to Brooks at bedtime and at every sight of it, I remember the wonderful time my kind father stuck his neck out for me.

With what I’ve shared above, some of you may wonder if Lisa and I named our Brooks after Mr. Robinson; but that’s not really the case. Brooks is named after his great, great grandfather, Brooks McCuen, who served as a surgeon in the first World War and who, afterwards, began a successful medical practice in Syracuse, New York. But growing up in Maryland, as I did, and being a lifelong fan of the Baltimore Orioles; the golden-gloved associations with the name certainly added a little luster to the choice.

I didn’t grow up watching Brooks Robinson play as he’d retired before I was old enough to pay any attention to such things. The Orioles of my era were Eddie Murray and Cal Ripken. But everybody around Baltimore knew who Brooks Robinson was. He kept his home in Maryland after his retirement and was a popular pitchman for all kinds of products and services in the area. He was often on TV and easily one of the most famous people in the D.C. Metro area. So, when my dad told me one evening that he’d been given two tickets to a fundraising banquet in support of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes and that Brooks Robinson was one of the scheduled speakers, my mouth closed and my eyes opened wide. “I thought the two of us could go,” my dad said, rustling the hair on my twelve-year-old head. “What do you say?”

On the evening of the banquet, my dad had me change out of my afterschool duds and into a button-up shirt and a pair of slacks. Having never been to a formal banquet before, my dad had to educate me on what to expect. “Lots of fine linen on big, round tables,” he told me. “And lots of fancy food, people, and programs. There’ll be plenty of small talk at the table and big talk from the dais. You’ll see.”

I nodded reverently and began running up the stairs to get changed. “Oh, and one more thing,” my dad said. “Be sure to bring a baseball and a pen. You might be able to get an autograph.”

An autograph? “No way,” I thought to myself. “I’d have a better chance of catching a foul ball watching a game on TV than I would of getting Brooks Robinson to sign a baseball for me.” All the same, I looked through my baseballs and put the best-looking one in the front pocket of my coat. I picked my best blue pen out of the mug of pens that sat on my desk and stuck that in my other coat pocket. Bounding back downstairs, my mom straightened my collar, fixed the part in my hair, and kissed me on my cheek and my dad on the lips. We were off on our adventure.

I don’t remember now where the banquet was held, but it ended up being much as my dad had described. I remember it being a really big room with tables spread out all across the hall. There must have been several hundred guests in attendance. Along one of the walls of the banquet room was a long stage with a podium standing directly in the center. On either side of the podium were long, rectangular tables draped with linen that reached clear to the stage floor. Seated at these tables were all the leaders, presenters, and dignitaries. We weren’t sitting at our table for long when my dad nudged my shoulder and pointed toward a small group of men standing hands-in-pockets and laughing and talking. “See that one on the right,” my dad whispered, “That’s Brooks Robinson.”

From that moment on, I would look away for a time in order to answer cordial questions from some of the other guests at our table, say “please” and “thank you” to our server, or to cut and stab some of my grilled chicken breast; but I pretty much kept a keen eye on the old Oriole the rest of the time. I watched the way he walked and talked, ate and drank, and gave and received applause. I also confess to opening my eyes during the invocation in order to see how a Hall of Famer prayed. It was a fascinating and mesmerizing thing to be in the presence of such a famous person.

There were a lot of speakers that evening and only one piece of cake. I fiddled with my empty goblet for much of the evening’s presentation; reading and rereading all the fliers and pamphlets at our table. I don’t remember much of anything that was said; but I do recall being heartened by all the people proclaiming faith in Jesus and all the thunderous applause and “Amens!” that filled the hall. I attended a fairly small church and lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t very rich in faith – to see so many believers giving so much glory to God was quite a sight.

Brooks Robinson didn’t speak for very long when he finally stood to share. I remember him telling a few jokes as he recounted stories from his playing days. He also talked about how vitally important the ministry of The Fellowship of Christian Athletes had been to him over the years; encouraging everyone to support the ministry in any way they were able. But then there was a dip in his head and I remember his tone changing as some of the swagger and self-confidence disappeared from his demeanor. Over the next few minutes, Brooks Robinson gave a very sincere and unvarnished testimony of his love for God and his thanksgiving for Jesus’s work on the cross. It was a weird and wonderful thing to see this famous man become so small of a sudden – so small that he not cast a shadow on the One who deserved all the limelight. Witnessing that humble transformation had a huge impact on me then and still does today.

Within minutes of Mr. Robinson finishing his remarks and sitting back down, the Director thanked everyone for being there, made a final appeal, and prayed a benediction over the event. The ring of his amen could still be heard in the house speakers when the formal and orderly room suddenly turned into a loud, clattering chaos. All together the room rose to its feet in applause and the loud chatter of hundreds of attendees saying their goodbyes filled the hall. A thousand arms were finding their way into the sleeves of coats, purses were being slung over hundreds of shoulders, and twirling eyes were scanning under tables as quick hands pushed in empty chairs. And wading into this sea of hand shaking, back slapping, and goodbyeing came an army of uniformed wait staff to begin bussing the tables. Workers carrying large buckets collected all the unconsumed beverages left in mugs and goblets; glunking and sloshing from table to table. Other workers, setting sturdy rubber totes onto the rounds, began stacking plates and scooping up silverware. The quick bang and clatter of it all was deafening and even alarming.

Mesmerized by the scene, I had barely put on my own coat and pushed in my own chair when my dad tugged at my sleeve. “Come on, son,” he said, “follow me.” Instead of going with the flow of folks exiting to the rear of the hall, my intrepid dad began pushing through the oncoming crush of people; weaving around all the tables and chairs toward the stage area. All around me were overcoats and purses and fists full of goblets held by the stems. I stayed tucked in behind my dad, not understanding yet where he was going. But soon, our pace quickened and I heard my quiet, mild-mannered father begin yelling at nearly the top of his voice, “Brooks! Brooks! Brooks!”

Stunned and somewhat perplexed by it all, I peeked around my dad to look up at the tables on the stage. There, I spotted Mr. Robinson heading off behind the curtain while carrying on a cordial conversation with someone. As we drew closer to the stage, the way got easier. My dad, nearly running now, called out again, “Brooks! Brooks!”

Staring up at the stage, I saw Brooks Robinson quickly turn his head and look directly at my father first and then at me trailing behind. Mr. Robinson patted the man he was talking to on the back and turned around to return to the front of the stage. My dad continued his quick pace to the front but I stood frozen; my mind scrambled by my dad’s stunning lack of decorum; my heart racing at the sight of the Hall of Famer coming to speak with my father. I remember my dad reaching the foot of the stage and Mr. Robinson stepping around the tables to lean over and listen to whatever my dad was saying. My dad, all smiles, turned and pointed to me and then Mr. Robinson, all smiles, stood up and waved for me to come over. With legs of jelly, I ambulated as best I could and came up to the stage.

“Hello, son,” Mr. Robinson said as my eyes looked up against the heavy weight of my chin. “What’s your name?”

I had no sooner said my name when my dad jumped in. “Didn’t you bring a ball for Mr. Robinson to sign?” he said, pointing to my coat pocket.

“Oh, yes,” I said; suddenly understanding what was going on. I plunged my hand into my coat and grabbed onto the ball. But my coat, which was really too small for me, didn’t want to let go of the ball. The pocket’s opening was too small for both the ball and my hand to come out of it. Try as I did to yank the thing out, it wouldn’t come. Feeling the eyes of both my father and the world-famous man on me, I began to panic. There was a bit of nervous laughter as I handed the pen I’d retrieved from my other pocket to my dad. After shooting a quick look up at Mr. Robinson and finding him still smiling, I began, with both hands, to push the baseball out of my coat the way you might push the last of the toothpaste out of the tube. It was very embarrassing but I was abundantly relieved when I was able to hand both the ball and the pen to the old Oriole.

Brooks Robinson chatted kindly with me and my dad as he opened the pen and turned the ball around in his hand to find the best spot to sign. He took his time in signing it and then handed it back down to me with a bigger smile and a handshake. I stared at the signature and then back up at the man as he waved goodnight with a “God bless you” as salutation.

My dad patted me on the back as we started for the exits. After ten steps or so, I turned around to catch another glimpse at the baseball great, but he was gone behind the curtain. Another ten steps and I looked up at my dad. My dad – the man who faithfully pastored a struggling city church, worked over forty hours a week at a cabinet-making company, delivered papers with us every morning, sacrificed everything to provide all good things for our family, and who shouted like a lunatic that a famous man might pause to sign a baseball for his son.

Walking with my dad to the car that night, I had the most wonderful thought. As cool as it was to meet and talk with Brooks Robinson and to have a signed baseball to show to all my friends, what was far better was to be going home, riding shotgun, with the greatest man I knew. That night, I was really star-struck by my dad.

Thank the Lord for all the people in our lives who, in big and small ways, live hall of fame lives of sacrifice, service, and generosity; blessing us with their kindness and love. They leave their signature on our hearts.

We’re looking forward to gathering into God’s house tomorrow morning to share in fellowship with one another and communion with our Creator. What a celebration of our redemption there will be! The Lord has many wonderful things in store for each of us – come and find your place at His table! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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