Good morning church family,

Human beings are born with great capacity but little proficiency. Any toddler, for instance, is up and dancing the minute the DJ spins a tune. But that doesn’t mean you’d want to have that little kid take the lead. From the first second their born, babies are engaging their vocal cords and communicating; but they’ll make their parents wait for years before they hear a single, grammatically-correct sentence come out of any of their little mouths. As soon as an infant has enough core strength to roll over onto his stomach, he’s instantly on the move; but it will be many moons before all the baby gates in the house can come down. And if I observed anything during my time as a parent of newborns, it was that babies are extremely gifted at going to the bathroom; but it took the better part of forever for them to be able to relieve themselves at the proper time, in the proper place, and in the proper manner. Yes; humans are born with lots of ability but precious little competency.

While parents are quick to correct their children’s grammar, get them potty trained, and help them to their feet; I see little of the same urgency on the part of the Evangelical Church to encourage similar growth in the spiritual newborns living under its roof.

Any convert to Christianity, for instance, is instantly able to pray. In fact, prayer was probably something he was doing long before he even came to Christ. But simply being able to pray cannot be the goal. Instead, Jesus would see His followers be able to pray both powerfully and effectively.

Every new believer with an elementary school education should be able to read his Bible. But there’s an ocean of difference between someone who can successfully read a chapter a day in the Bible and someone who can read that chapter for comprehension; understanding and applying the insights to his life and situation.

Any Christian who makes it to church on time is able to participate in worship; standing, singing, and lifting holy hands. But there’s so much more to worship than learning melodies and following stage directions.

And, from the first moment they come into the fold, every Christian has a testimony. Everybody can say something about his faith. But the believer’s defense of his faith and the articulation of the hope he has in his heart is something that should get more and more compelling, convincing, and quickening as the years go by.

But isn’t it a shame that so many Christians are living off the same level of spiritual proficiency they had when they first accepted Christ decades before. Indeed, the Evangelical church in the West is the most babied bunch of Christians the Faith has ever seen. The modern American church is filled with many converts but precious few disciples.

When I was pastoring in Augusta, Georgia, there was a man in the church there named David. He was a quiet, soft-spoken, and hardworking man who loved his little church; never missing a Sunday. His wife had died not long before I started pastoring there and he was doing his best then to raise their kids without her. David painted houses for a living and the sunbaked hand that I shook every Sunday always had splatters of paint on it. David sat in the second row with his family and always listened intently to everything that was said and sung. He loved dirt track racing and was successful one Saturday night in getting me out to one of the local tracks. I remember sitting there drinking Mountain Dew, eating boiled peanuts, and grinning through the cloud of dust. But the most time I spent with David was at my house. David’s youngest son, Cody, was in the youth group that I led at the parsonage on Sunday nights and David started hanging out and helping me in whatever way he could during the meetings. I was glad to have him there and he was a kind and loving toward the other kids.

It was during these youth group meetings at my house that I started to pick up on something about David that saddened and surprised me. I began taking note of the fact that David never offered to read the Scripture we were studying and always shyly declined if asked to. We sang songs out of the hymnal during our meetings (very unorthodox for a youth group but the kids loved it) and I observed that David never looked at the words even though the selection wasn’t well-known and the book was open on his lap. Reflecting further, I realized that David didn’t text message or email, didn’t fill out any of the forms for ski trips or camps, and never took a bulletin on Sunday. It wasn’t that David didn’t read – I came to understand that David couldn’t read.

One night I ended up driving Cody home from some youth event we’d had and David happened to be sitting out on his front deck when I pulled into the yard. David and his family lived in a humble backwoods home that was situated quite a ways down a lonesome dirt road. David was enjoying a cold drink at the end of his day and his enthusiastic wave encouraged me to park the car for a minute and chat a while. I sat down on one of the plastic patio chairs on the deck and declined the offer of an in-kind cold drink. I don’t remember now how the conversation turned personal but I do remember seeing an opening for broaching the question of whether or not he could read.

“Say, David,” I said; speaking casually and wishing I had one of those cold drinks to sit back and sip on, “you don’t read very well, huh?”

“No, sir,” David said without hesitation while staring into his lap. Then looking up at me briefly, he continued, “I don’t suppose I rightly read at all. Never have.”

Even though I had suspected it, I was still surprised to hear it. But I tried not to betray my wonder at the confession. I was amazed that this man who owned a home, had a business, was raising a family, and serving in the church; wasn’t able to read a lick. I was instantly both humbled by David’s pluck and determination in life and burdened to help him finally learn. I asked him that night if he’d like some help in trying to read and he said that he would. We arranged to meet one evening a week at the church and I’d try and teach him his ABC’s.

Those first few meetings were pretty comical. I learned pretty quickly that teaching someone how to read is no easy task. I, of course, took being able to read for granted and believed anybody could just “pick it up”. Well, I was wrong about that. So, as David was learning how to read, I was learning how to teach reading. Like I said, it was pretty comical. But in fits and starts, we started making a little progress. David humbled himself and I, with homemade flashcards in hand, stopped trying to get this grown man to be able to read in a single day and began patiently working with him.

As David got better at being able to sound out words and fitting them into the orders of the sentences he was given, he suddenly seemed more comfortable in sharing about his efforts with others in the church. And as the open secret of David’s illiteracy became a rooting interest of everyone in the church – a better and more able teacher was found for David and I was relieved of my duties. As time went by, I was glad to see David begin picking his way through passages on Sunday morning and seeing his eyes crossing the page of the hymnal as he sang out the lyric. He never said much about it but I knew he was grateful for that front porch conversation we’d had years before.

I think about that episode often when I reflect on the lack of spiritual proficiency I see among the faithful folks I’m walking with. There are so many of us that ought to humble ourselves as David did and confess some of our incompetencies in the realm of Christian disciplines – myself included.

So, let this email be an invitation to a front porch – yours or mine – and a confession that I’d like to try and do a little more teaching if you’re up for trying to do a little more learning. Then maybe, just maybe, the Lord might let the American church out of the nursery!

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning to spend some blessed time in the Lord’s house with God and His people. Praise the Lord for His Kingdom! These times together are so good for the soul. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

I have no way of proving it, but I believe America is a much less sanitary place since the introduction of electric hand dryers into public restrooms. This conviction of mine isn’t based on my assessment of the effectiveness of hand dryers, mind you. I’m sure they work just as well if not better than paper towels. No, my argument is not that they don’t work but that no one uses them. And who can blame them? The cacophonous roar created by these “energy savers” is enough to make your ears bleed. I mean, with the amount of noise coming out of one those little wall-mounted boxes, you would think it was preparing for takeoff. When my girls were little, I can remember being in a rest stop bathroom with them when one of those dryers roared to life. Bryn and Ingrid’s fight-or-flight mechanism kicked in and all I saw was bobbing pony tails as they ran screaming from the bathroom.

In addition to the auditory assault, hand dryers also have a huge efficiency problem. On a couple of occasions when a trip to the bathroom was a furlough from some painful event I was attending and thus in no rush to leave the lavatory, I’ve conducted experiments to see how long it would take for a hand dryer to actually do what its name promises. What I found, in those instances, was that no matter the make or model of dryer, I ended up having to rub my hands through at least two whole cycles of turbine torture. Most people I’ve observed only put their hands under the dryer long enough to trip the sensor before immediately despairing of the process and beating a hasty retreat from the bathroom; shaking their hands spasmodically before finishing the job by wiping them on their shirt and pants. I find all this, of course, to be a sad and unnecessary display. Can’t those wonderful, tri-fold symbols of American ingenuity be stacked high once again in men’s and women’s rooms all across the fruited plain? Public restrooms are already unpleasant enough, without having to go both deaf and grey waiting for one’s hands to dry. And given the irksomeness of having to leave the bathroom with hands sopping wet, I do wonder how many people forego washing their hands altogether?

Now, perhaps you think I’m being too harsh by half in this ranting take-down of hand dryers. Maybe you’re wondering if I’m not just using this platform to vent and let off a little steam. And I’m sure some of you are thinking I should reserve this kind of passionate editorializing for something meaningful. And to all of this, I’d say – you’re absolutely right. But now that I’ve gotten it off my chest, I do see in it, a possible application to our Christian life.

If I were to identify a correlative to hand dryers in the Christian life, it just might be the daily devotional. There are a number of reasons why fewer and fewer Christians are reading the Bible for pleasure these days, but one of them is certainly the breathtaking proliferation of daily devotional books. These neat, tidy, and attractive little volumes usually offer a short and pithy encouragement for each day, based on a verse or fragment of Scripture. Because there’s often little depth to these offerings and because their message and content is often remarkably similar to all the other writings in the book, most folks give up on them within weeks or even days. We all have multiples of these devotionals sitting on the edges of our desks and end tables like so much parsley sitting on the edges of our plates. But worse than the quality of much of this devotional material is the subconscious effect the books have on many of us. For far too many, the lesson learned from the prominent place given to these little books is that the Bible is too difficult and cumbersome to read for pleasure and enrichment. “Instead of getting bogged down and frustrated in the hurly-burly backwaters of the Bible,” the thinking goes, “why not let an author provide a tasty little morsel harvested from his hard work and toil.”

I know that the publishers of these daily devotionals are largely driven by good and earnest motivations. And I know that the good intention of everyone involved in their production is for the Kingdom to be built up and encouraged and for more and more believers to engage with the Bible. But I’m afraid that the net result has been less and less Bible reading over the years and a frightful infantilization of the American Christian mind instead. If the only scriptural nourishment one receives is from the pages of daily devotionals – that will make for an emaciated soul, a weak heart, and an impotent mind. Daily devotional materials make a wonderful garnish but a woeful entrée. And yet, in most of what we’re reading for encouragement in our faith, it’s the biblical Word that sits as an olive on a toothpick at the top or bottom of the page or as a little mint sprig tucked parenthetically into the text.

Nothing beats just picking up the Word of God and enjoying an unhurried read through any of its pages and passages. For times of study and reflection such as these never return void but instead inspire, quicken, and enlighten our lives. It’s the only thing that consistently satisfies our soul’s appetite.

So, the next time you visit a public restroom and you leave with your hands wet and dripping; wishing you could have enjoyed using a paper towel instead, maybe you’ll remember this little word of mine. And that night or next morning, when you pause your day’s doings to consider your Creator; pick up the Bible first and leave that daily devotional for dessert.

We’re looking forward to coming into our Father’s house tomorrow – to study, sing, and celebrate the Kingdom both now and to come. We’ll find sanctuary in each other’s fellowship and in the presence of our Lord and Savior. Our souls will revel in the hope of righteousness. It will be a good day! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

Bradley was a good little bear. Well, come to think of it, he wasn’t all that good. And he was no longer very little. But he was a bear.

Bradley got his start in Vermont. A tall pine had fallen half-over; getting hung up on a craggy cliff. The tree’s broad root ball had lifted only a few feet off the mossy forest floor; creating a lovely, little earthen den beneath. Not long after Thanksgiving a year or so back, Bradley’s mommy, sleek from fall’s feasting and carrying little Bradley in her womb, was wandering around looking for a good spot to sleep the winter away when she crawled in under the tree and tucked herself in for the season.

Bradley was born in a February snowstorm. Some of his earliest memories were of snuggling with his snoring mama. As Bradley nursed, a dim light would filter into the den through the snow mounded up by the entrance. Suckling contentedly, he’d study the odd root formations overhead. Try as he might, he couldn’t make sense of any of it and his curiosity often kept him awake long after his mama had fallen back to sleep.

Bradley’s first spring and summer were filled with fun and adventure. The Green Mountains had never seen such frolic in one of its resident cubs. Bradley would leap off little bluffs to bearhug the tops of green saplings. The taut, little tree would bend low for a moment before springing and snapping back straight; throwing the little bear against the hillside. Smiling and shaking his head, Bradley would then tumble down the hill to the little pool in the brook. His eyes darting back and forth, he’d lock in on a trout. Tensing up like a spring-loaded cat, he’d dive headlong into the pool and thrash and splash about; pawing wildly at every watery shadow. Climbing back onto the shore empty-handed, he’d shimmy and shake himself dry only to spy a raspberry bush in the dappled light along the forest’s edge. Barreling out into the open meadow, he’d lie on his back and let the summer sun finish drying his shiny black coat. Sprawled out, Bradley would lazily pull a raspberry branch down to his snout and feast on the warm, plump, juicy berries. He never could have believed that life beyond the snowbound den could have been so wonderful.

There was an early snow that fall and Bradley delighted in the fluffy, slippery, white world it made for him. He dove into snowdrifts, tobogganed down hills on his belly, chewed on the icicles he collected from off of waterfalls in the brook, and, when the snowstorm was over, he’d hang from pine boughs and all his yo-yo-ing would make it snow some more. But Bradley’s mama wasn’t as fond of the falling snow. She started talking about finding some little hole to crawl into for the winter.

“Mama,” Bradley would say; hanging his head and whining, “we ain’t aiming to run and hide away for the winter, are we? There’s still so much to see and do.”

“Honey,” the mama bear replied with a firm voice but an adoring smile, “the good Lord didn’t make us for roaming about during the frozen months. Now’s the time to search out a warm dry den and for eating all we can until then. Don’t worry, little bear, the fields and forest will all be here when we wake back up.”

There were several conversations like this one over the next few weeks. Bradley didn’t like it, but he eventually gave in and followed his mama into a dry and dusty cavity under a large, overhanging rock. As an icy sleet beat against the carpet of dried oak leaves outside, his mama held him tight. Before long, the rhythm of her contented heartbeat lulled him into a deep and abiding slumber. Bradley woke up a number of times that winter and he’d sometimes roll over to the entrance of the cave. He had half a mind to venture out into the snow but, feeling sluggish and drugged, he’d roll back over to his mama’s side and drift back off to sleep.

That next spring and summer proved even more fun for Bradley than his first. He ventured up higher mountains, down into deeper valleys, and across wider plains; all the time exploring and playing. And all the time he was growing bigger and more rebellious too. As much as she tried, Bradley’s mama couldn’t seem to help her son’s wheels find the ruts of the road God had laid out for him. While other bears his age were learning how to hunt and fish, Bradley was taking singing lessons from a jay. While other young bears were busy tussling, sparring, and fighting, Bradley was studying the clouds from the tops of pine trees. While other bears were being bears, Bradley was busy being Bradley.

Later that fall, when the air turned crisp and the sky began spitting snow, Bradley had drifted away from his mama’s side. The separation wasn’t intentional; it had just sorta happened. The last time Bradley would see his mama that year was on an unusually warm day in early November. Bradley’s mama had come upon him as he was lazing under a crabapple tree; feasting heartily on all the drops scattered about him.

“Hey, Mama,” he’d said, raising his head but still lounging on his back. “A little mushy and kinda wormy in parts; but plenty yummy.”

“You ought to eat the ones still on the tree, little bear,” she said with a smile that was still loving but now less adoring. “Say, little bear, have you found a spot to spend the winter in?”

“I’m not a little bear,” Bradley said, sitting up. “And no, I haven’t. I’m not intending on dozing the winter away. I believe I’m going to stay out and enjoy the season.”

“Grrr,” his mama growled. “You oughta find one all the same – in case you end up changing your mind.”

“Okay, Mama – I’ll be sure to stake out a proper den; just in case.”

Well, Indian summers don’t last very long and Bradley’s best intentions were even shorter-lived. November turned to December and the snow soon fell in earnest; piling up on Bradley’s woods in a way he hadn’t experienced before. The sun would come out but it didn’t melt much of the snow. The blowing wind now seemed to be barbed and had a bitter bite to it. The pool in the brook froze fast and his bed under the spruce tree was cold and icy. Bradley remembered his mama’s admonition and began searching for a nice, warm den to take a break in. But it was no use. He only found two suitable places but they were already taken by strangers. Bradley had poked his nose in but had to duck back out to avoiding a swiping paw of bared claws. And the ensuing growl scooted and shooed him away through belly-high snow.

All that month, the snow continued to fall and the temperatures dropped lower and lower. Bradley was getting more and more tired and anxious. He was always wet and cold; hungry and shivery. He wanted more than anything to be able to find his mama and crawl in next to her.

Then one night, as Bradley wandered farther away from his home woods, he saw a peculiar light go on and off across a little clearing. Deciding to investigate, he climbed a cattle fence and trudged through the deep snow. Getting closer to where he’d seen the light, a big gray barn appeared out of the shadows. Walking around it, his nose up and dipping at the air; he determined the building to be full of creatures. He intuited somehow that it had to be warm and dry inside. Having marked where the light came from, he pawed at the base of the barn door. It swung a little but was hung up on something. Bradley was a smart little bear and he somehow knew to lift the latch that stretched from door to frame. The door swung more easily now and Bradley was able to nose his way into the barn.

As you might imagine, Bradley’s entrance into the barn created quite a ruckus. The horses whinnied, neighed, and stamped about. The oxen bellowed loud grunts of disapproval. The pigs squealed, the cows cried, and the barn cats hissed from the rafters. Bradley thought about running away, but it was so nice and dry and warm in there. All Bradley wanted to do was to curl up in a corner and rest a while. As he pushed further into the barn, the farm animals all got louder and more restless. Just as Bradley found an empty pile of sweet-smelling hay and was about to flop down in it, the light came on in the barn.

“Well, I’ll be,” the farmer said; standing in his pajamas and carrying a shotgun. “You sure are a poor, little bear – ain’t you?”

Bradley didn’t like the bright light and would have liked to trundle off into the woods, but the barn wall was at his back. He meekly lowered his head and swung it pathetically back and forth; slowly turning his shoulders this way and that. He would have liked to be able to talk to the farmer but he couldn’t, of course.

“Couldn’t find a spot to winter in, huh?” The farmer’s presence and calm tone had settled down all the barn animals. He advanced a couple more steps toward the bear and kept talking, “I suppose you want to take your sabbath in my barn?”

Bradley’s sad eyes looked up at the farmer from under his lowered head. He had the repentant look of a dog with a muzzle full of quills.

“Well, I don’t mind you lodging here with us for the winter – just so long as you keep the peace and leave in an orderly fashion come spring.” The farmer walked over to an empty calving stall that had been used for storing grain; passing within a couple feet of the wild bear. The farmer held onto his gun and, with his boots, raked a bunch of clean straw into the little box. He also scooped a pile of oats onto the ground for him. “There you go, little guy,” the farmer said; motioning to the spot with the barrel of his gun. “It’s all yours.”

Bradley looked over at the stall and then up at the farmer and back over again. The warmth of the barn and the kindness of the man was having a powerful sedative effect on the bear. With head lowered all the way to the ground, Bradley ambled over to the stall. Walking in, he sniffed at the oats but carried on to the straw. Circling around once or twice, he plopped down and let his heavy head rest on the straw bed.

“Alright you guys,” the farmer said to all the animals in the barn, “don’t pay that bear no mind. He’ll just be a snoring boarder for the next few months. You all go back to bed.” And with that the farmer turned off the light, closed and latched the barn door, and went back to the farmhouse.

As Bradley curled up; tucking his nose under one paw, he listened to the gentle rustling and quiet breathing of the other animals. He could also hear the wind moving through the pines outside; causing the barn to bend and creak. Bradley was so thankful to be in that warm, dry house. He was so thankful to be able to rest and to sleep. His body getting warmer and warmer and his thinking getting thicker and thicker, he meditated for a moment on what the farmer had said about “sabbath”. Hadn’t his mama said the same? Hadn’t she told him that bears were made to take a break?

What a blessing it will be to find our rest tomorrow morning as we gather into God’s house for a time of worship, fellowship, prayer, and reflection. Praise the Lord for Sabbaths of sanctuary! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate