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The Newsletter Podcast
The Newsletter Podcast is a production of Emmanuel Church for Emmanuel Church. With new episodes each week, we’ll hear what’s coming up, what’s gone down, and we’ll have a little fun along the way.
Episode 55- October 27, 2025
Hide your animals! The guys are at the local pet store, and they're joined today by special guest, Mr. Neil Ayers!
October 27, 2025
October 20, 2025
October 13, 2025
October 6, 2025
September 29, 2025
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September 15, 2025
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September 1, 2025
August 25, 2025
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The Sunday Dinner Podcast
Conversations with folks from the Emmanuel Church Family and friends about life, faith, and our God who knits us all together.
Chapter 9- Roosevelt Pires
Young Life… An Upward Spiral into apologetics… The most fun wedding at the Governor's Inn… Scale Free… All this and more with our very own Roosevelt Pires!
*Check out Roosevelt's YouTube page: https://www.youtube.com/@ScaleFree777
May 29, 2023
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March 22, 2023
July 11, 2022
June 24, 2022
June 10, 2022
June 5, 2022
May 22, 2022
May 8, 2022
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With the World Riding Your Bumper
Good morning church family,
When I was learning how to drive as a teenager, I won praise from both my parents for how well I did behind the wheel. “You’re a natural,” I can remember them telling me as I navigated the back roads of Vermont with one or the other of them in the front passenger seat. This affirmation probably meant more coming from my mom as she wasn’t as apt to throw bouquets at us kids as my dad was. But back then I heartily drank down any words of commendation. In the midst of all my teenage floundering and failing, it was nice to hear that, in at least this one aspect of my dawning adulthood, I might be okay.
But despite all the accolades, there was one aspect of my driving that drew swift criticism from both of my folks. Most of the roads that we’d go driving on were lonely, two-lane country roads that ran beside winding rivers, across farmed fields, or through mountain passes. I would be calm and relaxed; my operation of the vehicle as smooth and as easy as could be. I kept that Ford Tempo smack dab in the center of its lane; the engine’s rpm matching my resting heart rate with speeds just a tick above or below the limit. But as soon as my eye caught another motorist closing fast on me in my rearview mirror, I became an altogether different driver. With a car riding my back bumper, I would sit up and over the steering wheel, my speed would increase to ten or fifteen miles over the limit, and my wheels would begin covering the yellow and white paint on either side of the lane.
“John,” my dad would say after glancing at the sideview mirror, “don’t worry about him. You need to slow down.”
“But Dad,” I’d say as my eyes darted back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror, “he’s right on top of me!”
“Son,” he’d calmly try again, “don’t worry about him. You can’t let his driving affect what you’re doing. There’ll be an opening sooner or later and he’ll get around you.”
There were lots of conversations like that; my mom and dad taking pains to teach me not to be bullied into bad driving by tailgaters pushing from behind. But whether it was my accommodating nature, my teenage desire to fit in, or my pride in not wanting to be passed by – I continued to struggle with this response throughout my learner’s permit days and for quite a few more years after I got my license. In my life, as in my driving, I often struggle with standing firm against a flow of traffic that is racing toward everything that’s wrong.
As we drive along here in 2025, we need to be sure to guard our hearts as we look in the rearview mirror. If we’re being faithful to the call of the gospel and the truth of the Word, it’s likely that our righteousness will be an obstacle to the progress of some wicked plan being pursued in the world. And those pursuing that evil course will surely get right up on our bumper, flash their headlights, honk their horn, and perhaps threaten us in their raging. But let these driving instructions of our Heavenly Father calm us down and focus our eyes back on the road ahead. “Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.” (1Corinthians 15:58) And also this: “For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ.” (Galatians 1:10)
“John,” the Lord has said to me time and again, “don’t worry about them. Just drive the way I taught you.” And when I do, His accolades and encouragements are worth more than the world to me.
We’re looking forward to getting together in the morning to fellowship in the love of the Lord and in the joy of His gospel. It will be so good to sing and to pray and to encourage each other! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!
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!
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!
The Off-Ramp
Good morning church family,
“Did you know your license is suspended?” the officer asked using a tone so cool and conversational, he might as well have been asking me if I knew that my shoe was untied.
“No. I mean. . . I don’t know.” The officer was standing just a little behind where I was sitting behind the wheel so that I had to crane my neck to look at him. Attempting to look in his eyes, all I could see was my sad reflection in his jet-black sunglasses.
“Why don’t you shut the car off – okay boss?” the officer said; peering into the car. “Stay inside the vehicle. I’ll be right back.”
I turned the engine off and threw the keys in the cupholder. The hot, muggy Florida air came pouring into the car. Beads of sweat immediately began forming along my hairline and at the back of my neck. In the rearview mirror, I could see the officer sitting in his patrol car typing on his onboard laptop. The strobing blue lights and the glare of the sun made it hard to make out any expression on his face. “I’m cooked,” I whispered to the cars zooming past me on the freeway.
“Okay, Mr. Boberick,” the officer said with a foreboding sigh as he approached my drivers-side window again, “I’m writing you three citations today. One for the speed, of course. It’s a $281 ticket. Twenty-two over is way too fast out here. You gotta slow it down.” I craned my neck again to try and look at the officer as he spoke to me. He was gently slapping the packet of citations into his open hand. “I’m also citing you for not showing me proof of insurance and for driving with a suspended license. Now, I’m. . .”
“Like I said,” I interrupted, while trying to shift my weight in the seat to better face the officer, “I’ve got insurance. I tried to pull it up on my phone but I don’t get enough service here.”
“You can offer proof of insurance to the court and they will likely reduce the fine. Now, like I was. . .”
“To the court?” I said; frustration welling up in me. “I’m going to have to go to court over all this?”
The officer drew his hands together in front of his belt buckle, the pink citations clutched tight against his uniform. His eyes were looking straight ahead and down the freeway. I could hear his toe tapping on the gravel in the shoulder. I let out a frustrated sigh and fell silent. The officer then continued: “Are you finished talking, Mr. Boberick?”
Shaking my head, I shifted my weight back toward the front of the car and slammed my hands on the steering wheel.
“Okay. Now, Mr. Boberick, I’m seizing your license today. You’re not going to be able to drive until you clear everything up with the DMV. Now, I’m cutting you a break, okay? This is a misdemeanor but I’m not going to arrest you. But, given your record and driving history, I have called a tow truck.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, sweat now pouring down my face and dripping off my nose, “there’s no one I could call to come get it anyway.”
“Well, here are your citations, sir,” the officer said, reaching forward with the tickets. “All the information is in the packet. Please gather up any personal effects you may want and arrange for someone to come and pick you up.”
As the officer returned to sit in his air-conditioned car and wait for the tow truck, I looked blankly out the windshield. Truth was, the only person I might be able to call to come pick me up was my work but they’d just as soon fire me as give me a ride; being late again for my shift was why I was speeding in the first place. My mom and dad live only a few miles away but there was no way I could call them either. Ever since my dishonorable discharge up in North Carolina and all my trouble with Meghan and the baby and everything, they made it pretty clear not to come around begging for anything.
“D—-t!” I yelled; slamming the steering wheel with my open hand and accidentally causing the car horn to chirp. I shot a look into the rearview mirror and saw the officer’s sunglasses staring sternly back at me. I raised my right hand and waved for him to disregard and he gratefully returned to his computer screen.
“I don’t think there’s any kind of bag in here,” I said; muttering to myself. I looked over my shoulder and into the back seat but didn’t see anything but a bunch of take-out trash and a sweatshirt. I popped the trunk and got out of the car.
The only bag I could find anywhere in the car was a plastic grocery bag that was holding a bunch of straps and tie-downs. I dumped the straps into the trunk and started filling the bag with whatever valuables I could find. I fished all the coins out of the cup holders, collected a couple of random gift cards out of the center console, and grabbed my Garmin out of the glove box. I didn’t need the GPS device but I thought I might be able to sell it. There really wasn’t much else of value in the car. I stood in the shade of the popped trunk and started taking my house keys off the ring. Feeding the last ring around the loop, my eye spied a couple of DVDs in the back of the trunk. With plenty of room in the grocery bag, I reached for the videos to take them with me. But upon lifting them out, another thing caught my eye. There, as crisp and clean as the day it was issued to me, was my Navy New Testament. Seeing it there on the floor of the trunk, the heat’s ringing and all the buzz and busyness of the freeway seemed muted it for a moment. I tossed the DVDs back down and picked up the Bible. I didn’t remember packing it when I left Fayetteville, but something encouraged me to take it with me.
I set down the grocery bag and took the bible in both hands. Opening the front cover, I was surprised to see a personal note written there. The note was signed by one of the chaplains on base; a Captain Starnes. I couldn’t remember ever meeting this particular chaplain but I had a vague recollection of him addressing my battalion from time to time. The note was neatly written in cursive and said: “This book is more important than your helmet, boots, rations, or gun. Guard it best by stowing it in your heart and mind. I’m praying for you.” And then under his name, he wrote what must have been a reference to a Bible verse of some kind. It simply said, “1Peter 5:6-7 – page 288”.
I flipped through the pages of the book and found the passage Captain Starnes had noted for me. The eagerness I felt in my heart took me by surprise. “Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God,” it began, “so that at the proper time He may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on Him, because He cares for you.” I read and reread the passage. There was something about what was being said in it; offering hope, truth, and a way out for me.
I placed the Bible in the grocery bag and shut the trunk. Walking back up to the front of the car, I tossed the car keys onto the front seat. Looking back at the officer, I noticed I had his attention. We exchanged thumbs-ups and I mouthed, “Thank you.”
I turned and began walking down the freeway. I saw an off-ramp just over the rise.
We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to worship the King, share in the fellowship of the redeemed, and have a couple logs thrown on the fire of our faith! It’s going to be a blessed time for the Lord has prepared the blessing. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!
Crusader Energy
Good morning church family,
“It is easier to fight for one’s principles than to live up to them.” -Alfred Adler
In the span of just a few hours, Simon Peter’s actions and behavior in the runup to Christ’s arrest and crucifixion would be so schizophrenic so as to leave us scratching our heads; wondering what kind of man this disciple truly was. Of course, some of this is quite understandable. This was, after all, a very turbulent, emotional, and trying time in Peter’s life. For three years, he had abandoned his life, home, and profession to serve in Jesus’s inner circle; watching the Rabbi he loved rise from relative obscurity to dizzying heights of power and prominence. That cruising altitude was not to be maintained, however, and Peter would struggle for some time with Jesus’s precipitous fall from grace and favor; seeing his savior and friend become an enemy of the State, a target of the religious establishment, and finally a disappointment to the Jewish people. But even so, how could Peter be so drowsily indifferent to Jesus’s call to prayer one minute and then wide awake the next; brandishing a knife in order to take on a whole detachment of Roman soldiers? How could he solemnly swear a dying allegiance to Jesus at supper and then, just a few hours later, deny three times even knowing the Man? How could he be so outspoken one day and then the next, be ducking into the shadows to weep bitter tears of confusion? It makes for hard reading but I’m so very glad for the testimony.
Peter was certainly someone who found it easier to fight for what he believed in than to simply live it. I think he would have been far more comfortable coming down out of the hills to lead an insurrection than he would have to lead a Bible study. I think he would have much preferred clearing out the Temple in Jerusalem to clearing out the temple in his own heart. And Peter often seemed more interested in killing wolves than seeing them transformed into sheep.
The killing of Charlie Kirk has revealed a surprising amount of crusader energy residing in the hearts and minds of Christians around the world. Charlie Kirk was well-known for calling believers to be bold and courageous in the defense of the Faith and in support of state, local, and national initiatives that would apply a biblical worldview to law and government. All across the nation, believers have been making emotional appeals to the rest of the church; imploring them to take up the flag that Mr. Kirk carried and march on. “Fight!” they cry out with fiery eyes and jaws firmly-set. “Let us proclaim the truth and be unafraid of the consequences!”
Now, in a general sense, I certainly agree with this sentiment. I’ve often fellowshipped with Martin Luther in his statement: “Peace if possible; but truth at any rate.” As one of the many watchmen that God has stationed to stand sentry on the walls of His Kingdom, may the Lord’s judgement come swiftly upon my head if I’m ever found to be sitting on my trumpet when I should instead be standing to blow it. I am not ashamed of the Gospel of Jesus Christ nor am I averse to fighting to defend it. I have already laid down my life and placed my all in the hands of the One who ordained me. But I must say; before I would join any formation and set out on any march – I would want to be absolutely sure that Jesus, Himself, was out front leading the charge. I would also want to know what all this “fighting” would look like.
In Matthew 10 we read about the time when Jesus assigned a practicum of sorts to his students, the disciples. He is sending them out in pairs to do some proclaiming, testifying, and ministering. It’s a fascinating account. But something Jesus says to these men should be very interesting and instructive to those of us who are His disciples today: “Behold,” He says to the twelve, “I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be shrewd as serpents and gentle as doves.”
First of all, Jesus acknowledges the predatory nature of the nonbelieving public. The people the disciples were going to be witnessing to – the Joe Blows, law enforcement, religious leaders, and gray-hairs at the gate – they were, many of them, wolves. Wolves, as you know, are carnivorous hunters who are always in search of prey – working together to corner, kill, and consume what they may. If this characterization was indeed how Jesus saw the nonbelievers living in Judea, one might think that Jesus would outfit His insurgent disciples with weapons sufficient to defend themselves. You’d think that Jesus would, at the very least, give them some kind of basic training in the arts of war and conflict. To go head-to-head with wolves, you’d imagine Jesus might toughen up his disciples a little; turning them into wolves themselves. But no – Jesus would send these men into the midst of these wolves as sheep. Jesus wanted the agents of His salvation to be witnesses and not conquerors. He wanted the message of the gospel to be unmanipulated by the tip of a sword, unsophisticated by honey on the tongue, and unclouded by silver coins slipped into palms.
Secondly, Jesus continues to make use of simile by charging his disciples to adopt the self-preserving practicality of snakes and the winsome innocence of doves. In so doing, Jesus sheds considerable light on the posture we’re expected to keep as His representatives in a fallen and often hostile world. Serpents, as we all know, are almost universally hated and are therefore always in danger of having their heads chopped off by shovel blades, blown off by buck shot, or crushed by boot heels. Serpents must be shrewd creatures; taking care that their lives not be lost prematurely due to careless indifference or apathy. The Christian must always be alert; careful to wear every piece of the Apostle Paul’s panoply. The Christian can never take a vacation from being a Christian! But yet again, while we are sobered by calls to be shrewd in this predatory environment we live in, we are called to maintain a posture of meekness. Jesus wants us to also be gentle as doves. Doves are one of the few birds that will allow you to draw near to them without them feeling like they need to flitter away. Sitting on a park bench, a dove may hop up and sit next to you for a spell. Waiting on a street corner for the signal to change, a dove may carry on a cooing conversation with you at your feet. Walking a country lane, a pair of doves may waddle out of the woods and stroll with you for a bit. Doves are kind, mild-mannered, unassuming creatures that are welcome and welcoming in almost every environment. It’s this dovelike bearing that Jesus wants for us to exhibit as we make our way in this world as His witnesses. I know that to many, having doves carry the flag as we march into battle seems like weakness. And perhaps it is. But, as Paul remarked, power is perfected in weakness.
I understand the reflexive impulse many of us are having to make fists right now. I get it if you think now’s the time for the Church to take its turn with the pitchforks and torches; putting on brass knuckles and drawing up a smashmouth offense. I understood when Peter drew a knife in Gethsemane and cut off Malchus’s ear and I understood when James and John asked Jesus to authorize a bombing raid on the Samaritan village that disrespected them. I’ve certainly had a volcanic hatred erupt in my heart over the years. But I’m so glad that Jesus healed that poor soldier’s ear and I’m glad for Christ’s rebuke; telling James, John, and me that I didn’t know what spirit I was of. I’m forever grateful that Jesus didn’t come to destroy men’s lives but to save them.
I know that, for some of you, this writing of mine may seem too milquetoast for the moment. In our passion and conviction, we’d prefer the sort of red meat rhetoric that would nourish our anger. But what Jesus has taught me over the many years that I’ve walked with Him is that the best way to fight for our Christian principles is to simply live them out. For the Lord to call us to righteousness and holiness is to invite us to be armed with the most powerful weapons of our warfare. To call us to be meek is to win for us the inheritance of much more than just D.C., Main Street, or Hollywood – but rather the entire earth. But so much more than all of that – to be lambs in the fight means we are not alone but have the Good Shepherd fighting with us.
We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to conference with Heaven about the week that’s been and the week that will be. It will be oh so good to sing and shout “Amen!” and to offer our hallelujahs to the One who has rescued us from sin and ourselves. There’s so much to look forward to! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!
The Goods
Good morning church family,
Most commercials nowadays are designed to promote a brand name and not a product. I mean, what does a woman rollerblading and dancing her way in short-shorts down a boardwalk tell me about the can of soda in her hand? Or what have I learned about the inherent value of the high-dollar sedan that it’s able to go drifting through the salt flats at high speed? And I’m all for a little baby sleeping soundly in her crib, but is that reason enough for me to invest all my money with Fidelity?
In the poor, black neighborhood that I grew up in, there was nothing more important than the kind of shoes you wore. You might live in a crowded one-bedroom apartment in the projects; pouring evaporated milk on Malt-O-Meal and using cardboard boxes for closets, but you wouldn’t be caught dead on the streets with any knock-off kicks. Nike, Adidas, and British Knights were the only acceptable footwear for kids in Chillum, Maryland. All other shoes, like the Stride Rites my parents bought for me, were derisively called “bobos”. I remember begging my parents to do whatever they could to get me anything with a swoosh on it.
My first full-time ministry was as the youth pastor of the Bethlehem Advent Christian church in Augusta, Georgia. It was a wonderful, little fellowship full of life, love, and service to one another. The Lord really blessed the youth ministry while I was there. Wednesday nights saw the church overrun with teens from all over the city. But I remember very well when one of the homegrown teens in the youth group – a young woman whose family had been going to the church for over a hundred years – came into my office one Sunday to complain about the church. She loved the youth group and all that was going on there but thought the Sunday morning services were boring and stuffy – certainly nothing she would ever invite her friends to. “I don’t know, Pastor John,” she began with a shrug and a sigh, “can’t we do something to make our church a little more cool. Like, maybe instead of being Bethlehem Advent we could change the name to Bethlehem Baptist. That’d be way better.”
Lisa and I recently went on Facebook marketplace in hopes of finding a small bookcase to use in our homeschool classroom. We found a few for sale in the area and settled on a brown, wooden one in Lebanon that was listed for $25. While hauling it up the stairs and into our house, I noticed the name of the manufacturer on one end of the case. With the little piece of furniture in place and the kids stacking their new curriculum on its shelves, I couldn’t help myself. I had to look up the value of the thing. The bookcase already met our need and was in keeping with our budget, but I Googled it anyway. Maybe I’d be able to tell visitors to our house; “Yeah, it’s a pretty nice piece, isn’t it? You know it’s a Bombay bookcase. Yeah, it’s a real nice piece – not cheap either.”
There’s an old Thomas Fuller quote that goes: “Cheat me in the price but not in the goods.” What Fuller is saying is that the reason for any purchase is the usefulness of the thing being acquired. No one ever wants to be cheated, of course, but I think we’d all prefer to overpay for a sturdy, dependable vehicle, let’s say, than to get a lemon at a discount. What’s most important is not the brand name, sticker price, or the esteem its acquisition brings from the neighbors. What matters is what works. What matters is what gets the job done – whether it’s shoes, bookcases, or beliefs.
I bring this up in order to caution us against the allure of brand-name Christianity. Believers throughout all generations, have sought to promote their own particular systems of belief, codes of conduct, methods of sanctification, and programs of spiritual discipline. They do this for lots of reasons: to gain influence, accumulate power, exercise control, and make money; to name just a few. They form their own kingdoms within the Kingdom and then do what they can to make access to them and their benefits exclusive. And because these forms of Christianity can’t possibly offer something more than Jesus Christ, Himself, and because everyone who does call on Jesus is freely given all of Him; these subkingdoms must, then, promote something other than Jesus in order to attract devotion.
As we share the gospel and invite people to church – let us not use Madison Avenue as a model for our outreach. Let us not promote personalities but rather the Spirit who grants the charisma and dynamism we’re attracted to. Let us not promote a building but the One whose presence there makes it holy. Let us not promote the beauty of our worship music but rather the truth of the lyric that inspired it. Let us not promote our good deeds but rather the goodness of the One our charity seeks to glorify. Let us not promote community for community’s sake but rather the taking of communion for the sake of our Heavenly Father who sacrificed His only Son to win a way back to Him.
The sun seems to be heading over the hill, brothers and sisters. So, with the daylight that remains, let us venture out beyond the gates and work to point the lost to the narrow way home. When Jesus returns on the clouds, may He find us simply telling people what happened in Jerusalem two-thousand-years ago. May He find us faithful to the Gospel.
What a blessing it will be to gather together tomorrow morning and enjoy the shalom found in worship. As the Lord prepares to welcome us – let us prepare to come! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!
Joy in the Gutter
Good morning church family,
When I was a boy, my parents decided to supplement the family income by picking up a paper route. My mom and dad had learned that the carrier responsible for delivering the Washington Post to our neighborhood was giving up his route. Dad made an inquiry and – just like that – stacks of steaming-hot newspapers began being dropped off by the curb in front of our house in the early hours before sunrise. There were hundreds and hundreds of papers; all needing to be stuffed, banded or bagged, and then tossed on porches up and down Somerset, Sheridan, Cox, and Rittenhouse.
The route was more than my dad could handle by himself and so my older brother and I were drafted to help out. Every morning, for years, my dad would come into our bedroom and shake us awake; whispering encouragement to us as we stumbled into our clothes and tumbled down the stairs to get to work. Every lamp in our little living room was on and shining a bright light on the mountains of newsprint. The room felt stuffy and close; an inky, chemical smell choking the air. My brother and I began helping Dad assemble the papers – stuffing the different sections into the folds; pausing now and again to read a Calvin and Hobbes strip or scan through the Orioles box score. With the papers all set to be delivered, Dad would make the call on banding or bagging. If the weather was fair, we could fill our sacks with stacks of the Post and fold and rubber-band them as we walked our route. If there was any chance of rain, however, we would quickly bag all the papers before heading out the door. It was a well-oiled operation and we prided ourselves in putting every copy on every customer’s porch, snug to the house and directly under the knob of the front door. If all went well, we’d be all done before the sun was over the housetops and before the droning din of the highway had drowned out the singing of the crickets. The task done, the whole family would gather around the breakfast table for English muffins and raisin bran and then we kids would scramble off to school. I really didn’t mind being a paper boy – except for Saturdays.
Saturdays saw two deliveries from the distributer. We’d get the stacks of the Saturday papers in the early morning, of course; but then there’d be another, very large delivery around lunchtime. The Sunday edition of the Post ended up being a very heavy, thick, log of a newspaper. It would include a number of special sections featuring pieces on the arts and entertainment, there was an expanded in-color comics section, a TV guide, mailers, coupons, classifieds, Parade magazine, and more. Fully assembled, it was so fat that it could be difficult sometimes to even get a rubber band around it all. Well, the distributer would deliver all of these extra sections and special inserts during the midday on Saturday and we, the carriers were given the option of either delivering the early material on Saturday afternoon or including it with the thin Sunday edition that would be delivered the next morning. My dad always wanted us to deliver the inserts on Saturday in order to make sure that we had plenty of time to get ready for church the next morning. We tended to grumble a bit about the Saturday delivery as it always interrupted our playtime, TV time, and cut-up time. It seemed there was always a fat, inky paper elbowing in on our weekend.
There was, however, one good thing about the Saturday afternoon delivery. It being done during the middle of the day meant that the whole family was able to get involved. My mom, two little brothers, and little sister would all get in on the act as well. And best of all, the delivery wouldn’t be on foot but by station wagon!
Our family had a sky-blue Ford Gran Torino station wagon with wavy wood paneling down the side that was perfect for the work. The rear bench seats would get folded down and all the papers stacked and piled in the back. My mom would get behind the wheel, the three oldest boys would sit on the tailgate on the back, the two youngest kids would jump in on top of the pile of papers – steadily pushing the product to the tailgate, and my poor dad would walk behind; directing traffic and maintaining quality control. It was kind of fun to ride through the neighborhood, jumping off and on the moving wagon; our legs swinging from the tailgate. Of course, our parents would be arrested for doing something like this today – but it all seemed as normal and practical as could be back then.
It was on one of these Saturday deliveries that something happened that God has reminded me of many times throughout the course of my life and ministry. It was a hot and sultry summer day in the city; a hundred degrees outside, a hundred percent humidity, and a heat index that left the whole city groaning and dragging. And inside our little band box of a house, it wasn’t much cooler. Everyone in the family was a little irritable and, even though we all wanted to stay home and sit in front of a fan, the Saturday inserts had to be delivered. Metropolitan Washington, D.C. could be one of the hottest, most miserable places on the globe. The air could be so thick there that you felt like you were wearing it. Sweating through your clothes, you’d swallow hard hoping the ringing in the air and the singing of the cicadas would leave you alone and give you some peace. All the parked cars and blacktop radiated heat from the baking sun, making it feel like you were walking in a frying pan. As we prepared to head out on the route, my dad decided we should bag all the papers as there was a chance of thunderstorms throughout the afternoon. I remember the back of my thighs burning as we sat down on the tailgate of the Gran Torino; black exhaust belching up between our legs. The papers we held in our laps clung to our sweaty arms. It was brutal.
Not twenty deliveries in and we were all flagging miserably. Morale was at an all-time low. But then, all of a sudden, on the wind we smelled the faint aroma of steam; a telltale sign it was raining somewhere. Soon, dark clouds bloated with rain rose up in the sky; taking the shape of mountains. The ringing gave way to a whistling wind and the temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant. And then it began to rain. Big, fat drops were all there were at first; plopping here and there like bombs out of B-42s. But they soon gave way to a driving, slanting rain that came in on us. My mom stopped the car and tossed ponchos to us from the front seat. We donned the musty, bright yellow shrouds and went back to work, trying hard to not get too wet. Soon, thunder cracked above us and lightning sizzled around us; a prelude to the sky opening up and emptying itself of all its rain. We tried our best to avoid the fast-forming puddles and to keep our shoes and shorts dry but it was proving impossible. My mom shouted at us to hurry and my dad did his best to encourage us and keep us on task, but an already difficult job had now become that much worse. I was so frustrated, I could cry.
But then my little brother changed everything. The deluge had turned the gutter beside the curbing into a veritable river and as I ran, head down and papers tucked under my arm to my next delivery, I spied my brother Josh lying flat on his back in the gutter; nearly submerged in the torrent. And he was laughing his head off. Soon, we were all standing still and staring at the sight. My older brother Joel was the first to join Josh in the river followed by my two younger siblings who jumped out of the wagon to frolic in the water. I took the plunge next and then – to everyone’s surprise – my dad tossed his paper bag in the car and flopped down in the gutter with us. Only my mom kept to the ship. We splashed and laughed for several minutes; playing and swimming on the side of the street. It was magical.
When my dad finally marshalled us back on mission, we could not have been any wetter. We tore off our ponchos and delighted in the rain as it continued to fall. We ran through every puddle, slid down every hill, and giggled our way up and down the route. Embracing the trial, its difficulties became our joy.
Dorothy Parker once wrote: “They sicken of the calm who know the storm.” None of us are particularly fond of alarms and surprises. We like dashboards that never light up, inboxes without issues, and red skies at night. But that’s just not how life is here on our broken planet. Many times, when my day goes sideways and my slim margins are crowded with trouble, I’m reminded of my little brother in the gutter. I smile and remember that it’s best to not always try and dodge the raindrops but to sometimes plunge headlong into the storm. I’m certain that, when you do, you’ll enjoy God’s fellowship in your place at the prow of the ship and you’ll be delighted to know that, from there, things can only get better. We’ll have plenty of sunny days over the river – let’s do our best to enjoy the storms today.
We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to do our own singing in the rain. We’ll be blessed to fellowship with one another, enjoy communion with the Lord, worship, pray, listen, and learn. It’s going to be a wonderful time together! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!