Good morning church family,

Driving west through Worcester, Massachusetts on Interstate 290, the roadway seems a conveyor belt; rolling steadily along above the downtown just below. Looking out either side of the car, you see signs of industry: warehouses, smokestacks, depot yards, and shipping containers stacked two and three high. There are grander constructions as well: golden-domed government buildings, libraries with pillared front porches, and the stately headquarters of old-money industries. There are also plenty of those twenty-first century edifices that reflect the modern utilitarian indifference to beauty: unimaginative office boxes of glass and steel, soulless structures for the public to register their vehicles in, and community colleges that inspire neither community nor collegiality. And, of course, your eye is easily drawn to all the commercial properties with their loud colors and splashy logos: the fast-food restaurants, strip mall shops, and box store bonanzas. But there’s yet another thing you’ll be sure to see out the windows – steeples. Lots and lots of steeples.

All across America and throughout New England in particular, the cityscapes are punctuated by the spires of church steeples; each attracting the attention of the populace in order to point, day and night, to Heaven above. When you pause to consider them, steeples are really an odd kind of construction; serving little to no practical purpose. They don’t offer additional storage, house important plumbing or wiring, or create additional meeting space. But they do fill a prophetic role; calling poor souls caught up in the hustle and bustle of the world to pause for a moment and consider what lies above. Steeples also, without the help of a Google search, direct those weary souls to the houses of worship that sit beneath them, that they might apply within for fellowship, instruction, and spiritual nourishment. In this way, I love steeples. Like God allowing Jeremiah to be made a spectacle as he was paraded around in stocks or John the Baptist called to wear camel’s hair in the wilderness, churches attach these large steeples to the ridgelines of their sanctuaries. Church buildings should stand out amongst all the other constructions in our cities and towns that they might be both an outpost of the Above and a conscience for everyone treading the ground below. They’re a civic blessing.

But as you drive around New England and pass by the old churches standing tall on Main Street or towering over the town green, you may look up and notice that many of these steeples are in a sad state of disrepair. The paint is chipping, the roofing tiles are weathered and lifting in the wind, the slanted slats in front of the belfry are broken and missing, and the spire is rusted red. The builders designed the steeple to catch the eye and draw it upward and therefore the dilapidation cannot be hidden.

One such sad steeple stood above a prominent church building in the town my parents live in. The Brandon Congregational Church sits in the center of town and is featured prominently in the life of the village. The town’s parades go directly in front of the big brick building, the weekly farmer’s market is across the street, and the Fourth of July fireworks that explode in the night sky, illuminate the sacred landmark. It’s a beautiful building but I couldn’t help but notice how shabby its wooden steeple had become and it always made me blue whenever I saw it.

Well, upon our visit to my parent’s house this summer, I was delighted to drive into town and see scaffolding set up all around the church’s steeple and men busily working to restore it. As I paused to look at the progress, I noticed several work trucks parked along the street in front of the building. On the side of the trucks, I saw the name of the company: Robert Morgan Steeple & Building Restoration located out of Errol, New Hampshire. “Wow,” I said to Lisa and the kids. “Who knew there was a company devoted to maintaining and refurbishing steeples – and from good ol’ New Hampshire too!”

Come to find out there’s a name for such an occupation. Someone “whose work is building smokestacks, towers, or steeples or climbing up the outside of such structures to paint and make repairs” is called a “steeplejack”. A band of steeplejacks from Errol, New Hampshire had traveled to Brandon, Vermont to restore the steeple of the Congregational Church to a sterling and pristine condition that it might better fulfill its vocation in the village. I was thrilled! I’m looking forward to running into Brandon the next time I’m visiting my folks and see the finished work – I’m sure it’s beautiful.

I’ve often thought that every believer is a lot like a steeple. Our actions, manner, language, countenance, and lifestyle are intended to point people not just to Heaven above but to the Christ who dwells there; seated at the right hand of God. But I’m afraid it won’t require very close inspection to find that many of our personal steeples are, like those of the churches of our land, in a pretty rickety, ramshackle way. Our witness is not what it should be. We need to call upon the Lord to once again raise up the mighty men and build pulpits for powerful prophets who will once again call God’s people to pursue lives of holiness and righteousness. We need to implore the Lord to raise up some steeplejacks to restore the testimony of His saints. And just like with the Robert Morgan company – why not have the Lord start right here in good ol’ New Hampshire; calling you and me!

We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to enjoy all that the Lord has prepared for those seeking Him. Because we have a Good Shepherd, our time will surely be spent in green pastures beside quiet waters. It’s going to be wonderful. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

When you begin reading a book, do you feel compelled to read its preface and introduction? For the first twenty-two years of my life, almost all my reading, cover to cover, was done as a matter of compulsion and so I must confess to having been annoyed by preliminaries that, in my mind, only served to lengthen my sentence.

Suppose my mom had me read a biography of Golda Meir, for instance, or my dad brought home Heart of Darkness by Conrad or one of my professors assigned a soteriological textbook written by some long-dead theologian – the first thing I would do was flip to the back of the book and find the final page of the final chapter and look at the number. One book’s page tally might come in at 374, another at 212, and perhaps another still might knell out the ghastly figure of 758. Then I, with a sigh of resignation and standing like Sisyphus before his boulder, would lower my shoulder and begin the arduous push up the mountain. To start, I would flip back to the front of the book. Breezing past the title page, copyright page, dedication page, and table of contents, a momentary giddiness would momentarily lighten my mood. But then would come a sudden and steep change in pitch as I turned still another page and found the presence of forwards, prologues, prefaces, and words of introduction. I would instantly become conflicted. “Must I read these?” I’d wonder. “Are these a part of the assignment?” Then I’d glance down to the bottom of the page and see that, instead of Arabic numerals marking the way, there were italicized Roman numerals in their place. “Wait a minute,” I’d bark indignantly, “this introductory stuff doesn’t even count towards my page total?”

More often than not, I wouldn’t consult my mom, dad, teacher, or professor and would just make the executive decision to skip all the prolegomena. I don’t think I read a single preface until I was in my late twenties.

Now, why bore you all with a such a trifling and personal tidbit as this? Well, because I want you to know that major changes of heart often lead to minor changes of manner and behavior. In the first decade of my professional ministry, the Lord performed a miracle in my life; radically transforming my outlook and disposition in regard to scholarship. Where I had once regarded learning as an exercise in winning high marks from instructors, I slowly began to see it as an opportunity for the exchange of knowledge, insight, and ideas – one thinker dialoguing with another. Where I once saw study as an occupational hazard, I instead began to see it as a marvelous perk of the job. And where I had once believed that the Bible could be effectively preached without the use of a reference library, I all of a sudden came under the strong conviction that it most definitely could not. A wonderful and holy fear had seized me. My years-long chafing at having to read books and the idiosyncratic handicaps it created in my approach to learning had greatly hampered my ability to be a good witness for the Lord and an able presenter of the gospel. I had been eager to think and to engage in intellectual conversation but had not been quick to ensure that these conversations were informed by any knowledge, wisdom, or understanding. And thus, my theology and apologetic had been more art than science.

Fast forward to today and my interest in a book’s preface and introduction is so great that I will often read and reread these preliminary texts a number of times throughout my weeks-long study of a particular book. The author’s intent and his hope for the book’s impact on his reader are now things I’m keenly interested in knowing. Think of Christ’s teaching, for example. He almost always included a preface with His parables. Now, without this brief word of introduction, these parables are just interesting little stories; yielding very little benefit to one’s life or soul. But by taking to heart the preface Jesus gives – that in His parable one will find a comparison to Christ’s Kingdom – suddenly a little story can become a key that unlocks the door, a lantern that lights the way through the darkness, or an invitation that leads to salvation itself. There’s so much more to any reading when you’re able to think of it as a conversation and not a chore.

This old hang-up of mine once extended to my reading of the Bible as well. I used to measure out my daily chapters of Scripture reading the same way I might measure out Robitussin, oat bran, or miles on the treadmill. Bible-reading was all “a must” and “an ought-to” and hardly ever a delight. But then I finally read the preface; so to speak. The Lord revealed to me why He’d gone to the trouble of inspiring such a text and why He’d preserved it all these years and arranged for it to be translated into my own language. He’d done all this that I might always be able to dialogue with Him in my reading of it. He was assuring that I might be able to acquire His heart, mind, and perspective. He was telling me that I could be like Him. Well, that didn’t sound like duty, obligation, and religion to me. That sounded a lot more like life and joy!

I now read the Bible like I sit down at the table with family – open and chatty. I now study the Bible like I approach a midsummer blueberry bush – empty mason jar in hand with a heart to harvest. And I now share the Bible like I point out a beautiful sunset on the horizon – eager for others to see what I see.

We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning and joining with many millions of other believers in hearing what the Spirit has to say to His church. Could we be in every worship service being held in every town, village, city, and hamlet across the globe – I believe we’d find there to be a wonderful symmetry in the word being preached, in the songs being sung, and in the commitments being made; such is the excellence of the Spirit’s administration. It’s going to be so good to be a part of it in the morning! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

Were I pastoring in New Hampshire when it was a colony of the British Empire and not yet a state in the American Republic, I wonder if I would have used my pastoral position and spiritual influence to encourage revolution. It’s a vexing question. With militias mustering all about, talk of war being heard along every hedgerow, and signatures being added daily to the newly written Declaration of Independence – would I, seeing the hand of God in the opportunity the colonials were being given to cross the Jordan, as it were, and realize the dream of their pilgrim forebears, advocated for rebellion or would I have stood behind the pulpit on Sunday morning and, citing Romans 13, encouraged submission to the crown and fidelity to Buckingham Palace? It’s a quandary I’ve wrestled with for years. It’s hard to imagine that I would have lent the imprimatur of Heaven to “Live free or die!” but, then again, the world had never seen a government with a greater biblical prospect than the one being drawn up in Philadelphia. Whatever the case, I know I couldn’t have remained silent. I would have had to say something.

One of my favorite places in all the world is St. Paul’s Church, located in downtown Augusta, Georgia. For the nine years I spent pastoring in that city, it was an odd week that I didn’t travel at least once to its lovely little campus on the Savannah River. When the weather was nice, I’d sit on one of the benches in the churches front yard and read and write under the shadow of the bell tower above. When a choking heat sat heavy on the city, I’d move inside to the large, cool sanctuary that remained open most hours of the day. I’d sit in the quiet and study under the amber light that filtered through the beautiful stained glass. I could go on for quite some time about the historical significance of the church building and about the signer of the Constitution who lay buried in its courtyard. I could share about the priceless art that hung on its walls, the famous pipe organ that filled its apse, and how I proposed to Lisa near its altar one September morning in 2010. But, instead, I just want to mention the flags that flew above the church’s entryway.

Unfurled on poles extending out from below the balcony at the rear of the sanctuary were all the flags that had flown over the property since the church’s founding. I remember there being a Spanish flag and a French flag. There were also various colonial flags, a British flag and, of course, Old Glory herself. I often pondered on the fact that the believers who’d gathered on those grounds for the last three hundred years had done so as citizens of countries, colonies, and empires with vastly different philosophies of government and as Christians who were subject to authorities whose rule was defined by all manner of worldviews. Still, when those men and women came together in Christ’s name to worship Jesus, their King and to honor God, their Heavenly Father and surrender to the Holy Spirit, their Counselor; that they did so without being handcuffed by any allegiance to crown or country. Those who worshipped at St. Paul’s were patriots of Canaan and Jerusalem first; producing a fidelity that left little heart to spare for Barcelona, Paris, London, or Philadelphia.

I’m so grateful to God for the blessing of being born in the United States of America. Our republic is truly the greatest government ever devised by man. I heartily celebrate its founding and I rejoice in the victories General Washington and the Colonial Army won all those years ago. We are so blessed. May the light of the United States of America never dim! But, as we labor to fulfill that prayer, both history and the wisdom of Scripture encourage us to search out a better and surer hope.

Now, I know there are no new lands to set sail for should this one no longer keep the promise of its founding and I know what’s possible should new documents and constitutions one day be drawn up and fought over. I know that peace is a fragile thing that never lasts forever. But I also know that – whatever hostilities may suddenly broil all about – that come Sunday, I will gather with fellow believers to worship the God of Israel. We may be free to worship on Eastern Avenue or we may have to worship in one another’s homes or in the woods or under an overpass somewhere. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter under what flag we gather for worship for the banner over us will be His love!

We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to celebrate communion with the Lord – a shalom we’re only able to enjoy by the shed blood of Jesus Christ. And so, we’ll sing worship to our King, we’ll share in fellowship with our Father, and we’ll understand it all by the teaching of the Holy Spirit dwelling within. What a thought! It’s going to be wonderful. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate