Good morning church family,

If one had to have a summer job, it ought to at least come with a little status. Poor Perry didn’t have it quite as good as most of his college classmates. They didn’t have to work between semesters but instead were able to spend their summers burning daddy’s gas, sleeping in the pool house past noon, and taking a sunny sabbatical from reality. Perry, on the other hand; while coming from enough money to ensure entry into elite spaces, wasn’t above having to earn his way after that. But though he had to work, Perry wouldn’t be caught dead folding polos at the outlets, waiting tables at Olive Garden, or handing out putters at the dairy bar.

Thankfully, Perry’s grandmother was friends with someone on the board at the Oglethorpe in Brookhaven and that connection won him an opportunity to be a museum guide for the summer. The actual listing was for a “docent”; a title which lent quite a bit more dignity to the employment. The Oglethorpe provided guided tours of the museum and its exhibits to paying customers. The docents who did the guiding needed to be able to give educated explanations of the various items hanging on the walls and provide satisfactory answers to any questions the patrons might ask. So, Perry took the three-hour training, read through and studied the primer on the museum’s holdings, purchased a new suit and pair of shoes, and prepared to lead the uncultured through marble halls filled with fine art.

Most of the museum’s pieces were paintings; a majority being nineteenth-century works of portraiture. There were a small number of sculptures, tapestries, and carvings to go with all the watercolors and frescoes displayed. Located just outside of Atlanta, most of the Oglethorpe’s content was of a Southern origin. Perry had to learn the locations of the landscapes, the biographies of the painted gentry, and the different eras that spawned the various styles.

One of the Oglethorpe’s more valuable pieces, however, was also one of the few works in the museum that had anything to do with religion. Perry really couldn’t help that he hated the Renaissance triptych by Botticelli depicting the life of Samuel. Anything having to do with God, the Bible, or religion tended to flood Perry’s engine and furrow his brow. It had pretty much always been that way. Perry’s parents divorced when he was twelve and his mom took him and his siblings to Alabama to live with her folks. Perry’s grandparents’ house might as well have been a monastery. No television or movies were allowed unless it was either Christian or of a patriotic nature. No music or radio unless what was playing was honoring to God or “of good repute”. Sports were okay but never on Sunday, Wednesday, or any other time that the church doors were open. Perry never remembered eating a hot meal as his grandpa’s prosaic prayers always went too long. Perry liked to peek through his interlaced fingers and spy the last wisps of steam leaving the cooling collards. His only relief from this ubiquitous indoctrination was public school. Perry loved escaping into the academic world of salty language, secular orientation, and unfettered expression. From the moment he stepped up into the big yellow bus in the morning to the time he stepped back off later that afternoon, Perry thrived in the secular school environment. The only downside, however, were the evening “reeducation” sessions that his grandfather initiated at the dinner table.

As Perry woke up to the realization that it was adherence to religion that caused his parents’ marriage to come apart, he grew more and more resentful of the role religion played in robbing him of his youth. By the time he graduated from high school and headed off to college, Perry’s heart had become ossified under the oppressive Evangelicalism of his mom’s side of the family. He embraced his father’s progressive liberalism and painstakingly attempted to uproot any of the gospel plantings in his heart and mind. So, it’s little wonder that upon seeing the Renaissance master’s reverent depiction of the Old Testament prophet, Perry’s mood would sour.

But the Botticelli was prominently displayed in the Oglethorpe’s antiquities room and was one the few pieces the museum featured on its website and in its promotional materials. It was a rather large, three-paneled painting telling the story of Samuel’s birth, calling, and ministry. The center panel of the triptych showed Hannah weeping and praying before the Lord in the temple. The panel to the left showed the boy Samuel inquiring of Eli in the night. And set to the right was a depiction of the prophet Samuel anointing David as king of Israel. It was a beautiful painting in both its conception and execution. Staring at it during his training, Perry had to concede the excellence of the artwork and marvel at the fine lines and depth of composition. But he hated it all the same; especially as he imagined how much his grandfather would have loved it.

Perry soon learned that most of the people who toured the Oglethorpe had very little knowledge of fine art and even fewer had any comprehension of biblical things. And yet all the patrons traipsing through the place in ballcaps, flip-flops, and t-shirts wanted to be sure to see the museum’s centerpiece work of art. “Oh, wow,” one might say; pulling out his phone to snap a pic, “a Botticelli.” Another might reply, “I heard the Louvre once had it in its collection. I read they’ve been trying forever to get it back to Paris.” Still another, feigning interest, would add, “My cousin saw it when it was on loan to MOMA in New York. Isn’t it exquisite?” Inane chatter like this would go on and on until someone spoke up and asked Perry about the painting’s meaning.

With his hands pinned behind his back, Perry would begin by explaining Hannah’s barrenness and her oath to God. He would then narrate the drama of Samuel’s mistaking the midnight call of God for that of Eli, his mentor. If he hadn’t lost them by that point, he would explain the prophet’s role in the anointing of the shepherd boy to be king of Israel. “Botticelli,” he’d say in a summary tone, “was painting a story highlighting the difficult intersection of longing and destiny; piety and power. Any questions?”

There were rarely any follow-up questions; except for the usual inquiries into the monetary value of the painting, its chain of ownership, and trivialities related to the life of the painter. The actual content of the painting garnered only a reverent nodding of the head and an theatrical squinting of the eyes. No one seemed to want to ponder what would have possessed one of the finest artists of his day to devote an entire year to painting the life of a biblical prophet.

As the summer dragged on, Perry’s work at the museum fell into a sleepy rhythm. He made friends with the baristas at the museum café; winning him free lattes whenever he went on break. He learned how to make the cute girls working at the coat check laugh as he goofed on all the tourists. He found that the best place to take his lunch was on the bench behind the maintenance shed and that a big bowl of candy behind the counter in the gift shop provided his best bet for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. And he slowly got better at his job; learning more and more about everything on display and learning more and more how to be on display himself.

But near the end of his summer at the Oglethorpe, a patron asked him a question that bothered him well after he’d returned to college. It was an afternoon tour made up of a dozen or so guests. The 2:30pm cohort consisted of a couple of families, an elderly trio of girlfriends, a group of tourists from Japan who spoke only broken English, and an obnoxious young couple out on a date. When the procession made it into the antiquities room and the group had finally assembled in front of the Botticelli triptych, Perry gave his usual explanation. The people responded normally by taking pictures, reading the descriptions, and throwing verbal bouquets at the old Renaissance master. Perry just stood by; patiently waiting for the herd to begin ambling on to another room. “Hey man,” the young man on the date addressed Perry; the smug smile on his face an attempt to try and impress the girl, “that Botticelli guy sure painted her kinda plump, didn’t he?”

Perry looked up at the painting and then back down at the young man; not returning his smile or joining in his laugh. “Renaissance depictions of the human form were decidedly more realistic than modern ones seem to be. Also, back then, to paint someone with generous proportions was to depict him or her as being healthy and full of vitality – very different than in our own day.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said from under his flat-billed ballcap; his pastel short-shorts and v-neck t-shirt showing off his trim physique. “All I know is she should have been crying out to God for an elliptical machine – not a baby.”

“Jordan!” the girl on the date flirtatiously scolded in a loud whisper.

“What, baby?” he snickered; looking back up at the painting. “And who goes to a temple asking for a baby and then leaves him there? But that’s what you get for barking at the moon and hearing voices and all. Bunch of crazy religious sh-t.”

“Sir,” Perry barked, his heart suddenly beating hot in his chest “please, no profanity in the museum.”

The young man just chuckled; taking his girl by the hand and peeling off of the group.

For the rest of that tour and for the remainder of the day, Perry’s heart continued to run hot. He didn’t really understand it, but what the young man had said offended him somehow. Perry wasn’t upset by the disrespect shown to the museum or the lack of propriety and decorum exhibited in a public place. He wasn’t offended personally or for Botticelli or the other guests. The only thing Perry could figure was that he was offended on behalf of God.

Perry’s odd, instinctual defense of Hannah, Samuel, and that religious “stuff” continued to bother him throughout much of that fall semester. One night as he sat at his desk in his dorm room; procrastinating and lacking motivation to study, he googled the Botticelli painting on his phone. Touching one of the images that came up on the search, the old painting soon filled the screen. Perry zoomed in on the center panel and stared at Hannah’s upward gaze.

Then suddenly, Perry heard a voice call loud and clear, “What would you ask of Me?”

It will be good to gather around the Lord’s table in the morning. Come with your heavy heart, your burdened soul, and your anxious mind – comfort, forgiveness, and peace will be served out to every humble child. The Lord loves us so! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good morning church family,

Springtime seems to provide a ready illustration for the message of the Easter season. Bulbs long buried in frozen earth miraculously come to life as the ground thaws under a warming sun. Barren tree branches which rattled like dry bones in winter’s withering wind, are now budding with the promise of greens; pastel and verdant. The sun, which for months seemed unwilling to rise much above the horizon, is now soaring overhead with a light sufficient to lengthen the day. And so on and so on. I think you get the idea.

But despite all the easy associations made between springtime and salvation, the change in seasons is actually ill-suited to illustrate the redemption of mankind and can actually harm the presentation of the gospel. Think of it – that garden plot in your backyard never wanted to stop producing last fall. Whose fault was it that its offerings moldered and yellowed in the dim light and dampening coolness of autumn? The plot certainly wasn’t to blame, for its soil was every bit as rich frozen as it was warm. Nor can you blame the seed, the spade, or the gardener; for they all remained willing and able. No, perform an autopsy on your garden and you’ll soon determine that the cause of death was entirely environmental. The sun simply lost its strength, the wind turned bitter, and the mercury dropped. Ice soon came to officiate at the funeral; burying the bereaved garden under a blanket of snow. There was simply nothing your garden could do about it. It just lay there all winter, dead and gone.

But then comes spring and that plot, which was presumed dead, miraculously returns to life. What happened? Did the garden confess its sin and find repentance? Did it purpose in its heart to no longer give life to the weeds that had been allowed to grow along its rows? Did it pledge to support the growing of all good things; welcoming fruitful roots into the heart of the plot? Or was there just a change in seasons? Isn’t the springtime salvation of our gardens an entirely environmental phenomenon? Wasn’t the garden a passive participant in both its death and its resurrection?

It’s the world that wants to take the story of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus and reduce it to a tulip’s rise out of the muddy earth. It’s the world that wants to ignore the problem of sin and the threat of hell to focus instead on the promise of a universal newness of life. The world can’t conceive of a Savior who would beg forgiveness for those endeavoring to murder Him. Pagans don’t find strength in a Savior’s surrender to death nor do they understand the existence of a love powerful enough to upend the grave. They hardly even see the need for such a Savior. No, the world is much more comfortable imagining salvation to be an entirely benign and natural process.

Heinrich Heine, the famous nineteenth century poet and essayist, declared on his deathbed what an alarming number of people believe throughout their lives; that, “God will forgive me. It’s His job.” I’ve ministered to hundreds of grieving families who find a drunken comfort in this kind of thinking as they gather to lay their loved one to rest. I’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve waved off my offer of the Gospel in those moments; deciding instead to cling to some saccharine pap written in flowery italics on the back of the parlor’s memorial card. “Just as winter can’t last forever because the sun is sure to shine;” they say in not so many words, “I know my loved one will be in Heaven. I just know it.”

What a deadly assumption. I know that none of you would allow someone to jump from a burning plane with only an umbrella to unfold. “Hold on,” you’d surely say, “you don’t think that umbrella will carry you safely to the ground, do you? I don’t care what you may have seen Mary Poppins do – trust me, that parasol’s a death sentence. Here,” you’d say with earnest desperation in your eyes, “take this parachute instead. Please!”

We should have a similar response whenever we hear anyone going on about how, in the end, life will surely overcome death as springtime invariably overcomes winter. We should arrest anyone striking out onto that broad way which doesn’t lead to life but instead to eternal destruction. “Hold on,” we must say in those moments, “you don’t think there’s salvation down that wide and yawning way, do you? Here,” we must offer in genuine earnestness, “take Jesus Christ instead. Please!”

It will be so good to gather together tomorrow morning – for the gloominess of Friday night will be gone and the sad longing of Saturday will have passed; with hope and joy rising to take their place! We’ve run to the tomb to see the good news for ourselves and now we run from there to tell it to the world. He lives! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate

Good afternoon church family,

Cyril had his wife go on into the grocery store ahead of him. “I’ve got a couple of text messages I really need to reply to,” he’d explained. “I’ll catch up with you.”

Cyril did, indeed, have a couple of unanswered text messages on his phone. He did not, however, need to reply to either of them. Nor did he need to check the headlines on Drudge, clear his Facebook notifications, watch some guy on YouTube drop a pine tree between his house and his shed, or eavesdrop on the homeless couple arguing over the proper way to pack groceries onto the side bags of a bicycle. But, for Cyril, all of these things took happy precedent over being wingman to his wife’s meanderings through the Piggly Wiggly.

By the time he finally made it into the store, Cyril’s wife was pretty well lost in the underbrush. The place was a crush of kids and coats and squeaky-wheeled buggies filling aisles that were already overcrowded with displays, promotions, and endcaps of every kind. Cyril walked the length of the store, peeking down every aisle trying to spy his bride, but wasn’t willing to plunge into the thicket himself. He knew from previous experience that such an endeavor was a fool’s errand. No, instead, he decided to post up against the little length of wall that stood between the bathrooms and the customer service desk at the front of the store. From this vantage point, he’d have a clear line of sight to all the checkout stands. Cyril knew he might get some guff for this approach but, then again, he would probably be getting guff either way. Cyril decided it best to simply wait his wife out.

Allowing himself a moment’s distraction, Cyril noticed that posted on the wall behind him was a collection of artwork on loan from the Simmonds Elementary third-grade class. At first, he gave only a passing glance at the display of watercolor paintings. They seemed little more than the unremarkable offerings of unremarkable kids. But feeling a little conspicuous just standing there, he soon turned to give his full attention to the pieces. Holding his hands behind his back and leaning in with his shoulders, he tilted his head back slightly and cast a squinting gaze down on each unframed work of art. Taking time to actually study each composition, his appreciation for the artistry of the offerings grew considerably. One painting entitled “Bird Hunt” painted by “Quinn, age 9” captured fairly well, the excitement of birds thundering to flight when flushed from bulrushes. Cyril stared at the work for some time; marveling at the movement and storytelling coming through on the wavy, water-damaged piece of paper. Cyril also studied a different painting entitled, “Umbrella Tree” painted by “Miranda, age 8”. A little girl in a bright, red raincoat stared out from under the bending boughs of a green umbrella tree. A light blue rain fell all around the little girl; waterlogging the page and drawing Cyril in under the tree. “Fascinating,” Cyril thought to himself. “I think I’d like to have this painting hanging in my house or tacked to the wall at work.”

“There you are,” Cyril’s wife said, ripping him away from the silent reverie he was enjoying. “Don’t you dare complain when we get home that I forgot something you need. You can just drive your dawdling little self back down here and get it yourself.”

The car ride home was necessarily quiet. But the silence allowed the art display’s accidental patron to continue to ponder the impact the watercolors had on him. Cyril noted a feeling rising in his soul that had long ago been lost to him. What Cyril was experiencing was inspiration.

For the remainder of that Saturday afternoon and evening, Cyril took a fast from all the stuff that normally filled his free time. He silenced his phone and left it charging beside his bed. He gave the remote control a rest and kept the car in the garage. Trundling down the basement stairs instead, Cyril began a search for his old 35 millimeter Canon camera. Like an archaeologist doing a dig on the tel of his former life, he sifted through the layers of all the previous civilizations that had thrived underneath that roof. Finally getting his hands on the camera, Cyril moved a camp chair under the single light bulb that was illuminating the room and sat down. Examining the artifact, he became reacquainted with the fineness of the thing. The camera came in a leather case and soft, worn leather was wrapped neatly around the body of the camera. He manipulated all the dials, operated the lens and focus ring, peered through the viewfinder, and clicked the shutter button. The whole experience sent thrills down his spine. He drank in the smell of the leather, gloried in the crisp clicks and snaps of the camera’s levers, dials, and counters, and delighted in the absence of any screen or digital display. “I’m going to order some film,” Cyril whispered to himself; deciding to begin scoping out some subjects to shoot. “I should go for a hike and do some reconnaissance.”

Carefully putting the camera back in its case and holding it securely in his lap, Cyril noticed the guitar case sitting on the floor beneath a pile of family suitcases. “My old six string,” he muttered with a sigh. Standing up and putting the camera down in the seat of the camp chair, he walked over and uncovered the guitar case. Kneeling down, he unhooked the clasps and swung open the lid. The sight of the old, acoustic filled his mind with thoughts of campfire smoke, the memory of glowing smiles, and the distant echo of friends singing in chorus. He reverently picked the guitar out of the case and, kneeling on one knee, propped the guitar on the other. Cyril began pinching the frets and picking at the keys. The only tune he could summon from the thing was the first one he ever learned to play. Fumbling at first but then falling into time and rhythm, Cyril made Sweet Home Alabama come to life; filling the basement with the song. It was glorious. “I’m going to have to get this thing tuned up,” Cyril determined in his heart as he gazed down on the instrument. “And I’m going to get callouses back on these fingers!”

But before he could gather up the treasures and head back up the stairs with them, one more thing caught Cyril’s eye. Beside the metal rack against the far wall was the wooden easel that he’d given to his daughter for Christmas years ago. Beside it, he saw the clear plastic tote filled with all her art supplies and one of the large sketch books he liked to buy for her. He quickly set up the easel under the light bulb and perched the sketch book on the little stand. Rummaging through the tote, he found a paint brush and a collection of paints in little wells with lids. He opened the sketch book to a blank sheet, set the paints up on a makeshift table made of stacked-up storage bins, and took the lids off of the paint.

Standing back, Cyril crossed his arms, put the tip of the brush to his lips, and stared at the blank page. Soon, a broad smile began to spread across his face and a “Thank you, Lord” sprung from his heart and came tumbling out of his mouth.

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning to enjoy fellowship with one another and communion with the Lord. What a blessing to be traveling light; with destruction behind us and glory ahead of us. And how grand to walk this pilgrim way with each other! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

• Pastor Tate