Author: danefowlkes

We’re enjoying a tantalizing taste of fall this weekend. A cool front has initiated some dipping temperatures and the relief from a steady sequence of near 100 degree readings and high humidity is palpable. The contrast is refreshing. Already I’m daydreaming of sweaters on the golf course, cuddling on the back porch with a lap blanket, and the scent of burning wood from warming fires in nearby chimneys.

Contrast is a good way of understanding Christ’s command to be light. Webster’s defines dark as “having little or no light.” Light illuminates quite simply because it is the opposite of dark; luminescence is not a little different, it is antithetical to shadows. I can’t help but ask if I am a cool front to anyone’s emotional and spiritual climate. Do I leave a respite that lingers when people brush up against me? Am I an obvious contrast to the shadowy nature of contemporary culture and that which masquerades as acceptable? “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light” (Plato).

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that[a] they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, ESV)

What some might miss is that Christ’s statement about being light is an imperative. The Greek word is lampsato. Illumination for believers is never optional; according to Jesus, our light must shine. In light of this (pun intended) I question myself, does my participation in the human race brighten any corner of the marathon?

Every now and then you get to see what love can do. At times you may detect it in a grown-up choice made by a child you doubted would ever dip a toe into maturity. Other times you observe it over your shoulder from an objective distance, such as when you witness an unexpected act of kindness by a stranger for a stranger. The best times are when it approaches up close and personal, catching you by surprise. My wife had such a moment this evening when our five-year-old grandson brought a bottle of water to help with her laryngitis and proceeded to tell her what she already knew–that the two-year-old foster child wasn’t in their home anymore. Josh’s explanation went something like this: “I have some good news and some bad news JoJo (my wife). The good is that Julian went back to live with his real family. The bad is that I don’t have a little brother no more.”

My own intimate glimpse of love’s impact came this morning during a complimentary ride from Enterprise Rental to our home. I dropped off my rental and a young man welcomed me into a car in order to drive me back to Bosqueville. He was a talkative young man, and during the course of our conversation I innocently mentioned that I was a preacher, among other things. His eyes became animated along with the rest of him, and he proceeded to tell me how his life had recently begun to change. He told a story of how he dreamed one night about the Old Testament scripture Isaiah 40:28-31. He quoted the verses flawlessly out loud and then told me that he had asked one of the managers if he knew what it meant. The manager explained the verses and helped the young man determine the application for his own life. Since then he has hungered for the Word of God, and, in his own words, everything in his life is different. He concluded by saying that he wanted to be just like his supervisor. It just so happens that the manager who assisted with the interpretation is a young man that I had lunch with recently, at his request, in order to discuss how God might use him right there in his management role with a rental car company. What a small world this global village becomes when we are able to see some of the payout of investing in another life. By the way, the young driver told me that now he’s encouraging his fiancé to embark upon some major changes in her own life. All of this reminds me of the little boy that told a pet store owner that he wanted to buy a certain puppy he saw in the shopkeeper’s window. The skeptical owner tried to persuade him to make a different choice, explaining that the dog the boy had chosen was the runt of the litter and not likely to be very healthy, if it survived at all. Undaunted, the little boy replied, “Mister, you don’t know what love can do.”

“And this I pray, that your love may abound yet more and more in knowledge and in all judgment; That ye may approve things that are excellent; that ye may be sincere and without offence till the day of Christ; Being filled with the fruits of righteousness, which are by Jesus Christ, unto the glory and praise of God.” (Philippians 1:9-11, KJV)

I slipped quietly onto the back pew in the corner of the small narrow whitewashed church sanctuary and settled in for the duration. I came because it was my job; we demonstrate respect by attending memorial services of deceased donors, especially for those we’ve never met. In this case, we received notice just four days before that a certain woman had sold some property thirty odd years ago, and that she had set aside a portion of the proceeds to benefit my university upon her death. She did not graduate from our school, and no one on our staff had so much as heard her name, so you can imagine our surprise when we learned of her generous prearrangement.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much. The service began on time with the playing of the southern anthem “Beulah Land,” so familiar that it allowed me to read emails on my phone while feigning interest with an occasional glance up. The pastor stood to speak at the close of the song, and something about the tone of his voice led me to set aside my phone and read the obit printed on the backside of the program handout. The country preacher masterfully breathed life into the obituary, followed artfully by strains of…. “Go rest high upon that mountain. Your work on earth is done….” I’ve heard the recorded voice of Vince Gill at countless funerals through the years, yet it still touches something in me I can’t quite define. I looked up and across at the sea of white, grey, and pinkish balding glare, and wondered if the others were thinking about their own nearness to the Summit, as was I.

Following the song, her pastor extolled the legacy of the deceased, and with each description I wished increasingly that I had known her. He spoke of her love of books, her love for the Lord, her children and grandchildren, her church, and nature. He related how that when her health began to fail, she started crocheting coats and hats for the homeless, praying over every item of clothing. The preacher said, “Somewhere in Dallas today, there is a homeless person who is warmed by wearing the last hat she ever made.” To the earthly end of her ninety years, she lived as one indebted to her gracious Lord.

Dying is a distilling of sorts, getting to the root of a life. We think and speak of the essence of a man or woman; details become hazy and memories take the form of mental snapshots, emotional images frozen in time. What we then live with is the overall impression a person leaves behind, often heralding or dismissing a lifetime with single adjectives: Good. Bad. Kind. Loving. Harsh. Generous. The words used at holiday gatherings to recall the missing family member. It seemed to me that this woman’s word would be “faithful”, and I couldn’t help but wonder what will be used to summarize my life when I’m a yellowing memory.

“For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself. For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living.” (‭Romans‬ ‭14‬:‭7-9‬ KJV)

Walmart changed my life, or this portion of it anyway. I innocently entered Walmart on New Road last Friday evening, prepared to wait for my wife while she checked out holiday leggings for our granddaughters. It had already been a long day of work in addition to 18 brisk holes of golf in a 40 degree chill, and dinner out with family, so I determined to sit this one out on a metal bench near the exit. The wait quickly transitioned into people watching, somewhat akin to waiting for a flight in a busy airport terminal, and a line from Walden popped involuntarily into my thoughts, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” In a span of fifteen minutes that seemed more like an hour, I saw adolescents trying to look like older persons, and old people trying desperately to look young, neither of them a pretty sight. I heard at least five different languages being spoken, and one of them may even have been English. Every size and color of humanity paraded past, but what grabbed my attention were the eyes that spoke of resignation without ever speaking. “Alas for those that never sing, but die with all their music in them.”

One elderly heavy set and snowy whiskered man particularly commanded my attention. His blank expression and empty eyes stood out from underlying bags like hard boiled eggs. Were you to look up the word “lost” in the dictionary you might expect to see his face staring blankly back at you. He didn’t appear homeless, but I began to worry about him because he moved slowly in an aimless four foot diameter, obviously unable to decide what to do or where to go. I weighed my options. What social services could I call? Should we just take him home until able to locate next of kin? Perhaps this was a job for the authorities and I should notify the police. While fingering 911 on my phone, my wife approached the checkout and motioned for me. She wanted my opinion on the leggings, so I used one eye to examine leggings while keeping the other on Mr. Lost in Space. I was incredibly relieved when a woman approached, took the man by hand, and left the store with him. He wasn’t lost after all, at least not for the time being.

It started like the nagging of a song that you know but can’t recall the words of or the tune. It was emotional, but more than emotion; thought provoking, but more than a notion. On our way through the parking lot to our Jeep, I finally recognized it. This was the voice of God speaking through the piercings and tats, addressing me midst the cacophony of languages, age and gender confusion, and plethora of empty eyes. The voice said, “They are confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” Along with the message came sudden insight that I bear enormous responsibility for these wandering lambs. I teach that as Christ-followers, our commission is to point as many as possible toward the Good Shepherd, but I had personally lost this perspective and corresponding sense of urgency. Over time, I had allowed calluses to form on my heart causing me to view these as misguided nuisances rather than desperate and dying. I have far to go in reclaiming the heart of Christ, but this Walmart reminder has pointed me in the right direction.

“And Jesus went about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news (the Gospel) of the kingdom and curing all kinds of disease and every weakness and infirmity. When He saw the throngs, He was moved with pity and sympathy for them, because they were bewildered (harassed and distressed and dejected and helpless), like sheep without a shepherd. Then He said to His disciples, ‘The harvest is indeed plentiful, but the laborers are few. So pray to the Lord of the harvest to force out and thrust laborers into His harvest.'” (Matthew 9:35-38, Amplified)

Thirty six years ago, my best friend and I embarked on an epic journey. Fresh out of high school and sporting my own set of wheels, I somehow convinced my friend’s naïve parents to trust him into my care for a road trip from Port Arthur to Mississippi and back. My ace in the hole was that our destination was a church camp and that the purpose of this extended soirée was spiritual growth. They consented and we departed. Oh, the feeling of youthful independence, conquering asphalt in a rust red tank officially identified as a ’65 Ford Galaxy, heating pork and beans for dinner at roadside parks, and singing off key at the tops of our lungs to music blasting from state-of-the-art 8-track.

Dark thirty in some obscure-to-me portion of Mississippi, radio blaring to stay awake behind the wheel, we navigated a blind curve without noticing an unlighted Rail Road crossing warning. Neither of us saw the sign in the dark because we were too busy talking to pay attention, and we emerged from the bend just as a train approached the intersection from the west. The train’s horn roared, I stomped the accelerator, and somehow we crossed the tracks just ahead of the train, feeling its draft as we plunged past. Stunned into silence, I pulled the car to a stop on the side of the road to allow time to collect what remained of our nerves, and to talk about what just almost happened. As we debriefed, we became convinced that God had rescued us from ourselves and decided that it was as good a time as any to prepare to die. We hastily scribbled a note to the effect that if anyone found us dead, they were to rest assured that we knew the Lord and that we wished the same for them. To cap it all off, we laid awake long enough that night to commit to memory what has become my life verse–Galatians 2:20. For the first time in my life, I had a glimpse of the truth that no one is ready to live unless they’ve tasted death in themselves.

“I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me.” (Galatians 2:20, KJV)

Some things in life are immune to personal preference. You may opt for oatmeal over Rice Chex, prefer blueberries to apples, or select rhubarb pie instead of mincemeat, and no one, including you will suffer for your choices. Other matters matter a great deal more. You really don’t have a say in whether or not your heart pumps blood on autopilot throughout your limbs, or if touching a hot stove top will burn and blister your skin. Local ordinance demands that there be negative consequences for ignoring a burn ban and setting fire to the expanding mountain of brush behind my house. I might prefer to speak on my cell phone in a school zone, but that was never a good idea and no longer an option in this country.

The same is true with both the horizontal and vertical aspects of discipleship. Grace is never neutral. Nothing needs to change to experience God’s grace, but once we do everything must radically change, more out of divine necessity than individual choice. Grace doesn’t demand that we clean up our act, it mandates a funeral pyre–death to self and all that accompanies our egocentric lifestyle. Surrender isn’t surrender if I ferret away something in reserve. “When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die. It may be a death like that of the first disciples who had to leave home and work to follow Him, or it may be a death like Luther’s, who had to leave the monastery and go out into the world. But it is the same death every time—death in Jesus Christ, the death of the old man at his call” (Bonhoeffer, “The Cost of Discipleship”).

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20, NIV)

Walking two days ago through the blacktop parking lot on my way to the West Waco Public Library I spotted a penny on the ground and hovered over it, uncharacteristically debating my response. I imagined faint whispers of my wife’s voice reciting her common response to such an innocuous find, “Positive cash flow.” Ordinarily I retrieve coins of any denomination, harkening back to childhood discoveries. Fifty years ago It would have thrilled me to find a penny on the ground, and I would have rejoiced all the way to my piggy bank, although it wasn’t a piggy bank at all, but a small black box with a slot on top to hold a coin. As soon as you inserted the coin, a glow-in-the-dark hand magically emerged to grab the coin and jerk it inside (my father’s preferred alternative to traditional children’s banks). Finding unexpected cash is always pleasant, although in my case, monetary discoveries normally consist of currency found hiding in pockets that I absent-mindedly abandoned some time before, hence negating the idea of positive cash flow; chalk my “finds” up to recirculation. However, for reasons I can’t explain or defend, I chose not to pick up this particular penny and take it to the bank.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon, navigating Champion Forest Drive in the Champions region of Houston just after a toad-floater downpour. As I slowed to a stop near the intersection of Champion Forest and Farm to Market 1960, I spotted a middle-aged man port side holding a small cardboard sign that read: “Pennys Help” (misspelling his, not mine). We rarely see such sign-bearers at intersections in Waco, but when I do, I typically lower my window and make a token offering if I have cash on hand, (which, quite honestly, I seldom do). More frequently, I offer to take the individual to buy something to eat, and the panhandlers take me up on the offer about thirty three and a third percent of the time. On this occasion in rush hour traffic, on an already jam packed artery, I did neither. I did not lower my window, nor did I offer assistance of any kind. I merely read the handwritten sign as I passed: “Pennys Help.”

Arriving at my destination shortly thereafter, I had about twenty minutes until my next appointment, long enough to consider the juxtaposition of the two unrelated, yet oddly similar experiences. In both cases, something of value stood (I’m uncertain as to how to describe the penny’s posture) within reach, but I chose to ponder and then pass by. The value of either was deemed too small to warrant my involvement. I can’t help but wonder how many other people and experiences I dismiss and thus elude my touch. Lord, please remind me next time that ‘Pennys Help.’

“Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.” (Matthew 25:45, KJV)

You and I may have more in common with him than all the other apostles put together; at the very least, I know that I do. The son of Alphaeus was also known as James the Less, so as not to be confused with James the son of Zebedee, brother of the Apostle John. The “lesser” James is named in each gospel listing of the twelve, always appearing ninth in order. He may have been younger or smaller in stature than Zebedee’s son, as indicated by the Greek word ‘mikros,’ from which we derive the English words microscopic, microfilm, etc. Either way, lesser or little, he likely detested any tag line that implied inferiority. Why not James the “one from across town,” or James the “one who hits a ball a country mile”; anything but “shorty.” I can almost hear someone singing, “Short people ain’t got no reason…”

Speaking in first person, the tendency when slandered by others is to retreat into a paralyzing inferiority complex. I threw more than a few pity parties as a child because I was short and frequently bullied at school, resulting in either premature defeat or refusal to attempt anything outside a diminutive comfort zone. Discerning parents helped me grow out of it by encouraging pursuit of passion in areas in which I could excel. When I demonstrated potential in art, Mother supplied me with paper and paints. When I fell in love with sports, Dad began coaching little league and later picked up the game of golf so that we could play it together. They refused to allow me to give up on myself.

Evidently, James, a.k.a. “Shorty”, grew out of his shell too. James the Less was hand-picked by Jesus of Nazareth to be a disciple. Although overshadowed by the more prominent apostles, being named among the Twelve was no small achievement. In addition, he was present with the other apostles in the upper room of Jerusalem after Christ ascended to heaven, and may have been the first disciple to witness the risen Savior, as mentioned in 1 Corinthians 15:7. Jesus refuses to allow us to give up on ourselves. As it turns out, Christ replaces inferiority with grace.

“There were also women looking on afar off: among whom was Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the less and of Joses, and Salome.” (Mark‬ ‭15‬:‭40‬ KJV)

“And when they were come in, they went up into an upper room, where abode both Peter, and James, and John, and Andrew, Philip, and Thomas, Bartholomew, and Matthew, James the son of Alphaeus, and Simon Zelotes, and Judas the brother of James.” (‭Acts‬ ‭1‬:‭13‬ KJV)

“For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures: And that he was seen of Cephas, then of the twelve: After that, he was seen of above five hundred brethren at once; of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some are fallen asleep. After that, he was seen of James; then of all the apostles.” (1 Corinthians‬ ‭15‬:‭3-7‬ KJV)

Why read a book, visit an art museum, attend a play, listen to a symphony, or make time to watch PBS? So that you’ll dare to get your hands dirty, have your mind sharpened, spirit quickened, understanding broadened, or sense of humor restored. You may never lift a brush or strum an instrument, but you are better as a result of those who have, if you stand in the flow of their genius. Marjorie McCoy called this “secondary creativity,” and Tillich had this to say about it: “In order to be spiritually creative one need not be what is called a creative artist or scientist or statesman, but one must be able to participate meaningfully in their original creations. Such a participation is creative insofar as it changes that in which one participates, even if in very small ways.”

The same process is in play when I rub shoulders with those who are smarter, better, or more spiritually savvy. I am made a better and brighter person because of my exposure to what God looks like inside and outside of you. Even as a mirror helps me recognize myself, I comprehend more clearly what God is erecting in me by viewing what he is constructing in you. He comes into focus every time I hit golf balls with my ex-offender friend, sit with an octogenarian widower whose robust health is failing for the first and last time, overhear the struggles of a seminary graduate describing his spiritual life as dry as toast, watch a friend work past scars from a domineering mother, and discern grace in the eyes of my wife. Left to myself I tend toward smallness, spiritual inbreeding in which everything I become is a little less than what I was before; I need others if I am ever to permit God to save me from myself. “Our brother breaks the circle of self-deception. A man who confesses his sins in the presence of a brother knows that he is no longer alone with himself; he experiences the presence of God in the reality of the other person” (Bonhoeffer).

“Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised;) And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.” (‭Hebrews‬ ‭10‬:‭23-25‬, KJV)

My childhood landscape included humidity stained cement driveways, manicured San Augustine lawns, and cement asbestos siding houses on one end of Lay Avenue with 1960’s brick homes on the other. Hurricane force winds regularly altered the landscape, replacing shingled roofs with blue tarpaulins. We grew as accustomed as one can to the odor of rotten eggs, which became more pungent at night when darkness shrouded toxic emissions from nearby petrochemical refineries. Shrimp was king in Port Arthur, with crawfish a close second, and both were seasonally available fresh from the Gulf right out of white styrofoam coolers in car trunks on the sides of many roads.

Even more memorable was the spot that fueled my imagination more than all others and triggered emotions still not fully catalogued, a small stand of oak and pecan trees that stood in relief from concrete surroundings, sentinels guarding the passageway between houses on Franklin Avenue and a large grassy field behind Doctor’s Hospital. This crowd of deciduous formed what became a secret clubhouse for me and Kurt and Mitch and Xavier, and the other boys living on and near Lay Avenue. It was Sherwood Forest, Arthur’s Camelot, Holmes’ 221b Baker Street, Batman’s lair, World War I squadron headquarters, or any other setting conjured forth from adolescent imagination. For me, it was a holy meeting place, space where I strongly sensed the presence of God; where he was beautiful to me and where I learned that nature and imagination catapult a powerful turning to the Creator. I still pray more easily out of doors than inside any constructed cathedral. I attempted to return to this sacred space a number of years ago when introducing my wife to my childhood haunts, but found that the grove had been cut down and paved over, a magical forest reduced to generic asphalt. What remains, however, cannot be removed, because it lives on inside my thoughts and serves to remind that the Holy One is not opposed to meeting us in earthly spaces.

“Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb. And the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed.”(‭Exodus‬ ‭3‬:‭1-2‬ KJV)