Help! My Leaves Have Fallen & They Can’t Get Up!

Gazing out the back window of our home, I see an ever-thickening blanket of brightly-colored leaves covering our lawn. The leaves are slowly but continuously falling, like light snow flurries. And the grass is gradually disappearing underneath the growing accumulation of red, yellow, orange and brown “flakes.” Obviously, all of this freshly fallen foliage needs to be blown or raked to the curb. But it’s still coming down. And, even though it would be nice to think that I could get rid of it all in one fell swoop, I know this project out of necessity will have to be repeated more than once.

As the leaves have fallen, so have the temperatures. I guess that’s why we call this time of year “fall”, although its formal name is autumn. Actually, “fall” has come “late” for us this year…that is, in the sense of falling temperatures and falling leaves. Usually by this time of year all the leaves are down. But because of a warmer-than-usual September and October, the leaves hung on and changed colors late, peaking well into November.

I really love the four seasons we have here in Virginia. During the nearly 12 years that Sandy & I lived in Florida, we really missed the bright vivid colors of autumn as well as the cold starkness of winter & the emerging new life of spring. Although the Sunshine State has its own unique beauty & we certainly enjoyed living there, one does get a little tired of the seemingly endless summer. I like the variety of the four seasons. The seasonal changes seem to enhance the beauty of God’s creation, reminding the beholder of how wonderful it all really is—a truth that all-too-easily might be taken for granted otherwise. The changing seasons also are a colorful illustration of life itself, which has its own seasons of birth, growth, decline and death. The most beautiful aspect of all, however, is the way in which the seasonal cycle points us to the resurrection power of Jesus Christ and the life-changing spiritual renewal that’s always available through Him.

Yes, I love the changing seasons, but there’s still the matter of gathering up all of those loitering leaves now sprawled out on my lawn taking a nap. But I have to say that dealing with them is worth it when you come to realize the whole grand process of which they’re a part. And that’s also the way it is in regard to life in general. For each of us, there are challenges and difficulties that come our way in life. But those challenges are part of a much bigger process in which God is working for our good, to both grow our faith and build our character. When we can see it from that larger perspective, we can better appreciate those times of “leaf raking” we all have to periodically endure in our lives.

Well, my little congregation of leaves is still growing religiously with no end in sight. And as I watch yet another lonely leaf gently descend earthward to join his friends below, an old song keeps playing in my head. No it’s not a hymn or a spiritual—sorry to disappoint you. It’s an old Country song—this is going to really date me—from the early 1960s: “Please Help Me, I’m Falling”, one of the biggest hits of the so-called “golden era” of Country Music. It was sung by the legendary Hank Locklin, who today at age 89 is the oldest living member of the Grand Ole Opry. You may remember the classic love ballad from when it was dusted off and revived a few years back as the soundtrack for a series of Wal-Mart TV commercials. As Hank Locklin crooned in his high tenor voice, “Puh-leez help me I’m faw-haw-lin’ in lu-huv with you,” the television screen depicted images of falling prices at America’s largest retailer.

Interestingly, many years ago, not too long after we got married, Sandy and I went to the Grand Ole Opry—we have very eclectic musical tastes—and heard Hank Locklin sing his famous signature song. Then, several years later, Sandy and I were visiting Nashville on another occasion. My parents and our son Jordan were with us. We ran into Hank Locklin in a restaurant and began talking to him. He sat down at our table with us and conversed for a while. A very nice gentleman. He gave Jordan his autograph—although Jordan (a small boy at the time) couldn’t have cared less and certainly didn’t (and probably still doesn’t) know who this man was. While we sat there talking with the country music legend, he told us that he made a whole lot more money off the Wal-Mart commercials in the 1990s than he did from the song’s original release in 1960. That, in spite of the fact the recording was a huge crossover hit on the pop charts (one of the first) and also did very well in the United Kingdom and Ireland. It just shows you how times have changed in the entertainment industry.

So, as I stand here gazing at all of these lethargic leaves in my yard, postponing the inevitable task at hand, I’m just reminiscing about that old balladeer Hank Locklin. And that classic tune of his just stays stuck in my head. And I suppose it will still be there until the last leaf falls. But that almost sounds like another old country song, doesn’t it? Anybody ever heard of a guy named Freddy Fender?

Pastor Danny

Let's Talk Turkey

Some years ago, the associate pastor at my former church in Florida was talking with his young son about what he had learned in his mission group the night before. Their conversation went something like this:

“Dad,” the boy said excitedly, “did you know that there’s a country named Chicken?”

“What?”

“I said did you know that there’s a country named Chicken?”

“Son, there’s no country named…”

“Oh, yes, there is, Dad! We learned about it last night. Our teacher said there’s a country named…er, uh…wait a minute…it’s Turkey! That’s it! There’s a country named Turkey!”

Linguistically, the boy was in the right church but the wrong pew. He knew it was poultry but he had zeroed in on the wrong bird.

This week, a lot of turkeys are hoping that somehow they will be lucky enough to be misidentified as well. It’s that time of the year when many gobblers (quite reluctantly) will find their way into ovens and fryers all across America.

Thanksgiving and turkeys have this long association going back to the very origins of the American holiday tradition. In fact, many Americans think it’s absolutely unpatriotic or even sacrilegious to dine on anything other than turkey on the fourth Thursday of November! This Thanksgiving/ turkey connection in our national psyche has infiltrated even the highest levels of our federal government. One of the grandest traditions associated with Thanksgiving is the annual “pardoning” of the National Thanksgiving Turkey by the President of the United States himself. This year is the 60th anniversary of the hallowed Washington ritual, first conducted in 1947. On that occasion, President Harry S Truman, in a gesture of benevolence and goodwill, “pardoned” the first such bird-on-the-chopping-block, canceling its imminent date with destiny aboard a garnished platter. This yearly death sentence commutation has since become an important responsibility of our nation’s Chief Executive, continuing throughout eleven presidential administrations, up to the present day.

In recent years, the naming of the National Thanksgiving Turkey (as well as his alternate, should he be unable to fulfill the duties of his high office) has become a national event via an Internet poll. On www.whitehouse.gov, citizens are able to cast their ballots for their favorite pair of monikers. This year's options are Wing & Prayer, May & Flower, Gobbler & Rafter, Wish & Bone, Truman & Sixty, or Jake & Tom. The winner will be personally announced by the President at the “pardoning” ceremony. (I voted for “Truman” and “Sixty,” in case you’re interested. By the way, last year’s winners were Flyer & Fryer!)

What happens to the feathered friend that gets pardoned? An all- expenses-paid vacation to Istanbul (Turkey)? A trip to Colonel Sanders’ original Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Corbin, Kentucky (the city where Sandy Davis was born)? No. Something stranger than that. After the presentation, the honored fowl will be flown first class (!) to Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida, where he will be the grand marshal of Disney’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Afterward, the bird will join the resort's permanent live-animal collection. This is the first pardoned turkey to be sent to Disney World. Just think...all of those years that Sandy and I lived near Disney and we never got to see the National Thanksgiving Turkey! I feel so deprived! (By the way, last year’s winner was sent to the original Disneyland in Anaheim, California, just in case you were wanting to know.)

All of this turkey talk is making me hungry. Evidently it’s time to wrap up this blog. It’s also time to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving! Remember that Thanksgiving is far more than food, football and family. While your celebration may include any or all of those elements, please don’t forget the One to Whom we need to direct our thanks —our Creator, our Sustainer, our Provider, our God. For truly, because of God’s amazing grace, we as Americans— and even much more so as Christians— have SO MUCH for which to be thankful.

But just in case you don’t feel like you have anything to be thankful for, at least be grateful that our Pilgrim forefathers decided against serving cooked possum as the main dish that first Thanksgiving. If they had, I’m not sure you would be cleaning your plate this coming Thursday.

Pastor Danny

Pulpit Ponderings

Several people have been admiring the small wooden pulpit I’ve been using on Sunday mornings while we’ve been undergoing our recent sanctuary renovations. This attractive lightweight lectern was designed especially for me by our own Doug Stovall. Months ago, Doug had noticed that the old white lectern I had been using on Wednesday evenings was rather cumbersome and unsteady. So he decided to build a new one as a personal gift to me. He measured it to fit my exact height specifications. He even put a brass plaque on it to identify it as mine. He presented it to me back in the summer and I’ve been using it on Wednesdays ever since. And most recently, during our platform construction, it has come in quite handy on Sunday mornings.

Doug’s pulpit is truly a work of art, an exquisite piece of fine craftsmanship. He made it from the wood of an old walnut tree. Surprisingly, while he was working with that wood, he came across an old stray bullet fired from a Civil War-era rifle. The bullet had been lodged in the tree trunk for more than a hundred years. So my new pulpit comes from historic old wood baptized in the fire of battle!

Our larger, more formal sanctuary pulpit is getting a breather right now. It probably will be back in its familiar place soon. By the way, it also has a brass plaque on it. Right on its face, where the speaker alone can read it, it says: “Sir, we would see Jesus” (John 12:21). That simple but profound request was made two thousand years ago by a group of God-fearing Greeks seeking to meet the Messiah. For centuries, that same verse has appeared on numerous pulpits as a reminder to the preacher to always lift up Jesus when he speaks.

Pulpits historically have come in all shapes and sizes. Some are so massive they look like a barricade protecting the preacher against a possible assault. Others are so lofty one wonders if the pastor needs an oxygen mask because of the thinness of air at that high altitude. Some modern pulpits are made of clear Plexiglas that you can see through. Some contemporary churches don’t have pulpits at all.

Twenty some years ago, I preached at an associational meeting at West Main Baptist Church in Danville. The church had this high pulpit that the speaker literally had to climb up into. Several people spoke from it over the course of the two-day meeting. Some had difficulty with it, however, feeling awkwardly constrained by it or appearing too large for it. There was a new pastor in town that hailed from Texas. As he rose to speak, he commented that the pulpit made him feel like he was caught in a cattle chute at a rodeo. Then he let out a good ole Lone Star yelp, “Yee-haw!” The crowd roared. That’s really the only thing I remember from his whole sermon. Later, someone said to me, “You’re the only preacher that looked like you fit in that pulpit.” Then, it dawned on me that the pulpit had been specifically designed, no doubt, for the church’s longtime (but by then retired) pastor, Dr. Howard Lee, who happened to be about the same height as me—5’7”. Most everyone else looked like they were about to topple out of it.

When I first went to Florida back in 1995, we had this massive pulpit on our platform that looked like it could have withstood a grenade blast. It really didn’t fit the style of our worship center. In fact, it was much too large for our stage area. And I looked like a little boy hiding behind it! With my encouragement, we opted for a whole new look—a sleek, open, three-cross design, merging neatly into a narrow, single pedestal base. I got the idea from Dr. Bobby Welch at First Baptist Daytona Beach (who later would become president of the Southern Baptist Convention). Bobby had designed the tri-cross pulpit himself. I had first seen it on his weekly television broadcast and then went over to Daytona to take a closer look. With his blessing, we built a replica with just a couple of modifications. (Again, Bobby and I were about the same height, so this made it a good fit for me). The pulpit is still there at my former church today.

Where churches place their pulpits is also interesting. Some churches with a more liturgical worship style have what they call a split-chancel. The pulpit (from which the minister preaches the sermon) is off to one side. Correspondingly, there is another smaller speaking stand—the lectern—which is off to the other side. This is typically where the Bible (or scripture lesson) is read (often by a lay person). In our Baptist tradition however, we’ve always placed the pulpit right in the middle, at center stage, because we historically have placed such a high priority on the preaching of the Word of God. Our worship is Word-centered. The proclamation of God’s infallible truth is paramount.

Some people think the first mention of a pulpit is actually found in the Bible, in Nehemiah 8. But the “pulpit” used then by the prophet Ezra to speak to the nation was probably not a pulpit like we think of a pulpit (i.e., something he stood behind). Rather, it was a platform, something high and lifted up, upon which he could stand and be seen by the masses. And that was the whole point of it—visibility, not separation. Connectivity, not distance or remoteness. To enhance communication, not impede it.

Some old-time preachers refer to the pulpit as “the sacred desk”. I’m not sure where that phrase originated. I don’t think it’s the desk that is sacred so much as it is the message. The bottom line for me is this: I think a pulpit can have a nice symbolic appeal. But it doesn’t matter so much what a preacher stands on or what he stands behind, as much as what he stands for.

“Bully Pulpit” was a term coined more than a century ago by President Teddy Roosevelt, not to describe a literal podium on which the president stood, but to symbolically describe the unique power of the presidency to speak out on issues of the day. (The word “bully” back then did not have the negative connotation it has today. So this doesn’t refer to the president browbeating or intimidating people by being a big, mean bully. It was a positive word inferring that he could use his office to speak out for the common good of the people.)

By the way, getting back to this matter of standing behind the pulpit, old-time evangelist Billy Sunday had a hard time standing behind anything. In fact, the former major league baseball player had a hard time standing still at all, often running, jumping, leaping, and simulating a slide into second base during his sermons! (And I thought I’d seen some lively preachers!) Well, I obviously don’t move around like Billy Sunday. This coming Lord’s Day, you’ll see me positioned in my familiar spot behind my little pulpit. No, it doesn’t provide as much “protection” as those massive ones. But if the old adage, “lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place” applies to bullets too, then hopefully I won’t have to dodge any of them when standing behind that remnant of an old battle-worn walnut tree.

Pulpiteer Danny

Go Away, Ché

“Ché Guevara!” Those were the only two words I could make out from his garbled and largely-unintelligible Spanish. I had been trying to carefully maneuver my way through a crowded open-air market in Havana, Cuba, when the old man set his sights on this obviously out-of-place, seemingly naïve gringo. An easy mark, he undoubtedly thought.

The aging Cubano appeared to be poor, like many of his countrymen. His straw hat and soiled clothes were wrinkly and weather-beaten, just like his dark skin. His face was hard, and he was too, as I was about to find out. Quite unexpectedly, he had approached me, thrusting into my hand a vintage Cuban coin bearing the image of Ché Guevara, the legendary hero of the Cuban revolution. It wasn’t a gift however. It was a business proposition that would prove to be quite difficult to refuse.

“Ché Guevara! Ché Guevara!” he repeated in his deep, gruff voice, the volume rising with each utterance. I tried to give the coin back to the man, but he adamantly refused it. Instead, he insisted that I pay for it with US dollars. It didn’t seem to matter to him that I didn’t want to buy the product he was hawking. When I indicated as much, he became increasingly impatient and belligerent, shaking his head at me. When I tried to tell him I couldn’t speak Spanish, this only agitated him further. He responded by shouting (in Spanish) even louder. As I tried again and again to hand the coin back to him, he repeatedly recoiled from me like I was a leper. Then, when I stepped back, he would resume the offensive, lunging at me with an open hand and demanding that I pay him for the coin. “Ché Guevara! Ché Guevara!” the gravelly old voice kept repeating throughout this whole cat-and-mouse caper.

I could have relented and bought the unwanted coin, I suppose. It would have been an act of benevolence on my part. But knowing that the exchange of foreign currency on the streets on Havana was unlawful, I was afraid that this innocent little transaction might possibly net me some jail time. And how did I know that this was not some sort of set up job? But I also knew that if I didn’t buy it, I still might be in hot water, the old man perhaps accusing me of trying to steal his prized coin.

Ultimately, my interpreter as well as some nearby table vendors came to my rescue and joined the debate. I didn’t understand a lot of what was being said, but I sensed we were at a stalemate. Finally, I got tired of the whole mess and just threw the coin down on the ground. The incredulous old man almost had a cow! You would have thought that I had just spit in his face. He scooped up the coin and angrily tried to thrust it into my hand once more, but I wasn’t going to fall for that trick again.

Finally, the vendors threatened to call the police and, at long last, the old man fled. The escalating international incident was over as quickly as it had begun. But ever since then, whenever I hear the name Ché Guevara, I always think of that old man and his coin.

Ché Guevara, like the protagonist in my story, is a figure that seemingly just won’t go away. Throughout the revolution in Cuba, Ernesto “Ché” Guevara, an Argentine physician, had been Fidel Castro’s right hand man (or is that left hand man, if you’re a Communist?). Following their stunning ascent to power in 1959, the restless Ché left Castro’s side in order to continue fanning the fires of revolution across Central and South America. Ultimately, he wound up on the wrong side of a gun in 1967, shot to death in Bolivia at the age of 39.

In the years since his death, Ché has achieved a rare kind of immortality, rising to the mythic pop culture status of a Marilyn Monroe or an Elvis Presley. In fact, he’s probably more popular today than he’s ever been. His ageless, bearded, beret-topped image—forever frozen in time because of his early death—has become an instantly recognizable icon to people around the globe. Many of those enamored by Ché view him as a great martyr for a noble cause, a Christlike messianic liberator who came to set the captives free, a courageous voice for the downtrodden and the oppressed, and the personification of the world’s revolutionary spirit. Stranger still, the late Ché has developed quite a cult following among white, upper middle-class, left-leaning American college students. In fact, on many college campuses today, it’s not unusual to see students wearing chic “Ché” T-shirts and other apparel because they think it’s cool and trendy. Little do they realize who or what this man really was—a thug, a criminal, a terrorist, an executioner, and a murderer! He didn’t set people free. He manipulated them and then destroyed them. Truly, we’re talking about a Satan; not a Savior. An evil man who just happened to be quite photogenic.

What really got me thinking about Ché this week was a news story reporting that a lock of his hair was recently auctioned off in Texas for the amazing sum of $100,000. (Ugh! How disgusting! What’s next? Hitler’s toenail?)

All of us need (and want) heroes. But it’s tragic when you see young people embracing (and even worshiping) such an ungodly figure as Ché Guevara. It only goes to show how desperate this generation is for heroes, role models, and mentors. (Not to mention, how confused they are about morality, spirituality and politics.) Rather than trying to project on Ché (and others like him) something that they're obviously not, how about embracing an authentic Hero instead?

The Hero who truly set the world on its ear was another bearded revolutionary. He didn’t do it with violence, but with love. He didn’t shed the blood of others, but poured out His own. His victory wasn’t physical, but spiritual. His kingdom isn’t temporal, but eternal. He’s the one true Messiah that came to give love to the loveless, power to the powerless, and hope to the hopeless. His Name is Jesus. And when He died, He didn’t stay dead. Unlike Ché Guevara, He rose again. And He’s alive today. And having Him in your heart is worth far more than any T-shirt you can wear on your back.

Pastor Danny

The Goodyear Blimp Visits Danville

There was something unusual in the skies over Danville last week. No, it wasn’t an asteroid. (See my earlier blog entitled “Panic in Peru” for more on that particular topic.) Actually, it was the Goodyear blimp. That famous aerial icon was in town for a few days, moored at Danville Regional Airport part of the time and intermittently appearing over the skies of our city at other times. Obviously, the big balloon was here in Danville because of the local Goodyear plant, but also in preparation for the big Subway 500 race in Martinsville on Sunday. I saw the blimp several times throughout the week while driving around the city—one time over the historic homes and churches on Main Street, and then later along the river just above the vacant Dan River Mills building that recently lost its historic signage. (I had my camera in the car so I took a couple of quick snapshots.)

Then on Saturday, around noon—as Sandy and I were preparing for our third open house in succession—I heard this strange but intense buzzing noise that seemed to be coming from overhead. I was upstairs at the time. I knew the unfamiliar sound wasn’t a train passing by or an excessively loud tractor trailer rig on Highway 58. Sandy, downstairs, heard the sound as well. She thought it sounded like an old vintage World War I era biplane. I came downstairs and we both looked out our back window and there it was overhead—the Goodyear blimp, up close and personal. It was making its way westward along Highway 58 toward Martinsville for the big race. I didn’t have my camera near me this time, so I didn’t get a shot of it over our house, but it was an interesting spectacle to behold.

These recent blimp sightings brought back some memories. The sound of the blimp flying by our house reminded me of a story grandmother once told me about the first airplane that flew over Whitley County, Kentucky—the area where Sandy & I were raised. It was early in the 20th century when airplanes were still very new, and no one in that remote mountain area had ever seen one before. Many of the local residents were terrified. They thought it was the end of the world. Some thought the Lord was coming back. Perhaps if I had never ever seen anything up in the sky before, I might have thought the same thing this past Saturday!

My recent close encounter with the Goodyear blimp also reminded me of the fact that our daughter-in-law, Melinda, once worked for the Lightship Group, as assistant to the operations manager in their North American office in Orlando. An international company, Lightships, Inc., is the largest owner of commercial blimps in the world. In fact, most all of the blimps you see at sporting events—other than Goodyear (the granddaddy of them all, which obviously has its own fleet)—belong to Lightships, Inc. You know, MetLife, Monster.com, Saturn, etc.—all of these are Lightship-owned & operated blimps, which are leased by these companies for advertising purposes (i.e., kind of like flying billboards.) Melinda used to help coordinate the travel arrangements for Lightship crews all around the world. She even got to fly in a blimp at least once. (Unfortunately, she never was able to get Jordan, Sandy or myself on one.)

Then, I think back years earlier to when I was pastoring a rural church in Chowan County, North Carolina (in the northeastern part of the Tar Heel state). We were not too far from Elizabeth City, the site of a former World War II naval air base and blimp hanger that had become home to an airship manufacturing facility. Thus, there was a lot of airship activity in that area. When Jordan was a little boy, we periodically would see the MetLife blimp (as well as others) flying over our church parsonage. Little did we know that some 15 years later Jordan would one day be married to a young woman who worked for the company that would deploy those MetLife blimps to different places around the world.

Of course, when I think of blimps I, like many people, think of the most infamous blimp of all—the German airship Hindenberg—which wound up being kind of like an aerial version of the Titanic. This massive zeppelin was the pride of Nazi Germany, a seemingly great achievement in the history of commercial air travel. But then on May 16, 1937, it literally all went up in flames, following an explosion over the airfield at Lakehurst, N.J. One of the greatest air disasters of all time, the Hindenberg crash basically spelled the end for airships as a means of commercial travel.

By the way, speaking of blimps, when I pastored in Florida, there was this guy that worked for the Florida Baptist Convention. His nickname was “Blimp” Davis. (Please don’t get any ideas about calling me that. I would be highly offended.) “Blimp” isn’t the kind of nickname you would think anyone would want to acquire or perpetuate. But this guy signed his name as “Blimp” Davis all the time. To me, however, the nickname “Blimp” just conjures up some uncomplimentary images of the person. Kind of like referring to a person as “portly”, implying that their circumference stretches from shore to shore! Anyway, this guy named “Blimp” wasn’t really a blimp in appearance, so I don’t know where his name came from. But seeing the Goodyear blimp this week made me think of him. And it also made me grateful that I never was tagged with a nickname like that…at least not yet.

OK, it’s time to get my head out of the clouds and wrap up this rather air-headed blog. This is enough reflecting on blimps for one day. I think I’ll take a break from all of this blimpology and go have a Slimfast for lunch.

Pastor Danny