Pastor Hurst

Losing Our Heads

Statues across our land are losing their heads. There is talk that Mount Rushmore may possibly lose its four. It may keep its heads, but, living, breathing Americans across our land are losing theirs. Of the former, only Rushmore has mainly just heads. Statues and Americans have chests too. Chests represent hearts. Yes, Americans have hearts as well as heads. They always have. But, it’s not the chests, the hearts, of the statues that are being removed. It’s the heads. The heart represents our emotions, our feelings our passions. The head, reason, rationale, thinking. I don’t believe many Americans have lost their hearts, but many have lost their heads. Rioters rope and topple a statue; it hits the ground, and at the impact, its head breaks loose and rolls a few feet. Statues of past Americans are losing their heads because contemporary Americans have lost theirs: Rioters claim they’re razing statues as a statement against racism--then, they topple the statue of an abolitionist who spent his life fighting slavery. Even if they claim a whoops moment, they have only admitted they’ve lost their heads. Two things: First, I justify no man for his support or participation in slavery or its accompanying racism. Racism is a horrible sin. Second, there are some whose hearts are filled with agony of loss of a loved one and the pain of being a victim of discrimination. Their anger is justifiable and their hatred understandable. One must not dismiss or demean such heart. However, many who have lost their heads claim they are acting from their heart, a heart of solidarity with those who have lost a loved one, a heart of empathy against racism, a heart of repulsion at injustice. In fact, they do not have hearts like that at all. Such claims are only ostensible. They, without heart, beat store owners, terrorize those passing through their rampages, burn small businesses, and spit on innocent bystanders. They are not showing solidarity with the victimized. They are showing their own selfish, out-of-control lusts and passions. They are not grieving over racism; they are reveling in their lawlessness. They actually smile, laugh, taunt, in their looting, pillaging, and terrorizing. They have not only lost their heads, but they also have no heart; only base, animalistic impulses, and lasciviousness. But, for those who do have hearts, something apologist Josh MacDowell said of the Christian experience is so fittingly applicable to our contemporary crises. Referring to Jesus’ admonish that each should “love the Lord thy God with all thy heart…and with all thy mind” (head), MacDowell commented (I paraphrase from memory), “Both head and heart are required to love God. However, the head must control the heart and not the heart, the head.” I am not arguing for the eradication of the heart. I am arguing that we must keep our heads. Just contemplate where we are in America: The Minneapolis City Council this past week voted overwhelmingly to dismantle that city’s police force. One can understand the denizens of that town’s animus against police brutality given what happened there. But it is incomprehensive how a city can exist without police. Not even considering things like burglary and murder, just think of traffic accidents, etc. You can point out all the heart in such protests. But, there is no head in it at all. What is most shameful is many of those that incite and inflame passions with falsities and contrived narratives and inflammatory remarks are often those who should be the “heads” of our society—leaders of cities, states, and the Federal government. Where are the statesmen? Where are the leaders who would calm and lead? We have lost our heads. Yes, the sad thing about statues losing their heads (if they represent reprehensible individuals, there is a legal way to have them removed other than by mob vandalism), is that the manner in which they have lost them is indicative that many American have lost theirs. The frightening thing is that it is not inconceivable that if Americans lose their heads figuratively, one day they could lose them literally. History shows that, when citizens lose their heads, ruled only by “heart,” it will not be only heads of statues that will roll in the streets; it will be those of its compatriots. Whatever is happening in our country, we who are not only Americans but also followers of Christ must remember that above all we must lose neither heart nor head in loving our God.

A FATHER’S DAY CARD: THE LAST TIME

Buying cards for folks has always been difficult for me. As a choleric, I rush into the store with a task--grab a card and get out of there as quickly as possible. As a melancholy, I tarry over each card--I cannot purchase a card if the message inside does not accurately say what I honestly would say about or to that person. I read the message inside a card and ask, “Do I really feel that way? Would I really say that to (the recipient)?” This Father’s Day, what the card said was not the difficulty. It was the buying of the card itself. And not because I was short on cash. As I stood looking for the “Father” section of the rows of racked cards, it struck me, “This could very well be the last Father’s Day card I ever purchase.” Dad, who lives 900+ miles away, had had a rough two weeks. He’d had two trips to the emergency room after falls. He had begun having trouble swallowing hampering his doing one of the two things he still found enjoyable—eating. Dad may fool us and live for a long time yet. He has some genes for it; his aunt lived to 104. I mused on that as I browsed through the cards. “Yes, I may purchase a card next year. But, would he with his increasing dementia even be aware enough to know he had received it much less read it?” I amended my original thought to, “This could be the last time that I purchase a Father’s Day card that Dad could read and know he’d received.” I didn’t even know if he will understand this time. The “last time” can be a very impacting and unwelcomed epiphany. It’s a penetrating pondering that permeates all one thinks and does in regard to whom or what the “last time” entails. I contemplated: “What if we prefaced each thing of our life with that thought, ‘This could be the last time.’” I really don’t intend to cast a pall over Father’s Day. I really don’t want to sound or make folks feel morose. I just couldn’t keep from musing: Do we not in the constant, dulling routine of the cyclic seasons and grind of life do things simply because it is time once again to do them? What if we reflected before each that this could be the last time? I cannot say that the awareness that I might be buying my Dad the last Father’s Day card influenced what card I bought, how much I spent, or even what I wrote in it before signing it. But it did affect my absorption with and the significance I attached to doing so. Back to my musing: What if we prefaced to any act of our life, especially those related to relationships, the thought “this could be the last time.” Would it not affect how we kissed or hugged a family member good-bye before the separation mandated by the day’s routine? Would it not mitigate how we answered someone when we were miffed? Would it not alter how we responded to co-workers? The examples are endless when we consider the web of myriad interactions we have with folks. But, being a pastor, I had to wonder: What if folks prefaced each church gathering with “this could be the last time.” We couldn’t have known to then, but what if we had prefaced the last service before the three-month COVID-dictated hiatus with “this could be the last time”? Doing so would go something like this: This could be the last time I get to go to church. This could be the last time I get to see my brothers and sisters. This could be the last time I hear the music and join the congregational singing of “Amazing Grace.” This could be the last time I hear concerted prayer and feel its dynamics inspiring my own. This could be the last time I lift my hands in adoration and wonder of God. This could be the last time I clap my hands in accompaniment with others in applause of the greatness of God. This could be the last time I feel that holy moment that God is speaking to me through the time-consuming, stumbling of the pastor’s (me) homily. Please, lest you think me morbid, I am not saying this is the last time. I am asking what if you knew it were? Would we not give more absorbed attention to those things? Would we not attach more significance to them? Thankfully, for those of faith, there is an asterisk to all of this. *For the believer in Christ, the last time is not the last time. It is just the last time until. There’s been a lot of last times with Dad recently. Like the last time I had a real dialogue with him. Like the last time on Skype when he shared a memory. But all those last times were simply until… Until heaven. There will be no last times there.

ME AND MY MALODOROUS MASK

First, I must warn you that there is a gross factor in today’s thought. You may not want to read it: I had kept a face mask in the consul of my vehicle for when I visit establishments that demand one. I had worn it several times. Once I forgot to return it to my consul after visiting a facility, but, rather, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. Afterward, I exercised and worked soaking my clothes with sweat in the humid air of a hot day. I needed some materials from a home improvement store. I had forgotten that the store demanded a face mask; otherwise, I might have gone elsewhere. Parking, I exited my vehicle and began walking to the entrance of the store. It hit me, “They insist on a face mask here.” Remembering I had one in my back pocket, I was relieved I didn’t have to return to my vehicle. Covering my face by attaching the mask’s loops on one ear and then the other, I was then aware of this awful smell. I subconsciously thought, “Why does the air stink so badly? Did they spread fertilizer on a field nearby? Is there some factory whose putrid smoke is being blown in this direction by the wind?” I walked on across the lot and entered the store. I smelled it again. Though people were the magical six feet away, I still wondered. “Is that smell coming from one of them? Has one of them being laboring hard and needs a shower? Phew! That’s bad. Can’t they tell they have BO?” I strolled to the aisle where I hoped to find what I needed. As I browse, I smelled that same malodor. “No, it couldn’t be one of those folks back there. It has to be in the store. Maybe some product on the next aisle got spilled.” As I shopped my way to another, more distant part of the store, I realized I still smelled that offensive odor. “Wait, it couldn’t have been on one of those aisles”. Noticing the huge doors of the garden center opened to the main store, I concluded, “That’s it! It is something in the garden center. Maybe some bags of fertilizer, bone meal, something, broke open and the draft is wafting that smell inside throughout the main store.” But, as I walked away from that section yet still smelt the same odor, it hit me. It was my mask. The smell was coming from my mask! Worn several times, dampened by sweat, the mask must have had bacteria build-up on it. What I smelled was coming from bacteria. Yes, that’s gross. To me, a germophobe, it’s really gross. Later, I thought of my experience. I confess that the bacteria build-up did make me wonder about the safety of masks. I can’t be the only one who has worn a mask too many times. However, I’m not writing to argue the safety of wearing or not wearing a mask. I am writing because of the irony of what happened. I was blaming the smell on everyone and everything else and the whole time the source was attached (via ear loops) to me. The mask I wore tainted my perception, conclusions, opinion, etc., of everywhere I went in the store and of the folks I encountered. The outside air stank. People stank. The aisles stank. The whole store stank. Or, so I thought. The whole time it was something about me that stank. Life. Work. Church. Home. Wherever we go. Whomever we meet. We find ourselves criticizing. Finding fault. Being aggravated by. Frustrated at. Lashing out. Haranguing. Caustically commenting. Jibing. We “smell” something bad wherever we go, whomever we meet. Always something wrong with it, with them. At some point, we must have the epiphany I had in the store. The reason I find so much wrong with so many people, so much of life, lies with me. I have the wrong attitude. Wrong spirit. I have bitterness. I have a grudge. Something in my craw. A resentment. That thing is tainting all else in my life. I know that there are bad odors in the environment. I know that there are bad odors in buildings. I know that, frankly, some people stink. But, for me, the bad odor was all in my malodorous mask. I know there are some bad odors in society. I know that there are some bad odors in institutions. I know that there are individuals that just stink. I know racism exists. But, can it be that very often when one claims he “smells” reprehensible racism in the air that the smell of it is coming from his own mask? As soon as I’d made my purchase and exited the store, I reached up and jerked that mask off, and began to take gulps of fresh, unfiltered air. It never smelled so good--the same air I thought had smelled bad when I first stepped out of my vehicle. The problem of everything smelling bad because we have a bad attitude is a private matter between us and God. And what we need is a private moment with Him. One where God graciously shows us that the problem is us. He shows us where, what, and why. He moves upon us. That thing that had tainted our perspective, He removes. He creates in us a new heart, a new attitude, a new outlook. We gulp lung-fulls of fresh air, thankful we no longer breath through that impeding, malodorous mask, and then we sing, “It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, Oh, Lord, standing in the need of prayer…Not my brother, not my sister, but, it’s me, Oh, Lord…”

Moloch, Abortion, And George Floyd:

An Apology IS In Order It is so unimaginably reprehensible one shudders to think of it: Child sacrifice. The Bible roundly condemns this heathenistic practice of idolaters, and, in doing so, forever links the killing of children to the worship of Moloch the idol. My knowledge of Moloch and child sacrifice proceeded that evening’s devotions in the men’s dorm in Bible school, but its horror became indelibly imprinted on my mind that night. The speaker was a quiet student, so we were immediately a bit shocked by the bellicose boom of his baritone voice when it was his turn to deliver the devotion. He read his text, and then came out from behind the half-wall we used as a pulpit in full-blast, prophetic bellowing against Moloch and sacrificing children to him. His finger was pointing; his eyes, bugged; his face, red; and his passion unmistakable. That he was a humble fellow only increased the starkness of his denunciation. Some of those fellows in the men’s dorm could be quite rebellious and rowdy, but I doubt any of them were Moloch worshipers. Were any of them so, I’m sure they fell on their knees in repentance that night. Yes, the child sacrifice associated with heathen idol worship was indeed horrifyingly repugnant. At the time of this Moloch message, abortion was THE prevalent, hotly-argued hot-button issue of the day. I remember both hearing other preachers and being the preacher who compared the contemporary abortion of babies with the child sacrifice of idolaters. It went something like this: “Idolaters sacrificed their children for their gods of wood and stone. Today, people kill their babies for their gods of pleasure and materialism.” In short, by our comparison, we proclaimed that child abortion was as evil as child sacrifice and the one who aborted no different from the awful, heathenistic, idol-worshiping child-sacrificers. It was only yesterday that it hit me. Preaching that, I had insulted the pagan child-sacrificers. Abortion isn’t just as bad as child-sacrifice, it is far worse! The agent of abortion isn’t just as evil as a child-sacrificer; he/she is far eviler. Let me tell you why: (First, however, let me say that I am not saying that every woman who has had an abortion is evil. The indoctrination of modern/post-modern relativism has been so successful that many have been conditioned and deluded into believing they do no evil in having an abortion, that they have not taken a life. I feel sympathy for these in their later grief and pain when their conscience catches up at the awareness of what they have done.) Why, in the end, is abortion far more reprehensible and eviler than child-sacrifice? Here’s why: When an idol-worshiping parent sacrificed a child, the whole point was to appease the idol-god by offering the best, most valued, most loved thing one had. The best, most valued, most loved “thing” parents had was their child. Evil though the pagan culture was, I cannot imagine the pain a mother felt watching her child bound on an altar and then slaughtered and burnt with fire. She loved that child. She valued that child. That was the whole point: You sacrificed what you valued. This is why abortion is more wicked and reprehensible: The child is not valued. The child is not loved. The embryo is called tissue. It is not deemed valuable, lovable. It is deemed a burden, an undesirable, an inconvenience, a pesky invader of the mother’s body. Removal of a fetus from a mother’s body is considered no different from the removal of an unsightly mole. Both are unwanted tissue. This is why abortion is far worse than child-sacrifice. In both cases, a child dies. In child-sacrifice, the child is valued, desired, wanted. In abortion, the child is devalued, not desired, unwanted. This is why it is difficult for me to believe that the rioting we see over the tragic killing of George Floyd is really about the loss of his life. Those who blathered the ideologies that are inciting the rioting are almost entirely those who promote abortion. They do not value life. The rioters who beat store-owners, shoot police, and strike non-participators do not value life. If we do not value the life of the most vulnerable, the child in the womb, we will not value the life of a human being at any stage or point in his life. The killing of George Floyd was reprehensible. But, any that support abortion should hold their tongues unless they speak to confess their hypocrisy. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but it appears we should apologize to the worshipers of Moloch for comparing today’s abortion to their child sacrifice.

TALKING THAT GETS THROUGH

Dad lives nine hundred miles from me; I too infrequently get to see him. I went and picked him up to take him to Mom’s funeral. COVID restrictions had kept me from seeing him for months. I would have him alone for close to two hours for the trip to the service. We would talk. I’d find out how he was really doing. How he was feeling, thinking about things. We’d have a heart to heart. I would get to talk to Dad--and he to me. We couldn’t on the phone. Dad at eighty-eight is practically deaf even with hearing aids. And, not just deaf. He suffers from dementia. Dad’s dementia is as debilitating as his deafness. Now, in the car seated right beside him, I would get to talk to him. Only it wasn’t to be. Oh, we talked. Tried to. I tried. He tried, a little. Soon, a silence settled in the SUV. I felt that heavy-black-frustrated despair I’ve often felt before with him, and with others--even with those who have excellent hearing. I couldn’t get through to Dad, nor he to me. I felt we were shut off from one another. Dad was sitting right there beside me. Yet, he seemed still a thousand miles and ten years distant. I kept trying, but, I only succeeded in communicating with the shell of Dad, not Dad. There was the shape of Dad, the flashing, feigning and vanishing glimpses of him, the shadow of fleeting familiarities. But, not Dad. There was no rapport. No clear flow of sharing self. I just could not get through to Dad, nor he to me. I couldn’t really talk to him, thus, I couldn’t really know him in that moment. Psychology and philosophy have struggle with this. In the best of times, health, relationships, and circumstances we really do not connect with one another in a way we can really know one another. Sin did this. It caused this alienation. This gulf. You can live a lifetime with a person and in an unexpected moment glance at them and that one appears a stranger. You think, “I don’t really know him. What makes him click. What he really thinks. What he really feels. Where he hurts.” And, then we look in the mirror and realize that we don’t really know ourselves much less others. If we do not know ourselves, how can we hope to know others? Somehow, we realize that language is our best hope, our best chance of knowing and being known. And so we talk. There are ephemeral flashes of epiphany with talk, but, usually, talk doesn’t get through. As wonderful as language is, using it to reveal ourselves to one another is as successful as using hieroglyphics to explain Einstein’s theory of general relativity. As pastor, I have attempt to get through to someone who was in real trouble and whom I wanted to help. Perhaps, they were tormented. Perhaps, they were rebellious. Perhaps, they were hurt. Something cried out from within me. Sometimes it escaped through my lips: I would call their name, “___________, I’m trying to TALK to YOU, the inside you, the deep you, the real you.” I couldn’t get them to share themselves to me even though they were chattering away. Conversely, I have tried to share what I was really thinking, feeling, struggling with, to those close to me. In the process, I realized I might as well be on a video call with my audio muted. They could see my lips moving, but they just weren’t getting it. Not their fault. I just couldn’t get it out in a way they could get it. Yes, though talking is our best chance to know and be known, it fails miserably. Even if we truly listen to the other and he, us. There are just too many filters, façades, feignings, and language is simply to inadequate. I have painted a pretty dark picture only to emphasize how wonderful the reality of God is. See, God knows us. The deep us. The inside us. The real us. Others may not know us. We may not know ourselves. God knows us. Intimately. Completely. Totally. Not the façade. Not the postured us. Us. (Psalm 139). Knowing us, He communicates to us. He gets through to us. He talks to the real us. And knowing that He knows us, we talk to Him. We share with Him. We pour out our hearts to him. To another what we are saying still may not convey who we are, what we feel. But, then again, God can interpret our groanings that cannot be uttered. Oh, wonder! A God that knows us. A God that can communicate who He is to us. A God to whom we can talk and He gets it. He gets us. The real person God is and the real person we are communicate, and, communicating, we know, truly know one another. Try it. Talk to God. He is right there beside you. That’s talking that gets through.

Consider MY Lilies

Just outside the window of my study, where I now sit typing this, is a flower bed with four lilies, not yet blossomed, green against the dark mulch. I’ve watched these four in a soldierly line push up through the ice-glazed mulch, endure late frosts and freezes, and grow under mostly gray skies and blanketing fog. They all emerged from the ground at the same time, but now they stand like four children, siblings of varying ages, lined up according to height to have their photo taken. The one furthest west is the tallest; the second, shorter than the first; the third, shorter than the second; and the last shortest of all. Each successive lily is proportionately shorter than the prior one. If you are wondering why, the answer is obvious. Close to the last is a tree. The lilies resurrected from the cold ground before the tree had yet budded and leaved. Thus, the sun equally shone where each lily grew. But, soon the leaves on the tree appeared, blocking the rays of the already infrequent Ohio spring sun. The tree is so situated in the trajectory of the path of the after-spring-equinox sun, that in gradation each successive lily in the line up receives significantly incrementally less sunlight. No light no growth. Little light, little growth. Much light, much growth. Thus, the mystery of the succession of the shorter and skinnier lily to the taller and fatter lily is solved. It’s all about the time of exposure to the sunlight each received. A once frequent concern, theme of song, and topic of lesson and sermon in the Church was “growth.” Not self esteem. Not having your dream come true. Not health and wealth. Not emotive experience. Growth. Of course, that is the theme that runs through the NT epistles. We get saved; we grow. We are born-again, but not perfect; we grow. We are rooted in love; we grow to produce fruit. We have hang-ups, hang-overs, hang-ons from our old life; we grow. We are immature, selfish, petulant; we grow. On and on. The message is that we grow. We grow because we feed on the Word. We grow because we are planted in truth. We grow because of the atmosphere and climate of the community of the saints. We grow because we are in the Light. Indisputably, growth is the will of God for our lives, the possibility which He has provided, and should be the heart’s desire of every believer. Growth. And, growth is simple. Like the lilies it has to do with exposure. Exposure to the Word. Exposure to Biblical teaching, preaching. Exposure to the presence of God. Exposure to the fellowship of God’s people. Certainly, one can be exposed to these things at home—in his everyday not-at-church existence. To a degree. Just like a potted lily could get some sun inside a house. But, the lily outside is much more conveniently positioned to be watered and to receive sunshine. And there, the one situated to receive the most sun has the most growth. If we were to line up Christians according to exposure to the Word, presence of God, fellowship of the saints—all other factors being equal—the ones with the most receptive, consistent exposure would be the ones with the most growth. That kind of comparison with others is not fair. So, just consider your own life in different amounts of exposure. No church attendance. Sporadic church attendance. Frequent church attendance. Much church attendance. Envisioning that, you would see yourself like my four lilies. I know that there are so many other factors to consider. So many qualifications, variables, etc. But, in the end, it’s the exposure to the sunlight that brings growth. Much light, much growth. Some light, some growth. Little light, little growth. If you took a look at my lilies, you’d know what I meant. Hhhhmmmm. Heard that somewhere before? “Consider the lilies…” Consider my lilies.