Pastor Hurst

FIRM PRESSING THE MOMENT

God is the God of moments. Moments that bring memories. Memories that bring movement in the soul. Photography captures moments. That bring back memories. However, not all photos are taken with a camera. Prodigiously more are taken with the mind. What a huge innovation when cameras were built into mobile phones. Having our phones always with us, we always have a means in hand to capture any moment. God designed us, humans, with that feature. Our minds freeze a moment of experience in a mental image, a photo that we file into some album in our minds. The thing about photos is that, when we look at them, the moment they’ve frozen in time thaws and releases the memory of that moment. iPhone users will readily understand the reference to “live” photos. Those moments captured with this feature appear in your albums as snapshots, still shots. But, when you firm press on one, a video plays for the duration of time your camera captured the photo. Our minds work the same way. A snapshot of a moment from the past suddenly appears on the home screen of our consciousness. If we pause to look at it, “firm press” it, the action of that moment begins to play a memory before our minds’ eyes. This blog’s musing on moments and memories, I blame on Christmas carols. On a particular Christmas Carol: “O, Holy Night.” I can never hear it without a photo popping up on the screen of my mind. When it does, that still shot of a moment from around fifty years ago unfreezes and a memory plays out in my mind. With sound: It’s Christmas time. My childhood family is going somewhere. Shopping? To church? To see the Christmas lights? That, I don’t remember. Dad’s driving. Mom is in the front next to him. In the back seat, I am sitting right behind Dad. Big sister is behind Mom. Little brother is wedged between us two--probably, already pestering us both. The last door has just been shut. Dad is putting the car into reverse to back down the steep drive of our home onto N. Harrison St. And he is singing. His favorite carol. Loudly. “Oh holy nightttttttttttt, the stars are brightly shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiining…” Even back then, as he sang, I felt something move in my heart. And do again as I recall it. For me, that moment is forever captured. And it always brings that memory. And the memory brings movement in my heart. My blogging all this about photos and moments and memories and movements of the heart is not to share my personal Christmas memories. They are of no real import or interest to others. It’s just, that, first of all, I realized that this is what was happening at the very first Christmas time: The extended family and neighbors of Zacharias and Elizabeth, when they heard and saw the wonder and miracle of John The-Baptist-To-Be, had a moment captured with their minds. As Scripture puts it, “And all they that heard them laid them up in their hearts…” A photo “laid…up in their hearts.” To be taken out of its album again and again. To be contemplated as its memory moved their hearts. Mary, from that first Christmas day, had a mental album filled with more photos than anyone else. It is immediately after Jesus’ birth that Scripture notes she has been snapping photos, capturing those wonderous moments surrounding our Lord’s birth. Although she had to have taken a spate of photos of Jesus’ actual delivery, and her first nursing of her child, it was just after the shepherds' adoring visit that, we are told, she had snapped a mental photo of their worship. “Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” She kept those things--she captured the snapshot of the moment. She pondered them in her heart--she brought them to the home screen and firm pressed and watched the memory play out. Secondly, I thought this might inspire you to leaf through your mind’s album of photos of moments from Christmases past. No doubt, this season, you have been seeing these photos from the past as they periodically arise inspired by the Yuletide sights and sounds all around us. Take time to firm press them. Watch as the memory is released and plays out. What Christmas carol did you hear? Oh, there it is again. Dad, much younger than I am now, is backing out of the drive singing, “Oh, Holy Night…” I just felt movement in my heart. God is the Giver of moments. A Maker of our moments. The greatest moments of one’s life are those with God in them. The mind, the heart, I should say, captures them. When contemplated, the memory of them plays out. In the mind. And the memory brings movement in our souls. Like we felt in the original moment. Did you feel that? ---Pastor Clifford Hurst

FEEBLE EXCUSES

Last week, at the time of this writing, we had a very cold Saturday night and a colder Sunday morning forecasted. One of our elder brothers, age 95, has been an epitome of faithfulness to all things church throughout the years. Yet, he had called his daughter who with her husband brings him to church to let them know he would not be going the next day because it was “going to be too cold.” However, the next morning he phoned to say, “Come get me. To say it’s too cold is a feeble excuse, and I’m not going to give it.” “What refreshing candor,” I thought when his daughter share this with me. We laughed together about it. In our laughter, what neither of us stated but were thinking was that his honesty highlighted the fact that most excuses folks give are “feeble excuses.” Really. Truly. It’s just that the 95-year-old confessed it—although being too cold is not so feeble an excuse at his age. It’s a valid one. In some Christian traditions, the pastor may hear spates of confessions. In mine, I hear excuses. They range from ludicrous to disingenuous. Teachers get the hackneyed, “The-dog-ate-my-homework.” I get those of the “My-brother’s-first-wife’s-great-uncle’s-youngest-child’s-dog-is choking-on-a-dinosaur-bone.” variety. Excuses for not attending worship. For not being involved in ministry. For not fellowshipping. For not surrendering one’s heart to Christ. For not reconciling with those for whom they are at odds. Most are no more bona fide than the “The-dog-ate-my-homework.” one. Some ARE in some cases legitimate. Genuine. Valid. I have observed that valid excuses need no accompanying explanation or elucidation. They are not feeble. They stand on their own. Excuse-making for not participating in God’s Kingdom is not new. In a parable, Jesus described excuse-makers: A great man planned a sumptuous supper and sent out invitations. When the evening came, he dispatched a servant to announce to those he’d invited that the supper was on the table. They all began “to make excuse.” One had bought an acreage, sight unseen, and just at supper time decided to go see the land he’d purchased. Sure. Feeble excuse. Another had bought five teams of oxen without examining them and was just on his way to go look them over post-purchased. Of course, that’s the way valuable animals are acquired. Feeble excuse. A third had married a wife. What does that mean? “I can’t come because I married a wife." Surely, he had looked her over before marriage. Maybe it was a honey-do list she’d given him. Maybe she kept him busy. This may have been the only semi-believable excuse. In any case, these were “feeble” excuses. So many excuses are so feeble they are tottering, tripping over themselves, wobbling in this direction and that. They ultimately fall flat. (You can tell when your relationship with Christ is weakening, stumbling towards a fall. Your excuses get more and more feeble.) In all of life, feeble excuses are given for this and that. For not attending school. Or for not showing up for work. Or for procrastinating. Or for rude, inconsiderate behavior. Or for failure to fulfill a duty, or finish a job. But any excuse given for rejecting God’s gift of salvation, however cleverly crafted, and fervidly given, is a feeble one. Its feebleness is evident to others. Its feebleness is evident to God. One day it will be evident to the very one that has made it. He will confess as did our beloved 95-year-old brother, “It’s a feeble excuse.” If only that one will confess that his excuse is feeble before it’s too late and follow that admission with, “and I’m not going to give it.”* --Pastor Clifford Hurst

GOD LIKES HEARING THE BEEPS

They are really cute kids. They remind us of our grandboys. We miss them now that the cold weather keeps them inside. This late summer, a young family with two young boys moved in, four houses down, on the same side of the street. Soon we would hear animated voices right outside our home. Perhaps, it is because their parents have set our house as the boundary of how far they can traverse the sidewalk up our street. Or, perhaps, it is because our driveway is more steeply inclined than others around us providing a great acceleration ramp; but, these vocal, tow-headed brothers, 5 and 7, both with a name starting with a “Z” sound, use our driveway as the turn-around spot. Whether on scooters or bicycles, they ride right up to our garage, turn around, pause, and talk to one another then push off and coast down our driveway. At first, they would only talk to us if we happened to be in the garage with its door open or out front. But, soon, they were dropping their bikes on the drive and ringing our Ring doorbell. Often, we would answer the door and stand in the doorway as they barraged us with questions. One day, one brought a picture he had drawn and colored especially for my wife. On every visit, they were unreservedly loquacious. Sometimes, when they ring the Ring, we will be too engaged or have just minutes earlier made a trip to the door to chat with them, so we will not answer the door. One of those times, after the doorbell had been rung incessantly, we heard the beeps of the keypad on our front door’s lock. Again. And again. Finally, my wife went to the door. “Why didn’t you answer?” one brother asked. “We tried to unlock your door,” said the other. “We put in your number,” he pointed to our address on the front of the house. “It didn’t work.” He thought for a moment and then said, “Why don’t you just give us your code, and then we won’t have to ring the bell but can just come in when you don’t come to the door.” My wife just chuckled and said, “Oh, we don’t give our code to anybody.” We had a good laugh when she shared this conversation with me—and the boy’s audacious suggestion. But I couldn’t quit thinking about it. To him, it was a simple solution. They couldn’t get the door open, but we had the ability to give them the means to unlock the door and get in. We could provide them with a way of access. Inside. To us. The boys’ dilemma is not unlike all of humanity’s spiritual one: The door was shut on us. We were on the outside. We could not get in. We could not approach Holy God. We could not come into His presence. We were barred. Shut out. Hopelessly so. There was nothing we could possibly do to enter in. But God had this great plan that involved giving His Son to die for our sins. Because of all Jesus did, we have access. Jesus is our access. Jesus opened the door. Unlike our refusal to give the boys the number key to our house, God gave us the code to His. We can enter in. To His presence. To salvation. We can draw near. To His throne. And there, we can find grace to help in our time of need. In fact, God likes to hear the beeps of the keypad. Are you pushing those buttons? Are you entering in? “Therefore being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: By whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God.” (Rom 5:1-2) --Pastor Clifford Hurst

MESSING WITH LOVE, part 2

“Someone has messed with love. Big time. At least with the word love. The word love doesn’t mean what it used to. It has intentionally been changed.” This is how I began last week’s blog. I was speaking of how today’s elitist leftists and their minions are getting by pushing their perversions upon society even to the point of promoting the mutilation of children’s bodies. In short, they do it under the guise of love. They pull off this hoax by first redefining “love.” Love, they say, is affirming someone’s feelings regardless of what they are. I heard even this week a protestor supporting doctors that perform mutilating surgeries on those seeking to transition shout almost the very words I wrote last week. Speaking of children who desire to transition, she cried “If we love them, we will not tell them that they are wrong. We will not make them feel bad about their choice. We will support them if they feel they need to transition. This is love. This is what Jesus did. Jesus loved everybody regardless of who they were and what they did.” Yes, she said Jesus’ love would support children having mutilating surgeries. Having redefined love as supporting someone’s decision whatever it is and affirming how they feel and think, proponents then guilt anyone that would disagree with child mutilation with this. “If you do not support them in their transitioning, if transitioning is forbidden to them, they will likely commit suicide. That’s not love. Love would be to support them so they will not commit suicide.” That’s their argument, their guilt-tripping, If we love them, we will help them transition so they will not commit suicide. It is aggravating that these have messed with love and changed its definition. But—this will shock many--these with their perverted agenda are not the first to mess with the definition of love to accommodate their beliefs. Christians did it too. They changed the definition of love. Only they did so for something incredibly wonderful. And they got it right. NT Christians needed a word to use for the amazing love that God has shown us in giving His Son as a sacrifice to save us from perishing and to give us eternal life. Only, these first believers didn’t have a word for that kind of love. There were four words floating around in conversations and writings of the universal language of the time, Greek. But which to use to describe the motive and expression of God’s heart in saving us? There was eros; this love is the romantic, sexual love between a man and a woman. That word wouldn’t do. There was philos; this love is the love of companions with shared interests and mutual reciprocation. What God did was far more than just what a buddy would do. And we did nothing for Him. Of course, there was storge; this love is the love of the family, or, rather, the familiar. This is a love that comes from meeting others’ needs and having one’s needs met. God certainly met our needs in salvation. But His love was a far step above even this. Then there was agape. It was rarely used. People just didn’t think to use agape. There was this vague idea of agape being about affection, greeting with affection, as brothers might do. But it certainly wasn’t heard much in the marketplace or the home. Since agape wasn’t much used and Christians were looking for a word for God’s great love, they chose it. And redefined it. Agape, as they redefined it, was the unconditional love God has for humanity. Unconditional love. How wonderful! God has unconditional love for us humans. Whoever we are. Whatever we’ve done. Wherever we are at. God loves, agapes, us. Unconditionally! Wow! But, wait! That sounds a lot like the definition of love used by those supporting homosexual marriage and child gender transitioning: Love affirms them whatever choice they make about their gender and whatever choice they make about their sexuality. Love is accepting whatever they do, choose, or become. Doesn’t that sound like agape love--unconditional love that loves someone despite who they are or what they’ve done? I’m going to leave that hanging until next week. But it raises a question that needs to be answered: What is the difference between the love of leftists that says love is supporting and affirming a child who desires to gender transition and the love of Christians, no, the love of God, which says God loves and we should love unconditionally, whatever one chooses, does, is? What indeed? What do you think is the difference? --Pastor Clifford Hurst

MESSING WITH LOVE

Someone has messed with love. Big time. At least with the word love. The word love doesn’t mean what it used to. It has intentionally been changed. Words have always evolved. Nobody can keep that from happening. Many times, a word’s metamorphosis is innocuous and of little significance. For example, “cupboard.” Today, when most hear “cupboard,” they think “cabinet” in the kitchen--shelves in a box with doors hiding them. Originally, a cupboard was just that—a "cup-board," a simple, single board nailed to the wall to hold cups. Sometimes a word evolves all on its own from something good to something bad. The derogatory, slanderous “hussy” started out as “housewife.” These words changed meaning because of the unstoppable movement of language. Nowadays, words are purposely changed. Love was intentionally changed, rather, sabotaged, by our culture and society. And ruined. Here’s what’s going on. Today’s elitist, leftist academia and their indoctrinated automaton students, the media, and progressive politicians are taking perfectly good words and ruining them. It works this way: They have a twisted, rationally unsustainable belief like, say, that there are over a hundred genders or any ideology they want to promulgate and force all to accept. Since there is no objective basis for their arguments, they begin by redefining words in order to control the argument. Words like gender. Like marriage. Like love. Intent on spreading the lie that gender-transitioning is imperative for the mental health of sexually dysphoric children, postmodernist liberals insist, through redefining it, that “love is affirming people in whatever they think or feel about themselves.” It is only love to celebrate a child’s desire to gender transition and support and facilitate his choice. It would be hate to tell a child it is dangerous for him, or that he is deceived by his feelings, or that objectively, whatever his feelings, he is the gender of the biological sex with which he was born, or that he is destroying himself. By redefining love as the affirming of people whatever they do, whatever they think, and whatever they feel, the proponents of the child abusing gender transitioning insist on how we should treat children with identity struggles by using their new definition of love: It goes something like this. “If you love someone, you will never make them feel uncomfortable. If you love someone, you will never make them feel like they are wrong, or aren’t correct. If you love someone, you will support them whatever they choose to do—no, you will support whatever they do. You will tell them they are great, doing the right thing, are courageous. Therefore, you should support these children's transitioning." Pushers of this sick ideology then further use this messed-up definition of love to try to guilt trip society and opponents into accepting their concocted malignant doctrine. “Children with sexual dysphoria will likely commit suicide if you do not support their transitioning--and it will you, the haters’ fault. It will be your fault because you did not love them.” Their premise that if folks don’t support a child’s transitioning he will more likely commit suicide is utterly baseless and false, devoid of any supporting evidence. And, what they are calling love is not love. They have messed with the love to guilt trip society. What is the definition of love? Not what the above proponents of child abuse say it is. That's for sure. The best place to look up love’s definition is not in the dictionary, but in the Bible. But, when we look up love there, we discover a shocking truth. Christians messed with the definition of love too! Christians redefined love. Or, I should say, God did. I’ll have to finish that thought next week, but God’s changing love’s definition didn’t ruin the word. It got it right. And it’s nothing like today’s definition. Or is it? The point is, if someone is going to mess with love, what it means, let it be God. --Pastor Clifford Hurst

IT MATTERS THAT IT DOESN’T MATTER

Whenever I see someone walking into Walmart in his faded flannel pajama bottoms, I feel a wave sweeping toward me that is a mixture of nihilism and narcissism. Nihilism and narcissism originate in the flood waters of godlessness that have inundated our society. The seemingly innocuous act of wearing flannel pajama bottoms to Walmart is but a stone thrown into the prevailing pop culture producing the concentric waves which I the observer feel. The only reason one would inexpiably wear his sleepwear in public is that he feels it doesn’t matter; or because it doesn’t matter to him that it matters to others. That it doesn’t matter is nihilism—the feeling of everything being useless and senseless, a feeling that comes from rejecting absolute truths. That it doesn’t matter that it matters to others is narcissism—the egotistic fixation on oneself, a belief that one’s opinion, judgment, perception, etc., are all that matters. This feeling comes from one deeming oneself autonomous. Either way, the it-doesn’t-matter perception of society comes from divorcing God from its worldview. If all-there-is is matter, nothing matters. If there is no God who observes, evaluates, and calls into account, morality doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how people treat or are treated. Not really. It doesn’t matter that one is hurting, distressed, lonely, etc. A man tries to share his heart with his wife. She, distracted, isn’t listening. He notices and quits talking. She, realizing the background noise of his monologue has grown silent, reveilles herself enough to ask, “What were you saying?” He responds, “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” The employee is asked by the boss, “What do you think?” Knowing the question is perfunctorily rhetorical, he responds, “It doesn’t matter.” Jaded from eating out, one when asked where he would like to have dinner, responds, “It doesn’t matter.” Another apologizes for breaking a dinner date. The ditched says, “It doesn’t matter.” These are simple anecdotes that reveal wide-range usage of the phrase. Yet, the sentiment is deeply rooted in an increasingly godless world. Truth is, without God in the worldview, “It doesn’t matter.” Not morally. Not existentially. Not pragmatically. Not only does “it” not matter, “nothing” matters. If nothing matters, nothing matters. There is no reason or purpose for anything. Oh, there is yet the narcissistic outlook. Nothing matters but the “I”—what I decide matters. “I” isn’t a very fulfilling purpose for living. “I,” however inflated, is too small to fill the need for meaning. People today seek something to matter. For example, they posture themselves as fanatically caring for nature. They don’t really care that much for the environment or dolphins. Not really. The concern for the environment, dolphins, and the rest is an attempt to make something matter. See, we humans must have something that matters—and makes us matter. Since God doesn’t matter, nature must. Humanity can try to make the environment matter. But, without God, there is no real reason why it should matter. In the end, if God doesn’t matter, nothing will matter. All the rave about drinking, marijuana, vaping, partying, etc., is but a hedonistic whistling-in-the-dark way of saying, “It doesn’t matter that nothing matters.” But, oh, to put God in the picture changes everything. It makes everything matter. The way I act. The way I think. The way I treat others. The way I feel. It matters because it matters to Him. It matters because I matter to Him. Also, because it matters to Him, others matter to me. I wrote this after having awakened in the night with two phrases roiling around in my semi-consciousness: First, was “It doesn’t matter.” Following that came, “It matters to the Master.” (I don’t know when I last heard that song.) These two phrases were like two wrestlers constantly changing positions. One moment one wrestler was on top, the next the other. Many times, consciously, unconsciously, or semi-consciously, that wrestling match goes on in one’s mind, heart, and life. One thing is for sure. Get rid of God and there is no wrestling match. “It doesn’t matter” wins uncontested. Every time. It doesn’t matter is all there is. However, if nothing matters it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t matter wins. The fact is, it does matter to the Master. Perhaps, in the scheme of things, someone’s wearing faded flannel pjs to Walmart doesn’t matter. But, one with a heart of faded faith, faded hope, faded joy, faded hope does. I think what gets me about the faded flannel pjs is that, to the wearer, it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t matter. With God it matters when it doesn’t matter. Does that matter? To you? ---Pastor Clifford Hurst