Morning in Marion

It is 7:15 a.m. in the Blackbelt, and it is not time yet for the little frenzied sounds that the city makes.  A restless and engaging bird is chirping from the bursting oak as I sit on the bench on the south end of the Perry County courthouse, built before anyone still alive can remember. 

I am enthralled by the effervescent purity of the morning as it makes its holy rising, marshaled in on the wings of the dawn.  The sun is shining like a gold ring from just above the courthouse roof, a dull but not overbearing luster.  Rising above me, like giant redwoods, are twin Corinthian columns, already the product of rot and spoil, yet still retaining the loveliness of a former beauty queen. 

Flowering plants and hedgerows, green with red tops, provide a calming disposition.  A flock of birds parade by without pomp or circumstance.  The sun hits the green grass in a disarming way, challenging each individual blade to reveal its radiance and the depths of its full color, brightened, exposed, and pure.  The smattered patches of dirt are disjointed from the green grass; rocks, sticks, minerals, grit, soil, and concrete fuse together in this gentle outlay.  The quieting rhythm of clay tile of on the entryway, alternating dark to light, dark to light, gives means of support under the towering façade, rising some forty or so feet to its north.   Brick by white painted brick, the inestimable handiwork of hundred year old masters, is still evident and palpable. 

An American flag is calmly blowing in the Southern wind; the birds are speaking more purposefully now, more resolutely and urgently, as if they can hear the coming flood of the city.  The humming of engines arrive like Roman legions in the distance, charging ahead in proud rhythms.  Guiltily, sadly, I rise and let the sounds of the city overtake me, as I long to hear the peace that tomorrow brings. 

Running on Empty

The other night as I was filling up my sixteen-gallon gas-guzzler of an automobile, I began to think about all the many ways we re-fuel in life.  I began to think about what we are putting into our minds to recharge us, bolster us, and give us energy to get us up and get us going every day. 

What if we viewed each morning-- each entire day-- as though we woke up with an empty tank yet a completely clean slate?  What types of fuel would you use to ramp up your wisdom?  Your knowledge? 

Have you ever considered how important it is to fill your mind with the high octane, penetrating truth of the Bible?  When is the last time that you pulled your vehicle up to this pump? 

It really is profound how our lives are suddenly transformed when we allow the truth of God to fill our tanks.  Life runs rather smoothly.  We don't have to worry about running out of gas, or gas prices going through the roof.  Jesus said, "I am the same yesterday, today, and forever."  All it takes is a little humility and openness each day to let God fill us with his overarching wisdom and understanding. 

Have you refueled today?

Something Worth Reading

What would you do if a madman wanted you to leave town?  Would you pack up your family and head out?  Worse, what if this madman went to church with you? 

The Devil in Pew Number Seven is a true story about a preacher who moved Sellerstown, North Carolina in 1969 to become pastor at Free Welcome Holiness Church.  He brought his wife and young daughter to the community to lead a small congregation of believers.  But he would soon learn that a man who attended services at the church would stop at virtually nothing to try to force them out of town. 

It began with late night phone calls and terrifying letters.  As the progressivity of the harassment unfolds, we cannot but plead with the pastor…why don’t you just leave town? 

The story is about the will of one man led by God versus the will of another led by hatred.  It is the story of courage and an unshakable resolve to do God’s will in the face of danger.  The Devil in Pew Number Seven was released on August 1. 

Still Making an Impact on Me

Basketball.  I have often wondered why I chose this particular medium to live out a great portion of my life.  Paradoxically, basketball for me has been the source of tremendous heartache and consummate happiness, as well as an outlet for the converging challenges of life and a battlefield of the mind.   This perpetual high-speed game has been the origin of a hundred rising suns and ten thousand desperate nights in my life. 

As a player, basketball was my chance to run and jump and enjoy the beautiful freedoms that life has to offer.  It was the playground that provided a group of men the opportunity to grind together, live together, share together, and suffer together in a communal environment with one goal in mind—victory.  Through basketball, I was able to feel the assuaging comfort of success and the callous reality of defeat.  It has furnished unending anguish and unrest, and extreme joy.  It defeated me more times than I choose to count, but yet I still made it my special game—the one that was closest to my heart. 

Most of my pleasant memories of the sport draw upon my days as a young boy at “Glen Clem’s Basketball Camp.”  Coach Clem was the head coach at Walker College, a privately-funded junior college in Jasper.  Clem stood about 6’5” and weighed over 250 lbs.  His skin was olive, and he had a thick black mat of course hair.  He wore plaid sportjackets and designer shoes and his nickname was Big Daddy.  Sure, there was a towering presence about him.  His most distinctive features were indisputably his large, bug eyes and echoing voice, like a thunderclap.  If Fred Flintstone could have been exemplified in a human being, Clem was it.

As my friend Matthew says, basketball coaches (unlike those of any other sport) have the most dominating and gregarious of all personalities.  Clem was no exception.  At Glen Clem’s camp, I witnessed firsthand the utter hilarity of this unique character.  He made basketball fun by utilizing wild and colorful terminology that I had never heard before.   He warned us not to wear “costume jewelry” while we were in camp, and swore that if we got out of line we’d be subjected to the lashings of his “black snake whip.”  He would often pick on longtime campers such as Kellen, who apparently was twelve years old but had been attending Clem’s camp for fourteen years.  He used downtime in camp to provide for our amusement his proverbial vaudeville act…shooting (and making) shots while he sat Indian-style at midcourt, hook-shots from thirty feet that drained the net, and many other offerings that split our sides and made us revere the Glen Clem circus. 

Still, he took the time to share with us little lessons of life, takeaways if you will, that stick with me to this day.  I call into question anything that gave me fonder memories of my boyhood than my time with Coach Clem.  He was the kind of coach that I wanted to be.  I could write an entire book about Clem, but for now we don’t have enough time.  What I will share with you is my proudest appreciation with the fact that I was able to share time with him and the further denotation of “coach” in the same exact office that he worked for thirty-seven years.  

Coach Clem passed away, suddenly, in 1996 in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  To this day, he is still making a profound impact on my life.  I miss you greatly, coach, and I long to see you again one day if I'm fortunate enought to make it to heaven. 

Life Game

        I have watched and participated in many games in my life.  But today I wanted to talk to you about a game that cannot be seen.  This is a game of high stakes, swift consequences, and eternal results.  "Who are the participants?" you might ask.  Naturally, there are two teams competing in this game. 

        The first is the Black  Devils.  This team is coached by Satan himself.  The “players” on the team are his demons and the ungodly…murderers, slanderers, rapists, and idolators, cheaters, liars, and thieves. 

        The opposing team is the Crimson Crusaders.  This is God’s team.  God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit make up the entire coaching staff.  The players are Christians and the angels. 

        The conditions of the game are very rough, the terrain very difficult.  This game is played on a neutral battlefield, the earth.  There are no referees.  The weather conditions are often uncertain.  Sometimes, it will rain and the field gets sloppy.  Other times, the game takes place on a beautiful day.  But there is one thing for sure…the game never stops for inclement weather…it continues in perpetuity. 

        There are no halftimes, intermissions, timeouts, or breaks.  The spectators in the stands are all on the side of the Black Devils, for if you are a member of the Crimson Crusaders, you don’t sit in the stands…you play.  

        Both the Crimson Crusaders and the Black Devils have exquisite uniforms. The armor of the Crimson Crusaders includes:

                      Belt of Truth

                      Breastplate of righteousness

                      Shield of faith

                      Helmet of Salvation

                      Sword of the Spirit

                      Feet fitted with peace

They wear red to symbolize the blood of Jesus Christ, their savior.  They are heavily equipped by God, but sometimes it takes them a while to figure out how to properly use their uniform. 

The Black Devils’ armor includes the

                                     

Belt of Lies

                      Breastplate of evil  

                      Shield of doubt

                      Helmet of destruction

                      Sword of the Flesh

                      Feet fitted with fire

The Ball is the souls of the spectators.  When the Crimson Crusaders score, God always gets a celebration penalty.   When the Black Devils score, the pyrotechnics in Hell light up the underworld. 

Both teams are strategic in their gameplans. 

The Black Devils use any means necessary to confuse, frustrate, anger, disrupt, or thwart the Crimson Crusaders' players or the coach’s plan.  Satan runs trick plays, takes cheap shots, and uses any means necessary to win.  He doesn’t value sportsmanship or class.  He watches game film, and tries to recruit more players. 

He tries to exploit weaknesses by sending in his best demons to attack us at our most vulnerable points.  He uses VICE, FLESH, and PRIDE to his advantage. 

On the other hand, the Crimson Crusaders have a much different strategy.  This is God’s strategy.  The first thing that He does is give people a choice to be on the team or not to be. 

Secondly, He sacrifices his best player.  He retires Jesus Christ to the Hall of Fame just when the battle is getting started.  But he sends in as a replacement the Holy Spirit, which has won numerous 6^th man awards as the best substitute there ever was.

He equips us with a good pep talk—The Bible, which is powered by LOVE, HOPE, and TRUTH.  He also allows his team the freedom to come up with their own strategies to fight the Black Devils.  He builds our practice facilities and calls them “church.”  He builds our understanding of the nature of the game through prayer, and he uses our faults, adversity, and difficulties to strengthen us for the fight. 

          But the Crimson Crusaders must realize that the numbers are stacked against them in this game of life.  They must realize that the enemy is strong, and not one to be taken for granted.  Their enemy is working everyday to change the world.  To gain a victory, it’s going to take work.  It’s going to take sacrifice.  But it starts with your decision…will you play for the Crimson Crusaders or the Black Devils?  Whom will you serve?

Magic Man

There stands a man, who,

Waves his illusions at us,

He tilts his cap and bows,

As we are mystified,

Enthralled at the sight. 

The props, they confuse

And hide their gentle dares,

But it is us they lead,

Our eyes turn and burn,

Enraptured at the sight.

But it is he who stands alone,

His secret safe within,

And by the lies he justifies,

Seeming right, yet losing all the while,

His illusions false as he dies.

Isaiah 14:12-20

¹² How you have fallen from heaven,
   morning star, son of the dawn!
You have been cast down to the earth,
   you who once laid low the nations!
¹³ You said in your heart,
   “I will ascend to the heavens;
I will raise my throne
   above the stars of God;
I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly,
   on the utmost heights of Mount Zaphon.
¹⁴ I will ascend above the tops of the clouds;
   I will make myself like the Most High.”
¹⁵ But you are brought down to the realm of the dead,
   to the depths of the pit.

¹⁶ Those who see you stare at you,
   they ponder your fate:
“Is this the man who shook the earth
   and made kingdoms tremble,
¹⁷ the man who made the world a wilderness,
   who overthrew its cities
   and would not let his captives go home?”
 ¹⁸ All the kings of the nations lie in state,
   each in his own tomb.
¹⁹ But you are cast out of your tomb
   like a rejected branch;
you are covered with the slain,
   with those pierced by the sword,
   those who descend to the stones of the pit.
Like a corpse trampled underfoot,
 ²⁰ you will not join them in burial,
for you have destroyed your land
   and killed your people.

The Waning Night

The bitter, waning night

Staring in the face of those I shamed,

Even myself, as my dull eyes lift,

Turning toward heaven’s ever-burning light. 

And though I know the rich hues,

Burning down in blinding light,

The night, corrupt with thorns,

Arrows shooting at my eyes, my sight. 

The sordid light has cast away,

For now, the burning light,

Darkening my sight, amber is the pale moonlight,

And beams of fright affix the sadness of my plight. 

But it is tonight

That I will scrape and pull the thorn

Out of my side, and turn my eyes

Toward heaven’s holy light.

For God is with me, as I take flight,

Yes, He is here tonight,

As I turn the light, the word, my cherished light,

And curse the bitter, waning night.