Outside of each church building are small cemeteries. The tombstones are a lasting witness of those who worshiped in each congregation. These gardens of the dead have their own stories to tell about the congregations that worshiped in these buildings. Common surnames top many of the stone markers telling of prominent families in each church. Dates of birth and death are chiseled into each grave marker giving witness to the world that the occupant knew at birth, the events of history they knew in life, and the plenty or scarcity of the number of their days at death. Though most markers give up few secrets other than the most basic biographical information about the person that lies beneath, some speak, though cryptically, a more elaborate witness. Historians tell us that the residents of Cades Cove were greatly divided in their loyalties during the Civil War. The festering disunity in the congregations was so great that the churches chose not to hold services for long periods during the war. One grave marker leaves no doubt about the loyalties of the one buried beneath by declaring that rebels in North Carolina murdered its occupant. Other graves are remarkable simply because of their age. This is particularly true for the graves of those who fought in the Revolutionary War. Yet these realities are expected. These churches are old; thus, so are the inhabitants of their cemeteries. Though remarkable, it is expected to find graves of those who died long ago. However, what I did not expect to find in these old cemeteries beside abandoned church buildings were modern grave markers. The congregations that built these buildings and buried their dead in these cemeteries have long since disbanded, but I discovered in the freshly turned dirt and slabs of marble not yet stained by the abuse of weather that their legacy remains.

It is so common among the church culture that I grew up in and now pastor that few, if any, notice it. An overly harsh judgment would declare this behavior as pseudo-humility, even willfully fake humility. A more gracious judgment would recognize a need for a better and deeper understanding of what salvation does to sin and our lives. I am talking about how many Christians speak with hopeless defeat about their struggle with sin and obedience to God’s word. There is even an overly used, often misunderstood, and theologically deficient phrase that embodies this issue – “I am just a sinner saved by grace.”

Sometimes “just a sinner saved by grace” is employed to excuse or rationalize the behavior of an unrepentant sinner. However, more often, it is spoken by one who truly desires to live righteously before the Lord but feels a need to show humility rather than confidence. Sometimes this same sentiment shows up more subtly. A teacher teaching on an issue of sin will preference their comments with “I fail at this all the time.” A preacher proclaiming from a text that calls the saints to a specific response may temper his words with “we all fall short of this.” In all these things, there is a prominent attitude of defeat. There is an assumption that failure, disobedience, and inadequacy are the norm. Such an attitude recognizes that we should feel bad about not perfectly obeying the commands and expectations of scripture but offers no hope that anything, but a perpetual state of disappointment, can be known.

I thought about using the title "That Time I Got Arrested in Prague," but being arrested is not actually what happened, but it does make for a more dramatic title. Here is the real story.

In 1996 I traveled to Europe with the Shorter University (then Shorter College) Chorale. The choir sang in wonderful venues in Austria, Germany, and the Czech Republic. While we were in Prague, we had time to explore the ancient city and take in the beautiful architecture and history.

After a full day of exploration, the day grew short, and we realized that it was getting close to the time we needed to be back at the hotel to prepare for the next event. We could have walked back, but the fastest way was to use public transportation. The problem was that we did not know how or where to purchase tickets to ride. We had been told that tram tickets were sold in many of the shops but not knowing the language meant we were not able to read the signs or ask for directions to find a shop that sold tickets. Our inability to read signs, along with feeling pressed for time, led us to make a very poor decision. Without much forethought or planning, we got on the tram without a ticket.

Preaching the gospel is a strange thing. Observing from a human perspective, it seems rather simple and powerless. And yet, the humble appearance of preaching is in contrast to what Scripture declares it to be. Vested in the humble act of proclaiming the word of Christ is the power to save.

The church we attended while in seminary had a ministry at a local nursing home. They would send someone out each week to conduct Sunday services. Several times I was asked to lead these services and preach. It would just be me and someone who would play the piano. The nursing home staff would assemble the residents in the dining room where I would lead the singing of a hymn then preach. Some of the residents were aware that they were participating in the service, while others were not. Some would grow tired and fall asleep before I finished leading the service. I preached with all the effort and skill that I had but often wondered what real effectiveness or eternal impact I had.

I have a cheap little screwdriver in my desk drawer. Calling it cheap is likely too gracious of a word. It has the form of a miniature screwdriver but not the ability to perform the task of such a tool. This little screwdriver is not an effective tool for anything. It is cheaply made, and if it were to be used for anything that caused real pressure to be applied, it would likely break or bend under the strain. So why do I keep it in my desk drawer? I keep it because of who gave it to me.

When I was a child, my mother would often take us to visit my great-aunt, who lived in a nursing home in Columbus, GA. When we would enter the building, we would be greeted by a resident who spent his days sitting by the front door. He seemed to always be there. The front of the building had large floor-to-ceiling windows. He likely enjoyed the spot by the front door because it afforded him a good view of the world outside. We would have likely walked past this man with little more than a polite greeting if it were not for his aggressive initiation of a conversation. When the man saw someone enter through the front door and begin to walk toward him, he would enthusiastically and with great confidence shout out, “I bet I know where you got your shoes!”