This past Sunday, the Southern Baptist Convention's Sexual Abuse Task Force released the report of Guidepost Solutions, which performed an independent investigation on issues related to sexual abuse and how the SBC's Executive Committee members and staff have responded to sexual abuse issues. Since the report's release, there have been many news reports; however, because secular media generally does not understand what the SBC is or how it is governed, it often misunderstands and thus misreports events related to the SBC. Add to this a general distrusts of secular media because of their hostile bias toward Christians many have struggled to understand the actual impact and ramifications of Guidestone's report. The report is 288 pages and includes two appendices that are 73 and 106 pages, respectively. Because of its size and complexity, many are relying on secondary sources to inform them about the report's findings and conclusions.

I have read the report, and I intend to give my initial thoughts on it in this post. I am sure that as additional time provides an opportunity to further appreciate the gravity of what is revealed and more thoughtfully understand how Southern Baptists should respond to it, there will be more to say.

I felt a sadness as I explored the three church buildings of Cades Cove. I felt a longing for what was and grieved for what would never be again. Each building retains the same beauty of its construction and ornamentation as they held before their congregations moved away. Though lacking modern accoutrements, all three church buildings have been well maintained and still house the accommodations and furniture employed by their former members. Unfortunately, they are today essentially museum exhibits, preserved for observation but not for use. This designation was a source of sadness and grief for me as I walked through these empty church buildings.

The architecture of church buildings often is designed for beauty, but esthetics is not the primary concern for the design of a church building. Church buildings may be beautiful, but they are not constructed singularly for esthetics but primarily for action. The three church buildings of Cades Cove are functional in form and simplistic in nature, built for ministry. While it is true that more sophisticated and moneyed congregations have built more elaborate and ornate structures than those that grace Cades Cove, they too are mostly functional in their architecture. Whether it be for preaching, teaching, or meeting a need in the community, church buildings are designed to support the church's ministry. And it is ministry that is at the heart of a church's existence.

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.

These buildings were constructed with one purpose in mind – preaching. Preaching is a relatively simple activity. It is singular in focus and defined in its goal. The very structure of these buildings gives testimony to the singular focus and defined goals of their congregations. The proclamation of the Word of God was their aim. There is something refreshing about such simplicity. For those who worshiped in these structures, church meetings were a time to hear the Word proclaimed. They certainly sang hymns together. They prayed together and for one another. However, the primary focus and the defining element of their gatherings was preaching. The architecture of these buildings gives witness to this singular focus. The buildings were built to provide a place for preaching. The furniture is arranged to facilitate preaching. These congregations certainly participated in other activities associated with their ministries, but the testimony of the buildings is that their primary activity was preaching God’s word.

The problem with nostalgic thoughts is they are but sentimental imaginations, not necessarily accurate recollections. These places of worship are simplistic, yes – but perfect, no. There is value in simplicity, yet there is also foolishness in holding to the past out of nostalgia alone. I am thankful that my church in South Georgia, where humidity, heat, and gnats create a summer environment that can wilt a rock, has air-conditioned buildings. With the blessing of air-conditioning comes related aggravations, but these are considered small compared to the unpleasantness of enduring south Georgia’s oppressive heat and humidity.

Several years ago, I played the role of tourist while staying in the smoky mountains of southern Tennessee. We loaded the kids in the van, got out our area attractions map, and headed to a nearby national park called Cades Cove. It was a simple affair. A cove nestled in the bosom of mist-shrouded mountains. A pastoral valley cleared and tamed as the first settlers of European descent arrived some 200 plus years ago. It remained the home of the first settlers and their descendants until the 1930s, when the U.S. government acquired it for a national park. Today it remains not dissimilar from what it was in the 1930s. A potted and bumpy paved road now traverses what was once a potted and bumpy dirt road that encircles the valley.

Today, only a few cabins and farm buildings remain. These structures no longer have a purpose as part of working farms but now are preserved as museum pieces. What once was a place where life was hard and laborious is now a scenic drive full of valley vistas and remarkable sightings of turkey, deer, and other wildlife that have grown accustomed to the slow-moving vehicles with their staring faces and clicking cameras. And yet they do remain. The cabins still show the hewing marks of their builders and original owners. The barns, still holding hollowed logs, worn smooth from their former duty of offering the grain and straw to hungry livestock. The cabins, mills, smokehouses, and barns, the plows, wagons, and planters warn and seasoned with use and age still look as though they could return to duty at this very moment. Yet every visitor knows that all these things– the houses, the mill, and the barns - the wagons, the plows, and farm implements have life no longer as useful tools but rather as museum relics of the past. They represent not what is or will be but what was and will be no longer.

My family has a beloved story about my grandfather’s reaction to my dad taking up running. It was the early 1980s when running was not as popular as it has become today. My grandparents had come to celebrate my dad’s completion of the Callaway Gardens Marathon. When the race was over, my grandfather, who knew nothing about marathons or those who ran them, asked my dad if he had won the race. My dad told him that he had not, nor had he expected to win. Now a little confused about why my father would give such effort and even pay the entry fee to run a race that he did not expect to win, my grandfather asked if he got anything for running? To this question, my dad held up the t-shirt given to the race participants and said, “I got a t-shirt.” Then, my grandfather turned to my grandmother with a smile and said, “I think we have raised a fool.” My grandfather enjoyed a good joke, and he spoke these words with a grin, but I have to believe that though he intended these words as a lighthearted ribbing, they did reveal his befuddlement as to why anyone would suffer through running 26.2 miles just for a t-shirt.

It seems foolish indeed to those watching. One of the more common remarks, made in jest by those who are not runners, is that runners look so unpleasant while running. They say our faces carry the expression of pain and our general demeanor communicates suffering. The question is then asked, why would anyone want to do something that makes you so miserable?

But when the pastor turned his attention away from eulogistic reflections and attempted to speak words of comfort, he lost his footing. I genuinely believe that he wanted to provide some consolation to those of us grieving. I have no doubt that his desire was to speak to us words to soothe our grief and assuage our sadness. In that moment of significant loss, he tried to speak of profound things that would last and had the power to alleviate our grief. But instead of comforting us with the eternal word of God, he spoke that day of things that sounded profound but were less than transcendent. He said, “your grandmother will have eternal life in your memories.” He offered as comfort the words, “your grandmother will live on and remain with you in your hearts.” He spoke these things with genuine concern and conviction. At first, they seemed to have weight and truth, but they proved to be less than helpful on reflection. Memories are sweet, but there are many things about my grandmother I never knew, and there are many things about her I have already forgotten. Keeping her “in my heart” seems, at first, to be a sweet sentiment but, on reflection, holds no lasting weight. Rather than encourage, these words cheapen the biblical truth and gospel hope. These words deny the power of the eternal God, who is able to keep His promises of bodily resurrection and eternal life, to those who have died in faith and instead places the hope of eternity in the frail and fleeting heart of man. His words were nice-sounding, but they were powerless.

There is a crack in my parents' front door. The door is not in disrepair, and to most observers, there is no visible sign that the door's integrity is compromised. At night the severity and even the presence of the crack are impossible to determine. But when the sun shines, the light that presses through the crack bears an undeniable testimony.

I recently spent a few days at my parents' home. It was not a visit of pleasure but one of heartache. Close family friends had lost a son and a grandson, and I returned home to be with this family. My heart was broken. The heaviness of grief was felt with every breath. The fatigue of sadness rested on my shoulders like cumbersome over-stuffed luggage. Everything within me wanted to do something to make it better, assuage my friends' pain, and heal the brokenness. But there was nothing that could be done. All I could do was remember the wisdom of Solomon that there is an appointed time for everything, and this was a time to weep and mourn. And so, we did.

I remember school discussions of the First World War and how it was supposed to be the war to end war. It did not. I remember school discussions of how after the First World War, there was a period of significant industrialization and medical and technological advancements that many thought would usher in a new area of human prosperity and tranquility. It did not. It is easy to see previous generations' hubris and recognize their foolishness. No war can create lasting peace. There is no advancement of technology, no matter the laudable intentions of its creator, that will not also be used for nefarious means. No medical advancement comes without ethical dilemmas and malicious applications. In contrast to the clarity we recognize past hubris, it is difficult to see our own in the present.

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.

Years ago, after moving to a new town and a new ministry position, I decided that it would be good to meet the other pastors in the community. One church in the community I recognized was a significant connection to make. This church was of another denomination than my church. Yet, our two churches had historically partnered in community service endeavors because of our proximity to one another and equivalent prominence in the community. Knowing this history, I thought a relationship with this church’s pastor would be beneficial. I called the church and made an appointment. The pastor’s secretary greeted me and escorted me to the pastor’s office when I arrived. I imagined that the pastor would be welcoming, warm, and open to connecting with me. I was unpleasantly surprised.

When I entered his office, his disinterest was apparent, and he seemed annoyed that I had bothered to interrupt his time. I told him who I was and how I hoped we could be good partners for the gospel in our community. To say he was not interested would be a gross understatement. He made it clear that I could do whatever I wanted, but he was not interested in participating. He explained that he was within a year or two of retiring and was biding his time until that day. I was flabbergasted. He was not ashamed nor secretive about his plan. He intended to perform the minimum requirements of his pastoral duties until he could retire and move on to other things.

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.

A friend of mine once told me that they were planning to take a family member out to dinner for their birthday, but they were not looking forward to the event. I assumed that this meant that there was an ongoing conflict between the two and asked what the source of the conflict was. My friend told me that there was no conflict but that when their family member interacted with servers at a restaurant, they often were overly demanding, hyper-critical, and rude. He said that it seemed that his family member was never satisfied and consistently critical to a point that he was embarrassed to share a meal with him.

I fear the consumer-focused world we live in encourages a complaintive spirit. Business owners rightly are concerned that a bad review, fair or unfair, could hurt their business. Consumers today are well versed in all the ways that opinions and reviews can be posted online about businesses. This, along with the often-repeated mantra that “the customer is always right,” creates an atmosphere where entitlement and selfishness can run amuck.

Things are sad at my house this week. Our 11-year-old golden retriever died this past Monday. Copper came to our family as a gift from friends and proved to be a gift of God’s grace. When he joined our family, our oldest was eight years old, and our youngest was two years old. With such a young family, Dana had a lot on her plate. She was home with the children, and a new dog would only add to her responsibilities. Because of this, I felt that the decision of when (or if) we would get a new dog should be hers. It had been a while since our first dog had died, and other than saying she wanted our next dog to be a small breed we had talked very little about getting anything new.

Then one day, Dana called me at church to tell me that the Hancock’s had offered to give us a dog. Mike and Cathy Hancock were members of our church and good friends. I had been to their home many times and knew that the dogs that they bred were beautiful golden retrievers and that the father was large for the breed. A little surprised that Dana was considering having another large breed dog, I asked if she was sure she wanted a golden retriever. She countered that she thought a new dog would be good for the children. I was happily surprised both by the gift of the Hancocks and the receptiveness of Dana.

This weekend I am in Atlanta, GA for the Georgia high school state swimming championship. Our son, Micah, is competing in the meet. I will spend the weekend with parents from all over the state, cheering on our kids with great enthusiasm.

It does not matter what the sport or activity is, most parents happily spend great resources in time, effort, and money to support their children’s interests. Our family has spent hours and hours at rifle ranges watching air-rifle matches, in the unforgiving heat of softball tournaments, and swim meets that seem to go on forever. I have waited at the finish line of cross country meets anxiously scanning the distance for the first site of our runner. I have held my breath as our daughter went in for a basketball layup or sprinted from first base to steal second in softball. I have shouted until my voice gave out at swim meets, trying to motivate our swimmer to give that extra effort to cut a fraction of a second off their time. I have experienced moments of great anxiety at rifle meets when the accuracy of the next shot would be the difference between a great win or a disappointing loss. There have been moments of wonderful joy when games were won, and there has been long silent car rides home because of the sting of losing.

We talk a lot about our bodies. We talk about what hurts. We talk about what is not working as it should. We talk about the things we are doing to accommodate injuries or treatment for maladies. We are embodied beings. We relate to our world and all that is in it through our bodies. We know the world around us by what we see, hear, smell, and feel. Our life is dependent on the well-being of our bodies. For these reasons and many others, we tend to be very aware of and concerned for our bodies.

My wife and I are both runners. We regularly talk about how our recent runs have gone. We also talk a lot about how well our bodies are doing. Daily exercise makes you very aware of the ever-changing state of your body. You become aware of new pains and discomforts. You notice when a run goes well and when you struggle to finish. You pay close attention to how different shoes affect your speed, endurance, and recovery. As with any regular physical activity, you develop areas of soreness and related injuries. You tend to track if particular areas of discomfort are improving or growing worse. When runners get together, a large part of our conversations is about our bodies. We discuss injuries and share treatments we have found to be helpful. We discuss training regiments and how these can improve performance. We discuss shoes and other running-related equipment and how they can help performance, address a chronic injury, or provide comfort.

I have often heard it said that sheep are dumb. Generally, this assessment of the deficient intelligence of the ovine mind is used to explain the propensity of sheep to wander off from the herd and become lost. The Bible often uses sheep as a metaphor for God’s people. As such, when biblical passages are taught that deal with the imagery of sheep and their shepherds the negative assessment of being dumb and stupid is often applied both to the sheep and to Christians. This negative description of sheep is so commonly used that it gives the impression that the biblical perspective of sheep is universally negative.

Several years ago, a friend allowed me to use his river cabin for a week to study and write. During that particular season of my life, the pressures of ministry were heavy and unpleasant, and I very much needed a moment of respite. The use of the cabin was a welcomed gift. I was thankful for the opportunity for the respite, and I was thrilled by the opportunity to enjoy this particular place. My friend’s river cabin had been the place of many church events and gatherings during my childhood and thus held happy memories for me. These memories, along with my awareness of how much I needed the opportunity to momentarily step away from the difficulties of ministry, filled me with hope, that the week I would spend there would be a blessing to me.

Looking back, I think I was in a more precarious situation mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and even physically than I realized at the time. The particulars and causes of why ministry was so burdensome during those days are no longer important. What is important is that every area of my life was being consumed by these burdens without any relief or space for other things. Though others contributed, the fault for this lay with me. I had not actively created healthy boundaries and space in my life. Having dangerously neglected my own need for these things, I was hopeful that a week alone at the lake would provide a lifeline that would allow me to persevere. The use of the cabin was a gracious gift. Even the timing of the week I would spend there was ordered by God’s grace. I arrived late in the afternoon of Labor Day. This is the last day of summer fun on the lake for many who have houses there. Not only did I have the cabin to myself, but because there were so few there after Labor Day, it felt like I had the whole lake to myself.

Personal experience and academic knowledge are related but not the same. They are distant cousins. One can have a vast academic and technical understanding of something, even being able to describe it in the most specific details without personally and experientially knowing what they are describing.

In October of 1735, the trustees for the establishment of the colony of Georgia appointed Francis Moore to be the keeper of the stores for the new fort and town that was to be established on the banks of the Mackay River. Both the fort and the town would be named Frederica. Moore would travel to Georgia with James Oglethorpe to this new town on what today is known as St. Simons Island. Moore would return to England a year later only to come again to Frederica in 1738 as recorder. He would live in Georgia until 1746, witnessing the siege of St. Augustine and the Spanish invasion of Georgia in 1742. Moore kept journals detailing the establishment of the fort and town, the people, flora and fauna, and events he witnessed. Some of his journals were published.

When I was a kid, my church did a Living Christmas Tree program each Christmas season. The event was very much a product of 1980s church culture. It featured a massive steel-framed Christmas tree that rose from the base of the stage to inches from the high ceiling. The tree was constructed to support ascending rows of choir members who stood behind the tree's greenery with only their heads and shoulders exposed. The large choir would perform from the tree, while drama skits and small musical ensembles would perform on stages to the left and right of the tree. The event featured a full orchestra and the spectacle of lights on the tree. I loved it and looked forward to it each year. Over the years, there were common themes that were used year after year. One of those was a narration that made a distinction between this tree and that tree.