The first Christmas of the war came five months after the war began. As soldiers sat in their wet and muddy trenches, they anticipated that Christmas day would come and go as so many days before had been spent. However, as darkness fell over the battlefield on Christmas Eve, British soldiers began to hear singing. The German soldiers were singing Christmas carols. The British soldiers heard familiar melodies emanating across the battle-scarred earth where so many had died, and some corpses still lay where they fell. They listened. Some even added their voice to the strange choir. Singing would lead to invitations, and miraculously the soldiers eventually climbed out of their muddy holes and met one another in "No Man's Land," to celebrate Christmas together. There were handshakes, sharing of cigarettes and cigars, and most importantly, a momentary pause in the exchange of gunfire. Diaries and letters to loved ones back home told of makeshift Christmas trees being erected and decorated, soccer games, and other joint activities in stark contrast to the context and location. The momentary relief from the prosecution of war also allowed both sides to collect their dead.

One of the common experiences of growing up in a Baptist church in the south was hearing preachers tell stories of their recent evangelistic conversations. The stories would generally begin with the preacher telling how he met someone in a restaurant or on a plane. The stories tended to have similar arcs. They would begin by describing the other person as someone the preacher was unlikely to run into in their daily activities. The conversation was begun with an intriguing question and eventually ended with the person praying to receive Christ as their savior. At their best, these stories were intended to encourage the church to take every opportunity to share Jesus wherever they went and with whomever they encountered. At their worst, these stories were thinly veiled boasts of spiritual greatness and had the effect of creating the feeling of inferiority and ineptitude in those listening in the pews. I genuinely believe the stories were true, yet I suspect the presentation was skewed. Skewed, in that, intended or not, the way these stories were told seemed to communicate that every conversation the preacher had ended in a successful conversion story. I doubt that was the reality for the preachers of my youth, and it has certainly not been true for me in my experience.

I do try to take every opportunity to share Jesus wherever I go and with whomever I encounter. This has indeed led to unexpected opportunities to share Jesus with strangers. And I have experienced great joy when these encounters have led to someone confessing in faith Jesus as their Lord. But the truth is that most of these encounters have not ended in a sermon illustration-worthy confession of faith but rather a rejection of my plea to come and know Jesus. What follows is the account of just such an encounter and how it has changed how I think about evangelism.

The spoken word is powerful. There is power in speaking a name. There is power in speaking a declarative statement. There is power in asking a question. God created man with the ability to formulate and express thoughts with words. We know God through His word, and we express ourselves to God through words in prayer. Our relationship with one another is developed by the words that we speak. The spoken word can be glorious in that it can encourage, inform, bring joy, and heal. The spoken word can also be destructive in that it can discourage, deceive, and wound. With our words, we can enlighten or confuse, bless or curse, build up or tear down, encourage or demoralize.

The ability to express thoughts and emotions through speech is part of being made in the image of God. God is one who speaks. God spoke all things into existence. The third verse of the Bible begins with the words, “and God said.” With these words, God declared what was good and pleasing. Later God gave testimony to Himself through the words of the law. And finally, Hebrews tells us, “Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world.” And our God who speaks, by His command, created man in His image with the glorious gift of expressive speech.

This past week about 11.4 million people in the U.S. and 32.5 million in Britain tuned in to watch the funeral services of Queen Elizabeth II. There was much in the ceremony that was connected to the symbols and trappings of royalty but what I found most encouraging was how much scripture was read throughout the proceedings.

I had a college professor who often encouraged junior classmen to attend graduation ceremonies even if they had no personal connection with graduates. He reasoned that attending the ceremony of those who had completed their studies would be a need encouragement to those who were still pursuing their degree. Freshmen enjoy the enthusiasm associated with starting something new. Sophomores are still working through the basic core classes. Juniors are working through the more rigorous classes in their chosen major. They no longer have the excitement of freshmen, and they may not yet have the clarity of purpose of seniors. Attending the commencement ceremonies helps give clarity to the purpose and goal of their academic pursuits. In a grander way, funerals help to provide clarity to the pursuit and goal of our lives. Funerals can be stressful and emotionally difficult, but I think they are important to the church's witness.

I like consistency. I run the same route every day for my morning run. I know the exact places on the course where I will hit distance goals. I know the houses where there are dogs and which ones bark, which ones will come out to meet me, and which ones just watch me run by. I know where the pavement is uneven and where it is smooth. The consistency of running the same route and learning all these details allows me to give little attention to where I am and where I am going. It allows me the freedom to just enjoy the run because the details of the route, distance, and road hazards are so well known they require little notice.

The familiarity provided by consistency also allows me to focus on other things. I have employed prayer prompts for many years to remind me to pray for certain things. Prayer prompts are places and things that remind you to pray for a specific need when you see them or pass them by. Once, a pastor asked me to pray for an issue his family was facing. So, every morning when I ran past his home, I prayed for him and his family. Over the years, the specifics of what I pray as changed. But every morning, as I run down his road, I still pray for him, his family, and his church.

There are two opposing kinds of workers. The first kind often looks like they are not giving much effort to their work. They get their job done and are good at what they do, but because of the appearance of the lack of effort, some judge their job as easy in comparison to others. The second kind often looks overworked, overstressed, and working very hard. They, too, get their job done, but because of the effort and stress required, many judge their job as more burdensome than others.

This summer, my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. My sister Abbie, and I, along with our spouses and children, traveled to Columbus for the celebration. Everything about the weekend was joyful and good. On Saturday night we enjoyed a meal together with all the family. Afterward, we gathered at the house and played a video for my parents of good wishes from many of their friends. On Sunday, I had the privilege of teaching my dad's Sunday school class; then, we packed a pew for Sunday worship. After church, we took lots of family pictures. Every moment of the weekend was joy-filled.

During the weekend I looked at my parents' wedding photos. In the pictures, they are young, fresh-faced, and smiling. Though it is hard to think of your parents as being other than how you have known them, I know enough to know that the young couple in the photos had no clue what the years ahead would bring. In the photos, they are all smiles and youthful glee. Their faces show no signs of worry, and their smiles look genuinely carefree. There is one particular photo that captured my attention. It was the photo of the moment my parents emerged from the church to leave for their honeymoon. All the wedding guests had lined up beside the door to wish them well as they ran to the car. It was the tradition then to throw rice at departing couples, but because my dad worked for a peanut company, the guests through peanuts. The photo captures the moment of glee just after the covenant making and before the covenant keeping. Peanuts are in the air. Their smiles seem more part of who they are than momentary expressions as they dodge the flying legumes. They were husband and wife, happy to be united in marriage and excited to begin their life together. The photo perfectly captures that most joyful moment.

Therapy is excruciating. My therapist's personality is light-hearted and jovial. The treatment room is an open area allowing for patients to interact with one another. His personality and approach to his work create a happy and enjoyable atmosphere. The other therapist and staff are kind and gracious. In the treatment room, there is often much laughter. And under different circumstances, time spent in the treatment room would be much enjoyed. However, my therapy primarily consists of the therapist moving my hand up and down, side to side, and back and forth from one eye-watering pain point to another. Sometimes it hurts so bad I cannot carry on a conversation. Sometimes the pain is so intense I cannot remain seated. While the therapist holds and manipulates my hand, I wiggle and squirm every other part of my body, trying to endure the insufferable pain.

We spend so much effort trying to avoid pain and discomfort; why would I willfully go to a place where I know I will experience pain? My therapist was honest about what therapy would require; knowing this, I still make appointments, willfully attend my appointments, and even gladly pay for the services. Each session is painful and difficult, yet at the end, I genuinely thank the very person who has caused me to suffer for the past hour. To willfully pursue pain and discomfort is counterintuitive. To continue to pursue pain and discomfort is contrary to our normal avoidance of such things. So why have I been going to physical therapy and intend to continue to do so? I do so because I have faith that my therapist has the knowledge and ability to bring healing and restoration to my wrist. I have confidence that though he presently inflicts pain, his work has a purpose and will result in my wrist being able to move and bend as it did before the break. I put my hand into his, trusting that as he bends my wrist well beyond what is comfortable, he is working for my good and betterment.

Cell service in my office is spotty, and my calls are often dropped. Sometimes when this happens, I am unaware until I end a sentence and wait for the other person to respond and only hear silence. Not sure if they are in thought, still waiting on me to say something else, or no longer on the line, I ask, "are you still there"? I know that I have been talking to myself when this question is met with more silence.

You may have been wondering if I am still here. It has been over a month since I have written a blog post or sent out an email. My lack of activity has not been for lack of desire but rather circumstances not entirely of my choosing.

Next week, the Southern Baptist Convention will hold our Annual Meeting. On Tuesday and Wednesday, thousands of Southern Baptists will gather in Anaheim, California, to make decisions concerning the direction of the denomination. To the outside observer, the Annual Meeting of the SBC is often misunderstood. The SBC is unlike other denominations that are governed through hierarchical authority. The SBC is comprised of over 47,000 autonomous churches that have cooperated to advance global and North American missions, theological education, and other related ministries. We voluntarily associate and are bound together by our cooperative support of missions and our adherence to the Baptist Faith and Message 2000, which is our doctrinal statement.

Each cooperating church can send messengers (similar to a delegate) to the Annual Meeting. The ultimate authority and control of the convention rest with the messengers. There are many advantages to this governance structure, not the least of which is that the messengers can act contrary to the denominational leadership when corrective action is needed. However, the messenger model also means that our disagreements, deliberations, and discussions are all done publicly. In a world where many get their news from social media, these open debates often overshadow the actual final decision of the messengers.

It was early one Sunday morning while we were still at home getting ready for church. First Baptist Church of Jacksonville services was on our TV, and Mac Brunson was preaching. Molly said to me as she watched Brunson preach, "Dad, what you need to do is write down everything that he says and just preach that." I guess she recognized that his preaching was better than anything she had seen me do. I was a little wounded and asked her what she thought the difference was between his preaching and mine. Her response was simple and direct. She said, "Well, he is a pro."

And with that, a family joke was born. I told the story of our conversation during my sermon later that morning at church (watch the video here) and have told it many times since. Since then, whenever someone in our family wants to acknowledge someone's achievement, they call them a pro. Likewise, whenever someone recognizes a personal shortcoming, they say, "I'm not a pro." So, by the summer of 2016, being or not being a pro was a well-established family trope.

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.