Maybe you don't need the Holy Spirit

The lead pastor at our church kicked off a message series on the Holy Spirit some time ago. The message was excellent as I would expect from him. It has caused the wheels in my mind to turn in directions they haven't for awhile. This message and some other things I have been reading over the past several months (especially a couple of John Eldredge books) mixed together in my mind to generate some new thoughts for me. I decided that this was as good a place as any to share them. First, I believed long before reading Eldredge that spiritual warfare is real, that we have a crafty enemy in the spiritual realm. Since the Holy Spirit is an incredibly powerful resource for the followers of Christ, it would make perfect sense that our enemy would wish to minimize the effectiveness of that resource. Let the Christians settle for the doctrine of the Holy Spirit, but neglect actual life in the Holy Spirit. Cause the Christians to divide up over the gifts and manifestations of the Spirit in the lives of believers. Once the camps are fully formed with each fully convinced that they know what the Spirit does and does not do, what the Spirit used to do but no longer does, and what the Spirit does versus what we do - the Unholy Spirit can preside over the camps. Thus, some camps are guilty of blaming the Holy Spirit for many acts of the flesh or downright deception. Other camps are filled with people absolutely afraid of the Holy Spirit. They don't even like discussing the subject; forget getting near the Person. I fear that much of Christ's Church is impaired related to the Holy Spirit. Most of the impairment that I see lies in two arenas. In one arena are many believers whose experience with the Holy Spirit is limited to emotional feelings they have occasionally, mostly in emotionally charged church meetings. The other arena is made up of those who, for a variety of reasons, have no experience with the Spirit or any desire for an experience with the Holy Spirit. Let me first address the first group. I don't mean to suggest that an experience with the Holy Spirit is devoid of emotion. I only want to state that experiences with the Spirit are not necessarily laden with thrilling emotions. And thrilling emotions are not in themselves very accurate measures of the Holy Spirit's presence or work. Frankly, the enemy has a pretty long track record of using thrilling emotional experiences to promote and perpetuate sinful behavior in us. One should be careful not to substitute a mere emotional experience from a spiritual one, and a Holy Spiritual one at that. The second group is the larger of the two groups, in my opinion - at least in my day. People in this group have gross ignorance of, if not an outright aversion to, the Spirit. In the New Testament, there is an interesting passage about the Apostle Paul going to Ephesus and finding some people who expressed belief in Jesus. Apparently, he sensed something or saw something about their lives that made him ask, "Did you receive the Holy Spirit when you believed?" There answer made it clear why Paul's question was so appropriate. They said, "We have not even heard that there is a Holy Spirit" (Acts 19). Now, in the early years of the spread of Christian teaching, that statement makes sense. These were people who were baptized by John the Baptist and came to believe in and follow Jesus. They had somehow never encountered the full gospel message however since the resurrection of Jesus. It should not be so in our age, but I am afraid it is. Jesus is preached in places where the Holy Spirit is hardly mentioned. So, one could find believers in Jesus who might say, "I have never heard of this Holy Spirit" except by some to those TV preachers that I don't trust at all. In other denominational settings, I fear that the Holy Spirit is nothing more than a doctrine of Christianity.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

I don't remember the year exactly, but it was in the early 70's that my maternal grandfather died. I know I was driving my 1970 Olds Cutlass that I had bought brand new; and I don't think I had owned it more than a year at the time. On this rather strange occasion, I had gone home to visit my family - especially my Mom. My maternal grandmother had died the previous year, so on this trip, I decided I would drop in and see my grandpa on the way home.

The experience was shocking. When we pulled up to the old house where he lived, there were a few cars there already. Grandpa never had a car, never drove as far as I knew. So, he obviously had company. But this was in the daytime and on a weekday. At the door, I was greeted by an aunt who invited us in. The cars belonged to aunts and uncles I quickly learned. The news came fast. "Pop died this morning."

The body had just been discovered by one of the aunts early that morning. Grandpa was just sitting on his couch - dead - when she came in. The authorities had already come and taken his body away. All the aunts and uncles that were physically close were notified and assembled at the house. My Mom had not been notified.

It was a shocking experience to learn that Grandpa had already died. But there was something more shocking. Grandma and Grandpa had 11 children. Grandpa was an alcoholic; well, I guess I should say he was a drunk since he never went to any of those blasted meetings. He was not a heavy drinker all the time. He was more of a monthly binge drinker. He would get his Army pension check on the 1st of the month and he would routinely drink a good part of it away.

They were very poor people. They lived in a small four-room house on a large lot right beside the railroad track that ran through town. Somehow they had gotten water plumbed into the kitchen sink; that was all. And the water there was only cold water. The house had no water heater. The old house was heated with a large coal stove in the living room. An outhouse near the alley in the back was the only bathroom facility. And this was the way it was the day Grandpa died.

The most valuable possession they had was a television. And it was nothing spectacular.

So what shocked me more than learning that Grandpa had died was watching my aunts and uncles interact. They were arguing over who was going to get what. I cannot describe the disgust I felt. Grandpa's body was barely down to room temperature and these jerks are arguing over his stuff. I was in my mid 20's at the time and I had more stuff than what was in that house. I listened to the bickering for a few minutes and I had all I could stand. I told them so, in no uncertain terms.

One of my uncles, whom we had visited several times in prison when I was a kid, responded to my rebuke with a threatening one of his own. He said something to the effect of "If you know what is good for you, you'll keep your mouth shut, Nonie" (I guess that's how you spell it; I never saw it in writing; it was just what a lot of family called me back then. It was pronounced "NO-knee".) Since I never knew what this uncle was in prison for, I quickly shut up and left the premises. I have had no desire to be around any of them since. I have seen a couple of my aunts and an uncle that were not there that day.

Maybe Grandpa deserved kids like that. Maybe not. Though I heard plenty of stories about his alcohol abuse, I never saw him either drinking or drunk. He was always really nice to me. I liked him and he liked me. I don't like most of his kids though. I choose better friends than that.

I am very thankful for one of his children, my Mom, the second of the 11. This is my first Thanksgiving without her. I wish you were here. I'm glad you're not here anymore.

The United Way and Me

I was stationed in Jacksonville, FL when it happened. I had only been in the service five-to-seven months. Jacksonville was where I was sent from boot camp to be trained as an aircraft electrician, which is how I served my country for the next four years.

Most of the young men in my class were single guys like myself. There were a couple of married guys who lived off base. When there were "official meetings" or our unit had "duty", these married guys had to join us in the barracks. On one such assembly, we were informed that the United Way was requesting each of us to donate some small amount of money from our small paychecks. I think it was only one dollar per month. We were further informed that our commander wanted 100% participation from his command.

We discussed this among ourselves in the barracks that night, with at least one of the married guys speaking up strongly against it. We all agreed with his opinion; we didn't have money to give away. Personally, I had a car payment I couldn't make on the money the Navy paid me. I think it was a couple of days later that we were to turn in the forms to approve the Navy deducting a set amount from our paychecks. We all turned them back in declining the request.

This did not go over well with the commander. Did I mention that he wanted 100% participation from those in his command? Apparently, commanders were pretty used to getting what they wanted. When the paperwork hit his desk, something else hit the fan. We were all assembled again. This time we were told that, if we chose not comply with the request, we might have "bag inspections" on Saturdays.

I must explain what "bag inspections" were. When we joined the Navy, we were given a large duffel bag in which all of our Navy-issued belongings, (the underwear, shoes, socks, hats and uniforms provided in boot camp) were packed. A bag inspection would entail having to pack all of those possessions in the bag, carry it to a designated inspection spot (probably not close to the barracks), and then lay it all out to ensure we had all of the proper equipment in acceptable condition.

The idea of a bag inspection was not a pleasant thought, so it made a reasonable threat. No young sailor wanted to spend part of his Saturday that way. So - the opinion in the barracks quickly changed. Everyone but me decided to sign the papers and let the Navy take a little of our money to help out the United Way. It was not because any of us became more charitable with our limited funds. It was because - for almost everyone there, it seemed like the most reasonable option.

When our barracks chief discovered that I had still refused, he told me that I would have four hours of "extra duty" on Saturday. I was to report to him at 0800 hours in dungarees. For four hours I was charged with cleaning this and moving that. About half way through the morning, this petty officer in charge told me that, if I insisted on refusing to sign the paper, we could be doing this for many more weeks. I said to him, "Sir, you can have me do extra duty for the next four years; but I will not give money to the United Way." I never heard anything else from him. I was never forced to do extra duty again. In retrospect, that petty officer didn't want to have to supervise me on his Saturday either.

At the time this all became an issue, I had nothing against the United Way. I had heard their advertisements about a new way to support various organizations like the heart association, cancer society, etc. People could make one pledge and not be pestered by dozens of agencies wanting financial donations. It sounded reasonable. In fact, if this proposition had been made while I was still working at the factory in my hometown, I would have probably signed on to do it.

The practice of coercing military men to give to the United Way was undoubtedly being investigated at the very time that my barracks mates and I were being coerced. By the next year, when the United Way drive was in gear at my next duty station, we were clearly informed that we could not be forced to contribute - that congress had passed a law making it illegal to do so. Still, we were told that our commander wanted 100% participation from those in his command. I don't know how many refused this time. Maybe I was the only one again. The four hours of extra duty the prior year was fresh in my mind, and I had not changed my mind.

This time I was not threatened, but I was called into the squadron commander's office. He issued no threat. He wanted to know why I would not contribute. In his mind it seemed like such a little amount and such a reasonable request to ask everyone to do their part. Then he told me that, if I still didn't want to contribute, he would personally put the money in for me. In retrospect, I suppose he anticipated that suggestion would make me feel guilty enough to sign on. It didn't. I told him - respectfully - that he could do whatever he wanted but I would not give. I also told him what happened to me in the previous command.

The United Way supports a lot of good works. My problem was not with their goals, but their methodology of reaching those goals. Just because someone decided it would be a great thing if every American worker gave to a particular cause or cluster of causes, does not mean that you or I should feel obliged to give. Neither does it mean that some corporate head should apply pressure on underlings to give. That, I am fairly sure, still happens.

I am a pretty generous man. I give to worthy organizations regularly. But I have little tolerance for manipulating and coercing people to be generous. So, for that violation of my person - and not me alone - the United Way shall never get one red cent of my money. Over the years, I have found more reasons not to contribute to the United Way. They have had a tendency to support agencies that many of us would not choose to support. Many years ago the excessively high compensation to the head of United Way was exposed. If I had ever a doubt about changing my mind, that solidified it.

Wounds of a Friend

Yesterday I had a minor surgery to remove a rather large cyst from my back. I was sent home with instructions for care of my back until time to have the stitches removed. The instructions covered things like bathing, what to do if I should experience heavy bleeding, and care of "the wound".

That is what the sheet called the place where the doctor made an incision, removed the problematic cyst and sewed me back together - a wound. I immediately thought of a proverb, Proverb 27:6 to be exact. The first part of the verse says, "Faithful are the wounds of a friend . . ." (NKJV). The NIV translates it, "Wounds from a friend can be trusted . . ." Sometimes, in an earnest effort to help someone, we must hurt them. We can even say we wounded them as the doctor did about his minor surgery. It is a wound to be dressed and properly cared for. It is certainly not a wound as I typically think of wounds.

I think of a wound being something that happened either by an accident or at the hands of an adversary. Dr. Monks was no adversary and neither was his action accidental. On purpose, he wounded me. He wounded me to heal me.

Now, he did his best to minimize the pain of his service. He deadened the area before he started cutting me open. He suggested I take Extra-strength Tylenol for pain and discomfort after the initial anesthetic wore off. Last night I took a couple of the Tylenol tablets because of substantial discomfort. Today I have felt the discomfort but am being a tough guy and not taking anything for it. I'm fine.

This situation is a great illustration of the proverb. Friends sometimes have to wound us to help us. We sometimes have to wound our friends to help them. Such wounds are not meant to harm but to help. May we have the sanity to see the help through the hurt when we are wounded by a friend. May we have the good fortune and the sanity to only wound as a friend.

Invitation to the Eldership

This morning at church I was approached by one of the leaders. He asked for a couple of minutes of my time; I granted his wish. He wanted to talk to me about the elder selection process in our church.

Each year the current leaders solicit input from the members via a form in the Sunday morning bulletins. These forms are included for a few weeks to give everyone the opportunity to provide input. The form gives room for a member to recommend several people to the eldership whom they view as qualified for this honorable position of leadership.

The man told me that my name had been submitted by several people. He wanted to know if I would prayerfully consider accepting this position of responsibility. I told him that I was honored to have been viewed with such respect by the various people who submitted my name and by the eldership who affirmed that view by approaching me. I also told him that I had already pre-decided this years ago. I would turn down the invitation.

I have served as an elder in two other churches. I won't go into all the reasons for my decision, but basically I don't feel called to that kind of leadership. I serve in various capacities of leadership and feel comfortable that God wants me in all of these roles, at this time. Until God changes my mind, I will turn down any such invitations.

As I sat in the worship assembly a little over an hour after I had turned down that invitation, this thought came to me: "Live in such a way that men might see you as worthy of an invitation to serve as an elder. That invitation, however, does not mean you need to accept." I believe that local churches should be populated with many men who are qualified to be elders, yet feel no personal calling to that particular service.

Something is wrong with the concept of discipleship when you find a church with a bunch of Christian men, who have been "Christian men" for 20 years or more, and are not close to biblically qualified for the eldership. Furthermore, it is an error to think that the qualifications for an elder are just qualifications of an elder. They are marks of Christian maturity that should be the goal of every man who comes to follow Jesus.

I fear that many churches focus on salvation too much. How can that be? Well, if you focus on salvation to the exclusion of maturation, I think you have too much focus there. If a person wants to come to Jesus "just as I am" but intends to stay as they are, they have missed the mark of Christ's mission, in humble understanding. I have been in many evangelistic meetings where, at decision time, we were all instructed to bow our heads and close our eyes. Then, with every head bowed and every eye closed, the one who felt a need to respond to Christ was to "slip a hand up in the air". The evangelist would then, announce to all of us, "I see those hands; I see that hand up in the balcony." For years, I have thought that some substantial number of those "converts" are waiting for all of us to bow our heads and close their eyes before they are ready to really live for God.

If you have been avoiding the process of spiritual maturation, I have this to say: Get off your saved butt, in Jesus name. Get with the program. He didn't ask us to say we will follow; He asked us to really follow Him. Following Him leads to maturity. If the way you have been on hasn't honestly led to maturity, you have not been on His Way. I can't say it any clearer or kinder.

Doing Funeral Services

In almost 33 years of ministry as an ordained minister, I have officiated at more funerals, memorials, and graveside services than I can count (or at least remember). Most were services for elderly people whose deaths were not shocking to the family. I've done some funerals for people whose death was untimely, unexpected, shocking. For instance, I served two families who had adult sons who committed suicide. I performed a graveside service once for an elderly man I had never known. A funeral home contacted me for the three of four elderly survivors who could attend a service. It was a very brief ceremony and one of the least rewarding services I have ever performed. Individuals who die are all unique, their families are all different from one another, the ages and circumstances of the death differ which makes each funeral in ways unique. This weekend I performed one that shall forever be in a category of its own.

On Saturday afternoon, April 28th, I performed a graveside service for my mother and led a memorial gathering of family and friends afterward. My mother's expressed wish was that I would do her graveside service. That was all she wanted done, just a graveside service - no funeral. She restricted viewing of her in the casket to one hour before the graveside service. She didn't like the idea of people fussing over her, looking at her or talking about her when she wasn't there. So, she controlled as much of that as she could. With due respect for what Mom wanted, her other children and I, our spouses and our children controlled what was important to us.

We planned a memorial gathering at Mom's church after the graveside service. There we could have a little more relaxed setting to share thoughts and memories about our loved one with others who knew her and loved her, too. Would Mom have approved? Doubtful, but then we didn't ask. In fact, we weren't consulted about what we wanted in this time. (Word to the wise: You can only control so much stuff after you are dead and gone.)

At the grave site, I shared some of the significant bio information that was printed in her obituary. She was the second born of 11 children. As such, she had responsibilities in the home to help care for the younger siblings. She was a responsible child, hard-working, reliable and trustworthy. I knew that Mom had grown up in the Great Depression, but I hadn't done the math until I prepared for her service. She was 9 1/2 when the stock market crashed in 1929. Like many of her peers, she was a frugal lady. I told at the graveside how she would go from grocery to grocer to get the food to feed her family, shopping the sales at each store. She watched sales like a hawk. And she watched the store clerks at the cash registers even closer. They made mistakes, but few if any that my Mom didn't catch. If she didn't catch the mistake at the time, she would go over her receipt at home; and when she found a mistake, it would mean a trip back to the store (even for a nickle or a dime).

Now, when I was a kid gas was 15 to 20 cents a gallon. Mom would spend the gas money to get her dime back from the store. If it were today, with gas at over $3.50 per gallon, she would still want to go back and get her nickle or dime. The injustice of being overcharged trumped all mathematics.

Mom did have a strong sense of justice. She wanted things to be right and fair. This world in not always right or fair. And my Mom knew this experientially. She experienced a lot of wrong and unfair treatment. I was a witness to some of it - from my own father. Couple with Mom's passion for justice was difficulty forgiving people who had had treated her unjustly, especially if it were a repeated offense.

Mom was a saint, in the true sense of the word. In the New Testament, a saint was not some exceptional version of a Christian - a Super-Christian; saint was the term used for Christians in general. Those who believed in Jesus, who chose to follow Him in faith were known as saints. And that was my Mom.

She knew she had a sin-debt with God. She believed that Jesus settled that debt on the Cross. She believed that Jesus was coming back for her. In fact, she - not so secretly - hoped that He would come back before she would have to face death. She believed that He went to prepare a place for her - a WONDERFUL place. She believed that He would give her a new body - one with no weakness or limitations, no pains or sickness. She believed in a place where He "would wipe every tear from [her] eyes", where there would be "no more death or mourning or crying or pain".

I stood with the few family members and friends, who gathered there at Fall Cemetery under a tent at her grave site on that chilly April day, and proclaimed what I believe. She now has that for which she hoped. I even believe she has more than she hoped for. I think heaven offers us more than we can imagine. Whatever she had in mind about life on the other side, while she contemplated it from here, fell woefully short of the reality there. I am sure that every faculty she ever possessed is more than restored; it is hers in upgraded form. She can see like she never saw in her life. She can see God's hand at work in her life in ways she never realized.

Before we committed her body back to the earth, I shared how in my last eight years at home we lived at 1270 Pike Street in Wabash. Since then, we had all moved away from 1270 Pike Street. It used to be our home, but it no longer is our home. Likewise, the body in the casket used to be Mom's home, but it no longer is. So, it was fitting that we store away that home in Falls Cemetery. And we did.

My Mom Died

This morning I received a call from my brother, Terry. It is not usual that I get a call from him, especially in the morning. When I saw his name on the caller ID, I thought I was in for news about Mom. I thought she might have died; I thought something might have happened and she had been taken to the hospital. I was right.

The nursing center had just called him to say that our mother had passed from this life. She had been declining substantially in her mental functions in recent weeks. So I was not surprised.

I called my sister to inform her. She had the same experience as I; seeing my name on the caller ID, she was braced for what I had to tell her.

We both took the news well, at least initially. I shed some tears an hour or so later, after talking with Mom's nurse. She assured me that Mom had had a pleasant morning, ate a nice breakfast and slipped away peacefully between 10:30 and 11:00 after finishing her mid-morning snack. It was just exactly what I have prayed for, that she would go quickly and peacefully.

Thank you Jesus for my Mom and the hope I have of seeing her again - but in perfect health next time. I hold onto this hope, not just a hope of seeing my mother again, but seeing her fully healthy and fully satisfied.

My mom had a decent life in America, but a life of struggle. My dad was not a good husband, to say the least. After divorcing him, she never remarried. Though she loved her children dearly, we were busy with our own family lives in adulthood. I'm sure she battled a lot of loneliness. She struggled with health issues of various kinds. At least a couple of decades ago, she had a viral infection that destroyed her sense of smell. This largely impaired her enjoyment of food. Her brain had been deteriorating in recent years - short-term memory almost non-existent for the past two years. Thankfully, she knew us kids to the end, though she could hardly communicate in recent weeks. So, my hope is that Mom is in that place where she is whole and there is no distraction from the joy of Life.