Flight Paths

              We live on a slope.  The grade is gradual, so gradual you don’t really see it until it rains one of those sub-tropical downpours for which Florida is famous.  When four inches comes down in less than an hour, the property becomes a river two or three inches deep flowing downhill to the run, just past the property line.

              After the rain stops, the draining continues, though it slows to three or four tributaries and eventually two larger “rivers.”  One runs through the front yard, between the bird feeders, down around the house, across the septic drain field and off the property.  Another slants southeast through the PVC pipe culvert Keith installed under the road thirty-four years ago, down the berm on the top, north, edge of the garden and on east.  

              Usually within a couple of hours most of the water has drained, but puddles still fill a few low areas, and you learn where and how to walk for the next day or two.  On sandy land, the puddles dry up quickly, unless it’s the second weekend in a row with a four inch toad strangler.

              We learned early on to avoid those low spots for several days.  We first met one of our neighbors when we asked him to pull our car out of the mud with his tractor at least three times in one week.  Two months ago, for the first time in many years, he had to come down and do it again.  I knew what had happened when, after two deluges in one week, I heard the truck engine roar and looked out the window to see the back tires spinning and mud flying ten feet behind them.

              When you are stuck in the mud, you can’t move.  The wheels may rotate but all you do is dig ruts and uproot grass.  The harder you press the accelerator, the deeper the ruts and the less you move.  Even rocking the truck back and forth becomes impossible.

              Sometimes we get stuck in the spiritual mud.  It comes first with complacency.  We are happy with what we know and where we are, so we sit down, clasp our hands, and contentedly lean back with our feet up on the desk.  Proverbs speaks of the results of being a complacent “sluggard.”  Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest; so shall your poverty come as a robber, and your want as an armed man, 24:33,34.  Tell me the same thing won’t happen when we stop working on our spirituality.

              It isn’t just a matter of continuing to learn, though that is important.  An older woman in one of my classes has expressed appreciation for the new things I teach her.  “At my age it’s hard to find something new,” she said, “but you have given me that and it’s wonderful.”  Yes, the older you are, the more difficult it should be to find something new to learn, so you certainly cannot sit back and fold your hands in slumber—you must work even harder to find those things and they will be even deeper than the “first principles,” and require yet more thought and labor.

              But it is also a matter of progress.  I see people who haven’t changed one whit in thirty years, who still fight the same battles, who still fail the same way again and again.  I see people who still gossip, who still judge unfairly, who are still oversensitive and too easily offended.  I see people who still have their priorities upside down instead of finally learning the higher value of the spiritual over the carnal.  I see people who have come no closer to mastering self-control than when they were young and foolish—they just become too weary to go at it in their old age and that is all that has moderated their passions.

              So today, check to see where you stand—or wallow.  Are you stuck in the mud of worldliness and pleasure?  Are you glued in the mire of wealth and possessions and financial security?  Are you floundering in the quagmire of man’s philosophy and false theology?  Pull yourself out and start moving again.  If you cannot do it alone, call a neighbor to help.  That’s why God put us all here together. 

              And when the storms come into your life again, use your head—stay away from the low spots.  Find the high ground of spirituality and keep on climbing. 
 
I waited patiently for Jehovah; And he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay; And he set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. And he has put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our God: Many shall see it, and fear, And shall trust in Jehovah. Psalms 40:1-3.
 
Dene Ward

I was nearly out of lotion and saw a sale--some fancy stuff for the same price as good old Lubriderm.  I stood there at the display amid way too many choices.  How do you decide between apple pomegranate, vanilla fluff, gingerbread, sugar plum, lemon twist, and blue ocean?  Well, I was afraid the last one would make me smell like salt cod so that was a no-brainer.

            I picked up the gingerbread tube and thought I would just flip open the top and give it a sniff.  Nothing.  I do have more trouble these days smelling things because of all the medications.  So I decided to give the tube a light squeeze so a puff of scented air from inside the tube would give me a better whiff. 

            Instead of air, a big glop of orange creamsicle-colored lotion shot straight into the air and arced over to the catchall shelf of sorts that I carry in front of me.  Plop!  A big orange spot appeared on my bright blue sweater. 

            Wait!  Is anyone looking?  Did anyone see?  I looked around guiltily and then, because I had nothing else with me, started wiping if off with my finger.  The sweater was dark enough and nubby enough that the spot no longer showed, but I had a big dollop of lotion to get rid of and the best I could think was to just rub it into my hands and arms.  I am sure the security people were laughing their heads off as they viewed the monitor that picked up this “I Love Lucy” moment.

            You know what?  I did not like the smell.  A friend later asked me if I had spilled machine oil all over myself.  No, just gingerbread body lotion, and I carried it about with me for a long eight hour day because I had a doctor’s appointment afterward.  Yuk!

            Let that be a lesson to you.  Sometimes we start wondering what we are missing out there in the big, bad world.  I have been good all my life—brought up “in the church,” taught to obey all authorities--parents, teachers, policemen--memorized all the no-nos for a Christian, and the scriptures to go along with them.  If all those things out there are so bad, why do so many spend their lives pursuing them?  What do they know that I don’t?  Just one little whiff is all I want.

            But that little whiff can easily become a big glop of smelly stuff that we carry with us far longer than the actual experience lasts.  Consequences can raise a big stink in your life.  In fact, they can ruin your life, and even the lives of those you love and have no desire to hurt.

            It is not a question of what those folks out there know that you don’t; it’s a question of what you know that they don’t—that sin is deceptively easy to fall into and sometimes impossible to get out of.  God will forgive you, but he will not wash away the consequences—like ruined relationships, like destroyed trust, like physical diseases or injuries, like jail time and a record that follows
you everywhere. 

            Though I did not really like it much, that little glop of lotion did not smell quite that bad when it landed on my sweater.  But as the day grew longer, it began to reek.  Sin will do exactly the same thing.
 
There is no soundness in my flesh because of your indignation; there is no health in my bones because of my sin.  For my iniquities have gone over my head; like a heavy burden, they are too heavy for me. My wounds stink and fester because of my foolishness, I am utterly bowed down and prostrate; all the day I go about mourning. For my sides are filled with burning, and there is no soundness in my flesh.  I confess my iniquity; I am sorry for my sin. Do not forsake me, O LORD! O my God, be not far from me! Make haste to help me, O Lord, my salvation! Selected verses from the 38th Psalm.
 
 Dene Ward

Every morning we have a special routine.  Even Chloe loves the routine. 

              She hears us moving around in the kitchen and her ears perk up under the porch.  I know because as soon as the door opens, she is out of there in a bound, up the steps, tail wagging and ears pointed to the heavens.  Her people are coming out to be with her, I am sure she thinks.  To be truthful we do enjoy our time with her too, tossing treats and watching her scamper around to find them like a fuzzy red-headed vacuum cleaner.  But the real draw is that final cup of coffee—the lazy cup, where we sit and talk and watch the morning break around us, sunbeams filtering through the eastern woods, birds fluttering around the feeders, and hawks screaming overhead.  Sometimes we are treated to a few deer creeping out of the woods, a fox snuffling through the scraps we throw over the fence, and once, a flock of eleven wild turkeys who decided all of sudden that maybe they should fly after all.  What an amazing sight that was!

              We especially love the cooler mornings of fall, winter, and spring, when we can build a fire to warm our toes while the coffee warms our innards.  The fires are growing smaller these days as time marches inexorably on and summer approaches.  Trust me, no one wants a fire in Florida after the first of May!

              One day this past winter, after Keith had gone on to an appointment in town, I picked up a small chunk of wood and threw it on for just a few more minutes of "lazy time."  I should have known from its light weight that the wood was nearly rotten.  It turned out to be not only damp, but totally saturated as well.  When I threw it on a perfectly good fire that gave off a hot and steady flame, immediately the blaze dimmed and smoke began pouring out of the wood like a thick, gray, wool blanket.  The flame gamely burned on, doing its best to keep up and catch the old log, trying to bring it to the same level of blaze.  After five minutes I knew it was a lost cause, so I grabbed the poker stick and rolled the rotten piece off the fire.  Immediately the flame increased in size, strength, and heat.  Once again my toes were warm, and the smoke had dissipated.

              And that made me wonder about me.  I am no longer a young woman.  In log terms, I am just about as old as that piece I had thrown on the fire.  So how do I affect the young Christians around me?  Am I so wet and rotten with age that all I do is dampen their enthusiasm, sending up clouds of "smoke" as I complain about their ways, about the changes in things I have grown so comfortable with that they have taken on the feel of "law" to this tradition-bound mind of mine?  And much more startling to consider, if someone rolled me off the fire and tossed me to the side, would the church be better off?

              Do I keep them from accomplishing the mission I once worked so hard for simply because they don't do it "my way" anymore?  Do I keep the light from reaching others just because I don't like the new lamps that have been chosen? 

            I can still work as an individual, using the methods and materials I am comfortable with on a personal level.  No one has any business telling an old log she doesn't matter to the Lord any more.  But surely I can avoid putting out the fire in the hearts of the next generation; surely I can encourage them as they take over the majority of the work now, cheering them on instead of stifling their enthusiasm.  This old hoary head only deserves their respect when it helps instead of hinders.
 
And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher (she was of a great age, having lived with a husband seven years from her virginity, and she had been a widow even unto fourscore and four years), who departed not from the temple, worshipping with fastings and supplications night and day .And coming up at that very hour she gave thanks unto God, and spoke of him to all them that were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem. (Luke 2:36-38)
 
Dene Ward

Every Sunday afternoon I go through those colorful inserts in the Sunday paper and cut out coupons.  We don’t use much processed food beyond condiments and cereals, so I seldom clip the “hundreds of dollars worth” they brag about, but it’s always enough to pay for the paper and pull my shopping trip under budget, sometimes as much as 20%, so it’s well worth the effort.
 
             I regularly shake my head at a lot of the products I see these days.  Convenience foods have turned us into helpless klutzes in the kitchen.  Even at out of season prices I can buy a large fresh bell pepper and chop it myself into well more than a cupful for about $1, OR I can buy a measly half cup already chopped for $3 and save myself a whopping 2 minutes of chopping time at six times the cost.  Wow, she muttered, unimpressed.

              Then there is the “fun factor.”  For some reason we always need to be entertained.  As I flipped through those coupons last week, I came across a full page ad for a new cereal—“Poppin’ Pebbles,” which, I am told, offer “big berry flavor with a fantastic fizz.”  Evidently these out-fun the snap, crackle, pop of the old Rice Krispies I grew up with, judging by the amazed look on the child model’s face, her hands splayed over her cheeks in wonderment.  Now, I guess, our meals must entertain us before they are worthy to be eaten.

              Don’t think for a minute that this doesn’t reflect our spiritual attitudes.  “I can hardly listen to that man,” a sister told me once of a brother’s teaching ability.  The brother in question had one of the finest Bible minds I ever heard and regularly took a passage I thought I knew inside out and showed me something new in it, usually far deeper than its standard interpretation, one that kept me thinking for days afterward.  So what was the problem?  He didn’t tell jokes, he didn’t share cute stories or warm, fuzzy poetry.  He just talked and you had to do your part and listen—and THINK!

              Do you think they didn’t have those problems in the first century?  Pagan religion was exciting.  The fire, the spectacle, the pounding rhythms, the garish costumes, not to mention the appeal to sensuality, made it far more appealing to the masses than a quiet service of reverent, joyful a capella singing, prayers, and a simple supper memorializing a sacrifice.

              Some of those long ago brethren must have tried to bring in the fun factor.  When it came to spiritual gifts, they weren’t satisfied unless they could have the flashy ones.  The whole discussion in 1 Corinthians 12 begins with a group who thinks that their gift is the best because of that.  They have to be reminded that they all receive those gifts from the same source “as the Spirit wills” not as they will—it has nothing to do with one being better, or more necessary, than the other, or one brother being more important.

              They wanted to jazz up their services every chance they got, even speaking in tongues when an interpreter was not present.  Paul had to tell them to stop, to “be silent.”  It is not about entertainment and glory, he said, it’s about edification (1 Cor 14:26). 

              What did Paul call these people who wanted flash and show, who wanted entertainment?  In verse 14:20 he says that such behavior is childish.  In 3:1 he calls them carnal and equates that with spiritual immaturity.  Did you notice that breakfast cereal ad I mentioned is directed squarely at children?  It is assumed that when you grow up you don’t need such motivation to do what’s good for you, like eat your whole grains, and God assumes that as spiritual adults we will understand the importance of spiritual things. 

              And what about the friends we try to reach?  Do we pander to their baser instincts then expect to create an appreciation for intense Bible study, an ability to stand up to temptation, and a joyful acceptance of persecution?  When it’s no longer fun all the time, when it’s hard work and sacrifice, will they quit?

              People who want to be entertained are the same ones who want a physical kingdom here on this earth instead of the spiritual one that “is within you,” that is “not of this world.”  They are the ones who want a comedian for a preacher instead of a man of God who will teach the Word of God plainly and simply.  They want a singing group they can tap their toes to instead of songs they can sing from the heart with others who may be just as tone-deaf as they are.  Read the context.  “Singing with the spirit” is not about clapping your hands and stomping your feet to the rhythm.  It’s about teaching and growing spiritually.

              Being a Christian is always joyful, but when I believe that joy is always predicated on entertainment, I am no better than Herod who wanted Jesus to entertain him just hours before his crucifixion.  I am no better than the former pagans who tried to bring flashy rituals into the spiritual body of Christ.  I am no better than a child who needs coddling in order to behave himself. 

              Imagine what might have happened if Jesus had needed to be entertained in order to save us.
 
For it is a rebellious people, lying children, children that will not hear the law of Jehovah; that say to the seers, See not; and to the prophets, Prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits…And for this cause God sends them a working of error, that they should believe a lie: that they all might be judged who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness.  Isa 30:10,11; 2 Thes 2:11,12.
 
Dene Ward

"The number of manuscripts of the New Testament…is so large that it is practically certain that the true reading of every doubtful passage is preserved in some one or other of these ancient authorities.  This can be said of no other ancient book in the world.
              Scholars are satisfied that they possess substantially the true text of the principal Greek and Roman writers whose works have come down to us, of Sophocles, of Thucydides, of Cicero, of Virgil; yet our knowledge depends on a mere handful of manuscripts, whereas the manuscripts of the New Testament are counted by hundreds, even thousands." 

Frederic G. Kenyon, Our Bible and the Ancient Manuscripts

​The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever. (Isa 40:8)

Dene Ward

I will say this as kindly as I can:  Young people, please be careful when you utter the above comment to anyone, especially anyone older than you are.  I doubt you can find an easier way to put your foot in your mouth.

              A few years ago, I was cleaning up my room after a Bible class when a gentleman who was new to the congregation came in.  I am still not sure why he chose my classroom, unless it was the only one occupied, and he was looking for an ear.  I am always happy to be an ear.  I have done it many, many times.  I am not sure I have always helped, but sometimes being the ear is all the help needed, and it's one of the easiest ways to serve another.

              This was not a particularly young man, not many years younger than I, in fact.  But he began in earnest to tell me about his mother dying the year before.  I expressed sympathy, and that encouraged him to continue on.  He had been in the room with her when she died.  He was practically crying by then.  "You just don't have any idea how traumatic it is to watch your mother die."

              I continued making the appropriate comments as sincerely as I could, and finally his tears dried and he left me.  What I did not say to him was, "Yes, I do know what it's like—my father died just six months ago and I watched him take his last breath."  It would not have helped anything, in my judgment, and I soon found out I was probably right.

              We were sitting at a potluck meal not a month later, right across from this same man.  He began to talk about an incident in the service when, as a guard, he had to hold his weapon on another man.  "You have no idea what it's like to think you might have to make the decision to shoot someone," a sentiment that was made at least twice as he reran the story again and again in the next ten minutes.

              Neither Keith nor I mentioned that, as a law enforcement officer, he had to make that decision more than once, and that he finally had to act on it the day he was ambushed by a convicted felon who was under his supervision. 

              Here is the thing, people:  you have no idea what some people have been through in their lives, unless you have known them intimately from birth.  Most mature people do not go around talking about the traumatic times in their lives unless they are trying to help someone else.  Most of the time they are happy to put that part of their lives behind them and dwell on happier times.  Be careful what you think they have or have not gone through, and therefore, what they can and cannot relate to.  In my younger years I learned several hard lessons exactly this way.  Everyone has experienced hardship and trauma, and over the years they have learned to deal with it.  My experience may not be exactly like yours, but I bet our lists look similar.

               Perhaps I am wrong, but, "You just don't know what it's like" seems to serve two purposes.  First, it garners attention.  Suddenly, you are the one everyone feels sorry for and comforts.  Everyone gathers around you and for at least a few minutes, you are the only one who matters.  Second, it gives you an instant excuse for whatever misbehavior you have done.  People will instantly overlook it because of what you have been through, "poor thing."

               But I will tell you that "what you have been through" is the most invalid excuse there is for sin.  You have someone who has been through exactly what you have.  He most certainly does know what it's like.  In fact, he came here for precisely that reason.  He changed who and what he was just so he would know what you have been through.  For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. (Heb 4:15).  We have a tendency to focus on the cross when we consider his sacrifice, but here is every bit as painful another one, and he suffered this one every day of his life.  Any time we use the "you just don't know" excuse out of an immature desire for attention or to cover our faults, we are belittling the sacrifice he made in the most arrogant, self-centered way possible.

               No one gets off easy in this life, not even God's children.  To expect otherwise is to deny the curses of Eden.  It's supposed to be hard because we blew it.  The only way you can say otherwise is to claim to be sinless.  You don't get Heaven until this World is over and done with.  You may get a taste of it here and there in a good marriage, great kids, and loyal brethren, but then again, you may not.

              But we all have the best help imaginable.  But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you... (2Cor 12:9).  "Sufficient"—enough for any need you may have. 

               None of us has reason to say, "You just don't understand" to Him.
 
Therefore he had to be made like his brothers in every respect, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make propitiation for the sins of the people.  For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted. (Heb 2:17-18)
 
Dene Ward

Psalms 74 and 79, along with the books of Lamentations and Habakkuk, which are also national psalms of lament over the destruction of Jerusalem, will make you cringe in their horrific detail of destruction.  Women and young girls raped, leaders hung up for all to see, the Temple in ruins, dead bodies lying everywhere, far too many for the few left alive to bury. 

              Psalm 74 lists sacrilege after sacrilege:  God’s enemies standing in the meeting place; the intricate and artistic carvings of the Temple chopped to pieces by heathen axes, the sanctuary on fire, the dwelling place of God razed to the ground.  Psalm 79 uses opposites to the same effect:  the holy defiled; Jerusalem in rubble; God’s servants as carrion; and blood flowing like water in the streets.  Imagine seeing all this one horrible morning and then speaking to God in these words:  Help us, O God of our salvation, 79:9.

              God of our salvation?  How could the psalmist possibly use that description?  Where in all this nightmare does he see salvation?

              The poet understood this basic truth:  even in this dreadful event, God is still seeking the salvation of His people.  He could still see a Father’s love behind the most severe discipline.

              Again in Psalm 74, the psalmist says, Yet God is my King of Old, working salvation in the midst of the earth.  Not just in the midst of the earth, but in the middle of all this horror, he can still see the true nature of God.

              Habakkuk in his lament ends with the same thoughts:  For though the fig-tree shall not flourish, Neither shall fruit be in the vines; The labor of the olive shall fail, And the fields shall yield no food; The flock shall be cut off from the fold, And there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in Jehovah, I will joy in the God of my salvation. Hab 3:17-18.

              What do we see when evil befalls us?  If all we feel is the pain, if all we see is the sorrow, Satan already has a foothold.  We must learn to use what happens in our lives as a steppingstone to Heaven, a lift to a higher plane of spirituality. 

              Surely it isn’t always punishment from God as it was for those people, but then it becomes even more important to see events in the correct way.  We are in a world that is temporary, that is tainted with sin.  Of course we will have problems.  Are we so naïve as to think that something Satan has poisoned will ever be good?  Jeremiah tells us in his lament, that if it weren’t for God there wouldn’t be anything good left in this world at all, Lam 3:22, and we have no right to expect it to be any different. 

              If I cannot see the salvation of God even in the midst of trials as Jeremiah did, I am blind to who He is.  He is there, helping us prepare for a world where those things will be no more.  If I rail against Him when the trials come, I do not know Him.  Illness and death are the tools of Satan to lure us away, but with faith and the proper perspective--seeing the God of our salvation instead of the God of our pain--we can use Satan’s own tools against him as a road to triumph. 

              It is better to depart and be with the Lord, Paul said, Phil 1:23.  To die is gain for a Christian, v 21.  “O death where is thy victory, O death where is thy sting?  The sting of death is sin and the power of sin is the Law, but thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” 1 Cor 15:55-57)  If I see death as the victor, I am giving myself away—showing that my perspective is indeed unspiritual, immature, and faithless.  

              Is it easy to have this perspective, especially in the middle of a traumatic life event?  No, because we are still in this flesh.  But while in this flesh the Lord Himself conquered all these things and expects us to follow His example, as difficult as it may be.  And He gives us the means to do it. 

              He is and always will be the God of our salvation.
 
But as for me, I will look unto Jehovah; I will wait for the God of my salvation; my God will hear me, Mic 7:7.
 
Dene Ward

Charles Richard Drew was a renowned surgeon who developed a method for storing blood plasma and transporting that blood to the people who needed it.  He was also the father of America's first large scale blood bank.
 
             A native of Washington, he was a gifted athlete who was recruited to Amherst College, one of only 13 African-Americans in a student body of 600.  He earned his medical degree in 1933 at McGill University, one of few schools open to black students, winning several prizes along the way and graduating second in his class.

              Despite constant roadblocks because of race, Drew did his internship and residency at Montreal Hospital, and joined the faculty at Howard University School of Medicine, teaching pathology and surgery and eventually becoming chief surgical resident at Freedmen's Hospital.  While working on a doctorate at Columbia, he won a fellowship to train at Presbyterian Hospital with John Scudder, who called him, "naturally great," and, "a brilliant pupil."  While working with Scudder his interest in transfusions and blood typing grew.  His dissertation was called a "masterpiece" and "one of the most distinguished essays ever written."  Eventually his procedures and standards for collecting and storing blood led to the Blood for Britain Project, which saved thousands of lives in World War II.                

              Drew went on to a brilliant, but short, career.  On March 31, 1950, he drove to a conference in North Carolina.  It was late and he was tired.  He fell asleep at the wheel and the automobile crashed.  Drew was rushed to an all-white hospital.  He needed a transfusion.  Because it makes for a much more titillating story, word went around that he was refused the transfusion because he was black.  I found that in several places, including a printed book.  But later, the correct story finally made the light of day.  He did receive the transfusion he needed just like any other patient, but it was not enough to save him.  He died on April 1, 1950.

              I suppose the comparison here is obvious.  Blood will save lives.  My own mother had to have 2 pints of it once because one of those many numbers they count had gone from a normal 13 to 5.  But even that will not save everyone, and it will not save forever.  Only one blood will do that—the blood of the sinless Savior.  No matter your race, no matter your sin, it can save you.  It does not need special processing or equipment to store it.  It is right there, always available.  Paul even tells us the proper procedure:

               Or are you ignorant that all we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?  We were buried therefore with him through baptism into death: that like as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, so we also might walk in newness of life.  For if we have become united with him in the likeness of his death, we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection; knowing this, that our old man was crucified with him, that the body of sin might be done away, that so we should no longer be in bondage to sin; for he who has died is justified from sin. (Rom 6:3-7)

              Do you need a transfusion?
 
Dene Ward

Once, long ago and far away, I answered a knock at the door and found an FBI agent on my doorstep.  He had not made a mistake; he had indeed found the address he was looking for.  And why would a federal agent be looking for us?
 
             About a week before, we had received a letter in the mail.  It bore no return address and when we opened it, we found a hand printed letter full of foul language and tons of misspelled words and bad grammar.  I will always remember the last line of that letter:  "If you don't get out of town, I will burn you out."

           We took it to the postmaster of the small town where we lived and, because sending a threatening letter in the US Mail is a federal crime, he called the FBI.  And that is why the agent knocked on our door that morning.  He had come from a larger town about 30 miles away. No warning—we had no idea he was coming, but that might have been a strategical move. 

           We spent about a half hour answering questions:  who we were, what we did, if we had any known enemies.  When he discovered that Keith was a preacher, his attitude seemed to soften a bit.  He began pointing out things in the letter that I, young and inexperienced, had not even noticed.  The misspellings and bad grammar were inconsistent.  The same word was misspelled a different way later in the letter.  One time the writer said, "isn't" and the next time "ain't." 

          "I really think it is someone trying to disguise himself because it is someone you know," he finally said.

         He eventually apologized as he left.  His hands were tied unless someone actually made an attempt to harm us or succeeded in doing so, especially since we had no idea who it might be.  We were supposed to call if anything happened, or we received another threat of any kind via any method.

             It happened to be a Wednesday.  That night we went to Bible study and Keith began talking about the letter.  Then he mentioned the federal agent who had come to our door, "Because sending threats in the mail is a federal crime, you know."  Most people crowded around to hear the story and expressed horror that we had received something like that.  We made sure they knew the letter was counted as evidence in the case and was still in the agent's hands.

           We never received another letter, phone call, or threat of any sort while we lived there.  Of course we cannot prove it, but we think someone in the church had his toes stepped on and was trying to run us off.  We wonder if we were making progress with some and that others were afraid their sins would be uncovered.

          "But," you say, astounded, "would a Christian really stoop so low as to issue what could be taken as a murder threat?"

           Just who was it who plotted to kill Jesus?  The very religious leaders who should have recognized who he was and followed him—scribes, Pharisees, priests.  When people do not like your message, they will go farther than even they would have ever imagined to get rid of the messenger.  We have been lied about more than once.  We have been kicked out precisely because of what was preached—it wasn't even denied. 

          How did "Hosanna" become "Crucify him" in a week's time?  Corrupt leadership, the Lord's demand for commitment, humility, and sacrifice, refusal to see the true nature of the kingdom, and a mob mentality that always strays far from the personal ethics one claims.
 
            Any of us can fall prey to this.  It's hard to hear that we need to change.  It's difficult to face up to our sins.  It's challenging to realize we have faulty expectations of the Lord and what He expects of us.  It's tough realizing you have been wrong about something your entire life.  The devil will take your heart and twist it to the point that you won't even see the wrong you are doing in retaliation.

          Whoever sent that threatening letter got a rude awakening when he found out the FBI was involved and he could go to prison for what he had done.  There is a far worse imprisonment than that when we blame the Message on the messenger.  Getting rid of him won't change your stance before your Maker.
 
“You stiff-necked people, uncircumcised in heart and ears, you always resist the Holy Spirit. As your fathers did, so do you. Which of the prophets did your fathers not persecute? And they killed those who announced beforehand the coming of the Righteous One, whom you have now betrayed and murdered, you who received the law as delivered by angels and did not keep it.” (Acts 7:51-53)
 
Dene Ward

In spite of the fact that my husband claims to be a Southerner (he is really an Arkansas hillbilly and I had to teach him the proper way to eat grits), he regularly makes fun of my accent.  This from the guy to whom perfect strangers point and say with amazement, “You sound just like Jimmy Stewart!”  He says folks from the Deep South are the only ones who can take a three letter word, put three syllables in it, and take three full seconds to say it.  Ham, for instance:  hay—ee—yum.
 
           Actually I have noticed how my speech has changed over my lifetime.  I was born around Orlando, not the Orlando you know now, but pre-Disney Orlando, which was a small town then, full of people with rural roots, and only a few pretentious folks over in the Winter Park section—the white-gloved folks who knew how to stick their pinkies out when they drank tea.  Back then I probably had a true Southern accent.

            I spent the last eight years of my growing up life and the first year of married life in Tampa, so my accent began to even out some.  Then two years in Illinois farmland put a real spin on it.  For the last 30 years I have lived back in Florida—not the cosmopolitan Florida the rest of the world knows about, but rural, north central Florida, where the possums and coons still rummage at night, the bobcats scream, and the hound dogs bay at the moon.  I don’t think I have pronounced the “g” on an –ing word in at least 20 years.       God’s people have had similar problems throughout the ages.  Nehemiah was horrified at the effect foreign people were having on his brethren, and used their language problem as a symbol for things much worse:  In those days also I saw the Jews that had married women of Ashdod, Ammon, and Moab; and their children spoke half in the speech of Ashdod and could not speak in the Jews’ language, but according to the language of each people.  Neh 13:23,24.

            I have always heard this passage used to point out that some use Bible words the wrong way, mixing up pastors with preachers, and fellowship with donuts.  But it is more important for me in my daily life to think about this:  I should not allow the language around me to affect the way I speak.  God’s children should be speaking blessing, not cursing; words of understanding, not words of judgment; words of praise, not words of criticism.  Can I turn a cashier’s day around with a friendly hello rather than a cold empty look?  Can I make a waitress’s feet hurt a little less with friendly conversation, rather than a gruff complaint?  Can I give my wavering brother or sister an encouraging word rather than an unfeeling push over the edge of temptation?  The condemnation of the language of Ashdod means a whole lot more than just mixing up a few definitions.

            Today, and every day Lord, help my accent to be that of a Christian.
 
A soft answer turns away wrath…The tongue of the wise utters knowledge correctly…A gentle tongue is a tree of life…A man has joy by the answer of his mouth, and a word spoken in due season, how good it is…Pleasant words are like a honeycomb:  sweet to the soul and health to the bones.  Selected lines from Proverbs 15 and 16.
 
Dene Ward