All the stories my mother told me have come rushing back to me that past few weeks since her death.  One of the most special was the story of her conversion.  We could all learn a few things from this.
              Nearly a century ago, preachers often traveled from city to city and town to town, setting up tents and preaching every night for a week or more, depending on how things were going.  One of those preachers was Byron Conley, who toured Central Florida.  He was responsible for the beginning of many of the churches in that area.  One of those congregations was in a small town called Winter Garden, about 10 miles west of Orlando—at least in those days.  Now you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
              All of my grandparents lived in Winter Garden, the typical Southern town with a train track running down the middle of the main drag, and diagonal parking in front of storefronts like Piggly Wiggly, McCormick 5 and 10, a barber shop, and a drug store complete with soda fountain.  My father's mother, Thelma Ayers, attended one of those tent meetings and was converted to the Lord, and eventually became a member of the new congregation there.  Although her husband, my grandfather, was never baptized, she taught her three sons and all of them followed in her faith.
              My daddy was the oldest.  At 17, he took his high school sweetheart to church with him.  She had been raised a Methodist, mainly because it was the closest church to the house and they could all walk.  She told me that all she heard were slow dirges on Sunday morning, so that morning when she went to church with her boyfriend Gerald, she was in for a shock.  "They sang happy music!" she exclaimed.  The first song she heard was "Heavenly Sunlight," and the day she told me that story she added, "And I want that sung at my funeral."  And we did.
              So let's consider a few things this morning.  This was a small Southern town.  As is our custom and belief, they sang a capella.  It may have been "happy" compared to the slower organ pieces she was used to, but I imagine there were a few places, especially by the end, where the music dragged a bit.  I imagine there were a few flat Southern altos and a tenor or two that stuck out like a sore thumb.  This was not a performing choir, certainly not a pro or semi-pro praise band.  So why did the singing impress her so?
           Because it wasn't just a happy song.  It was sung by happy people, people who knew they were saved and pleasing to God, people who believed they were going to Heaven, people who, despite the trials of life, knew it was all worth it.  I have heard it said that our singing can be an evangelistic tool.  It certainly was for my mother.  But if the people do not match their songs, it is just another form of hypocrisy. 
           "Heavenly Sunlight" isn't as deep as some of the other older hymns but it certainly doesn't sit in the wading pool with the babes either.  It takes a mature spiritual mindset to see the "Sunlight" even in the "deep vale" and to have the faith to know that no matter what happens He will "never forsake thee."  She could see that faith in the faces of those people and eventually it became her own faith, a faith she passed on to children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
            Many of these thoughts ran through my head that afternoon as we sang for her the song that made all the difference in her life.  A small town southern church sang it like they meant it, and she wanted to know more about how they could do that when so few other places did.
           Would your singing begin the journey of conversion for a visitor?  It does not have to be ear-catching, toe-tapping, and rhythmically complex.  You just have to sing it like you mean it, and then live it that way too.
 
But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may exult in you.  (Ps 5:11).
 
Dene Ward

The Music Teachers' National Association, of which I was a member, was founded on December 26, 1876, by Theodore Presser, who was both a musician and a music publisher.  The stated aim of this organization was the support, growth, and development of music teaching professionals.  Its various programs include the certification of teachers, competitions for the students of member-teachers, and commissioning of composers, among many others.  Because I was a member of MTNA, I was able to participate in workshops and other continuing learning experiences in both my local and state branches, and my students in various activities, earning prestigious recognition and even scholarships.  The application for membership was five or six pages long and I remember feeling both relieved and ecstatic when I was accepted.  It officially made me one of the pros, and it put me in some rarefied air as well.
              One year the state music teachers’ convention was held in my district.  Somehow I found myself in charge of the name tags and the registration desk.  Since I did not know most of the people, my standard greeting was, “Welcome to Gainesville.  What’s your name please?”  Then I riffled through a couple of shoeboxes containing the laminated name tags that we hung around our necks.
              The second afternoon a man in his thirties came bustling up to the desk.  His expensive suit was sharp, and probably custom tailored since it fit his rounded figure without a pull or pucker anywhere.  He was well-groomed and carried a leather portfolio that also bespoke of money.  Not your typical music teacher, I thought.  Most of us are clean and tidy, but few of us dress like lawyers.
              He stood before me, but couldn’t be bothered to actually look at me.  Instead, he looked around at the passersby and intoned, “And do you have a name tag for me?” in a deep, full-of-himself voice.
              “I don’t know,” I answered.  “Who are you?”
              Then he looked at me—with an incredulous, wide-eyed stare.  At last lowly little music-teacher-me had gotten his attention.  When he told me his name, I managed to keep a straight face.  He was one of the university professors who also performs on the concert stage.  He had won some international competitions.  In fact, I recognized his name, I had just never seen him in person. 
              That afternoon when the rush had calmed at the table, I told a couple of my friends about my faux pas.  They both laughed.  “Good,” they said.  “He needed that.”
              Do we need something similar?  The Proverb writer says it like this:  Do you see a man who is wise in his own eyes? There is more hope for a fool than for him, 26:12. 
              Why is it we think so well of ourselves?   Paul reminded the Corinthians, For who sees anything different in you? What do you have that you did not receive? If then you received it, why do you boast as if you did not receive it? 1 Cor 4:7.  So you have a gift for speaking, for singing, for teaching, for welcoming visitors—any special ability.  You wouldn’t have that gift if God hadn’t given it to you, so what are you bragging about?
              Why is it we feel so compelled to remind people of our successes?  Why must we pat ourselves on the back whenever the opportunity arises, recounting all our various experiences as examples of wisdom for all to learn from?  We couldn’t have done any of it by ourselves.
              Sometimes those things are used as excuses.  Maybe I didn’t do well this time, but in the past you should have seen all I did for the Lord.  Or, I know I shouldn’t be bragging, but no one else seems to notice what I’ve done. 
              God notices.  Who else should we care about?  Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord. For it is not the one who commends himself who is approved, but the one whom the Lord commends, 2 Cor 10:17,18.
              I think this happens most with age.  As older men and women teaching the younger, we must be careful how we come across.  It isn’t an episode of “This Is Your Life,” where we can boast about all the wonderful things we have done in the past, careful to leave out the bad examples, of course.  It’s about edifying and encouraging others.  That attitude must always be with us.
              Don’t worry if people don’t know who you are and what you have done.  God holds the name tags, and he won’t have to ask who you are.
 
For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. Rom 12:3
 
Dene Ward
 

The first crossword puzzles appeared in England in the 1800s.  They were usually built on a small square and the solved puzzle would read alike both vertically and horizontally.  These were so basic they usually appeared in children's puzzle books.  But once the crossword puzzle crossed the Atlantic, it became a serious adult game.  The first crossword puzzle is said to have been created by Arthur Wynne on December 21, 1913, and was printed in the New York World.  It was a diamond shape without the internal black squares.  Within a decade nearly every American newspaper featured a crossword puzzle.
              I am a crossword puzzle enthusiast—a cruciverbalist, but that is not the extent of the word games I enjoy.  One of my favorites involves making as many words as possible out of one larger word—not anagrams exactly, which use every letter of the word and are small in number, but using the letters of the word only as many times as the original word uses them and making as many other words as possible, three letters or larger, not counting plurals, past tense, or other obvious derivatives. 
              For example, how many other words can you make out of the word “jealousy?”  Sea, use, you, soul, say, aloes, lose, louse, yea, seal, joules, lea, sole, jay, lay, say, soy—and that’s just off the top of my head typing as fast as I can.  But how about this one—joy?  Seems a little ironic, doesn’t it, that you can make joy out of jealousy?
              A lot of people get those two mixed up.  In times where we should be “rejoicing with those who rejoice,” we find ourselves feeling just a tinge of jealousy.  Why did he get that promotion and not me?  Why is she being lauded from the pulpit and not me?  Why do people run to them for advice when I am just as smart/experienced/knowledgeable/wise, etc.?  And that green-eyed monster gradually takes over, turning us into its willing minion.  We can easily think of reasons that other person does not deserve this and spread it to whomever will listen, causing us to ignore our own blessings, steeping ourselves in ingratitude that gradually becomes bitterness, not just against the other person, but at life in general. 
              Elizabeth is the best example I know of someone who got it right.  She took what could have been a cause for jealousy and changed it into a cause for joy.
              Zacharias and Elizabeth had made it to old age without having children.  According to Lenski, Elizabeth was probably looked down on as someone who had somehow displeased God—that was the general attitude toward barren women.  Finally, after years of waiting, probably with a multitude of prayers, Zacharias came home with the good news—albeit written down, since he could no longer speak:  “We are going to be parents!”  And not only that, but this child will be special—he will be the promised Elijah spoken of in Malachi.
              Then lo and behold, six months later, along comes her teenage cousin with even better news.  She too, is pregnant, and is blessed to bear the Messiah.  What?!  Elizabeth has been waiting for decades.  She is older and wiser.  She has been the faithful wife of a priest, and borne the ridicule of an ignorant culture, blaming her for her own misfortune.  And she gets the Forerunner while this child who has scarcely lived long enough to even be considered faithful, who is fertile (in this culture the family would know her menstrual history) and will probably (and ultimately did) bare more than half a dozen children, this girl gets the Messiah?  How fair is that?
              But Elizabeth had the grateful attitude and the abiding Messianic hope of a faithful child of God.  In those days Mary arose and went with haste into the hill country, to a town in Judah, and she entered the house of Zacharias and greeted Elizabeth. And when Elizabeth heard the greeting of Mary, the baby leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit, and she exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb! And why is this granted to me that the mother of my Lord should come to me? Luke 1:39-43.
              Not only is she excited for Mary, she humbles herself before a younger woman, one with far less experience and far less service on her record—she simply hadn’t lived long enough to do much yet.  And her joy?  It was not a feigned, polite joy, but a joy so overwhelming that “the babe leaped in her womb for joy” v 44.  I am told that “leap for joy” is one Greek word, the same one used in verse 40, quoted earlier.  It is a sympathetic joy.  In other words, Elizabeth was so moved with joy that it caused her unborn child to move within her.  Every mother understands how her own emotions can affect her unborn baby, in the last trimester especially.  Elizabeth’s joy for her young cousin was that deep and moving.  Jealousy never entered her heart for a second.
              How does that match with statements like, “He gets to lead singing more than my husband;” “My husband hasn’t been asked to teach in a long time;” “How can he be an elder when my husband is just as good as he is and no one has asked him”? 
             Oh yes, it happens.  And it should not.  If we are all members of the same body, then if one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together. 1Cor 12:26. 
            Love “envies not” 1 Cor 13:4.  When you do envy, you do not love as you are commanded to.  Jealousy and envy are works of the flesh (Gal 5:20,21).  Those who practice them “will not inherit the kingdom of God.”   Check yourself on this.  Are you playing games with your words?  Has your speech given you away?
            Too many of us get this backwards.  We rejoice when bad things happen to others and weep when good things happen to them.  How are you doing at this word game?  Can you keep joy from becoming jealousy?
 
If we live by the Spirit, let us also keep in step with the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another. Gal 5:25-26
 
Dene Ward
 

We first discovered pluots three or four years ago when we set about to try one new fruit or vegetable a week.  We have discovered many yummy treats, most too expensive to enjoy regularly or in any volume, but pluots, a cross between plums and apricots, are reasonably priced in season, and delicious.
              Pluots were developed by Floyd Zaiger, who owned Zaiger's Genetics, a fruit breeding business in Modesto, California.  Over 60 years ago he began working for Fred Anderson, "the father of the nectarine," a man whose hero was Luther Burbank, who himself developed the Burbank potato and the Santa Rosa plum.  Zaiger's first work involved breeding heat tolerant rhododendrons.  Then he moved on to stone fruits, working on various traits that would make them more sustainable and tolerant of weather conditions and disease.  He has received many awards, including one from France, where his techniques and accomplishments were appreciated more quickly than in this country.  Now he has a "bushel" of awards.
              The fruit he is best known for is the pluot, a 75% Japanese plum and 25% apricot.  He trademarked the name "pluot" but the various varieties were then patented.  The earliest patent I could find was granted on December 18, 1987 for the Flavor Supreme Pluot.  The pluot may not be the only fruit Zaiger developed, but it is the one he is most proud of since it is sold internationally.
              Hybrids can be a good thing, increasing size and yield, and creating resistance to certain plant diseases.  Hybrids can also be a bad thing, dulling flavor distinctions and, of course, making it impossible to save the seeds for next year, thus increasing the cost of gardening.  Heirloom varieties are becoming popular for a reason.
              Sometimes when we sow the seed, instead of creating “heirloom Christians,” we wind up with hybrids.  The best way to avoid that is to make sure we are good old fashioned New Testament Christians ourselves, with no trace of sectarianism in us. 
             Do any of the mainstream “isms” show up in your language and thinking? 
               “Lord, we know we sin all the time.”  Sounds like total depravity to me. 
             “I know I’m not living right, but at least I’ve been baptized.”  Am I hearing once saved always saved?
              “The preacher didn’t visit me in the hospital.”  You did say “preacher” didn’t you? Or do you mean denominational “pastor?”
            Allowing denominational practices to warp our understanding of the simple gospel can lead to all sorts of problems, not the least of which is a congregation that becomes far more like its denominational neighbors than like its first century sisters.  When we expect a preacher to spend more time holding hands than holding Bible studies, when our traditions and our language show signs of various manmade doctrines instead of the simple elements found in the epistles, we need to check our bloodlines.
           I pointed out how a certain activity was performed in the New Testament once, only to have someone say in a startled tone, “That would never fly here.”  If it’s simply a matter of expedience, fine.  After all, it is 2000 years removed.  But if it’s because we’ve allowed faulty understanding from a past of bad theology to taint our thinking, it’s not.
            God doesn’t want hybrid Christians, not even pluots.  He wants a people who approach His word and His divine institution with pure hearts and minds, unadulterated from years of false teaching.  In God’s eyes, there are no good hybrids, just defiled pedigrees.
 
Moreover all the chiefs of the priests, and the people, trespassed very greatly after all the abominations of the nations; and they polluted the house of Jehovah which he had hallowed in Jerusalem, 2 Chron 36:14
That he might present the church to himself a glorious church, not having spot or wrinkle or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish, Eph 5:27.
 
Dene Ward

The first restaurant in the United States was opened on December 13, 1827.  Delmonico's was owned by Giovanni and Pietro Delmonico, and Delmonico's flourished for almost 100 years.  Originally a café, it became a full-fledged restaurant in 1830.
              Yes, there were older establishments going all the way back to the White Horse Tavern in Rhode Island.  But taverns focused on alcohol, and cafes on coffee, tea, and pastries, and that is exactly what the original Delmonico's Café served.  Meanwhile, in France, a tavern keeper named Boulanger began serving simple meals he called "restoratives," or in French, "restaurants."  The Delmonico brothers took their inspiration from him, buying the building next to their café and opening what they called a "restaurant francais," which eventually became one of the most famous restaurants in the country.  And yes, in case you are wondering, the Delmonico steak became the house cut between 1840 and 1850.  But back to that original café, or coffee house.  It reminds me of a little story.
            I put the cup of coffee down in front of Keith and he looked at it disdainfully.  “What are you?  A waitress?” 
              You see, I hadn’t filled it to the brim.  Since, just like a waitress, I had to carry it from the kitchen to the table, to have done so seemed impractical to me.  Despite another snide comment about “a half-full cup of coffee,” it was plenty full for carrying, about a half inch from the top.
              Everyone knows what happens when you fill something to the brim and then try to carry it—it sloshes out all over the place.  In fact, whenever Keith fills his own cup, I wind up wiping coffee rings off the table and counter, and splashes in the floor because he fills it to the top.  Filled to the brim is fine when you don’t plan on carrying it anywhere—for most things, anyway.
              …And they chose Stephen, a man full of faith…, Acts 6:5.
              Stephen is the perfect example of a man filled to the brim with faith.  It sloshed out all over everyone who came near him.  How can you tell?  Just look at Acts 6 and 7.
              Because of being full of faith, he was also “full of the Spirit and wisdom,” 6:3.  Notice:  this was before the apostles laid hands on him, 6:6, so we don’t have that excuse for a lack of wisdom and spirituality.  We can have those things too if we are filled to the brim with faith.
              Because Stephen was full of faith, no one could “withstand him” when he spoke, 6:10.  And how did he speak?  He knew the scriptures.  From start to finish, he told his listeners the history of Israel, 7:1-50.  Could we come even close?
              He was unafraid of confrontation, 7:51-53.  He never ran from opposition, even when it became clear he was in physical danger.  Discretion, according to Stephen, was cowardice, not valor.  We are often full of excuses for not speaking, instead of enough faith to speak out.
              Stephen was completely confident of his salvation, 7:59.  He knew the Lord was waiting to receive him.  He didn’t flinch from saying so, and certainly never hemmed and hawed around about “maybe going to Heaven if he was good.”  He kept himself so that there was never any question, and his faith was probably no more evident than in that one statement, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”  Can we make the same statement?
              His faith also showed by his forgiving others.  Just like the Lord he followed to death as the first Christian martyr, he asked Jesus to “lay not this sin to their charge,” 7:60.  The disciples recognized their own need and begged for more faith when Jesus told them they had to forgive over and over and over, (Luke 17:3-5).  Here is the proof they were correct—a man “full of faith” forgave his own murderers.  Can we even forgive the driver in the next lane?
              What are you spilling on people?  What completely fills your heart and mind every day?  Is it politics?  Is it the latest Hollywood gossip?  Is it the stock market?  Is it complaints about anything and everything?  Is it the weaknesses of your brethren, and any slight, imagined or real, they might have done to you? 
              Whatever we are full of will slosh out all over everyone who comes near us.  If we are full of faith, our lives will show it.  Don’t be a waitress when you fill your cup.
 
Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope, in the power of the Holy Spirit. And I myself also am persuaded of you, my brethren, that you yourselves are full of goodness, filled with all knowledge, able also to admonish one another. Romans 15:13-14
 
Dene Ward

Most of us are familiar with the history of the Pilgrims.  We know they left England looking for both religious and economic freedom.  We also know they arrived at land on November 21, 1620, though they spent most of that winter ferrying back and forth to the ship.  What I did not realize was the date they left England—September 16.  Why on earth would they leave just as fall was about to begin, knowing they would not arrive in time to build warm homes or plant anything?
 
             Turns out they originally left in July, but had to turn back twice.  Their sister ship, the Speedwell, leaked!  Eventually they went on without her.  In addition they were headed for Virginia and were blown off course by stormy seas.  All in all, this led to a disastrous winter, with over half the colonists succumbing. 

             It was the next fall that they celebrated that first Thanksgiving meal with their new Native American friends.  All of us know about the pilgrims, and can even recognize their dress.  I always have the famous Publix Pilgrim salt and pepper shakers on my holiday table with their buckled shoes, and brown clothing.  And that reminds me…

              Thirty years ago I saw a dress in a catalogue that I adored.  My style tends to be plain, tailored, and dark.  I generally like a blousy waistline because it makes me look like I have one, which I haven’t had since I was about two years old.  Every time that catalogue came, I salivated over that dress, a black shirtwaist with long button-cuff sleeves and a broad, white collar embroidered on the edges.  At that time we just couldn’t afford it.  Feeding two teenage boys and paying a mortgage on a state salary and music studio tuitions was almost more than we could handle.

              A couple of years ago I was wandering through a second hand clothing store.  You would be surprised the bargains you can find if you are careful.  I have bought name brands for literally one-tenth their original price, some of them with the original price tags still on them, the extra buttons still sealed in plastic. 

              That day I saw the black arms hanging out from the press of the rack; I saw the white collar.  Could it be?  I checked the neckline for the label and found the old catalogue name.  So I pulled it out and felt a thrill.  This was the dress I had wished for.  Twenty years ago it was a $45 dress.  This store wanted $6.00!  Then came the moment of truth:  I checked the size.  Yes!  Just to make sure, I tried it on, and then quickly shelled out my $6 and change for tax.  It almost made me believe in fate.

              This dress is long sleeved and a fairly heavy knit so it was just after Thanksgiving before I could wear it here in Florida.  I wore it to church that Sunday.  One of the first people I saw, a sweet five year old, came running up and exclaimed, “Mrs. Dene!  You look just like a pilgrim!”  I laughed a little, gave her a hug and thanked her.  Before I was halfway down the hall, another child came running up and said the same thing, word for word. 

              Okay, I thought.  I look like a pilgrim.  Maybe it’s too close to Thanksgiving to wear this.

              In the middle of January I wore it again.  A third sweet child gave me the same compliment.  It was enough to make me wonder, do they teach this phrase in the Bible classes these days?  But I suppose what capped it all was a good friend who came up to me and laughed, saying, “You look like a pilgrim!”

              I donated the dress to another thrift store.  All I could see when I looked in the mirror were the missing white cap, buckled shoes and white stockings.  It certainly isn’t what I thought of when I used to moon over that catalogue.

              I wonder if Abraham and Sarah had in mind the pilgrim life God had planned for them when they answered the call to “Go to a land I will show you.”  That doesn’t necessarily sound like they would always be nomads.  It doesn’t sound like they would never have an earthly home again.  When someone tells me to go, usually they have a specific destination in mind.

              Even if they didn’t understand that in the beginning, they finally did.  By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to a place that he was to receive as an inheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he went to live in the land of promise, as in a foreign land, living in tents with Isaac and Jacob, heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God, Heb 11:8-10.  Eventually they knew they would never have a home on this earth, that the real one was waiting beyond the border of physical life and death.

              We must eventually, and as soon as possible, learn the same thing.  Our culture is too caught up in the here and now, in instant gratification, in “if it feels good do it.”  We think this is what matters.  That’s why we let it bother us so much when things do not go right.  That’s why we become angry over the inconsequential and throw away the truly valuable, including our hope.  They made me mad and they are going to know it!  They took what’s mine, and I have a right to take it back.  They hurt me and now I am going to hurt them—usually in exactly the same low way they hurt me. 

              If I know what it means to be a pilgrim in this world, none of that matters.  I don’t need to throw a tantrum.  I don’t need to get even.  I don’t need to have more and more and more because everyone else has it.  I don’t even need an easy, carefree life with no trials.  It will never compare to Heaven no matter how wonderful it is, and it certainly isn’t worth giving up Heaven for.

              Maybe I should have kept the “Pilgrim” dress.  Maybe it would have reminded me of things I need to remember, when I need to remember them most.  Maybe you need to wear it, too.
 
These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city, Heb 11:13,15.
 
Dene Ward

Michael Rockefeller was the third son of Nelson Rockefeller, governor of New York and Vice-President of the United States.  Michael was born, along with his twin sister Mary, on May 18, 1938.  He graduated cum laude from Harvard with a degree in History and Economics.  In 1960 he went on an expedition with a group from Harvard and while there discovered the Asmat tribe of Netherlands New Guinea.  The next year he returned on his own to study the culture and art of the Asmats.
 
             On November 17, 1961, he left camp with Dutch anthropologist Rene Wassing.  Their double pontoon boat was swamped and overturned, leaving them adrift about three miles from shore.  Two local guides swam for help, but two days later it had still not come.  That day, November 19, Wassing reports that Rockefeller said he thought he could "make it," by then an estimated 12 miles from shore.  What happened next can never be proved.  Wassing was rescued one day later, but despite an extensive and exhaustive search, neither Rockefeller nor his body were ever found.

              Theories abound, and testimony varies.  Some believe he must surely have died of exposure and exhaustion during his long swim and drowned.  Others believe a crocodile, or other creature, might have gotten him.  But the theory that keeps rising to the top is that he was captured and killed by the Otsjanep tribe in retaliation for the murder of several tribesmen by Dutch colonial officials.  And finally, you will find the surmise that because cannibalism among the Asmats was a part of exacting vengeance and Rockefeller's body was never found, that he was also eaten after being killed.

              To us, cannibalism is the height of barbaric cruelty.  Civilized people who consider themselves to be basically "good" would never stoop to such a thing, would they?  Would we?  Perhaps not literally, but spiritual cannibalism thrives in every culture.

              I have seen married couples carp and bicker, criticize and complain, even in front of others, to the point that you check the legal column the next morning to see if a divorce decree was filed the night before.  Anyone with sense, we think, would see how such words and actions would eat away at the bonds of their union.  Indeed, marriage takes constant maintenance to insure that those bonds remain intact.  They certainly won’t survive such destructive behavior, but people continue to behave that way, impervious to the embarrassment they cause anyone with earshot, and heedless to the effect on their relationship. 

              We sometimes treat the body of Christ the same way.  One person has a disagreement with another, about most anything, and that one is his target from then on.  All he can see is the bad, never the good.  All he can hear are the things that rankle, never the things that help and encourage, and so he is certain his behavior is justified.  His distorted vision keeps him from seeing the harm he is causing the body of the Lord by his arrogant, self-centered attitude, and the good that might have been accomplished in spreading the gospel in the community is put on the back burner for the sake of “winning,” even when the contest is petty and of no spiritual value.  It also keeps him from seeing exactly how foolish he looks as he destroys the things he claims to be trying to save.

              Being a cannibal is one of the worst things we can imagine, especially in our enlightened and civilized age.  Yet the Bible says that is exactly what we are when we reach this point.  Take a look at the relationships you have in your family and in the kingdom today.  Make sure you are not partaking of a meal that God would consider abominable.
 
For you, brethren, were called for freedom, only use not your freedom for an occasion to the flesh, but through love be servants one to another.  For the whole law is fulfilled in one word, in this:  you shall love your neighbor as yourself.  But if you bite and devour one another, make sure you be not consumed one of another, Gal 5:13-15
             
Dene Ward

Arturo Toscanini was born in Parma, Italy in 1867.  He studied to be a cellist, but at the age of 19 was asked to fill in for the conductor in Rio de Janeiro, and conducted the opera Aida entirely from memory.  Thus the die was cast.  Eventually he became the conductor for the renowned opera house La Scala in Milan.  His fame then spread across the Atlantic and on November 16, 1908, he was appointed conductor and musical director of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City.
 
             Toscanini was especially known for his interpretations of Verdi, Beethoven, and Wagner, a detail made famous in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  Detailed phrasing and dynamic intensity were his hallmarks.  His memory was phenomenal, so much so that in his later years when his eyesight began to fail, he still managed to conduct from memory.  The musicians who worked under him were loyal and completely devoted to him and his interpretations, following his lead religiously. 

              If an orchestra does not follow its conductor, it will fail.  Every musician knows this.  Every person in any field knows this about his own particular leaders.  God expects no less from us.  Too bad we aren't as smart as Toscanini's orchestras sometimes.  And why?

              We have a problem with authority.  Americans are quick to ask, “Who says?” and just as quick to ignore the answer.  That is why you see all those brake lights on the road in front of you when the wolf pack passes a trooper on the side of the road.  If we all recognized the authority of the government, we would not be breaking laws when we thought no one was watching. 

              The religious among us talk about making Jesus “Lord” in their lives.  If our culture gets in the way in any area, it is this one.  We have no idea what living under a “lord” is like.  We vote our lawmakers in if we like them and out if we don’t.  We hold sit-ins, walk picket lines, and strike.  Actually having someone else tell us how to handle every area of our lives is not only something we have never experienced, it is something that would rankle and cause rebellion immediately, simply for the fact of it.  Why, we have "rights!"

              Jesus can be Lord in my life as long He will take me as I am, as long as He will be the kind, accepting, loving Lord who never expects any sacrifice on my part.  He can be my Lord as long as he helps me when I want him and how I want him and leaves me alone otherwise.  He can be my Lord as long as I get to choose how I serve Him.  Our culture is getting in the way.  This is one thing those first century Christians could handle better than we can—they lived under an irrational tyrant.  Yet when Peter and Paul told them to obey the government, they did, even when that government tortured and killed them.

              We show a complete lack of respect for authority when we disrespect God’s law.  I keep hearing, “This is how I want to do it, and God knows my heart so He will accept it.”  The people of Malachi's time tried this and hear what God had to say about that: 

              “A son honors his father, and a servant his master. If then I am a father, where is my honor? And if I am a master, where is my fear? says the LORD of hosts to you, O priests, who despise my name. But you say, ‘How have we despised your name?’ By offering polluted food upon my altar. But you say, ‘How have we polluted you?’ By saying that the LORD's table may be despised. When you offer blind animals in sacrifice, is that not evil? And when you offer those that are lame or sick, is that not evil? Present that to your governor; will he accept you or show you favor? says the LORD of hosts. And now entreat the favor of God, that he may be gracious to us. With such a gift from your hand, will he show favor to any of you? says the LORD of hosts. Oh that there were one among you who would shut the doors, that you might not kindle fire on my altar in vain! I have no pleasure in you, says the LORD of hosts, and I will not accept an offering from your hand. (Mal 1:6-10).

              Jesus said authority is important.  He said there are only two places to get it: “from Heaven or from men,” Matt 21:25, the point being that authority from God is what matters.  In turn, God gives governments authority (Rom 13:1), husbands authority (Eph 5:23), parents authority (Eph 6:1), and elders authority (Heb 13:17).  Therefore whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment, Rom 13:2.  When the Israelites rejected God’s choice of judge as their ruler and demanded a king instead, God told Samuel, they have not rejected you, they have rejected me from being king over them, 1 Sam 8:7.

              Rebellion against the leader of an orchestra will lead to chaos, not beautiful music.  But rebellion against God’s authority, or any God-ordained authority, is rebellion against God, and will lead to destruction.
 
And seated [Christ] at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age, but in the one that is to come.  And he put all things under his feet, and gave him as head over all things to the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all, Eph 1:20-23
             
Dene Ward
 

The United States Marine Corps was established by the Second Continental Congress on November 10, 1775, as the Continental Marines.  Still considered "The Marine Corps Birthday," it is celebrated by personnel and veterans alike as a time to remember one's own service and the brothers who have fallen, similar to Veteran's Day but specifically for Marines.  A Birthday Ball is held with a formal dinner, birthday cake, and entertainment.  Perhaps more than any other branch of the services, Marines feel a connection to each other, long after the battles are over.  Yet I have noticed that when it comes to tragedy and hard times, people with the same experiences always find each and create a special bond.

              Over twenty years ago, while on his weekly rounds as a probation officer, Keith was ambushed and shot five times by one of the convicted felons assigned to him.  It was a terrifying experience.  The word spread through all branches of the Department of Corrections and law enforcement.  Once we were sure he would survive and the details of his success in handling it were made known, we received well wishes and get well cards, emails and phone calls from people we did not even know, including the Secretary of the Florida Department of Corrections. 

           Probation officers all over the state congratulated him because it validated them as law enforcement officers themselves.  Many offered to donate some of their sick leave to him so he wouldn’t have to go on workman’s comp, which would have paid only 2/3 of his salary.  One of the news stories mentioned that he had been in the Marine Corps, and a couple of ex-Marines sent emails ending with the sentiment, “Semper Fi!’  Add this to the people who helped us that very night, including a local fireman who had heard the radio traffic, and after I had driven the forty miles to the town where this all happened and stopped at his station to ask directions, decided to drive me on the next 30 miles to the hospital.  He also called his wife to follow us in his own truck so he would have a ride home, dropped me off at the emergency room, parked the car, and paid the parking fee.

              Brothers in arms come out of the woodwork when a need arises.  They band together and support one another.  They offer service far beyond the minimum precisely because they are brothers.

              That’s the way the church is supposed to work.  We think we have found one that does.  When one of us has a serious surgery, the waiting room is full.  When there is an accident or medical emergency, the walls of the ER are lined with folks awaiting word.  Cars park along every piece of curb in our neighborhoods when one of us is called home.  The line to greet a wayward brother as he arrives back to his spiritual family fills the aisles to the back of the building.  When prayers are requested, if there were such a thing, the switchboard in Heaven would be jammed.  I know.  I have been on the receiving end of those times. 

              I am often bemused by things some do and do not allow to be announced during the services of the assembled church.  “That’s not a work of the church,” is patently false.  We are to “rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.”  We are to “encourage one another to love and good works.”  We are to “train the younger” and “support the weak.”  We are to gather “from house to house” and “practice hospitality one to another.” 

               If we can pray for it, why can’t it be announced?  And if we aren’t praying for the stability of newly married couples, the safe delivery of new babies and their mothers and the wisdom of new young parents, strength for recently graduated seniors set to go out and make their marks in the world, and thanking God for the examples of fiftieth wedding anniversaries, what in the world is wrong with us?  I can see Jesus shaking his head and muttering something about “straining at gnats and swallowing camels,” as we insist on the artificial boundary of a spoken “Amen” before we announce something in exactly the same room to exactly the same people.

              When something momentous happens in a Christian’s life, whether good or bad, his brothers and sisters in arms should come streaming out to meet him with whatever he needs.  He shouldn’t need to count on the world to support him and offer help.  And beyond that, they should be the daily spiritual support, the ones he counts on and runs to, and the ones he in turn aids far beyond the barest necessities.  Shame on any congregation when they are outshone by the carnal groups in this world.  They are supposed to be the spiritual family, the family of God.  When something happens in a family it affects them all, and this family should be the one that cares the most and gives the most because we all share the same Father, the same Savior, and the same salvation—undeserved grace.
 
             Brothers in arms are neither silent nor invisible.  If they are, then they aren’t the brothers they claim to be.  They know what binds them together and nothing can break that cord.
 
If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together.  1Cor 12:26.
 
Dene Ward
 

The first publication of Fahrenheit 451 occurred on October 19, 1953.  In this picture of a dystopian society (one that is unpleasant and dehumanizing, according to one definition I found), books are banned.  All books.  Firemen do not put out fires—they start them, burning down houses and buildings that contain books.  The title comes, not from the burning point of paper, but from the auto-ignition point—the temperature at which paper will catch fire without being exposed to an external flame, and even that varies according to circumstances.  Still, it makes for a catchy title.
 
             One fireman gradually becomes disenchanted with his job.  He begins to see that his society is obsessed with frantic consumption and shallow entertainment.  If all books are subversive, why is it that the secret book readers he comes across are the only people who can carry on intelligent and profound conversations?  Eventually he flees his life and becomes part of a group that preserves books by memorizing them. 

              How many ways can we go with this?  Far too many for one short post, so let's just keep it to a couple of obvious ones. 

               First, I checked to see how many places ban the Bible.  The answer is complex because there are exceptions to the laws, but the Gideons, the group known for handing out free Bibles, says they are not allowed to operate in Afghanistan, Algeria, China, Comoros, Djibouti, Iran, Iraq, Libya, Maldives, Mauritania, Morocco, North Korea, Saudi Arabia, Somalia, Tunisia, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Yemen.  In some of those places churches can order Bibles but not individuals.  In some they can be printed but only in certain languages.  In some places you can import but not publish.  So the answer is not short and easy.  Still, it proves that ready access to the Word of God should not be taken for granted.
 
             Let's take a moment to caution everyone about articles on Facebook.  Many people jump the gun before they read the fine print and assume things that are false.  Evidently that happened with a proposed bill in California.  Someone posted that the bill would ban the Bible.  From my research, that does not seem to be the case.  However, there have been instances where students in various parts of the country were told they could not read their Bibles at school.  In some cases, the outrage brought an apology, but the Devil starts small until he weasels his way into our culture.  Look at the things that are now accepted that at one time everyone disapproved of.  When I was a child, I heard someone on television say that one day it would be a crime in this country to read your Bibles, but it would be legal in Russia.  At the height of the Cold War that seemed preposterous.  Now I am not so sure.

              Let's also consider this:  if it were to suddenly become illegal to own and read a Bible, if "firemen" did make their living burning the Word of God, how much difference would it make in your life?  If you don't read it now, why should you even be upset about it?  Seems a little hypocritical to me.

              And if you were to run away to find a group of Bible readers who had memorized the Scriptures so they would not be lost forever, how much could you offer them?  Yes, I know memorization is more difficult as you grow older—I forget words I have known for decades.  But I know my address, my phone number, my passwords, my social security number, and the last four digits of three or four credit cards.  Don't you?  It all boils down to what is important to us, doesn't it?  I have no right to become outraged with the premise of Bradbury's novel as it relates to the Bible, when the Bible doesn't mean enough to me to read it, to know it, or to live it.

              One of these days, Fahrenheit 451 may indeed come to pass for Christians.  Let's make sure there are enough people around who still care.
 
And we have the prophetic word more fully confirmed, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts ,knowing this first of all, that no prophecy of Scripture comes from someone's own interpretation. For no prophecy was ever produced by the will of man, but men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit. 2Pet 1:19-21
 
Dene Ward