The personal blog of
Dr. Greg DeLoach, Senior Pastor
of First Baptist Church of Augusta, GA
This Sunday, December 26, instead of our live broadcast of the worship service, we will broadcast the music special “A Festival of Carols” performed by our Church Choir and Orchestra. This was a special evening of music and worship on December 12th, now available to those who will otherwise be unable to attend worship this Sunday.
The broadcast will be at 11 AM on WRDW, this Sunday.
For years I have attempted to convince my sons that “they” wanted a telescope for Christmas. Year after year, however, no telescope would be on their list for Santa. Finally they took the hint and about four years ago they gave me a telescope for Christmas. I admit that I do not use it that often – it is a bit cumbersome to carry and delicate to set up – but when I do I am not disappointed at what I see, even when it is at two o’clock in the morning.
Two o’clock in the morning is a time on my clock that I almost never see. It is too “late” for me to stay up and too “early” for me to start the day. Yet on Tuesday, at 2 AM Amy and I were awake and shivering in the front yard peering through my telescope. Yes, we were one of those eccentrics who actually got up to watch the lunar eclipse. This, as you have no doubt read by now, was not just any lunar eclipse. According to NASA this was the first time a total lunar eclipse occurred on the winter solstice since 1638. As a result, the moon appeared “very high in the night sky, as the solstice marks the time when Earth’s axial tilt is farthest away from the sun.” This will not happen again until 2094, and by then I will be 128 and my eyes will in all likelihood be too weak to view the eclipse!
The eclipsed moon reflected the earth’s own reflection of the sun rising and setting all over the globe, giving the moon a reddish appearance, like heated iron. Some call it the “Japanese Lantern.” It was a celestial marking of the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. By next week our days will have lengthened by several seconds! Ancient traditions marked this time as the “birth of the sun.”
There are a couple of theories of why Christians, somewhere around the fourth century, began celebrating the birth of Jesus near the winter solstice. December 25 falls nine months after March 25, the traditional date of the first day of creation. Jesus, therefore, reflects the birth of a new creation. Another tradition is dating the birth of John the Baptizer at June 24 (summer solstice) and for Jesus December 25 (winter solstice). Biblical evidence, however, suggests that historically Jesus was probably born between March and November when shepherds would be out in the fields. By 200 AD there were theories that Jesus was born on May 20 or April 20-21.
We really do not know when Jesus was born. We do know that His birth is our occasion for a celebration of a cosmic level. Just as the night will never be so long that the sun will not return, there is no journey in life that we will travel where our path is forever obscured in shadows. Christ has come, and Christ will come again.
Now that is something worth getting up in the middle of the night to celebrate!
Merry Christmas and peace on earth.
Recently on NPR I listened to a report of a billboard advertisement near the Lincoln Tunnel in New York. It depicted a nativity scene, a star and three wise men with the message: “You know it’s a myth,” courtesy of a group called American Atheists. Not to be outdone there is now another billboard sponsored by a religious organization with the same scene but with the message: “You know it’s real.” I am not sure what these competing billboards cost, but I am certain the money could have been put to better use.
What is it about this season that leads many believers and unbelievers into an unofficial war on Christmas? There is more than a little debate concerning what we should call Christmas in the public. Do you own a Christmas tree or a Holiday tree? Do you wish your friends, even those that are not even Christian, merry Christmas or Seasons Greetings?
When you think about it, this is really not new. In the days of the Second World War Americans were scribbling on cards, and scrawling on storefronts the words “Merry X-Mas.” It has sort of fallen out of vogue to use that abbreviation because it sounds as though we are dropping the Christ out of Christmas.
But maybe what we are seeing today is different. After all, it seems far more intentional, more contrived to rename our trees, our customs so that Christmas is dropped in favor of more sanitized names. So children in the public school are out on Winter holidays instead of Christmas holidays; soldiers are depicted in the media wishing “Seasons Greetings” instead of Merry Christmas.
I confess: I am a bit perturbed, irritated, even insulted that my traditions have been co-opted. But on the other hand, who am I to question how another organization or business chooses to recognize this time of year. When you think about it, what is more offensive: that public and commercial entities are dropping the word Christmas from their various promotions and celebrations or that Christmas has now been reduced to a free for all of consumption and materialism. Just look at what happened in retail stores throughout this country the day after Thanksgiving: tempers out of control, pushing, shoving and even fights breaking out. All of this goes on for a day that historically reminds us of the one who was born homeless, lived in poverty and died having the very clothes on his back taken from him.
Thank God that Luke remembered. Luke remembered to tell us: “And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.” It may not sound like much, but Luke was saying the same thing Charles Dickens said one hundred years ago in his book Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times and the worst of times.” It was the worst of times because Herod was a monster and ruled like he was God. It was the worst of times. The people of Israel were not worried about bargain priced plasma screen televisions or being stuck in holiday traffic. They were worried about their survival.
But Luke also says it was also the best of times. He shares it with one simple verse: And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
If all we do is feel righteous indignation because someone else wants to rename our customs, our traditions, then we have succumbed to the culture itself. Think of all those who missed the message two thousand years ago: Herod, the religious leaders – scribes, priests – none were there that night. They were caught up in their commerce; they were caught up in their power; they were caught up in the masses of people who passed right by the stable on that starry, starry night.
A few, however, heard, and traveled, and saw, and left with their lives never to be the same again.
…there were radios. Sitting on a shelf of our bookcase at home is an old Philco Transitone radio. I remember it sitting on top of the kitchen counter alongside the coffee pot and beside the wooden rocking chair where Papa would sit after the evening chores at the barn. Eventually, I am not sure when, it stopped working and was tucked away in a closet, forgotten but thankfully not discarded. I salvaged it years later and now keep it as a nostalgic and sentimental reminder of a simple farmhouse and two hardworking grandparents.
My grandmother told me that they purchased the radio right after electricity, thanks in large part to Franklin D. Roosevelt, was made available in rural Putnam County. The year was 1941 and the radio was their first major purchase of an electrical appliance. According to my research the purchase price was $12.95 – about $198.34 today, which for dairy farmers was an extravagant price. This luxury allowed my family to listen at nights to the Atlanta Crackers baseball team. (If you have never heard of the Atlanta Crackers baseball team then you are probably not from Georgia or you are under 40 years old). I am sure they also listened to morning farm reports, daily news, and social events happening around the state. Maybe they even listened to a little music, although I do not have a memory of hearing music come out of its Bakelite shell.
I am writing this particular article on December 7, so I am wondering if they learned of the attack on Pearl Harbor by way of that radio. I have this faint memory that my grandmother said they did not hear about the attack until several days later. Less than a year later my grandfather’s brother would be drafted, and later was killed in action in Germany. I like to imagine that they learned of the war’s end by that very same radio, but I cannot be sure. Throughout its lifetime bad news and good news was heard from that little brown box with its dusty speaker.
Bad news and good news. At its best the role of the church is truth speaking which includes bad news and good news. We proclaim that all is not right in this world just as all is not right in our own personal lives. We cannot, should not, sugar coat what is bad. Alfred Delp, a martyr within a Nazi death camp, wrote: “…woe to any age in which the voice crying in the wilderness can no longer be heard because the noises of everyday life drown it – or restrictions forbid it – or it is lost in the hurry and turmoil of progress – or simply stifled by authority, misled by fear and cowardice.” (The Prison Meditations of Father Delp) I need to add that these very words were penned on scraps of paper and smuggled out of his prison cell by way of laundry. He knew first hand the bad news that should not be suppressed.
The bad news of this world, however, is not the only news and neither is it the last news. The voices of Gospel proclamation remind us that God has more story to tell and that story has creation in mind. It is the Good News in a bad news world. It is the light in the darkness. Yes, there is darkness, this much is true. What is also true, even truer if that makes sense, are the words: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:5) These words sustain from generation to generation. When the box on the shelf speaks of wars and death and turmoil, we are painfully reminded of humanity’s brokenness. Yet the bad news is not the only news and it is not the last news.
Hope, peace, joy and love to you and yours,
Once again I am proud to tout in this esteemed article that we have a beautiful Christmas tree in our Living/Family/Herding room. It is a Frazier Fir, ten feet tall and full all around. In keeping with tradition we purchased the tree a few days after Thanksgiving and soon filled it with endless strands of lights and Christmas ornaments that are kooky but special. We have enjoyed the tree ever since.
Once again we have the same small problem that nags us every year: the tree is leaning. I have tried everything to remedy the problem. I have readjusted the stand; trimmed limbs; prayed over it and now I am just trying to ignore the tilt altogether. Our evening dialogue goes something like this: “Honey, the tree is leaning,” says Amy. “No it is not,” I reply, “your eyes are just tilted. The tree looks fine.” And then to add a final statement assuring authority on the subject I say, “Besides, it looks more natural leaning like it is.” Eventually I start brooding. I cannot blame it on the tree and the stand seems to be working fine. Our house is not leaning. This is just one more thing that goes along with Christmas: even the best Christmas plans fall short of perfection.
Is your Christmas perfect? I am sure it is not. Not only do trees lean and strands of light fizzle out, but people disappoint, illness sets in, and the unexpected and unplanned lands at the doorstep. When we try to pretend that we can pull off the “perfect” Christmas, watch out – not only will the Christmas tree lean, but disappointment and depression can enter as unwelcome guests. Peace and joy? Forget about it!
Maybe a leaning tree is as good a reminder as any that this is what Christmas is not about. Amidst a surging crowd, inns too full for company and while a new tax was about to be levied, a Child was born in a trough.
Please don’t misunderstand me: it would bring me great pleasure to have the folks at Southern Living call on us to say they would like to feature our house in their next December issue. In reality, the only hope we have in that happening is if they want to show off popsicle stick ornaments coated by old dog hair (we are going for the shabby sheik look).
The good news is that even when our lives fall disappointingly short of expectations (and they always do), God is working best. We read that it is in the least likely places and faces where Mary pondered, angels proclaimed and shepherds abided in astonishment.
May we, when the tree leans, say along with Mary, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord…” (Luke 1:38)
Here I am too, with you,
A week ago Amy and I visited the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. For months I have wanted to see the special exhibit of Salvador Dali’s paintings, so I was excited when the opportunity finally arrived. Amy has devotedly indulged me over the years. She attended her first (and last) opera with me; backpacked (again, her first and last time) with me in the mountains; and traipsed with me through many, many museums. On this particular sojourn she went primarily to give me company. “Dali,” she confidently exclaims, “is just too weird for me.”
Dali is many things: eccentric, ostentatious, showy, and, I will give Amy this one, weird. Yet his paintings are technically good and a marvel to view. Some of them are layered with meanings and others, I am convinced, are just…odd. Dali’s work is often classified as surrealism. In Dali’s case, his paintings were an expression of philosophical, religious, and scientific beliefs juxtaposing striking images.
I suppose one of the reasons I like Dali is that he helps me look at the world differently and things are not always what they seem to be. There is more than meets they eye. When we finished walking through the many galleries, carefully reading along the way the explanations of certain paintings as well as background material on Dali, I asked Amy with a grin, “What did you think?” She gave a one word reply, “Weird.”
The things we do for love.
Love underlines all our gratitudes:
When we love we are grateful, and when we are grateful we love. Yes, sometimes it leads us to weird places like shelters and soup kitchens, and sometimes it leads us to weird people like the confused and disturbed, but when are hearts are full of gratitude we cannot help but love, and when we love as God so loves us, we are grateful.
A month or so ago we had a “small” construction project at our house. We replaced our front wooden steps with brick ones. The wooden ones had a distinct slant southward, with narrow steps. Structurally and aesthetically they needed to go. Now that all the bricks have been placed we have in our possession about a ton or so of leftover sand. My boys are too old for a sandbox and Amy finds it unbecoming when I play in the large pile with my Tonka trucks so I am in the midst of relocating the sand pile from the front yard to the back.
I do not own a backhoe, a trailer, or a tractor. I do, however, own a wheelbarrow. A couple of weekends ago I decided to take on the pile, one wheelbarrow load at a time. Twenty-six loads later, the pile looks pretty much the same as when I started. I am not sure when I will reach the bottom of the sandbox, but all I can do is focus on this one wheelbarrow load at a time.
Do you ever face anything in your life that is, at least at first glance, overwhelming? There will always be the sink full of dirty dishes or the basket overflowing with laundry, but there are also bigger “chores” before us that are far more ominous. It is the drip of an IV delivering a cocktail of chemotherapy; it is the mounting anxiety of a diminished paycheck and escalating expenses; it is caring for an aging parent or raising a rebellious child.
There are many days I just do not have the strength to read the newspaper or listen to a radio station because all the information being delivered seems so unbearable. We often believe we are commissioned to go and save the world but inside we wonder if we can even save ourselves. Truthfully we can no more save the world than we can save ourselves – that is the work of God and God alone. Jesus spoke to a mountainside of the hungering masses and said, “Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’… and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things…But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” (Matthew 6:31-33)
Of course these words are not meant to imply that we slovenly disregard personal responsibility let alone living missionally. It invites us to live trustingly with the Creator and not fearfully clinging to our things. Each day we have our own wheelbarrow load of “stuff” to carry. To live life one day at a time is fundamentally a faith issue that God has dominion of our lives in spite of the fact that our stress often leaves us feeling out of control.
We think that when things slow down, then we will get a grip on life’s stress or when we finally haul off all the sand with our wheelbarrows all of life will come together, but this is not so. It seems we are under the delusion, as Scarlet O’Hara of Gone With the Wind phrased it, that “Tomorrow is another day.” I don’t mean to add to your stress, but tomorrow brings no guarantees. We should know that by now. The great philosopher Charlie Brown of Peanuts fame put it well: “I’ve developed a new philosophy…I only dread one day at a time.”
Yet the claim of God is that our worth is based not on what we do or how many trips we make with the proverbial wheelbarrow. Our worth is based on who we are and whose we are. Here is how Jesus phrased it in Luke 12: 24 “Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds!”
Sharing with you in God’s value,
Since the end of summer I have waited and watched for the telling signs of fall. For me it comes not on a calendar or from the turning of leaves, but the steady drop in temperatures. The morning air is now far less humid and definitely chillier. Now is the time to lug down the backpack from the attic and clean out last spring’s debris. I have restocked it with appropriate food, gear, and the like. Tomorrow I am heading up to the north Georgia Mountains and meet a friend to hike and camp for a few days along a short section of the Appalachian Trail.
Sometimes when I backpack I blaze along clicking off miles and making good “progress” but failing to really see what is around me. There are other times, however, when I am more obedient to the pleasures of faithful watching. Faithful watching comes by staring hard at something until your neck aches. We see sacredness when we faithfully watch and abide. Many of the beautiful displays in this universe are only rewarded by our vigilant watching. Some years ago I was out backpacking with a few other friends and we ended up one evening on the top of Mt. Laconte in North Carolina. The temperatures had dropped once the sun set but the skies were crystal clear. Someone mentioned among the four of us that there was suppose to be a meteor shower that night, so all four of us sprawled on our backs on the top of an open rock face and stared deep into the night sky. Only through faithful gazing did we see streaks in the sky, though not all of us saw all there was. I am reminded of the many times when my back is on the grass and my eyes are looking hard into the sky looking, figuring, pondering, searching. Rarely do we see much in life through a casual glance.
It is not just the night sky that calls us to be sentinels. How many times have I visited the sterile and metallic rooms of a hospital and leaned in to look into the searching eyes of a church member who is watching and waiting. I am trying to be faithful in the listening and looking because together we want to see health and wholeness. And when the news is not good, we are still looking, are we not, either for answers, or for hope, or for courage, or for faith. Faithful attendance, faithful abiding is watching with one another.
There is a place for looking up until your neck hurts for the Holy One. Maureen Memeza writes in The Christian Century, “The Universe is a sacrament of the presence of God…nothing human is alien to God.”
Now we are his body and his blood in this world. The ascension of Jesus does not remove the Holy from us but reminds us of his living in each of us – God with us, God within us, God among us.
Peace,
Greg
I lift up my eyes to the hills–from where will my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth…The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.
(Psalm 121:1-2, 
I know that it is now officially Fall, but it has been a while since I updated my reading list so I thought I would share a list of the books I read this summer. As with all other such post lists, some of these books I intensely enjoyed and others, well, I probably will not read again.
Non-Fiction
52 Loaves: One Man’s Relentless Pursuit of Truth, Meaning, and a Perfect Crust by William Alexander. As a bread baker I was intrigued with the title of this book and was entertained from beginning to end with the author’s near obsessive interest in baking the perfect loaf of peasant bread. This was certainly no “how to” book, yet I learned much more about the art of bread baking including yeasts, flour, and a good oven.
A Place of My Own: The Architecture of Daydreams, Michael Pollan. I read this during my sabbatical leave it coincidently complimented by visual journey it Rome. Part memoir and part journalistic, Pollan reflects on the purpose and aesthetics of a shelter.
The Snow Leopard, by Peter Matthiessen. This is a classic piece of modern nature writing first written in the 1970s. It is the interior reflection of one man’s journey – sojourn? – in the foot of the Himalayas for the snow leopard as well as the search for the self.
Iron John, by Robert Bly. Minnesotan poet Robert Bly wrote this insightful text which literally fueled a “men’s movement” in the 1990s. I first read this book twenty years ago and picked it up again this summer. What a difference it is to read something through the eyes of an older man. Filled with Jungian typology, it is still a relevant classic in the area of masculinity.
Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies, by Jared Diamond. One of my sons was assigned the Pulitzer Prize winner and I decided to read it along with him. It is more than a study of world history; it is thoroughgoing exploration of how and why some societies evolved according to geography, climate, and plant/animal domestication.
Shop class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry Into the Value of Work, by Michael B. Crawford. The author holds a PhD in philosophy from the University of Chicago and has chosen to repair motorcycles “for a living.” It was a wonderful read on, as the subtitle implies, the value of work (and by implication how many have little value for what they “do”).
God and the Art of Seeing, by Richard Kidd and Graham Sparkes. The authors selected several paintings from six artists and compiled essays reflecting on art’s contribution to the journey of faith. While the essays tended to be redundant and some of the observations seemed to be a bit forced, it was an overall good treatment of the nature of faith and art.
Fiction
Sons and Lovers, by D. H. Lawrence. This book has been around about one hundred years and was at one time banned for obscenity, which by today’s standard is “PG” rating at best. Beautifully written, which is part of the reason of its classic status, it is also a bit tiresome in its character development and elongated plots.
The Violent Bear it Away, by Flannery O’Conner. What can I say? I love Flannery O’Conner because her fiction can be read on several levels: theological, philosophical, or just well-written fiction that is entertaining. This is one of only two completed novels that O’Conner published before her death at the age of 39. The rest of her work are short-stories that carry equal weight in the literary world.
Poetry
Morning Poems, by Robert Bly. Bly is the author of the well-known book Iron John, a book I read and thoroughly enjoyed first in 1989 and again this year. He is first and foremost, however, a poet. His free verse style is laced with Jungian themes and images, which can make for some wearisome reading at times. Nonetheless there were lines beautiful and simple and in many places quite profound.
Last week I shared with the congregation in worship about my most recent whitewater rafting trip. I went rafting with the guys’ 9th and 10th grade Sunday School class. They have terrific teachers who do fun things like this to bring the class together and they were thoughtful enough to invite me to tag along. The day was beautiful and the Ocoee River was churning. In these trips we are in a boat of six, heading for a common destination, guided around hazards as well as right through rapids. We work together and sometimes we capsize together. At our very first rapid – a powerful class IV I might add – one of the rafts belonging to another group hit the rapid at an awkward angle ejecting three in the boat, one of which was the guide. The end result was the guide broke an ankle and the two other paddlers were too shook up to complete the trip. Still, we all paddled on eventually making it wearily to our destination safe and sound.
Every time I raft I am reminded that this is a beautiful picture of the church, particularly the shared unity. The bigger the church the greater the complexity and therefore the greater the dispersion. On any given day there are numerous ministries taking place, mission endeavors being developed, and services being provided. On Sunday, the day when most churches around the world gather to worship the One Lord, we joyfully gather to 3500 Walton Way ext. to one of three morning worship services as well as one of 62 Sunday School classes. I believe our complexity is a gift that enables us to minister to a greater number.
Yet there are times and seasons in which we need to take a step back and simplify for a time of just being together. In October we have just such an occasion through the Four Great Sundays.
I have been asked the question more than once: why? Why make all of these changes, upsetting our schedules and routines, even if it is for just four Sundays? I could tell you it is matter of renewal and revival, and that would be true. I could tell you that it is a matter of having different experiences in the life of the church, and that would be true. I could tell you that as with traditional worship this will be a good opportunity to experience other valid styles of worship and I could say the same thing for the contemporary. All of this would all be true.
Yet it is more basic than all of this. It comes down to the very essence of what makes church a church. It comes in one word: unity. In 1 Peter 4:8 the author writes: Finally, all of you, have unity of spirit, sympathy, love for one another, a tender heart, and a humble mind.
What is the church? It is the place where you and I gather in the name of the most High, the Holy One, God Almighty, Father of Jesus the Christ his only Son. It is where we put aside petty differences and labels that divide. It is the one place where we sit together, we cry together, we laugh together, we pray together and where we celebrate this fascinating and wonderful life that God has given us; this life that from the beginning of all time God created us to be in the unique image of God.
When we say “I Am FBC Augusta,” we are not claiming superiority to other churches; neither are we saying church is all about self-promotion; we are not saying that we all look alike, think alike, or are otherwise uniform.
We are saying the prayer of Jesus matters – that we be one. We are saying that Jesus was resurrected not just for the privileged few, but for all the world. We are saying that there are some things that are worth our coming together, that are worth committing our life, and if need be worth dying over.
This world needs that kind of church. This region and this city need that kind of church. And I want to be part of that kind of church. Don’t you? We will not be left “up the creek without a paddle.” Thanks be to God.