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The Seat

May 30, 2025

“With the crowd dispersed, he climbed the mountain so he could be by himself and pray. He stayed there alone, late into the night.” (Matthew 14:23)

I sit in the same seat for the Sunday morning worship service. Call me a creature of habit or someone who is set (or sits) in his ways. It’s just what I do. A young military couple sits in front of me and a 95-year-old man sits at the other end of the pew. My wife sits beside me, and my youngest granddaughter chummy’s up on my other side. My seat is my place of reflection, peace, and comfort.

I also sit in the same seat at Starbucks, the last stool on the right facing out toward Pike’s Peak. It’s my blog writing spot (where I am currently sitting). You can tell when I’ve been teaching too much by the absence of blog posts for a while. I like this seat for the view and being able to “pull to the side.”

Jesus had a tendency to find a seat in the secluded, a spot where he was able to be alone and pray. Even on the night when he was facing his death, he went to the Garden of Gethsemane with some of his disciples. A lot of attention is given to their drowsiness, but before we get to that point in the story Jesus has said to them, “Stay here while I go over there and pray.” He drew aside to His spot. His “seat” was one of agony and conviction. He knew He was like a Death Row inmate in his final hours. The seat off to the side gave Him the time and space to come to grips with His purpose and destination.

Years ago I asked a man at the church I pastored why he sat in the same seat each week in worship? In my youthful brashness, I had assumed that he was an older man set in his ways and couldn’t see to do something different for a change. His answer made me feel like an insensitive jerk. The seat where he positioned himself was where he had sat with his son for his child’s growing up years…his son who was killed in Vietnam serving his country. When he sat in his seat, he felt close to his departed child.

Where we sit often has a backstory to it that needs to be told and honored. In our world that has minimal stability and consistency, we are hungry for places to sit, places to rest, and seats for contemplation. When we find that place, its sacredness becomes evident. We recognize it as being a gift. When others invade our space a sense of unrest settles upon us as the peace and quiet disappear.

Even this morning, as I was coming to the end of this blog, three young guys settled in around me and chatted loudly and long. In a way, I felt cheated that my seat had been invaded. They didn’t realize it. The world doesn’t realize it. In a way, it made me appreciate the hour of peace I had been gifted with before they came.

May each of us have some seating and sacred moments this day. Amen.

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The Sandals

May 19, 2025


 “I baptize you with water for repentance. But after me comes one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry.” (Matthew 3:11)

“But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.  Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate.  For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.” (Luke 15:22-24)

When I walk down our driveway to get the mail out of the mailbox, I usually put shoes or sandals on. The little rocks that I swear weren’t there a moment ago seem to move onto the driveway when they see I’m barefoot. Even though I look like I’m trying to navigate my way through a minefield, I rarely get down to the postal box (to clear out the daily junk mail) without the pain of a stone pushing on the tender underside of my foot.

Sandals spare me the pain, even the Waste Management sandals my sister-in-law’s husband, Mickey, gave me twenty years ago when he was a top salesman for the company. Sandals were a gift that I continue to use.

I notice that sandals have a significant role in the walking journey described in the Gospels. That is, they leave a trail that begins with unworthiness and progresses from there. There’s a reference in each of the Gospels where John the Baptist is quoted as saying he’s not even worthy to untie or carry the sandals that Jesus is wearing. To untie Jesus’s sandals that had leather straps would have required John to stoop down, get on his knees, and assume the position of a servant. He did not consider himself worthy enough to do that lowly task.

It’s a picture of our unworthiness to experience the love, grace, and forgiveness of God. In a way, Jesus is on the throne, and each of us isn’t.

As we know, though, Jesus invited people to walk with Him. He taught as He walked. His sandals covered many miles as he traveled the dusty roads and rocky paths. There was plenty of dust to make the traveler’s feet a sight for sore eyes. In fact, Jesus tells his disciples to go into towns and villages and share the good news of God, but if they are not accepting the disciples are to shake the dust off their feet as they leave the town. It’s a sign of the judgment of God upon those who do not welcome Jesus’s messages of hope and new life.

However, the journey of the sandals arrives at grace and forgiveness when Jesus tells the story of the prodigal son returning home from his time of willful lostness. He has gone through all of his earthly possessions, his inheritance, and comes back…sandals went…hoping that his father will have a little pity on him and hire him to take care of the livestock since he’s not worthy enough to be his son anymore.

His father welcomes him with open arms, throws a party and a Texas barbecue, and puts sandals on his feet. It’s an amazing story that shows how deep and gracious is the love of God. Putting sandals on his feet was a sign that he was worthy to be called one of his father’s sons…no matter where he had come from…no matter the pain he had caused…and no matter the pain he had endured in his walk of blame and walking home in shame.

Sandals told him he was loved. As I look at my pair of (interestingly enough) Waste Management sandals, I’m reminded of the One who walks closely with me.

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Practicing The Presence of Christ…Behind The Steering Wheel

May 14, 2025

“And teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20)

I wouldn’t characterize myself as being a “road rager,” but perturbed and annoyed would fit me as comfortably as my twenty-five-year-old Michigan State sweatshirt, complete with holes in the armpits.

I hurl flaming insults at drivers and motorcyclists who dart in and out of traffic, elderly great-grandmothers who creep along like they’re looking at Christmas light displays, teens focused on their cellphones more than the road (Against the law in Colorado now, thank God!), and sunglassed adorned professionals driving BMW’s in entitled kinds of ways.

It hit me this week that I am negligent, downright clueless, about practicing the presence of Christ when I’m driving. I’m like Peter drawing his sword to cut off the ear of Malchus as Jesus is being arrested. The rough edges of my life surface when a steering wheel is in front of me. It’s easy to pray for a wayward soul to find the Way, the Truth, and the Life. On the other hand, it’s revealing of my personality and character flaws when I reduce the annonymous guy who just cut me off to being a moron.

Why can’t my first thought be to pray for the person, to pray that whatever is going on in his life that is filled with darkness could be spoken to by the whisper of God? Why is my first thought more along the lines of casting him…verbally…into the lake of fire?

Is practicing the presence of Christ while driving my Civic possible, or is it more like an episode of “The Twilight Zone”?

It seems like when a person has things going well and is feeling pretty good about his relationshiop with Jesus that there’s a nudging from the Holy Spirit about some wart that I don’t habve tried to not see. Notice I switched from a person to “I” as that sentence progressed.

I think I need to put a sticky note on my dash that says something like, “Don’t Cuss At Them! Pray For Them!” Or “An Erratic Driver May be a Sign of An Unsettled Life. Pray For Their Peace.” At other times I need a poster board glaring at me with the word “Repent, Bill!” written in glow-in-the-dark letters.

This is an experience that will be properly defined as being “still in progress.” As I climb behind the wheel, I need to remind myself to pray for the road miles ahead. Sometimes, I pray for safety, but I have not considered praying for others.

Of course, the question might be, “Does it matter?” If no one hears me muttering Baptist profanity, what difference does it make? The answer is more about seeking the mind of Christ and realizing that no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I’m reflecting Him, reflecting just how intimate my relationship with Him is. Triple A estimates that the average person in the U.S. spends 55-60 minutes a day in an automobile. That’s roughly 300 hours a year.

I can choose to be a negative ninny for 300 hours a year or practice the presence of Christ, even if it in interstate gridlock.

PRAYER: Lord, I’ll try. I really will. In those moments when I revert to Peter with a sword ready to inflict pain and abuse, please forgive me. May You be my Driving Force!

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HIJACKING WORSHIP

May 11, 2025

“I have the right to do anything,” you say—but not everything is beneficial. “I have the right to do anything”—but not everything is constructive.  No one should seek their own good, but the good of others.” (1 Corinthians 10:23-24)

The good thing about the Christian faith is the freedom we have as a result of Christ. The bad thing about the Christian faith—and the church—is that we have freedom as a result of Christ.

A puzzling contradiction, you say. Yes. We have the freedom to live for Jesus and a tendency to be free in spite of Jesus. When my agenda butts head with Jesus call, I often have a way of putting Jesus in the back pew so He doesn’t interrupt.

Worship becomes the incubator for the personal oozings of fractured people. In my years pastoring, the oozing and spewing happened in various ways. I remember saying the dreaded words, “Are there any other prayer requests?” Aunt Matilda’s hand would go up to share such intriguing news as the newest saga of her battle with gall stones. Uncle Wilbur needed to share with the congregation that he had sprayed the weeds on the north side of the building…so stay off the grass. Little Lucy asked for prayer for her daddy who had been flatuating like an elephant all week long.

And then there was the elderly hard-of-hearing lady who refused the devices the church had to help people hear, but she always felt free enough to tell the guest speaker to speak up because she couldn’t hear him.

And then there was the lady who felt called to be a worship leader and was going to impress the congregation with her talent and words from the Lord for an insufferable amount of time. Her word was much more important than the pastor’s sermon that he had put at least twenty hours into preparing.

And then there was the traditionalist who would visually show his disdain for any praise song, but overly expressive himself when any hymn was sung. It was as if anything written after 1950 could not be inspired by the Holy Spirit. A Sunday where more praise music was sung than hymns would always be followed up with a ferocious letter to the pastor about letting Satan become a resident of the music people.

On the other hand, there was the lady who used the eighteen verses (with the same words) to display her latest dance class moves, swiveling hips and swinging elbows included.

Or the young man who volunteered to do special music and, unbeknownst to the pastor, launched into the hit song by the Village People, “Y.M.C.A”, including the forming of each letter.

Or the elderly gentleman who volunteered to do the invocation prayer, which he used to inform the congregation who they should vote for in the upcoming election.

Or the visiting woman who, in the midst of the service, informed the congregation that the Christmas tree in the sanctuary was a symbol of the demonic.

In essence, just like the Corinthian church, there are various ways we still find the freedom to hijack worship and display the truth that we have not moved very far away from the warped congregation that the Apostle Paul had to spend an exorbitant amount of time trying to correct the course of.

Lord, help us!

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The “Meh” Birthday

May 4, 2025

“The sun comes up, and the sun goes down,
    then does it again, and again—the same old round.” (Ecclesiastes 1:5, The Message)

Tomorrow, I hit 71! My brother tells me it’s one of those “Meh” birthdays. It’s hard to get excited about it. It’s like ordering vanilla at Baskin-Robbins. Who does that??? Probably 71-year-olds.

I tried to find a scripture that would help me understand “meh-ism”, but all I found were numerous references in Proverbs about being a sluggard, getting spit out of Jesus’ mouth for being lukewarm (Revelation), and making the best use of my time because we live in evil times (Ephesians).

“Meh moments” hit all of us. Next year’s 72 will have a bit of entertainment to me, since I graduated from Ironton High School in ’72.’ On the other hand, each birthday reminds me of the fact that more of my Fighting Tigers classmates are no longer fighting. Their fight has ended.

Kind of a dreary thought.

I find it harder these days to battle through the “meh-ism” than the more intense difficulties of lower back pain, athletes I’m coaching who need their attitude adjusted, driving in the midst of psycho drivers, and managing my hunger for fried foods as my cholesterol level is screaming at me.

Some days, I’m like Simon Peter after Jesus has been crucified. He’s at a loss as to what to do, so he goes back to fishing because…”What else is a guy to do?”

My roots watered with Baptist guilt, shower upon me disbelief in how I have just wasted a whole day without getting anything constructive done. On “Meh Days”, a person tends to keep asking, “Why? What’s the point?”

I know, I know, I’m sounding like a paraphrase of Ecclesiastes. Hitting 71, however, gives me a new perspective on the subject of meaninglessness. Tomorrow is my birthday…and it just is.

I think hitting 71 will tell me that it’s okay to sigh, to not be as excited as a Colorado Rockies every time they unexpectedly win a game, or also as depressed as the same fans on the regularity of their defeats. It’s okay to trust that the Master will guide me through the day, to nor have to always be behind the steering wheel. dictating to Him like an Uber driver on the clock.

As it also says in Ecclesiastes 1, “There is a time for everything…a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away…a time to love and a time to hate.”

Tomorrow is just…a time. Another day, I will lean on Jesus to pull me through.

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