Words from WW Blog

A few miles outside of Colorado Springs, there is a sign to indicate that if you want to travel on Elbert Road you’ll need to follow the detour signs. Since I was heading to speak at the Colorado Cowboy Camp Meeting (which is another story in itself), I needed to go through Elbert, which, in case you’re wondering, is where Elbert Road in Elbert County leads to, and then on to the Camp Meeting grounds another 30 miles or so past that.

I followed the detour signs on down the road for a few miles until I reached Peyton, turned left as the sign instructed me to do, and proceeded this way and that way until I met up with Elbert Road again. So far so good until…

As I approached the intersection that brought me back to the continuation of Elbert Road, the detour sign pointed to the left, except I knew Elbert was to the right. What to do? Follow my instincts and turn right? Assume that the county highway workers getting close to the end of the work week were weary, a little lacking in detail, and not reading the signs (Bad pun!)? Did they forget what was their right and what was their left, or had run out of detour signs pointing to the right, and made the directional mistake?

Or should I continue to follow the signs, even when I knew this one was wrong?

I turned right.

After I made the turn, in my rearview mirror I could see flashing lights. I pulled over to see what the lighted sign said underneath the flashing. It said, “Road Closed Ahead,” which was now behind me.

Most of the time, following the signs is the way to go. Once in a while, however, there is a person, leader, group, or organization who decides on the direction and has no clue as to what he, she, or they are doing. Suddenly, theres’s an abrupt closure up ahead.

It might be a county roads worker who is short on sleep, hot, and sweaty and, as a result, brings a temporary uncomfortableness to those trusting in what the signs say, but sometimes it’s a simply movement or a whacked idea that leads to the edge of a cliff. The side of a cliff is fine in a Far Side cartoon or Roadrunner cartoons, and even for a herd of demon-possessed pigs that are running away from Jesus, but when the cliff is ending and a shred of misguided people are approaching it at full speed someone needs to get on a bullhorn and say the sign was pointing in the wrong direction.

I can recall a whole volume of times my decisions lacked common sense and my life was heading in the wrong direction, but most of the time I’ve been able to figure out what seems to be a bad idea, what leads to misery, and what is just plain stupid. I mean, there is a reason why they titled the one TV show “Jackass” instead of “Genius”

When I headed toward the cliff there were consequences connected to the nonsense. In our culture today, bad decisions with cliff-teetering results seem to get blamed on someone or something else. As someone sprints towards destruction, it seems that he rationalizes that there will be someone who will throw him a rope as he’s losing his balance.

Sometimes we need to be perceptive enough to detour around the detour. That, however, may be asking a bit too much of some folk.

Today, June 18, would have been my dad’s 94th birthday. I’m wearing his blue University of Kentucky polo in honor of him. Laurence Hubert Wolfe passed away on February 15, 2018. He was a man of God, wise, respected, and dependable.

I could write the facts about him, like how many kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids he had, where he worked… stuff like that , but that doesn’t tell you who my dad was.

My dad was a caring person. That seems kinda descriptively non-descriptive. But you see it entails a multitude of stories. He and my mom were married for 65 years before her passing. Her name was Virginia Helton, youngest daughter of Dewey and Nettie Helton, and a bit strong-willed and determined. Add her married name to her first name and she became Virginia Wolfe. As we would say in our teenage years, “Who’s afraid of Virginia Wolfe?” We would raise our hands. Not that my mom was mean or dictatorial, she just liked things done her way, like expecting all the dinner food to be consumed by us so the dishwater didn’t get dirty. There were more than a few times where I had another serving of mashed potatoes plopped on my plate in consideration of what it would do to the dishwater. The whole scenario was confusing to me, but now I rarely take a plate to the sink with food on it that I haven’t consumed. Wasting food was something you didn’t do, even if it was canned carrots (which I believed were from the devil).

Dad cared for my mom, honored her, sometimes let her talk to the point that she made no sense, before offering her his thoughts which always followed the trail of common sense. In her final years, struggling with Parkinson’s that gradually caused her to lose the functioning of her arms and legs, my dad and my sister (who lived down the street from them) became Mom’s caregivers. That required taking care of he diapering, feeding, keeping her hydrated, and listening to her conspiracy theories about things she had become confused about. The one that we’ll always remember is that Mom believed Dad was having an affair with Rachael Ray. She could see the TV personality reflected on the mirror in her bedroom off of the TV positioned a few feet away from her bed. It greatly upset her, so Dad, kind and considerate, solved the problem by draping towels over the mirror. He had to find a different mirror to stand in front of to comb his hair.

When the Parkinson’s also took Mom’s ability to speak, Dad became her conversationalist, talking to her about the kids and grandkids, what she’d like for dinner…even though she couldn’t tell him, and the latest news stories. He honored her in his caring, as he had committed on their August 13, 1947 wedding day, “for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.” That’s who he was, how he was, and what he was about. His father, my grandfather, had been killed in a mining accident when Dad was still a kid. Perhaps not having him around, and the severity of the times in the late 1930s, caused him to help his mom and his two siblings keep the family together. He never really talked about those days very much, which tells me they were a difficult time, yet also a foundational time for him. They solidified many of his virtues and values.

He loved a good story. The front porch of the Helton farm home, outside of Paintsville, Kentucky, was a gathering place for stories listened to and told by Dad, my uncles, and my PaPaw Helton. I swear I heard some of those stories more times than God Himself, but they never became tiresome, and each telling prompted rebuttals and revisions from some of the listeners.

“Now, Milliard, that’s not how it happened. It was a Tuesday and he was driving a Ford pickup with one of the taillights hanging down from its frame like it was trying to get away.”

In his later years, with the front porch gang all gone on to Glory, Dad would pass on stories to us…again and again, always slapping himself on the leg as he came to the uproarious, humorous ending. My brother would offer his perspective as a result of 28 years with the Associated Press and several years as the speechwriter for the Kentucky governor, and my sister and I would sit there taking it all in, laughing at just the right moment to encourage the spinning of Dad’s tale.

And Dad was wise. Might I add, patiently wise. He’d hear my mom out: her struggles at her bookkeeping job at J. C. Penney’s that day, who said what to whom, should she go ahead and buy some Towncraft underwear for the boys for Christmas since it was on sale that week, and what did he think about how quickly her new shoes had started to wear out? Dad would listen and, not too soon, offer his thoughts and advice on the topic at hand. When I came home from college for my Christmas break with my hair grown out and parted in the middle, my mom’s reaction was “Lord, have mercy!” Dad’s reaction was to hug me since he hadn’t seen me for almost 5 months. I do recall him escorting me down to Morris’s Barbershop the next Monday morning, but the importance of having my hair trimmed and looking more like a Baptist was on a different page from letting me know how glad he was to see me.

So today would be his 94th birthday. I trimmed around the lawn today in honor of him. He liked a freshly-mowed and well-trimmed yard even more than a trimmed-up son. Maybe I’ll ask my oldest daughter to bring her hair clippers over tonight as a tribute to Mom. It would make her happy, which, in turn would make Dad happy.

Happy birthday, Pops!

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” (Romans 15:13)

I live in Colorado, where we’ve had drought conditions for the past few years. Each year our local officials, in collaboration with the public utility departments, decide if there needs to be watering restrictions put into place. For example, this year we’re restricted to watering our lawn three days a week. As another deterrent to using too much water, the price for each gallon has been used, as well as higher prices during certain times of the day.

The reservoirs around the state are low. The snowfall, that is so necessary to keep the water level up, was minimal this past winter. The ripple effect of that can be seen in the dried-up patches of grass in our backyard. The dry Colorado climate often causes me to feel parched and wanting.

That picture of depletion could be used to characterize the search that many people have these days for hope. Hopelessness has dehydrated our passion for life and purpose for living. It has sapped our energy and scorched our optimism.

When a person or a culture is in the midst of a hope drought, the despondency causes people to look for people and systems to blame it on. Whose fault is it that there is no hope in sight? In sports the coach, manager, players, or even the fan-base get blamed. In financially-stressed times the rising costs of products and services become the focus. In relational tensions, the focus can shift to perceived injustices, the inability to communicate, and structures that cause division and unrest.

Looking for someone to blame, however, never leads to hope. It just leads to hopelessness being reshaped. It does nothing to quench the thirst for hope. It distorts the thirst for hope into being a thirst for justice or a thirst for vindication. There is a mentality that runs through our culture that seems to believe that the absence of hope can be rectified by the presence of equity and fair treatment. There is nothing wrong with such things, but they are artificial sweeteners for the sweetness of hope.

In Scripture, where the word hope appears, it usually is in conjunction with the Lord God Almighty, Jesus, and/or the Holy Spirit. Psalm 42 begins with the phrase, “As the deer pants for the water, my soul thirsts for you, O Lord.” And then a few verses later, the psalmist writes, “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God.” (Psalm 42:5)

The Apostle Paul, after he had been taken to Rome to face Caesar and, ultimately, his execution, met with some of the Jewish leaders in Rome and said to them, “For this reason I have asked to see you and talk with you. It is because of the hope of Israel that I am bound with this chain.” (Romans 28:20) The hope of Israel, Jesus.

In a day and age of anxiety and unrest, a time of spiritual and personal drought, the answer for our lack of fulfillment and despair is the hope that we are offered in Jesus Christ. After all, Jesus described Himself as “The Living Water”.

When I was moving into eighth grade…we were moving! My family had been living in Williamstown, West Virginia for several years, but my dad, who worked for the Social Security Administration, received a promotion and we made a move to Zanesville, Ohio.

The middle school years are awkward enough, but when you are the new kid at a school (South Zanesville Junior High) where almost everyone already knows one another it makes it even more uncomfortable. Add to that the fact that I was the shortest kid (4 feet 8 inches) in the whole eighth grade, and maybe even in seventh grade, I felt invisible one moment and thought everyone was staring at the new kid in the next.

I went out for football and looked like someone’s little brother who had wandered onto the field. I remember one practice where Randy McDaniels, our 6’1″ running back took a pitch and was running to the outside. I tried to tackle him and I bounced off of him like he was a windshield and I was the bug.

Terry Kopchak was a lineman on that team and he took me under his massive wing. He was kind and smart. Although he’d never brag about it, Terry was a straight ‘A’ student, one of those kids who worked hard and always seemed to do what was right. He ended up being a teacher, a principal, and then a school superintendent. Instead of seeing me as someone who got obliterated by Randy McDaniels, he saw me as someone who needed a friend.

The eighth and ninth grade years are hard enough. In fact, as I look back on those days I view them as years of personal insignificance. They were a time where I felt I had no value, I didn’t ‘t matter.

Terry Kopchak and another classmate named Mike Bowman told me I mattered. After a football season where my stat sheet registered zero tackles, zero receptions, and, as I look back on it, I think my uniform number was zero, basketball season came. The three of us were teammates on the school team, and the main player was the same guy who had trampled me during football season. Mike, Terry, and I were players who had support roles. We supported one another on the bench and encouraged each other in the minutes of playing time we’d receive. (By the way, Mike Bowman was also a straight ‘A’ student! If I ever received an ‘A’, it was in physical education.)

When I look back on it, now 55 years in the rearview mirror, I am increasingly thankful for these two friends who mad such an impact. After my ninth grade year, my dad received another promotion and we moved from Zanesville to the river town of Ironton, where two other guys (Dave Hughes and Mike Fairchild) took up where terry and Mike left off. I wonder where I would have been without those guys. Their handprints were upon my life.

In recent days, Terry has had some health struggles. He’s had to go through dialysis and physical therapy, battled through Covid illness even though he had received the first three vaccinations, and has gone through a long recovery. One of the results of friendship is a heart swell of empathy, compassion, and love for an old buddy, even though we haven’t crossed paths for decades.

A ripple effect of having friends like Terry and Mike can be seen in the first three books of my RED HOT novel series. One of the main characters, a short bespectacled kid named Ethan Thomas, needed a friend, just like I did. A new boy named Randy moved across the street from him and became that friend who believed in him.

You see, everyone needs a friend…or two, because a friend can let you know that you matter even when you’re filled with doubts that you do.

Thanks, Terry…Mike…Mike…and Dave!

In preparation for the middle school cross country season that begins in two months, I bought a bicycle at a garage sale for twenty bucks. It’s in great shape, as opposed to the guy who climbed on it and started pedaling. My quad muscles were yelling at me after pedaling on a slight uphill slant for like…a quarter-mile!

They say once you learn to ride a bike you’ll never forget. As I stood there looking at my new-used bike, I asked Carol questions like “How do you change gears?” and “Is this how you brake?” The seat was set for someone about six inches taller than me. It felt like I was rock climbing the first time I stepped onto it.

Now I’ve got to get a bike helmet, something we never had when I was growing up. We were reckless and dumb, running out the side door of the house, picking up the battered Schwinn that laid on its side in the yard, and jumping on like The Lone Ranger as he took a running start and jumped onto Silver. Our moment of alarmed concern was seeing that one of the baseball cards was missing, that had been clipped to the wheel frame. It made this cool flapping sound as you rode down the street. However, I cringe when I think back and ponder whether I had Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron being slapped by the spokes of my wheel. The closest thing we had to a bike helmet was our baseball cap, the bill of which we pulled down low to act as a wind shield. I’m guessing that I’ll end up spending more on a bike helmet than the bike, which, I guess I can easily say, will not be hard to do.

With the gas prices going up faster than I can pedal, I’ve got to get used to my new eco-friendly form of service.

The twenty-dollar bike I bought belonged to a young man, who I used to coach in basketball. He’s a college student now, but evidently there had been a number of bicycles stolen this past year from the campus. He had a clever idea. He put stickers all over the bike frame. It reminds me of one of those old RV’s from the 1970’s that would have stickers plastered all over the back to let people know about all the places they’d visited…and how many uncomfortable nights of sleep they had endured as they bedded down on their skinny cots. This bike is like that to the max. There are picture stickers of cast members from The Office, daisies, random pieces of tape, witty quotes, Winnie the Pooh, Lassie, and gold stars. In fact, just to disguise its awesomeness even more, the seat of the bike has black duct tape covering it.

In talking to my school athletic director, we thought that we’d get some more stickers, name a “runner of the day” after each cross country practice, and let the chosen student put another sticker somewhere on the bike. That would be our scaled-down version of “Employee of the Day” plaque that you see hanging on the wall of a fast-food restaurant to the side of the menu. Maybe our sticker could have the updated price of a gallon of gas. The font would need to be small, however, so the numbers would fit on the sticker.

Once you learn to ride a bike you never forget, but you do suddenly remember why it is you haven’t had a two-wheeler for years. My quads are like barking dogs today!

A dog, something else I haven’t had for the past four decades!

The pandemic caused an enormous number of changes in our world. We discovered masks, and then masks with designs and short, witty sayings. Curbside became a thing that was offered at more places than Sonic. Now I can go put a book on hold, go to the public library, and pick it up curbside. Students didn’t even have to change out of their pajamas to attend school that had now been brought right into their bedroom, family room, or wherever they plopped their laptop down in the house. Teachers could teach from their own kitchen and have the family cat cuddle up next to the screen.

Covid made us do some things and kept us from doing others, like being with family. For me, it caused me to start doing more long walks, where I discovered these things called podcasts. I got to know Andy Stanley and, on really long walks, T. D. Jakes. I listened to my friend, Chuck Moore, give a few sermons from his office at First Baptist Church of Champaign/Savoy and discovered new songs by J. J. Heller and Crowder.

But the pandemic also caused me to put the brakes on playing pickup basketball games at the YMCA at 6:00 in the morning. The Y is located less than a mile from our house, but Covid became the impenetrable defense that stopped any shot attempt. Before it swept in, we’d have 20 people showing up to play that early in the morning. And then there was no one!

A few months ago, the restrictions were lifted and the hoop action began again, but I had gotten out of the habit. On most mornings I was teaching and unavailable, and if I wasn’t teaching I was sitting on my stool at Starbucks (“Last stool on the right, facing out toward Pike’s Peak”).

Until Friday! One of the guys who I used to play with had come into Starbucks a couple of weeks ago and had urged me come back…so I did.

The court seems to have gotten longer since I was there last. Two or three times up-and-down the court had me huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. I’m sure that at least one of the younger generation I was playing with looked around to find where the nearest AED machine was located.

However, after the first few old-man sprints, I reconnected with the cardio-base that I had built up in all the years of long-distance running. It became easier, although I wasn’t winning any speed contests getting from one end of the court to the other.

In all my years of coaching basketball, I’ve integrated the idea of teamwork into how I play. Moving without the ball, setting screens, getting to open space, knowing where my teammates are and knowing when to help on defense are now all embedded in how I play. So when I finally took my first shot and swished it, the big guy on my team yelled “I love you!” When I took my second shot, a wide-open three-pointer, and swished it, he yelled, “I really love you!” When I set a screen down-low that sprung him open for a shot that he made, he screamed, “I want to marry you!”

I had to let him know that I was already taken…almost 43 years now! Another couple of shots that found the bottom of the net and I thought he was going to hug me to death.

And now, 24 hours after that run up-and-down the court, I’m rediscovering the awful truths of being 68. My back is telling me to stop doing stupid things, my knees are cracking every step I take coming down the stairs, and the right side of my neck is pinching me to see if I’m for real!

Two days from now I’ll either do stupid and do the same thing again, or head to the safe zone of my Starbucks stool. I’m actually sitting on it right now and, as I look around, I don’t see any AED device anywhere!

 “You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family.” (Matthew 5:9, The Message)

Peace is as elusive as cheap gas. We’d like it, but we just can’t find it. And, of course, judging from the interstate traffic this weekend, we’re not willing to change our driving ways to find that middle point of budget-consciousness and still be participating in what are the important events of life.

Jesus had his differences with many folk of His day. From the gospel stories we encounter the Rabbi who would listen, offer a question that would bring the person toward a remedy of spiritual, emotional, and relational healing. Jesus was the Peacemaker and He was, and is, Peace. He didn’t compromise on the essential truths He instructed us to live by, but He didn’t build up barriers to communication with those who challenged Him.

In a culture that is as divided as oil and water, I seldom find people who point toward a position of peace. Trenches are dug, non-negotiables are set in cement, and offensive language is spoken. Cooperation is of minimal importance. Cooperation brings the differing factions closer to experiencing community, where the emphasis is not on winning or losing, gaining more followers, and being the superior side. Community brings out what we have in common and agree upon.

Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase of Jesus’ blessing of those who are peacemakers points me to the essence of the issue. “Show people how to cooperate instead of compete.”

A push to cooperate is usually met with responses that start with the words “Yes, but…” Behind them you can hear the sound of a shovel digging the trench deeper. The point of peace, however, usually has a bungee cord attached to it that branches out in two, or more, directions. There’s give-and-take as dialogue draws people closer.

If Jesus came down on a certain side, it usually was because of injustice toward those who didn’t have a voice, people who no one considered important enough to listen to. He was unbending on the essential truth that everyone is valued by God the Father. He’d be the voice for those whose needs weren’t considered important.

Finding the peace point, individually and as a society, was His purpose, His mission. It should be ours as well but, once again, finding the peace point is as easy as finding cheap gas. Maybe we just need to walk more, instead of being in such a hurry to get somewhere.

Yesterday I attended the funeral service of Chaz Woodson, taken at the too-young age of 38 by an heart episode in his sleep. Chaz had been the varsity boys’ soccer coach for the last several years at Liberty High School in Colorado Springs, where he had been teaching math and had played soccer 20 years ago.

In fact, my son had been his teammate on the team that lost in the state championship game their junior year to finish the season 18-1-1, and won the state championship their senior year with an unblemished 20-0 record. At the funeral gathering yesterday, a number of the boys who were on the team were in attendance, coming from other states, as well as close to home.

I watched them reunite before and after the service, attended by at least a thousand people. For a number of them, this was the first time they had seen each other in years, some not since high school. They had progressed in their lives, taken different career paths, many now with families. They had come back together to remember a teammate who, ironically, was coaching the same team that had bonded them together so many years ago.

Death draws us near. It’s a time of mourning, and yet we draw strength from the others who are traveling the same path. Death confuses us, and yet, refocuses us. It causes us to pause and it leads us to reassess.

Death elicits anger, as we see in the actions to the school shooting in Texas this week, but it also reignites our love and compassion.

At Chaz’s funeral, the tissues were being pulled from the numerous boxes situated in numerous locations around the sanctuary. Tears brought on by sorrow mixed with tears created by laughter. The sweetness of remembering was evident as former teammates hugged and gave slaps on the backs to each other afterwards in the church foyer.

I’ve officiated at a number of funerals over the years where sadness was layered on top of sadness. At those gatherings, no one experienced or shared the sweetness of the moments that had been a part of the departed’s life. I would leave gatherings such as those wondering if the person had ever lived or, on the other hand, whether those in attendance had ever lived life with him or her.

Chaz’s service was punctuated by stories of his impact and shared experiences. He had lived life, loved family, and been the creator of sweet memories. Death draws us near and, once again, draws out the reasons we live.

“When Jesus heard this, he said to him, “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” (Luke 18:22)

Jesus said three words, “Come, follow me!” on at least two occasions to two different types of people. One type consisted of people He was inviting to come and follow Him, to be His disciples. The second type, depending on the gospel account you read, was someone of wealth and/or stature.

I wonder how hard it was for those He invited to summon up the courage to put to the side what they had and start on a new unknown journey. How much doubt did they deal with? What was the tipping point that determined whether they stayed or went?

In the Luke passage, the encounter with the rich young ruler comes immediately after Jesus has a difference of opinion with the same disciples who have accepted His offer to follow Him. They were rebuking people for trying to bring their children to Jesus. Jesus’ reply to them was “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”

Jesus loved kids. Children grabbed hold of the heartstrings of God’s own Son, a strong indication of God’s perspective as well.

The past few days Carol and I have been watching our two-and-a-half-year-old grandson while his mom, dad, and baby brother were away for some meetings and relaxation. Joey enjoyed having Grammy and Granddad all to himself for long periods of time. Carol did most of the work and will now take a few weeks to recover.

Meanwhile, Joey enjoyed pulling me around. He would slip his tiny hand into mine and say, with limited clarity still, “Grandad, come. Granddad, come.”

And I followed. You don’t refuse the pull of a small hand as he leads you to the next adventure. I couldn’t say, “No, Granddad has important things to do!” or “No, Granddad is too tired and needs to rest.”

The task I was being pulled to was sometimes the operating of a toy train, making sure it stayed on the defective track, and sometimes it was to pull him in a Joey-size play boat. In essence, I was being pulled in order to pull.

Interesting. The one who has the least amount of physical strength to pull me is the one who I can not offer any resistance to.

Jesus knew that. When parents tried to bring their offspring to Him to place His hand on them and bless them, the disciples yelled at the parents. Perhaps they wouldn’t have hindered the kids if they had come alone.

All I know is that I felt closer to God these past few days as a small hand took hold of mine and led me to where he wanted me to go.

“Come, follow me…Granddad!”

Frequently in the gospels, Jesus got into conversations that resembled grill sessions. For example, in Matthew 12, the Pharisees confronted Him about His disciples who were doing what was unlawful on the Sabbath by picking the heads off the grains in the field as they walked by because they were hungry. Jesus brought up a story from their past that they were familiar with.

“Haven’t you read about what David and his companions did when they were hungry?” (Matthew 12:3, NIV)

In another encounter, a bunch of religious leaders and pious men were ready to stone a woman caught in adultery. They tell Jesus what the Law says and Jesus responds, “Let the one without sin cast the first stone.” Gradually the condemners slip away, confronted with the big picture that cast a dark shadow on each one of them.

Jesus brought the whole context of the issue into the dialogue, not a singular moment that could only be interpreted from one incident. Jesus saw the whole book– its individual pages, front and back covers, binding, table of contents, beginning and ending– not just the view of the front cover, the only aspect that can be seen from a straight-on look.

I’ve thought about that a lot as the fervor over the leaked Supreme Court document dealing with Roe vs. Wade has erupted. It has caused me to ponder the implications, the responsibilities, and the opportunities. In other words, the whole book, not just the front cover that is viewed.

At the risk of some deciding not to read any further, I admit that I am an advocate of life. What I’ve come to realize, however, is that being a true life advocate means more than holding a position on abortion. It carries with it the rest of the picture. If I advocate for the sacredness of life I must consider how that affects other pages in my life journey. What are the implications of believing in the sacredness of life as it pertains to the hungry, the afflicted, and the elderly? If I believe in the sacredness of life I must look at all of life or risk being a like the accusing Pharisees, nearsighted and shortsighted.

What responsibilities am I committing myself to by saying that life is sacred? In a culture that is very focused on the self, am I willing to look in the mirror and see the inconsistencies in my life, and in seeing them, am I willing to make the changes that would be God-honoring and Christ-consistent? After all, following Jesus means following the One who promised new life. There’s that word again. Life.

Jesus had a way of causing both his naysayers and also his disciples to stop and consider the stumbling points of their views. They wanted to come back at Him with “Yes, but!” responses, but in the end they would realize the inconsistencies in their views. I feel that way about both sides as the venom spews out about the Roe vs. Wade case. There are inconsistencies on both sides, but no one wants to admit that. Admitting that there needs to be more pondering and praying about a position is too humbling for most of us.

And I’m still thinking about the what it means for my life. In essence, every time I turn to a new page in the story, I discover another part of the journey that causes me to realize there’s something new to consider.