Seminary is where my head got filled with facts. Hinson Church is where I learned the skills of ministry. From the one school I received a degree. But it was the other that I would call a ministry prep school.
When I went to seminary I had as my goal to prepare to become better equipped to pastor, to shepherd, to help people. I didn’t have a desire to become a theologian, to be trained to be a professor. There is a saying about grad school. If you can’t do it, then teach it. I had no desire to fall into that trap.
So I chose a shorter program than most, one that would allow me to study New Testament Greek. I avoided the M.Div program and the Th.M programs, because I didn’t want to study homiletics and Hebrew and a whole host of doctrinal courses that I was convinced would only sit on the shelf in the back of my brain and be of little use in helping people with real problems in a real world. That’s just me, though.
While at seminary, back in the 70’s, we attended Hinson Church. In the three short years that we were there I plugged my self into as many programs and training situations as I possibly could. Many of them Carol was right there along side me, even though she was finishing up her nursing degree. We were in the choir for awhile. We helped with the discipleship classes for a while. Then I went through the evangelism training program. Then we worked with the Junior high program. Yes, junior high. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt!
Many of those pastors I would consider my mentors – Larry, Brian, Dick, and Dave. I learned from them the heart and how-to of ministering to people.
Perhaps one of the least understood concepts of church leadership is the art of mentoring -- leaders reproducing themselves in others and trusting them, encouraging them, empowering them, and then releasing them. Rather than preparing others to serve, to teach, and to reach out, too many pastors do it themselves. And then wonder why new leaders don’t develop. Why they are so burnt out. Why church growth is so elusive.
“It was he (Christ) who gave some to be apostles, some to be prophets, some to be evangelists, and some to be pastors and teachers, to prepare God’s people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up…” (Ephesians 4:12)
November 23, 2009
November 20, 2009
“Kick Me! Hard!”
No one could believe that I would really do it. But I did. Right in front of Sayler’s Steak House. With lots of people standing around watching. I guess I knew I had that kind of relationship with him that we could be that real. So I kicked him. Hard. A swift boot to his behind as he leaned over the hitchin’ rail.
We were in Portland visiting friends and family. We had moved to Tucson a couple years before, after living in Portland for about four years. It was about the time when Mt St Helens was erupting, because I can remember shaking all the ash out of some little fir trees in my brother’s front yard. One evening we decided to go out for dinner, and chose to go to Sayler’s, the famous steak house in the southeast part of town.
After dinner we walked outside and were standing around on the sidewalk enjoying the nice summer evening. And out of the door stumbled my old neighbor. All the while we had lived in Portland I had spent lots of time with Mick, my next door neighbor. He invited me over to have a beer and watch the Cassius Clay fight on TV. I said I would come join him, but bring along my own soda. He reminded me of that often that I would accept his invitation, even though I had one slight reservation. One time we had a Halloween haunted house in our basement for the church Junior High group. We did a test run and let his daughter go through it. It scared her so much I don’t think Halloween was ever the same for her. And again, he never let me forget it. We had tons of great memories.
But that night at Sayler’s, when Mick walked out the door kind of drunk, he broke into tears when he saw me. He missed me. And all the times we had talked about spiritual things must have bore fruit. In his guilt and shame, but mixed with hope and remembrance, he came to me and said, “Kick me. Kick me, Dave. Kick me hard!” And so I did.
He wanted to get together the next morning, and I agreed to come over. He called me at 6:00 AM and asked me if I could come earlier than I had said. So I was on my way. We talked, and reminisced. Mostly, we remembered important things, not just the fun things. And soon he was on his knees and prayed to receive Jesus into his life. I was so proud of him, and so thankful that finally, unexpectedly, all the years of friendship had born fruit, fruit that would last for eternity.
Jesus told some stories of a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son, the point of which was this, “I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15: 7, 10, 32)
We were in Portland visiting friends and family. We had moved to Tucson a couple years before, after living in Portland for about four years. It was about the time when Mt St Helens was erupting, because I can remember shaking all the ash out of some little fir trees in my brother’s front yard. One evening we decided to go out for dinner, and chose to go to Sayler’s, the famous steak house in the southeast part of town.
After dinner we walked outside and were standing around on the sidewalk enjoying the nice summer evening. And out of the door stumbled my old neighbor. All the while we had lived in Portland I had spent lots of time with Mick, my next door neighbor. He invited me over to have a beer and watch the Cassius Clay fight on TV. I said I would come join him, but bring along my own soda. He reminded me of that often that I would accept his invitation, even though I had one slight reservation. One time we had a Halloween haunted house in our basement for the church Junior High group. We did a test run and let his daughter go through it. It scared her so much I don’t think Halloween was ever the same for her. And again, he never let me forget it. We had tons of great memories.
But that night at Sayler’s, when Mick walked out the door kind of drunk, he broke into tears when he saw me. He missed me. And all the times we had talked about spiritual things must have bore fruit. In his guilt and shame, but mixed with hope and remembrance, he came to me and said, “Kick me. Kick me, Dave. Kick me hard!” And so I did.
He wanted to get together the next morning, and I agreed to come over. He called me at 6:00 AM and asked me if I could come earlier than I had said. So I was on my way. We talked, and reminisced. Mostly, we remembered important things, not just the fun things. And soon he was on his knees and prayed to receive Jesus into his life. I was so proud of him, and so thankful that finally, unexpectedly, all the years of friendship had born fruit, fruit that would last for eternity.
Jesus told some stories of a lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son, the point of which was this, “I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15: 7, 10, 32)
November 15, 2009
Asmodeus
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the door knob turning. Slowly. Subtly. Stealthily. I was sitting at the dining table, in the room next to the front entry, reading the newspaper. It was 9:30 PM on a Sunday evening. Carol was putting the two girls to bed. We were finally done with a long, busy, fruitful day of ministry. I was ready to relax, to finally slow down and enjoy a few moments catching up on the news.
But the door knob – it was definitely turning. How strange. I slinked over and checked to be sure the deadbolt was locked. It was. But the doorknob was not. That’s why someone outside on the porch could be turning it. But no one had knocked or rang the bell. I was scared to even look out the peephole to see who it was. It took a moment to get my courage up. But I had to. My family was in the house. I had to see what danger lurked.
What I saw was frightening. The girl standing outside my front door was in a definite demonic trance, with a knife in her hand. I could even recognize on her face which demon it was. Asmodeus. The violent one we had confronted earlier in the week. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea what to expect. Before I could make any plans she slowly backed off the porch and began to shuffle down the sidewalk and around the south side of the house. I yelled for Carol to call the police as quickly as possible. I knew where the demon was taking her. Around to the back of the house where a door enters the garage. I heard the glass shatter and the door open. She was in the garage. Asmodeus was in my garage, and only one more door separated him from my home. The kitchen door entered off the garage. It was deadbolted. I went and leaned against it with all my weight to keep it shut. But with the first kick at the door I knew that nothing was going to stop this situation. Another kick and the door and jamb were both splintered hopelessly. One more kick and she was going to be in the house. But that was when the police cars pulled up in the driveway, sirens blaring.
She backed away from the door and I heard footsteps going back out the garage. I ran outside and directed the police around to the back to help secure the situation. I stood amongst them and yelled to them, explaining the situation, hoping desperately that they would restrain their force and allow her to come out of the trance without hurting her or shooting her. She just stood there and glared, motionless. One officer walked around behind her. She turned (it turned) and glared at him. He backed off. She turned back to face the other four standing with me. The officer in the rear moved in close enough to hit her hand with his club, trying to dislodge the knife. It didn’t even phase her. I could tell they were all very alarmed and very scared.
Fortunately, God was in control. (Although in my naiveté I was really wondering just how much a demon could actually get away with.) At that moment, when the situation could have gotten indescribably out of hand, the demon left her and she fell limp on the ground, weak, almost comatose. The police called her mom to come and get her, to take her to the hospital to check her wrist to see if it was broken. They inspected the house and marveled at the damage a teen-age girl could inflict. They left, amazed and befuddled. I was confused, yet thankful she had remained safe.
The next morning I went down to City Hall to ask for a copy of the police report. The police chief told me that it was the lengthiest, most extensive report he had ever received. I still have the copy, from back in 1983. I saved it in case anyone ever wanted to compare stories. Whatever the demons intended to accomplish that night, I do not know. Fear, I suppose. That is their ace number one deterrent. Bodily harm, I’m not sure. What I did know, though, was this. My faith and courage increased. My fear was conquered. The battle was on.
“You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” (Genesis 50:20)
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the
Lord your God will be with you.” (Joshua 1:9)
But the door knob – it was definitely turning. How strange. I slinked over and checked to be sure the deadbolt was locked. It was. But the doorknob was not. That’s why someone outside on the porch could be turning it. But no one had knocked or rang the bell. I was scared to even look out the peephole to see who it was. It took a moment to get my courage up. But I had to. My family was in the house. I had to see what danger lurked.
What I saw was frightening. The girl standing outside my front door was in a definite demonic trance, with a knife in her hand. I could even recognize on her face which demon it was. Asmodeus. The violent one we had confronted earlier in the week. I didn’t know what to do. I had no idea what to expect. Before I could make any plans she slowly backed off the porch and began to shuffle down the sidewalk and around the south side of the house. I yelled for Carol to call the police as quickly as possible. I knew where the demon was taking her. Around to the back of the house where a door enters the garage. I heard the glass shatter and the door open. She was in the garage. Asmodeus was in my garage, and only one more door separated him from my home. The kitchen door entered off the garage. It was deadbolted. I went and leaned against it with all my weight to keep it shut. But with the first kick at the door I knew that nothing was going to stop this situation. Another kick and the door and jamb were both splintered hopelessly. One more kick and she was going to be in the house. But that was when the police cars pulled up in the driveway, sirens blaring.
She backed away from the door and I heard footsteps going back out the garage. I ran outside and directed the police around to the back to help secure the situation. I stood amongst them and yelled to them, explaining the situation, hoping desperately that they would restrain their force and allow her to come out of the trance without hurting her or shooting her. She just stood there and glared, motionless. One officer walked around behind her. She turned (it turned) and glared at him. He backed off. She turned back to face the other four standing with me. The officer in the rear moved in close enough to hit her hand with his club, trying to dislodge the knife. It didn’t even phase her. I could tell they were all very alarmed and very scared.
Fortunately, God was in control. (Although in my naiveté I was really wondering just how much a demon could actually get away with.) At that moment, when the situation could have gotten indescribably out of hand, the demon left her and she fell limp on the ground, weak, almost comatose. The police called her mom to come and get her, to take her to the hospital to check her wrist to see if it was broken. They inspected the house and marveled at the damage a teen-age girl could inflict. They left, amazed and befuddled. I was confused, yet thankful she had remained safe.
The next morning I went down to City Hall to ask for a copy of the police report. The police chief told me that it was the lengthiest, most extensive report he had ever received. I still have the copy, from back in 1983. I saved it in case anyone ever wanted to compare stories. Whatever the demons intended to accomplish that night, I do not know. Fear, I suppose. That is their ace number one deterrent. Bodily harm, I’m not sure. What I did know, though, was this. My faith and courage increased. My fear was conquered. The battle was on.
“You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” (Genesis 50:20)
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the
Lord your God will be with you.” (Joshua 1:9)
November 9, 2009
Round and Round and Round
How did that happen? I got off the wrong exit of the freeway. In fact I didn’t even remember taking the exit, but there I was on the south side of town, instead of the north. It was late at night, but I wasn’t tired, so I hadn‘t dozed off. In fact I had been singing praise songs and praying and rejoicing all the way home from Salem. I had heard Charles Stanley speak at a ministerial conference, and I was pumped. I mean, really pumped! (But that’s another story.)
It was shortly after midnight. It was no big deal to get to my home in Gladstone by way of the south exit, rather than the other. It just wasn’t my normal route. So it hadn’t happened absent mindedly, either. My only conclusion was that it must have somehow been a God thing. I told myself to keep my eyes open all the way home to see if God had gotten me off that exit for a reason.
Sure enough. There it was. That must be it. There was a car driving around in a circle around a light pole in the Thriftway parking lot. Round and round and round. I pulled into the parking lot and got out of my car. Carefully I walked to the inside of the circle to try to talk to the driver. But the car kept going -- round and round – while I patiently stood there. Finally it stopped. The driver rolled down the window. A young lady looked up at me, distraught and forlorn looking. Ashen, almost deathly looking.
I asked her to please tell me how long she had been driving in circles, and why. Slowly she began to talk. She had been driving in circles for about an hour, she said. She was trying to get her courage up. Courage to go out on the freeway and drive into an overpass abutment to end her life.
Wow, God. What a rescue. At least I hoped so. We talked for a long time that night. Finally, I felt comfortable she would be okay. She sensed love and concern, and showed signs of new hope. I wasn’t sure, though. Not being a suicide counselor, I did the best I could. I invited her to come to the church office the next morning and talk some more, leaving to go on home and watching as she continued her driving. Round and round and round.
The next morning she showed up at the office. We talked for several hours. We read the Bible. She told me her story, her failures, her despair. But God was opening her heart and understanding. She prayed and asked Jesus to come into her life.
I knew that her salvation was the only the first stride out of the starting blocks. She had a long race before her. But she was in the race.
I wish that was the end of the story. But things don’t always end glorious and pretty. Parts of her story that she told me prompted me to ask her a question. “Do you hear voices in your mind?” She was startled, dumbfounded that I would ask. She said, “Yes! They scream it over and over and over.” In the native tongue of her foreign father, the voice screamed, “God is dead! Long live Tuvo!” Her biological father had been a high priest in the satanic, occultic religion of the Central American country where she was conceived.
That young lady consumed my time and energy trying to help her be set free, but she was never whole-hearted after God. She was deceptive, divisive, and disruptive. As I look back, now, I wonder who really got me off that freeway exit? Was it God? Or was it a demon? Round and round I go in my mind, wondering. I may never be sure.
"Sir, didn't you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from? " "An enemy did this," he replied. (Matthew 13:27-28)
It was shortly after midnight. It was no big deal to get to my home in Gladstone by way of the south exit, rather than the other. It just wasn’t my normal route. So it hadn’t happened absent mindedly, either. My only conclusion was that it must have somehow been a God thing. I told myself to keep my eyes open all the way home to see if God had gotten me off that exit for a reason.
Sure enough. There it was. That must be it. There was a car driving around in a circle around a light pole in the Thriftway parking lot. Round and round and round. I pulled into the parking lot and got out of my car. Carefully I walked to the inside of the circle to try to talk to the driver. But the car kept going -- round and round – while I patiently stood there. Finally it stopped. The driver rolled down the window. A young lady looked up at me, distraught and forlorn looking. Ashen, almost deathly looking.
I asked her to please tell me how long she had been driving in circles, and why. Slowly she began to talk. She had been driving in circles for about an hour, she said. She was trying to get her courage up. Courage to go out on the freeway and drive into an overpass abutment to end her life.
Wow, God. What a rescue. At least I hoped so. We talked for a long time that night. Finally, I felt comfortable she would be okay. She sensed love and concern, and showed signs of new hope. I wasn’t sure, though. Not being a suicide counselor, I did the best I could. I invited her to come to the church office the next morning and talk some more, leaving to go on home and watching as she continued her driving. Round and round and round.
The next morning she showed up at the office. We talked for several hours. We read the Bible. She told me her story, her failures, her despair. But God was opening her heart and understanding. She prayed and asked Jesus to come into her life.
I knew that her salvation was the only the first stride out of the starting blocks. She had a long race before her. But she was in the race.
I wish that was the end of the story. But things don’t always end glorious and pretty. Parts of her story that she told me prompted me to ask her a question. “Do you hear voices in your mind?” She was startled, dumbfounded that I would ask. She said, “Yes! They scream it over and over and over.” In the native tongue of her foreign father, the voice screamed, “God is dead! Long live Tuvo!” Her biological father had been a high priest in the satanic, occultic religion of the Central American country where she was conceived.
That young lady consumed my time and energy trying to help her be set free, but she was never whole-hearted after God. She was deceptive, divisive, and disruptive. As I look back, now, I wonder who really got me off that freeway exit? Was it God? Or was it a demon? Round and round I go in my mind, wondering. I may never be sure.
"Sir, didn't you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from? " "An enemy did this," he replied. (Matthew 13:27-28)
November 5, 2009
Riding Jeep, Holding A Grudge
How could he make my life any more miserable than this? I had to spend the whole day riding with Chuck, jumping out occasionally to go change the direction of the blade on the front of the Jeep so that he could plow the roads that were rutted and washed out by thunderstorms. I was trying to give him the cold shoulder, trying to avoid talking to him, or letting him talk to me. I was mad. I was holding a grudge half the size of Yavapai County.
I worked at Prescott Pines Camp, in north-central Arizona, each summer of my high school years. Chuck was our boss, our father figure. In hind sight I can say that he was one of my favorite mentors of all time, certainly in the top five of my whole life. But I was blind to his tactic, to his skill, to his loving determination on this occasion. I was just plain mad.
It all started a few nights earlier. Two of us staff guys decided to go into town for the church youth meeting. We invited a couple staff gals to go along with us. We thought we had permission, that none of us had any duties to keep us at the camp. But when we drove back into camp about 9:30 that evening we saw in the beam of our headlights, Chuck, standing in the middle of the road. He was quite upset with us, it became obvious. The girls were supposed to have run the snack shack that night, and he didn’t know we had left.
The next morning at breakfast Chuck read off the work list for everybody. He made a big deal of my assignment, making me an example to everyone, I guess. He announced, “And I have a special job for Dave today, one that I have been saving for over a year, now. Dave, you’ll be cleaning out the root cellar.” I had worked there a couple years already and I didn’t even know we had a root cellar. I knew all about the maggot pit, where we dumped all the garbage. I knew plenty about the sewer lines and drain field. But nothing about a root cellar.
In short order I found out. It was full of rotten potatoes and onions. Someone had loaded it up a couple years earlier, and never used the produce. All the wire mesh shelves were loaded with rotten, drippy, smelly mush. And I got to haul it all out and clean it up. That was the worst job ever. The whole day my anger was smoldering and brewing, thinking I was being punished for a wrong that I didn’t even know I had done.
So then, it was the next day when Chuck decided to have me ride along in the Jeep. He knew how mad I was. And he wanted to lovingly draw me out of my bitterness and “fix” our relationship. I know I didn’t make it easy for him. But he didn’t give up. Why? Because he had grown to love and appreciate me, I think. And me him, too. But I wasn’t going to let love do any magic that day. No, I had a grudge to bear, and I wasn’t going to let go of it.
Holding a grudge used to be my worst enemy. It chewed me up inside. It made me bitter and spiteful. I would dream and imagine of all kinds of ways to get even, to settle the score. And if getting even wasn’t possible, which it usually wasn’t, then I would make real sure that anyone who hurt me would see and know how much I despised them. Wow! But I was only hurting myself. And oh my! I must have been a jerk of a guy to like, sometimes.
“Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry…. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:26-32)
I worked at Prescott Pines Camp, in north-central Arizona, each summer of my high school years. Chuck was our boss, our father figure. In hind sight I can say that he was one of my favorite mentors of all time, certainly in the top five of my whole life. But I was blind to his tactic, to his skill, to his loving determination on this occasion. I was just plain mad.
It all started a few nights earlier. Two of us staff guys decided to go into town for the church youth meeting. We invited a couple staff gals to go along with us. We thought we had permission, that none of us had any duties to keep us at the camp. But when we drove back into camp about 9:30 that evening we saw in the beam of our headlights, Chuck, standing in the middle of the road. He was quite upset with us, it became obvious. The girls were supposed to have run the snack shack that night, and he didn’t know we had left.
The next morning at breakfast Chuck read off the work list for everybody. He made a big deal of my assignment, making me an example to everyone, I guess. He announced, “And I have a special job for Dave today, one that I have been saving for over a year, now. Dave, you’ll be cleaning out the root cellar.” I had worked there a couple years already and I didn’t even know we had a root cellar. I knew all about the maggot pit, where we dumped all the garbage. I knew plenty about the sewer lines and drain field. But nothing about a root cellar.
In short order I found out. It was full of rotten potatoes and onions. Someone had loaded it up a couple years earlier, and never used the produce. All the wire mesh shelves were loaded with rotten, drippy, smelly mush. And I got to haul it all out and clean it up. That was the worst job ever. The whole day my anger was smoldering and brewing, thinking I was being punished for a wrong that I didn’t even know I had done.
So then, it was the next day when Chuck decided to have me ride along in the Jeep. He knew how mad I was. And he wanted to lovingly draw me out of my bitterness and “fix” our relationship. I know I didn’t make it easy for him. But he didn’t give up. Why? Because he had grown to love and appreciate me, I think. And me him, too. But I wasn’t going to let love do any magic that day. No, I had a grudge to bear, and I wasn’t going to let go of it.
Holding a grudge used to be my worst enemy. It chewed me up inside. It made me bitter and spiteful. I would dream and imagine of all kinds of ways to get even, to settle the score. And if getting even wasn’t possible, which it usually wasn’t, then I would make real sure that anyone who hurt me would see and know how much I despised them. Wow! But I was only hurting myself. And oh my! I must have been a jerk of a guy to like, sometimes.
“Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry…. Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” (Ephesians 4:26-32)
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