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May 11, 2017August 28, 2017

Mother

*today’s post is in current time, a departure from my usual narratives out of a more distant past. I’m in Africa. A ministry visit. Thank you for your time and for joining in special prayer.

***

Tanzania, my country host, lies mourning.

The bright young students held such promise, their minds fired up
for the day’s challenge. That was reality a few mornings ago. Before the bus they traveled in left the road.

I am writing from East Africa this morning in May – a month for honoring mothers. I’m the lone mzungu – white person, on a twenty-passenger shuttle bus, it’s occupants making our way from northern Tanzania to Kenya.

I silently offer thanks for our seasoned driver. “I’ve driven commercially since the 80’s”, he had told me. I’m in the front passenger seat. The driver is to my right as vehicles here use the left lane. Six hours more and we’ll reach Nairobi. Keep him alert Lord. Mist gathers on the windshield and he passes the wiper blade across the surface. It’s Wednesday. My mind returns to Saturday’s incident, down the way, beyond my lodging near Arusha.

The primary school students, 12 and 13 years of age, were en route to another school to take an exam.

Rainfall glistened on the pavement ahead as their bus descended a steep hill. For a reason not yet known. . a blown tire, excessive speed. . the vehicle swerved and plunged downward into a river-swollen ravine. Among the thirty six who died, thirty-three were children.

Join with others, would you, in praying for those overtaken by loss. The grieving friends, the siblings, the fathers, the school teachers. And of all. Remember the mothers.
©2017 Jerry Lout

May 30, 2017August 28, 2017

Signposts

The spindly lady of the Bluegrass State bought me time.

Mrs. Hottenstein’s sponsorship gift achieved what she’d hoped. Freed me to attend more to my college work at hand. And the extra hours away from the teletype keys meant added time with my young nurse-student wife. That meant a lot. Our ships-passing-in-the-night could sit a few more minutes each day in their common harbor – the thirty-five by eight-foot rented house trailer we called home.

The added margin freed me to drive northward. To a meeting I felt strongly drawn to make.

“Hey David, I feel I should visit my home church in Oklahoma. Special meetings are going on next week. If you’re free to come, it would be great having time together.”

The nine-hour road trip brought us to the sanctuary of Living Way Tabernacle, my place of worship from childhood. What followed set the course for decades of adventure to come.

Vigorous hand-clapping accompanied robust singing as organist Ragsdale’s nimble fingers brought life to the instrument. Monday night, first evening in a string of special meetings.

Rev. G.C., a pastor hailing from the deep south, was handed the mic. He was a large man, gigantic by any standard I knew. I had never met him. It was preaching time.

Over the past two weeks my thoughts had pivoted back and forth between two topics. An African language whose sounds I wouldn’t recognize if I heard it. And a phrase, leadership training. A seemingly random visit with a former missionary had spawned these musings and the themes wouldn’t let go.

Rev. G. C.’s deep, graveled voice thundered away as he moved deeper into his message. Rivulets of sweat glistened on his broad face as his three hundred or so pounds of Georgia preacher-man paced across the front, up and down the center aisle. His command of sacred text was impressive. His passion ran deep.

Twenty minutes into the sermon it happened.

G.C. paced into center aisle, his preaching on a roll. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he halted. His head tilted upward. The pause continued. Then the preacher man uttered a single word no one expected.

“Swahili.”

I stared his direction, astonished at the sudden turn in his message. And especially that word. Swahili. The language I had encountered days before. I felt a mist of tears form, a hint at a gathering stream. The preacher went on. “I am hearing the Swahili language.” He scanned the audience.
“Someone in this room is called as a missionary to east or central Africa.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Clearly he wasn’t finished.
©2017 Jerry Lout

June 1, 2017August 28, 2017

A Call Confirmed

Truth is stranger than fiction.

The adage proved itself one October night in a small-town church. When an uncommon word astonished a gathering and helped frame a destiny.
Rising from my seat next to friend and mentor, David Mulford, my response felt surreal.

Like an out-of-body Sci-Fi character I advanced toward the sanctuary altar. Each step added to the emotion. An odd blend – somber excitement – stirred inside me. Meanwhile, the giant clergyman with a Deep South drawl found his own stride and spanned the half-church distance between us in far fewer steps. Rev. G.C.’s great open hand stretched forward in pursuit of my skull-top. An old-fashioned word of prophecy seemed imminent. No one assuming this was let down.

Something common to “directive prophecies” of the times involved the spokesperson employing first person singular language. As though God himself were voicing his will directly through the prophet. Indeed, such was typically assumed in Pentecostal gatherings. Caution was prescribed, however. Such a message must “line up with God’s Word, the holy scripture. Furthermore, prophetic words must not violate a person’s free will. No contriving, no manipulating allowed.”

“My son,” the Reverend solemnly announced, “I have called you to be my servant. . .”

The weight of the words settled over me like a commissioning charge at a swearing-in ceremony. But even with heavier gravity. Then it came. That other portion of my past-days musings. . “to instruct leaders to know and walk in my Word. So they may teach others as well!”

The prophetic statement settled in deeply, to a place at my inner core. Nothing, it seemed, could ever dissuade me. If anything had ever felt a sure thing, I knew this was one of those things. I (we. . . Ann and me) – we were called, commissioned. To a place and a people neither of us knew anything about. At least now. Only that it was Africa. Swahili was their language. The truth of the Lord their need.

Awash in tears reminiscent of a weeping scene at the same location years before during a V.B.S. assembly, I found my way back to my seat. The weeping kept on, leaving me only vaguely aware of the church service and its sudden new direction.

An impromptu offering was being taken.

For air fares. To East Africa.
©2017 Jerry Lout

June 6, 2017August 28, 2017

Unexplainable

I’m dreaming, right? Hallucinating?

By the time I again took a seat the Preacher-man had shifted from prophesying mode to Holy Ghost fund-raising. I sat quiet, weeping, marinating in a fog of wonder.

Rev. G.C. had drawn a bill from his wallet. Waving it to the gathering, he sounded a challenge.

“Who’ll join me tonight in getting this young man and his wife over to Africa. . . so they can start doing God’s work?”

An offering basket had found its way to the preacher’s side. In minutes it overflowed. Although the week of meetings had not been billed as a Missions conference, everyone present was now taken by a get-the-gospel-to-the-world passion. Spontaneous generosity flowed, with cash gifts and pledged offerings fully meeting Ann and my travel costs. Africa, here we come. Wow.

The road trip with its surprise happenings drew to a close. My good mentor-friend and I headed back to San Antonio. “Brother Jerry,” David’s his easy drawl interrupted the silence as the car hummed southward. “Isn’t this something? Hasn’t this trip been just something? Imagine what Ann’s going to say.”

Whatever my wife might voice, the thing I was surely not ready for was what David himself – my fellow student and ministry friend – would be saying.

Next Lord’s Day arrived for Eastwood Baptist. Our worship service was underway. A couple of late arrivals settled into their pews and Pastor David was at the podium.

“You know, folks, our Lord is an amazing God.” David eased into the topic of the Oklahoma visit just past. Stationed at my usual spot at the platform, mentally reviewing a hymn I would soon guide the worshipers in, I heard David mention my name.

Oh my goodness, I thought. Is he going to have me tell these very baptisty Baptists about the Big Georgia preacher-man? About the prophecy things in Okmulgee? Oh my.

In a matter-of-fact gesture, David turned my way.

“. . so I’d like Brother Jerry to come and share something of what God did there.”

Stepping forward I surveyed the gathering. Dear folks Ann and I had grown fond of – devoted fellow-travelers on a heaven-bound road, sat quietly. I realized how close we had become. The anxiety dialed down.

In a few words, void of terms and clichés common to my Pentecostal upbringing, I shared with our faith community. The words came easily. No persuasive tone was needed. I sensed that they readily understood, that they welcomed, even celebrated the news. Of added confirmation to our call. In their attentive, Baptist kind of way.

God was setting things in motion. Ann’s precocious childhood forecast, “When I grow up I’m going to be a missionary in Africa”, was nearing fulfillment. We would go together.

The microphone passed back to David. Another surprise awaited.
©2017 Jerry Lout

June 8, 2017August 28, 2017

Baptist Bug

I took a seat.

My underside had barely warmed the church bench when the pastor’s appeal grabbed my attention.

Oh, my, I wondered. Are we coming to another offering?

“Folks, I feel the Lord wants us to get in on this missionary adventure with Brother Jerry and Sister Ann.” David paused just a moment.

“The Louts will need a car once they’re in Africa. Let’s trust God and believe him to let Eastwood get them that car. What do you say?”

For a church this size with sparse revenue, the guy at the pulpit had thrown them a big challenge. I could not have guessed the surprise coming.

One by one, smiles spread across the congregation. Heads nodded. Once more, in under a week’s time, I sat befuddled while a gathering of common believers dug deep. Joyously, without constraint. Reaching for a check book, for cash, for a paper scrap to write a ‘promise offering’, our precious Eastwood Baptist friends rallied. The collection seemed over as promptly as it began and the service moved on.

Following the customary after-service mingling, Ann and I moved toward the gravel parking lot and our vehicle. The remarkable week had flown and we needed to catch our breath and snatch some time together.

“Hey guys!” David caught up with us. His face glowed. In his hand was a note, figures scribbled on it. “Maybe this will help you move around once you’re over there. It’s what came in today.”

Stunned was too tame a word. What a generous outpouring from a congregation of such humble size. I read the note aloud, “One thousand eight hundred dollars. . .” We could only shake our heads. “Wow, Thank you, Lord.”

– fast forward –

On a balmy June day in Nairobi the keys of a spanking new Volkswagen Beatle were dropped into my hands. Complete with Title.

The Kenya shillings purchase price was printed clearly on the Bill of Sale. It equaled eighteen hundred U.S. dollars.
©2017 Jerry Lout

June 13, 2017August 28, 2017

Who’s Got This?

Why is it? I wondered.

Why does God, when setting out on a mission, often pass over human schemes. Why does he seem to disregard the confident, presuming “we’ve-got-this” mentality often advanced by his people? He seems almost to chuckle over us humans – our strategies, our denominational fixations. Our rightness – I know I am right, don’t confuse me with facts.

Lord, you’re fiddling with my name tag. Air fare paid by Pentecostals, automobile by Baptists. Why?

A refreshing concept plays on the mind. Maybe God likes to get his things done through means available. Period.

That a label is attached or not attached, that a traditional approach or an innovative approach is applied, such factors he seems to look at as non-factors.

The church’s Head is advancing his kingdom, moving his players forward in the enterprise he fostered. It’s kind of like God is saying, “Denominations, structures, systems, take a breath. Let me demonstrate my sufficiency, my creativity. Through the whole batch of you. It is people I’m after, my kingdom we’re going for. Jump in where I invite you. Your energies, ideas, resources, yes they count. Yet. May I gently remind you, “It’s my kingdom. . . Kingdom (yes. singular)”.

Some are catching this phenomenon, the idea that the founder of the cosmos might possess the creativity needed of forging a game plan. His own. One he shares with the simple-hearted, the believing.

God seems overjoyed when his children start turning aside from undue introspection, from gazing at their own navels, or those of others. When we attend to him. Wait before him. And respond to his invite.

A while back I caught wind of a maxim I wish I had coined, “God will get the glory when we don’t care who gets the credit.”

June 15, 2017August 28, 2017

Defining moments

Non-sectarian.

I liked my childhood church, whose wooden benches supplied on their underside, a landing place for my thoroughly-spent chewing gum.

Before entering I studied the odd word on the church’s sign-board. I practiced sounded it out well before I knew its meaning – Non-sec-tar-i-an.

It was a bold word – a statement declaring our religious identity – holding a prominent spot on the sign. The word was printed large, straight beneath our other self-defining label – Non-denominational.

It seemed important to the leadership that visitors and passersby knew we were somehow different from most churches. Quite different. The sign provided me an early sampling of complicated words. Later, I was introduced to others, like ‘oxymoron’.

If I had been old enough to be perplexed I would have maybe wondered, Why would such a warm, loving community as ours feel a need to persuade folks that we were not divisive, that we were safe?

Over time I grappled with the fact that religion, like politics, finds dividing up an easy thing. We separate, form new and more distinctive camps. It happens perhaps in spite of ourselves – despite the fact common beliefs can be more common among us than we might think. Erecting walls demands less energy than building bridges. So it seems.

I feel personally a sting of shame. At my own offense. Of labeling inferior or less righteous that gathering of the faithful the other side of town, or that community down the street. My own private ‘non-sectarian’ sign, adorning a shadowy wall in a corridor of my inner self.

Ann and I found our on-ramp into the world of Christian service marked, on the other hand, by complementing, not competing camps. Baptists and Pentecostals – polar opposites in expression and style – rejoicing, celebrating, even generously giving. To a thing bigger, a lot bigger than any of us might experience if left to ourselves. Amazed. We were amazed.

A.W. Tozer* suggests we’re best off tuning our hearts to Jesus. “Has it ever occurred to you that one hundred pianos all tuned to the same fork are automatically tuned to each other? They are of one accord by being tuned, not to each other, but to another standard to which each one must individually bow. . .”

We began encountering a curious cross-breed along the way. The hand of a new acquaintance would extend, a twinkle of mischievous warmth lighting their eyes. Their name. The handshake. .

“I call myself a Bapticostal”.

June 20, 2017August 28, 2017

Insistent

The ambitious Brit puzzled his dilemma.

“If I’m to make my case that the book this naïve teacher calls holy is simply no more than a collection of fables chock-full of contradictions, I suppose I must fetch a copy for myself.” He mulled the idea. “By Jove, I shall”.

The San Antonio College I was drawn to came with a colorful history.

Young Leonard Coote had known where he was headed. Endowed with a keen mind and an appetite for adventure, Leonard set off from his English homeland for the islands of Japan. “Seize the moment”, he was urged. “Now is the time. Japanese business markets are ripe. Go. Venture out. Your fortune awaits.”

Lured by a Liverpool firm putting roots down in the Far East, he set sail. Other young Englishmen had blazed impressive trails, making it big, finding their fortunes. But a worry nagged at Leonard.

Those who hadn’t done well, however (their numbers were not few), had got distracted by party-going and the like. Many, it was rumored, wound up sidelined, addicted, chasing cheap wine to blunt the pain of their derailed dreams.

So, resourceful Leonard devised a strategy. “I’ll find living quarters somewhere safe”, he mused, “a place with better surroundings than those poor blokes managed.” This had led him to the man with the book.

“Yes”, the missionary offered, “we can make our spare room available”, adding, “and you’re welcome to join us for mealtimes.” They agreed to a suitable pay arrangement and a handshake settled the matter.

After a short while Leonard determined to challenge the Bible teacher on his faith – engage him in argument over the Scriptures, their validity. The missionary, smiling warmly, declined. “I’m happy sharing my story and what the Bible means to me. But debate it? Argue the matter? No, I am not your person for that.” This had brought Leanord to his dilemma, and his decision.

He arrived from work one evening with his new Bible – Old Testament, New Testament – King James Version. Having added a pen and a fresh clean ledger to his arsenal, Leonard smiled. “There now, all that remains is to read through it, registering its errors as I go. We will have that discussion”, he silently vowed, “and I shall be ready.”

What he didn’t factor in was a bold, terse phrase lying within the ancient text. Weeks of methodical reading, of note-taking – launching in from Genesis 1 – eventually brought him to the phrase. It was a declaration.

June 22, 2017August 28, 2017

Undone

“Splendid dining”, Leonard smiled to the missionary wife. “I’m a lucky chap, finding this home for my lodging.” He nodded gratefully to the family. “I shall now get on with some things”, he offered, and stepped from the room.

Entering his own room he rolled his head slowly about and gave his body a long stretch. Moving the few steps to his simple desk, he took up the ledger that had come home with him weeks before. Squiggles on an open page revealed his latest entries – further markings attesting his focused quest. To prove the clergyman wrong, show the “holy book” up for what it was – a bundle of contradictory myths. Seated now, he reached for the Bible itself.

Fingering the book marker inside, he flipped to the last page he had visited. Over past weeks his practice had become ritual. . . Arrive home from a day’s work – down a cup of tea – tidy up a bit – join the family for dinner – retire to his room – and resume the task at hand. That is, expose the religious book for what it was. And reinforce his atheism all the further.

His daily regime with the Bible had taken Leonard through the ancient books of Law, the Histories of Old Testament Kings and the like. He had passed onward and through the Wisdom books – jotting notes the whole way. All the Prophet Isaiah’s sixty-six chapters were recently gone through, bringing the sum of his readings thus far to twenty-three entire books of the Bible. There seemed no reason to think today’s exercise would hold anything specially notable.

The book of Jeremiah the Prophet lay open before him at chapter seventeen. Leonard came to verse nine. He read slowly.

“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?”

Leonard Coote – the keen-minded, self-assured man – took in the fourteen words. He read it once more. Then again.

June 27, 2017August 28, 2017

A Stilled Mind

The prophet’s words broke over him like a great wave deluging a child at play on a calm beach – sudden and unforeseen. Overwhelming. One moment all is serene. . . all is chaos the next.

Tears surfaced from a bottled place deep within Leonard, like a long-capped reservoir straining for release. The emotion driving the tears was anguish – an all-encompassing sorrow like he had never known. Soul anguish.

The fourteen words he just read had wrecked him. The first line looped repeatedly in his mind.

“The heart is deceitful above all things” The statement – bold as it came – stripped him entirely. Between sobs he wondered, How could the mere reading of words impact me so? The puzzlement came jumbled, not tidily delivered – more a crying than a question. He felt the worst kind of pain, the pain of detecting his own dreadfulness, the deception of his own heart. Shame.

Leonard realized that for too long he had been self-deceived. He took in the remaining words. . .

“. . and desperately wicked: who can know it?” The anguish remained, coming even stronger now and in waves.

“Deceitful and wicked.” His sense of guilt brought him to the floor. Sobbing, he lay face down, prostrate. A crushing sense of unworthiness drove him further. Moving the throw rug aside he stretched himself directly to the floor. The next day came and went. When not at work or trying to sleep nights he lay at his place on the floor. He knew his misery had a name. Sin.

Years later he recounted the scene in his memoir Impossibilities Become Challenges.

“I saw myself as I had never seen myself before. Lost, undone, wicked. .It seemed as if my very clothes smelt of the awfulness of sin.” In his drive to critically dismantle the book, the book was dismantling him. In a single verse the Bible exposed him, shining its light on his own pride.

Entering his third day of misery, Leonard thought to exit his room, find a place in the back yard and go prostrate there on the bare earth. It was then something happened.

“Something arrested and stilled my mind.”

Leonard found himself looking at a cross. “It possibly was a vision”.

Affixed to the cross by sharp iron nails was a heavily bleeding man.

“I seemed to understand this blood was for my sins.” He knew the man to be Jesus. “He was saying to me, ‘I died in this way for you. I shed my blood for your sins. Just accept my work of redemption.’”