faith – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

April 4, 2024

Overflow

Turning onto Xanthus Ave that Thursday evening, I glanced at my watch. “How will this go? Who will show up? Will I be on my game (whatever that means)?

The young lady of last night’s call had suggested the newly-arrived grad students I was preparing to meet were open to learn something of the story of Jesus. “Had any of these scholarly young men ever seen a Bible?”, I wondered, Influenced and shaped as they likely were by their homeland’s official doctrine of atheism.

A niggling question played at my own conscience, “How mindful am I of Jesus Christ in the course of my routine days?”

Dialing back the musings, I eased the car along the curb before the Jesus Inn. Minutes later I was settling into easy introductions and conversations with our new arrivals. The easy part was much to the credit of Weili, her cheery personality mitigating any sense of awkwardness. “At last,” I thought, smiling, “we have a face to go with that sing-song voice from the phone visit!”

That first evening at Jesus Inn – engaging, laughing with, welcoming the newcomers – served as a treasured early catalyst for us at the university. Propelling the ministry forward slow-motion, as we inched our way to becoming a truly transcultural family. We (students, volunteers, friendship partners) could with God’s help, steward a faith culture flowering in deep-hearted care, engaging throughout in meaningful acts of service.

Now – three decades in – the miracle of good seed planted, and of lives yet being changed for the good, stands as evidence that any misgivings or nail-biting angst earlier on were mere distractions. Several of the Jesus-Inn graduate students with their specialties (geology – information technology – petroleum) have proceeded wonderfully forward, bearing fruit within their fresh-discovered faith.

Issuing from the overflow of a young lady’s renovated heart.

January 11, 2024

Sharp Turn

Impressive structures that weather the elements of time owe their long resilience to sound foundations. Moving about the Tulsa campus lying along the famed Route 66 corridor, I was garnering insights about T.U.’s own foundations. Not those to do with brick and mortar but of held convictions, beliefs and values – elements that gave rise to the university’s birth back in the nineteenth century.

Along the way I reflected how the many streams of higher education in America had sprung forth and flowed directly from the headwaters of Christian faith and practice.

The first colleges in America were founded by Christians and approximately 106 out of the 108 first colleges were Christian colleges. Harvard University, which is considered one of the leading universities in America and the world was founded by Christians. One of the original precepts of the then Harvard College stated that students should be instructed in knowing God and that Christ is the only foundation of all “sound knowledge and learning*.

The more I drank in of T.U.’s legacy the more I felt a grateful kinship. I paused at the courtyard of Sharp Chapel. Bedrock elements like truth and compassion, mercy and justice – qualities embodied in the person of Jesus himself – had birthed this place. These and other such virtues, all featured front and center at the school’s inception.

The University of Tulsa arose out of Presbyterian Mission roots by way of Kendall College. Even now the ‘vital signs’ of the Christian faith bore evidence of active life. Via several streams of campus expression. From Presbyterian to Baptist to Methodist to Catholic, alongside a range of parachurch ministries.

Buoyed in part by my recent ‘until they know that you care’ moment, I rallied my courage.

Entering through large ornate doors of Sharp Chapel I followed a stairway up to the Chaplain’s office.

Would my request be approved? I wondered. Would International Student Ministries be endorsed as a formally sanctioned presence. To offer, through the Lord’s grace, a witness to the life and hope resident in the person of Jesus? Particularly, among scholars and students even now making their way to this place from across the world.

September 7, 2023

Assertive Action

“I am sorry, but your son will not walk again.”

My mom, seated in the Tulsa hospital’s polio ward, listened as the doctor offered his prognosis. Her heart sank.

It might be argued the physician’s assessment in the moment was made prematurely. Regardless, news like this coming to the parent of a paralyzed nine-year-old lying in a Hillcrest bed down the hall could not be received without emotion.

Our family was blessed to have friends. Common, blue-collar-status households marked, for the most part, the culture of our modest faith community. Upon receiving the latest troubling news of my ongoing decline, the little band of churchgoers rallied their hearts. They reset their resolve. As an earlier body of believers of ancient times had been challenged to do, they continued in prayer.*

Having been carried by Dad into the hospital weeks earlier – my legs and feet unresponsive to my very best efforts at even wiggling a toe – I was often reminded I was never forgotten by our faithful praying family.

My condition worsened still. Discussions were convened of bringing in a piece of equipment bearing a foreboding kind of name – the Iron Lung. A backup measure for my increasingly compromised respiratory system.

The actions of the small prayer band seemed a little counterintuitive. They simply kept on with their appeals. Kind people paid a visit resting kind hands* on my frail form.

It remains for me a big mystery as to why I got counted among some of the fortunate ones over time to encounter the miraculous firsthand. Looking back I recall with some wonder the astonishing shift in my condition. My terribly weakened body responding to the Lord’s gracious, powerful hand. The little company of his blue-collar intercessors had kept their petitions going. If biblical praying is anything it is love acted upon audaciously.

Some four weeks after the iron lung deliberation the hospital’s exit doors opened. I was standing upright, walking with only the support of a couple crutches which would soon get discarded. Both my body and spirit responded happily to the crisp air outside.

A doubtful questioner once offered, “I believe that, instead of God answering prayer, the matter is merely coincidental. You pray. A coincidence occurs and you claim that some prayer was answered.”

The prayer practitioner offered a kind response, “Maybe you are right. Yet, what I have found is this. The more we pray – the more the coincidences happen”.

This is the way of apprentices to Jesus. They engage. Routinely – in humble trusting faith – they converse with him.

November 4, 2022

Abundant

As we hunger on after God he ensures that plenty of life-enhancing nutrients come our way. With him as supplier we don’t fret about scarcity. Rather, we take comfort, even delight, in this wondrous fact. His kingdom into which we have entered and now live overflows in plenty.

‘Supply chain interruption’. The phrase is seldom voiced among those abiding in Jesus, living under his governance. And part of the great news is this – the currency of our Lord’s kingdom. We live by faith. God himself supplies the faith (kingdom currency) needed, and it never ever diminishes.

Everyone has a faith story, even if it is not yet clearly known to them.

We grow to live our lives rooted in things that we believe. . . What we believe about ourselves. What we believe or disbelieve about God, and about the world. Our belief or non-belief about an afterlife beyond the grave.

A person’s behaviors (their routine actions in life) make it clear as to what they actually do believe, what they hold as truth. More about that later.

I first got introduced to the Christian faith as a young child. It was only afterward that I gave much thought to spiritual hunger.

I think everyone gets hungry for God. It is a little like the natural hunger I had that day at the college campus. Yet it is not the same. My mother and father were moved to yearn after God in their time of deep sorrow at the drowning death of their young son. But, whether through a great crisis or simply in a time of honest questionings we sense there is a “something” missing.

For some of us, this hungering is a thing we have not given much thought to. Yet most all people across the world have deep life questions. And we feel the yearning for the something that is beyond ourselves.

In truth we are yearning for him – God. We thirst for his help and we yearn for his companionship. It is him, the One who is ready and able to fill up the hungry space inside us. Indeed, the one by whom and for whom we were made.

French mathematician and physicist Blaise Pascal offered a word picture,

“There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of each man which cannot be satisfied by any created thing but only by God the Creator, made known through Jesus Christ.” *

March 24, 2018March 27, 2018

Follow

For years my faith was out of sorts. Not that it lacked truth. Or strength. Or substance (though this could be a subject for another day).

My faith bobbled and wobbled from a lack of understanding how it was meant to be applied. . . or not applied. Especially where actual life formation was concerned. How I was meant to grow – tools to move me there – actual steps to Christlikeness.

A car-towing venture in Africa during the ‘60s might illustrate (a blog entry at this site labeled Drag Race, relates the drama in full).

Two men. Two cars. One of the vehicles, a Jeep, has its engine running. It’s towing the other – a disabled Volkswagen Beetle.

All went well until, navigating a long, downhill slope of dirt road, the less-seasoned Beetle driver – his car gaining speed – elected to pass the Jeep. Yes, to move in front of the lead car. . . Tow rope secure, in place.

His act was not one of the better options open to him. The driver was abruptly schooled in a basic principle. The tow rope would prove a friend as long as its use was rightly applied.

In my hopes of maturing in areas of Christlikeness I failed (like the VW pilot) to position myself rightly in relation to my leader.

It is the wise Jesus-follower who keeps the Rabbi’s sandal-prints in view. Simply moving forward as apprentice-in-training, eyeing the master, taking signals from him. Rather than the alternative – charging. . . or meandering [the speed doesn’t seem to matter] – off independently.

Actions taken in the hope of life transformation fall to two categories. Dallas Willard offers one of them as the clear choice, stating that effective life-change for the good rests on this critical approach – Training vs Trying.

Like the poor, distracted driver, I’ve spent a lot of my energy trying to keep myself aright, often inattentive to a useful point. The fellow in the lead has a better view of the landscape, holds the necessary power at his disposal, and knows just where we’re headed.

Entrusting my understanding to his recommended way – the power needed supplied in full and within easy reach – I might enter a more hopeful process. Not apart from effort, to be sure, this further journey into his likeness. But surprisingly effective, richly hopeful and actually less labor-intensive. In the Rabbi’s language – an easy yoke.

I was at last entering a means that may help me avoid the wrong use of my lifeline, sparing my ‘mobility’ being toppled sideways in the dust.

The rabbi-teacher inviting me to a better means.

“A more excellent way” – 1 Corinthians 12:31

April 25, 2018

Mind The Step

Growing in Christlikeness takes brains.

Not brilliance. Not genius. The Christian Faith isn’t privately reserved for Nobel Prize recipients in science and medicine. Indeed, any trusting, open-hearted child may drink deep of the waters of salvation.

But serious Jesus-followers setting out to grow as his disciples are not ones to check their brains at the door. To them, good sense reflected by sound thinking is essential – a no-brainer, you might say.

Unfolding the topography map (Google Earth wouldn’t debut for another decade) I was soon taken by the stunning landscape spread out before me. Even when merely displayed on landscape parchment, the vast range of Kili’s expanse – her ravines etching wrinkles across her ancient face – captivated me.

The mountain’s greens, from rich shadows to hues showcasing rain forests and highland grasses drew me in. Into dreaming. And more than that. To thinking.

How often do we give it consideration, this quality of thought. Its power and its necessity. The uniquely human capacity to consider, to surmise and decide – that is, to use our brain?

Before any venture can get underway – from the Wright brothers winged launch into North Carolina skies to the designing and building of India’s dazzling Taj Mahal to putting together the kids lunch bag for school – the mind must stir.

Surveying Kilimanjaro’s image that morning, my mind did that. It stirred. And a dream was born.

I would set out to climb this mountain. . . and do it with my kids. At the very least, I could try. But there would be a needed sequence about such a heady vision. Some mental pacings must precede the actual ones. Before the climb could ever begin, I must further engage my mind. Questions asked. Mysteries uncovered.

When is the best season of year for such thing? – Which route promises the best chance of success? – Supplies – what equipment, survival gear and food stuff do we gather If my two teens and me are to set foot on Africa’s legendary rooftop? – What will it all cost? (this was a Biggie)

Does this make any sense? Could we actually achieve it? Thoughts. These demanded logic, rationale, kinds of things I’m not so famous for. Still, the thinking part, I came to realize, was indispensable to a happy, adventurous – and completed – climb.

I got encouraged, enthused actually. The task would be daunting, but it was reachable. . . I felt certain. I had lived at the foot of this glorious giant long enough to learn some secrets, catch some glimpses of the possibilities.

Thinking had been happening a while.

So simple strategies began playing in my head – vague and ill-defined at first – of taking on this vast, snow-crowned volcano.

I peered again at Kili’s image lying there atop our dining table, the table itself crafted of timber harvested from other African slopes – Kenya’s Mount Elgon.

On and on I continued thinking. . . and on.

Trekking a mountain to her summit may be much like walking with Christ, I mused. One [sensible] step at a time.

August 25, 2015August 28, 2017

The Creason Effect

The people who influence you are

The people who believe in you

– Henry Drummond

Three brothers of the same household believed in me. Each played an influencing role. Each introduced me to something or someone – marking me for life. For good. I’m in their debt.

The Creason brothers. Common men of uncommon influence.

Troy (small business-owner, cattle-tender) sat with eleven and twelve-year-old boys in a tight, window-less room. Seated on straight-back chairs and short benches we boys formed a square – most of our backs touching a wall. Ricky, Larry, Dwight, Tim, James. . .

Brother Troy’s King James Bible lay open before him. With a calloused forefinger he tracked the sentences as he read. His instruction in down-to-earth terms supplied me and the others with building blocks of truth. For life. Though we likely retained only a trace of the Biblical riches dispensed, Troy showed up week by week.

What he shared, he lived. The truths could bring us into and through a meaningful life. He knew this. He introduced us to Christ. His nature and character. Truthfulness, perseverance, responsibility, faith. A life with Jesus was the life to live. Nothing else made sense. I never doubted Troy’s motives, his reasons for showing up. Why would I? The reason was obvious. He believed the book. He believed in us.

Melvin (farmer, welder)

Melvin totally wowed me as a youth leader. He and his gracious auburn-haired wife, Joan, endeared themselves to all the teens.

Melvin was never splashy, sensational. But engaging, sincere. Attentive. If in my teen years I relished anything to do with church it was tied to Melvin.

Brother Melvin, could you teach me to make a necktie knot?

Sure. Just a second, while I adjust this mirror.

The white Ford Mustang breezed along Hwy 75 – Melvin and his wife up front. We were going to a Monday night youth rally. I was squeezed between other students in the back seat – positioning my Adam’s-apple to meet Melvin’s focus through the rearview mirror.

My clumsy fingers fumbled with my tie as Melvin – steering wheel firmly in hand – talked me through.

Ready Jerry? Thread the broad part over, then under and through (pause); now up and out the triangular opening, then. . .

Melvin glanced first to the mirror, then to the road and back again. This two-step rumba continued, alternating between the highway and my knot-tying exercise. He patiently took me through the steps, assuring me along the way. Melvin believed in me.

I would get this knot tied. I knew it.

If you hold rich memories of some person who made a positive influence in your life, be assured. That person was an encourager.

I heard this piece of wisdom years ago.

The neck tie incident – one in a long list of treasured happenings with Melvin – illustrated the truth.

Be a blessing.* This tender mandate of heaven was personified in my youth pastor. He blessed us. By his devotion, by believing in us. Influencing us – well into the future.

When our thirty-fifth anniversary came, Ann and I renewed our marriage vows at the little church. Where my family worshiped. Where the two of us were wed.

As I dressed for the affair I threaded my green and white tie. I snugged the knot securely. Melvin would officiate our milestone renewal. I reviewed my workmanship and smiled.

Would he notice the knot?

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— ——

(The third Creason brother – Fred – introduced me to my bride. An account for another day.)

*Genesis 12.2 Bible. Old Testament

June 16, 2015August 28, 2017

Standing already. Why Not?

You did what? My body, settled in the wheelchair, jumped a little. The doctor’s tone was sharp. He was not pleased.

Who told you to stand up?

It was Monday in what would become my final month at Hillcrest Hospital.

I had been at our Okmulgee home for a rare weekend visit. Sunday afternoon I rested on a living room sofa while mom busied herself in the kitchen.

A thought from nowhere suddenly stirred me.

Try your legs. Stand up. For a few seconds I gazed at my limbs. They hadn’t supported my body for months. What if. . ?

Why not?

I wobbled upward, drawing support from the sofa arm. Once fully upright I leaned against the nearest wall. Steadying myself I called out, Mother. Mother! She released her dish towel and it landed on the floor. Some quick steps from the kitchen and she was with me. She steadied me a little. Then we stood together. Just standing without movement. Upright. My mom and I looked down and took in my spindly legs. Astonished.

Not accustomed to bearing weight, my legs quivered and Mother lowered me again to the sofa. It was then I smiled. Eager to tell the nurses – and the doctor. And Monday came.

Being a youngster, I had been scolded over a generous number of misdeeds before. But never rebuked for trying to walk. Scolded for using my limbs – by a person whose job it was to restore their use? The thought bewildered me.

I saw later that recovery usually requires process. To put weight on my limbs too soon and without proper oversight could hurt – even ruin – any hope for recovery. Inside though, I couldn’t quiet the rush of emotion. I would soon walk. Walk.

Running with Meaning

In the first blog post of this series, Running with Meaning, I spoke of my dad having a limp of sorts – disadvantages in life. Then the idea of California, notions of work there, a place for beginning a family; these possessed his thoughts. Some why not dreams stirred in Clyde Baxter.

Perhaps you are meeting with hardship, illness or work troubles. Relational pain; maybe a personal struggle.

I think it can serve us well to look about (in my instance a new look at a pair of nine-year-old inactive legs). And to look up. Hope comes from a place beyond ourselves. Up.

We revisit Opaline – the angel of a shared affliction – and her narrative soon. Faith marked her journey – differently in some ways than mine. Still with wonder. And surprise.

Why not?

May 5, 2015August 28, 2017

Impressions. Polio, first round

When the Okies left Oklahoma and moved to California, it raised the I.Q. of both states.
– Will Rogers

Impressions. Some are innocuous. Others are vital, setting life-altering forces in motion. An impression, when acted on, can foster adventure, inspire faith. Hardships seem postponed. Then they wash ashore and into our lives. Some in manageable waves. Others overwhelm us, tsunami-like, leaving us reeling til we re-gather ourselves. Hopefully in the comforting aid of others.

Impressions played their roles in the young Oklahomans. From their California arrival ten years earlier and going forward. .

Unexplained comfort administered through a sister-in-law’s hands drew them into a life new to them. They began the long journey of yielding themselves to the new way. A way of prayer. Of faith.

Clyde responded to a later impression, leading them to trust for added children.

On still another occasion Clyde met with an inner constraint. It was a tender, yet cautionary word while he was taking in a scene at a movie theatre. The path you’re on isn’t leading you to where your little boy has gone. He exited the viewing.

Then, on a Spring night in 1946 my mother, Thelma, dreamed vividly of our family travelling a long roadway.

Clyde, I feel the Lord saying we’re to return to Oklahoma.

His response was surprisingly sudden and certain. They both laughed. Sensing the guidance was sound, they followed the impression.

Okmulgee. Bubbling Water.

The winsomeness of its Creek Indian meaning was matched by the strangeness of the town’s name to an unaccustomed ear. (Ohk-muhl-gee)

I was five months old when we entered the land of my family’s roots. It would be my land, the place of my roots. We were home.

An aggressive disease showed up near my first birthday. The polio virus disabled my legs and feet before I had a chance to try them out. The assault was rapid and, thankfully, short-lived. It contorted my left foot, permanently curbing it’s range of motion. In time my left leg resumed growing. So the right leg trumps the left by more than an inch. The redesigned foot and the shortened leg combined to supply me with an uninvited trademark of sorts. A limp.

The disquieting polio intruder wasn’t finished. Awhile later the illness paid a second childhood visit. It was then the term iron lung entered our vocabulary.