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My parents employed two nanny’s during our early childhood.  My sole recollection of the first, Mrs. Kitchens, surrounds the day our dog whelped puppies on our couch.  As one can imagine, it was quite a fun and exciting day for us kids, but I’m not sure it ended up well for Mrs. Kitchens, because I don’t recall anything concerning her after that incident.  My mother assures me that she was not fired because of her part in the ill-placed birthing, so I’ll just have to take her word on it.

For some strange reason, Mrs. Williams, our second nanny, likewise brings no strong recollections whatsoever, save one — the day she brought her daughter to work with her.  Now what brings the scenes so vividly before my eyes is that it was the first time in my life for several things, the least of which was the first time I had ever played with someone who was not of my own race and social status.  I was white and economically middle class; she was black and lived on the other side of the tracks.  On a few occasions I had seen the outside of her house from the inside of our car while being with my dad as he drove her mother home after work.  I remember feeling uncomfortable and sorry for their obviously poor situation, but as a mere six-year-old I could only wonder why it was so.

But, honestly, what makes the experience stand out so much in my mind was the strange feeling it brought me to play by myself with someone from the opposite sex.  True, I had never played with a black person before, and I had never played with someone poor before, but by far, what was so unique to this experience was that I had never played alone with a girl before.  There just seemed to be something not quite right about that.  Oh, not that it was indeed wrong — of course not — but, even though I had three sisters, I never played alone even with any of them.  They did girl stuff, and I did guy stuff, and that was the way it was supposed to be.  Oh, this was not to say that girls didn’t play with boys, for we did that all the time.  It just seemed strange to me for one boy to be playing with one girl, yet that is precisely what we did.

Mrs. Williams daughter and I did indeed spend the entire morning together playing — and having the time of our lives!  She was a year or two older than I, thus giving her authority to take the lead in our activity, my acceptance of which came very easily, seeing as how I had three older sisters and was already quite acquainted with the rules of seniority.  Thus, we did spend that entire summer morning riding bikes, mostly off road on uneven terrain, where we made the wonderful discovery that when we laughed, the bumpy ride made our voices shake and sound funny — which, of course, made us laugh more, which then made our voices shakier and funnier, and so on.  I remember being quite amazed that the two of us — just a girl and a boy — could be having so much fun together.  We would work our way up to as much speed as possible on the paved road, and then swerve suddenly off road into the bumps, throwing our legs out and our heads back, and hearing the droning sounds being forced through our vocal cords, which turned them into vibrating laughter.  Then, after the physics of resistance and lack of propulsion slowed the bicycles down enough to minimize the vibrations (and laughter), back onto the pavement we would go to repeat the process — again, and again.  That morning flew by as quickly as we flew down the streets, and then, just like that, she was gone.

But there is another strange part to this story.  Well, not so strange, but sad.  You see, that was the first and last time I ever played with that newfound friend.  In fact, I never even saw her again, which perhaps helps explain why I cannot even recall her name.  But, to bring this event even more into perspective, it must be noted that we lived in the South and it was in the early 60’s — actually, right at 1960.  Thus, it is possible, if not likely, that the adult parties concerned perhaps felt too uncomfortable themselves to witness a little white boy and a little black girl playing and having so much fun together.  I can only wonder.

And while I am at this, let me say the following: please do not ever call me a white man, for that I am not — rather, call me a man who happens to be white, for that I am.  Please do not define me by my skin color, which is of no real importance — rather, define me by my character, which is, and must be, everything.  And, finally, please do not define me by the race to which I belong, and to which I owe no allegiance whatsoever — rather, define me by the wonderful Savior, Jesus Christ, who died for all men, and to whom I alone belong and owe all allegiance forever and ever.

The siren began to blast behind them as his father and he headed home in the family car, the screeching sound causing a wave of panic in his heart, which was doing its best to jump into his throat.  He quickly reached for and felt the bulge in his right pants pocket, which seemed to scream out, “Guilty! Guilty!” to his horror-stricken conscience and “Here he is!  Here he is!” to the dutiful patrolman, who he was sure was about to pull them over, arrest him, handcuff him, and cart him off to jail.  Yet, to his utter shock and relief, the police car merely sped on past them — he could only assume in pursuit of some other lawbreaker more wicked than he and thus more worthy of his attention.  He loosened his death grip on the pack of chewing gum safely hidden in his pocket, while at the same time trying his best to remember how to breathe.  After all, this was pretty heavy stuff for a mere five-year-old!

He really hadn’t intended to steal the pack of gum, but just the same, there it was right at eye level by the check-out counter, just beckoning to him with all the deep magic of a mythological siren, and bewitching him to succumb to his young appetite for sweets.  He had been taught and thus knew very well that it was wrong to take something that did not belong to him — yet, since so many other packages would still be left on the shelf, he easily rationalized, “What can it hurt, and who would know?”  As the clerk busied himself with his father’s transaction, he seized the opportunity and busied himself with his own — nonchalantly reaching out and quickly depositing the very small packet into his equally small pocket.  The deed took less than a second, and he thought he was home free — that is, until hearing the siren less than two minutes later.

For the briefest of moments he was “busted” and truly terrified at the thought of being handcuffed and sent to jail.  Yet, when it became clear that he was in the clear, the abject horror of that awful experience vanished as quickly as fog in the sun.  Only minutes later, while in the secrecy of his hideout, he was quite able to chew on — and enjoy — the stolen gum with only the slightest twinge of guilt.

Look at most any photograph at that time of this five-year-old thus described, and I am quite sure you could not help but remark at what a cute and innocent little boy he was — yet, like all descendants of Adam, he was a devil inside, needing redemption from a sinless Savior.  Fifteen years later that young boy was finally “busted.”  You see, he came to see that God sees all, and knows all, and receives all who call upon His Son in repentance and faith.  On that day that cute little sinner, grown into an adult sinner, experienced the greatest transaction ever made — his sin for the righteousness of Christ!

I know, because I was there, and it was I!

I have introduced you to my first friend, Mike, thus you already know of his propensity for getting into trouble.  Whether it was offering his father a can of soda that he had replaced with salt water while at the beach (Oh, you should have seen that angry man’s reaction!), or throwing water balloons at cars from behind the row of bushes at his house, my friend Mike definitely had a bent toward making trouble.

I do not recall exactly what he had done on this particular day to warrant such ire from his mother, but I do have a very vivid picture in my mind of him being chased around in the backyard by her, screaming at him at the top of her lungs with curses I did not know the fairer sex were allowed, much less, capable of uttering.  Yet, the most curious thing about the chase was not the words and sounds that came out of her mouth, but the object that was held in her hand.  I had never before seen a fly swatter being used as a tool for discipline — well, not that it was actually used, for the truth is she never was able to catch him.

I am quite sure that Mike would have faired much better if he at some point had just stopped or at least pretended to tire, thus slowing down and giving his mother the opportunity to catch up to him and release her venom with a few (what probably would have been rather harmless) swings of the fly swatter.  How would he have faired better?  Well, because some of the words which came from her lips were more weighty than just the cursing — particularly the words promising a spanking from Mike’s father whenever he returned home from work.  “Just wait until your father gets home!”  I can guarantee you that that man would have looked on a fly swatter with nothing but disdain, especially in light of the thick belt wrapped around his massive midriff.  After all, a real man would never have been caught dead wielding a mere fly swatter, when a belt would do a much better job.

What a sight it was, though, watching, my mouth most certainly agape, as the two of them ran around and around that backyard, Mike mocking and mother swearing.  I distinctly remember feeling aghast at two things: how utterly disrespectful a child could be to his parent, and how sad that a parent could degrade herself in such a way before her child.  Even I knew as a five-year-old that what she was doing encouraged absolutely no respect from the one over whom she was supposed to have authority, nor from me who witnessed the unfortunate spectacle.  From then on I could never look upon her with the proper esteem she should have held as an adult and a parent of my friend.

I am so very glad that God does not lower Himself to run around and chase us with a fly swatter!  No, rather, He lowered Himself in the most sublime way — by becoming the God/Man Jesus Christ: “… and being found in human form, he humbled himself to the point of death, even death on a cross” (Philippians 2:8).  And let no one be mistaken!  This Savior does not beg — nor even invite — anyone to follow Him; He commands it!  He commands us to stop right where we are in our tracks, turn around, and follow Him — and if we refuse, we do so at our own eternal peril.  For one day, he will most certainly return, and then the “spanking” will begin in earnest!

A year or two after my first encounter with a nail in the foot, my family moved out of that neighborhood and a few miles down the road — too distant to make visits to my friend’s house on foot.  Not long thereafter another young boy had moved into Mike’s neighborhood, quickly becoming a “running buddy” with my friend, and no doubt in my mind making a significant contribution to his increasing delinquent behavior.  I did not like him much.  He was a year older, bigger and stronger, yet as I look back now, with an alarmingly menacing nature for someone of such tender years — and particularly for having such an innocent sounding name as Timmy, the very name of that nice little boy in the television show “Lassie”   that I loved to watch.  At any rate, I continued to spend much time with Mike, each of us taking turns “spending the night” at the other’s home.  On one such occasion he was hosting me and, as usual, we were out and about in the neighborhood — he and his new friend seeking adventure, and I, as always, tagging along.

Now, as I have already suggested, this adventure-seeking usually turned into at least a little mischief of some sort — but not so on this day, for what we did on this day was nothing less than true adventure, and I might add, adventure of the most courageous sort!  You see, sweet little Timmy had laid his hands on a long wooden pole (probably stolen from a house construction site), and was giving us instructions on what we learned was the great sport of pole-vaulting.  After a half-hour or so of demonstration and subsequent unimpressive attempts by novices with legs far too short and arms much too weak, Timmy came up with what he thought was a rather logical idea.

Now I am all for logic, mind you, but sometimes logic can get you into trouble, and I thought surely we were about to find it.  You see, young Timmy’s line of reasoning ran something like this: “Since we aren’t strong enough to vault ourselves up high, why not start out high and work our way down?  Hmmmmm … now just how can we do this?  Why, by pole-vaulting off the roof of a house, of course!”

The house next door to his proved easy enough to conquer, and no sooner had Mike and I set our feet on the roof when we looked on dumbfounded as that small nine-year-old boy, already standing confidently at the edge, suddenly leaned over with hands firmly grasping the ten-foot-long pole, and without fanfare leapt off the roof as if he had done it a thousand times before, while we who were left on rooftop felt quite certain it was the first and last such jump of his life.

Neither Mike nor I really believed any of us would really do such a thing — after all, it was simply too preposterous!  Yet, I remember, at the very moment of watching young Timmy’s feet separate themselves from safety, experiencing a sudden twinge of guilt for all the bad thoughts I had had about this boy I really never did like, and who I was convinced was surely about to die a horrible death.  Already imagining his broken and mangled body lying motionless on the ground, a sickening feeling welled up in my stomach, along with a huge lump in my throat.

Yet, I forced myself to look on incredulously as the most remarkable and unexpected feat I had ever experienced actually took place right before my eyes.  Timmy clung securely to the pole, momentarily suspended in mid-air, until gravity, naturally fulfilling the forces of physics which define it, pulled both him and pole gradually earthward in a long, slow arc.  Then, at the last possible moment Timmy deftly pushed himself away from the pole, striking the ground with his feet ahead of it, and falling into a perfect body role until finally gathering himself and leaping up from the ground about twenty feet away from the house — alive and well, and beaming with pride.

Astonished and mesmerized at the ease to which this feat appeared to be accomplished, still, I voiced no objection whatsoever when Mike immediately yelled out that he wanted to go next.  After all, it looked easy enough, but for crying out loud, we were pole-vaulting off the roof of a house!  I observed, taking note that Mike had obviously paid good attention, mimicking the trick to a tee, likewise cheating death and jumping up and down on the ground with glee.  Suddenly realizing there was no one else on the roof but me, and having no other honorable option for descent other than the pole, with his boisterous laughter still in my ear, and my pounding heart up in my throat, I grabbed the pole, left the roof, sailed the air, struck the ground, and tumbled my way right into the “I Pole-Vaulted Off a Roof Club!”

After two additional jumps each, however, we reasoned we were probably pressing our luck, and decided to seek other sorts of adventure for the day.  [I feel compelled to offer the following warning: “Do not attempt this at home!”  Years later I shuddered upon hearing that some kid was using a similar pole to pole-vault in the traditional manner, and was run through when it splintered in half.]

Peer pressure truly is an amazing thing, is it not?  Because of it, the fear of ridicule and rejection can exceed even the fear of pole-vaulting off the roof of a house — or even worse things — like crimes against society and basic morality!  Yet, as the Bible suggests, peer pressure can also be very beneficial: “And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works…” (Hebrews 10:24), and “Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor” (Romans 12:10).

Mike was the first friend I ever had.  I am told we even played in the playpen together, which, of course, I cannot recall.  What I do remember very vividly is that he had quite a knack for getting into trouble, which often involved dragging me in along with him.  How well I remember walking through the front door one day as a 5 year-old, seeing my mother, as she was talking on the phone, suddenly change her blank gaze at the floor to a glaring scowl at me for having just been informed by Mike’s mother of my participation in the starting of a fire in her front yard.  Yes, we had found some matches in a drawer, and the few dry leaves between the two recently planted fir trees by the driveway beckoned our inquisitive little minds to put said matches to the test — which, of course, we were more than obliged to do.

Well, soon thereafter (or was it before?) Mike and I were out exploring the world, as young boys often do, when we stumbled upon a great discovery — a board with a nail running through it.  After kicking it around, picking it up and carefully examining it, Mike then tossed it back to the ground, placed his bare foot (we were always barefooted) squarely on top of the nail, looked at me and told me to put my foot on top of his.  Curious as to why he would ask such a strange thing, I obediently did so nonetheless — and, of course, very gently.

Then he said for us to switch, the suggestion of which I was equally willing and naive enough to take.  Of course, you who are reading this have no doubt seen what was coming many sentences ago, and you are not mistaken.  With a sudden stomp of his foot upon mine, I found myself painfully impaled upon the nail protruding from a board that was never intended for such a home.  I screeched, throwing my foot into the air to free myself, only to lift the board (now very much attached to my flesh) off the ground and causing even more pain from this new dangling appendage wiggling the nail around inside raw flesh.  Unable to free myself from the nail by throwing my foot upward, I immediately threw my whole self downward, of course banging the dangling board to the ground as well, which caused yet another howl of pain to issue forth.  Relief finally came as I firmly grasped the board and pulled it away from my foot as gently as I could.

To my complete surprise, Mike never left me.  He did not run home.  Perhaps he simply stood stunned himself at the utter audacity of his own behavior, or perhaps he felt more curious about his handiwork than fear of any reprisal from me.  Though I do not remember, I am sure I must have implored in anguish, “Why did you do that?”  And, again, though I do not remember, I can only imagine that he must have sheepishly mumbled something in reply like, “I don’t know.”

I am reminded of a story I read long ago where two friends were climbing in a tree and one of them, for some unknown reason, suddenly and purposefully shook the limb in order to cause the other boy to fall to the ground, unwittingly crippling him for life.  Such was the experience I felt that day.  I looked at my friend in utter horror and disbelief at the betrayal so unexpectedly and unwarrantedly committed.  Why would he do such a thing?  I’ll never forget that moment of impact (both in mind and body) while looking into the face of someone who I knew was my friend, and yet seeing an expression that can only be described as quite devilish in nature.

Being so tender of age, our undeveloped minds and psyches were yet incapable either of deep self-analyzation, not to mention profound philosophical discussion.  We simply took the next step forward — which was to take care of the deep puncture in my foot.  As I look back at this strange incident that occurred over fifty years ago, it is almost surreal to see in my mind’s eye this friend who had just so diabolically betrayed me, now with loving care, his arm in mine, helping me hobble home.

And, to my memory, nothing more was ever said about the incident.  Through the next few years we continued to play together and move on to more discoveries and youthful mischief — yet, for me, never quite as freely and innocently as in past days.

As I look back at this first experience of betrayal, I cannot help but be confronted with my own sin at this very point — not just that I have betrayed the best friend I have ever had in Jesus Christ — but that I have betrayed him so often!  Oh, how often I have chosen other things and other friends over Him, who is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, and the best friend I have ever had, and ever will have.  And for this I am so very grateful for his continual love and forgiveness.

For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, “Fear not, I am the one who helps you” (Isaiah 41:13).

One of my favorite quotes of all time is from Abraham Lincoln.  Everyone should learn it — I mean memorize it and live by it.  Here it is: “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”  There you go — now learn it, memorize it, and live by it.  Oh, how I wish I had known this axiom back in the 6th grade, for it most certainly might have saved me from much embarrassment and grief.

As I look back, I see now that our English teacher must surely have been a frustrated actor, for I recall days when she, for no apparent reason other than simply for the fun of it, would perform short skits for the entire class.  She (I’ll call her Mrs. Thespian) was good at it and we all always loved the show she put on for us.  The problem, however, was her reasoning that what came easy to her should likewise come easy to her students — an absolutely erroneous conclusion, given the fact that I was a hopelessly low-self-esteemed introvert who would rather die than stand up in front of the class even to introduce myself.  Hence, this personal anecdote.

On this particular morning Mrs. Thespian was introducing us to a short story, when, finding our split-class period coming to its end, suggested that upon our return she would call on us to stand up in front of the class and tell the story by memory.  As the bell rang, signaling permission to us to exit, without thinking I made the mistake of openly gloating over the fact that my next class was Music Appreciation, which would naturally afford me ample time to prepare, since we usually never did much of anything in that class anyway.  Though I am sure my words were barely audible, never intended to reach her ears, yet to my surprise Mrs. Thespian heard them all, and then to my horror responded by declaring that I would have the privilege of being the first to have a go at it upon our return.

I swallowed hard at the thought, but left determined to make the most of the next hour, believing that, as usual, very little Music Appreciation would actually take place.  Yet, such plans were thwarted, as on that day — of all days — our music teacher for some unexplained reason felt inspired to do his job, thus keeping us busy for the entire hour with things of music instead of our own personal agenda’s.  My anxieties escalated with each passing minute, knowing the humiliation that surely awaited me in the next hour, should I be called to recite unprepared.  My only solace was the hope that Mrs. Thespian would perhaps experience a lapse of memory and call on someone else instead of me.

Thus, with that thought alone energizing my legs to drag me back to English class, I entered the room and sat down with hope doing its dead-level best — yet failing miserably — to conquer the ever increasing sense of dread welling up in my pounding heart.  Although entering the room at the last possible minute in order not to be tardy and further draw attention to myself, my assigned seat made it nonetheless utterly impossible for me to appear invisible to the expectant eyes of Mrs. Thespian, who, I immediately noticed had already taken her seat directly behind me in the back of the room in order to become part of the audience.

The tardy bell rang, sounding more like an explosion than a signal, and without even a word of introduction, Mrs. Thespian confirmed all the dread crescendoing within my poor soul as she called out my name.  I turned my head with imploring eyes as if to say, “Please have mercy and call on someone else,” but her demeanor communicated no mercy was necessary for such an easy task.

The rest is really a blur.  I do remember starting off well enough, but then quickly succumbing to the emotional pressure, as well as lack of memory and oratory skill, Mrs. Thespian soon found my stumbling and fumbling so profoundly pitiful that she had no choice but to offer mercy — both to the class for having to endure my woeful performance, as well as to me for providing it — and so directed me to take my seat.  Thus, only a few moments after my feet had shuffled my poor soul to the front of the class with such trepidation, they performed the same task to place me back to my desk in utter humiliation.

The fact that the young boy thus described eventually became a teacher and preacher, making his very living by frequently speaking in front of audiences — and enjoying doing so — is evidence of the greatest kind that people can really change.  The change in this case, mind you, did not occur simply as a matter of course through mere biological, emotional, and psychological growth.  No, it took place due to a supernatural change in his heart, wrought by a crucified and risen Savior whose love for him conquered his fear of man.

For even when we were with you, we would give you this command: If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat (2 Thessalonians 3:10).

I was taught from an early age that work is a good thing.  In fact, the principle was pretty much drilled into me, though the specific words were never said, that work is more important than leisure.  This is not to say that leisure had no value, however, it is to say that leisure was found to be most gratifying when it came on the heels of hard work.

Thus, daily and weekly household chores were expected to be fulfilled without financial compensation.   Well, I do remember getting a 50¢/week allowance, but, alas, it was a very, very short-lived boon indeed.  After only two weeks the well must have gone dry, and without explanation all such weekly remunerations for chores suddenly ceased.

Yes, I learned that there is always work at hand, and that I need not wait for it to be handed to me.  By the time I was eight years old I was cleaning my room, cleaning the garage, mowing the lawn, weeding the flower bed, taking out the garbage (and returning the empty cans) — and yes, sweeping the driveway.  And I learned to carry out these tasks as if they were the most important jobs anyone could do.

Once engaged in my work, I actually learned to appreciate doing it, to enjoy working hard, and to look forward to the fruits of that hard work, namely, leaving a situation better than when I found it.  Truth be told, to this day I still insist on mowing the lawn every week myself, partly because I am too cheap to out-source, but primarily because I can easily look back, the sweat pouring profusely out of my ever-aging and increasingly easy-to-make-weary body, and yet find no small amount of real satisfaction in noticing what an incredible difference I have just made on my lawn — a pleasant phenomenon, which in my normal line of “work” as a pastor, is not so easily experienced.

For all followers of Jesus Christ there is a lot of work to do.  It is “the work of the Lord,” and it has everything to do with Understanding, Submitting to, Living out, and Taking the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain (1 Corinthians 15:58).

Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you (1 Peter 4:12).

A long time ago I heard someone quip: “We shouldn’t worry about life — we’re never going to get out of it alive anyway!”  Just recently I heard a much more serious tone from a pastor, that went something like this: “One of the most important things a pastor can do is teach God’s people how to suffer well, because it is astounding to see how few of them are really equipped to endure suffering.”  We laud the few that stand out so well, but every Christian should be known at least in part for how well he endures suffering.

One of the first things to grasp in all of this is that Suffering is Sure — that is, it is inevitable.  We cannot escape it, nor should we be surprised when it finds us.  We will meet it often enough, thus we should not think of it as a strange phenomenon.  We cannot outgrow it, nor can we avoid it.  We cannot thwart it through acquisition of anything this world has to offer.  Money will not purchase deliverance from it.  Power will not force surrender by it.  Prestige will not manipulate submission of it.  It is coming, and it is coming for us all — in one way or another.

As Americans, we recoil at the notion of this.  When our forefathers wrote the Preamble to our Declaration of Independence, they proclaimed that it is our God-given right to pursue happiness — but in saying this they never meant that this happiness should be guaranteed.  They knew better than this.  I’m not sure we do anymore, for it seems everyone nowadays believes it is our right — not just to pursue it — but to have it.

Malcolm Muggeridge once described “the pursuit of happiness” as a “lamentable phrase … responsible for a good part of the ills and miseries of the modern world.”  I think what he was getting at is that man will commit even the most egregious acts thinkable, causing the suffering of others, if that is what it takes to avoid his own suffering.

On this July 4th I am especially grateful for the many who were willing to suffer — and did suffer — that others might enjoy freedom!  Furthermore, I am so very grateful that those dear forefathers of ours were not only willing to suffer, embracing it as it came — but that they actually pursued such suffering — so that others like you and me might have the freedom to pursue happiness!  And for this reason I am so happy to be an American.

But let us never forget that the greatest news is that Jesus Christ “steadfastly set His face to go to Jerusalem” (Luke 9:51) — toward suffering — that we might know the blessed happiness of forgiveness and salvation because of His suffering and paying the debt for our sins.

As a six-or-seven-year-old I remember one hot, summer day phoning my mother at work to complain of boredom.  Big mistake.  Thinking I would receive at least some sort of sympathy, instead I was rather quickly offered the suggestion to get a broom and go outside to sweep our concrete driveway.  You know, it never even occurred to me how giving such an instruction without pause was a bit strange.  I mean, I hadn’t recalled ever seeing others in the neighborhood do such a chore, and after all, did a little dirt on a driveway really matter — especially since driveway dirt was practically invisible until a broom began bringing it all together in a big heap?  I had never swept the driveway before, so why on earth was that suddenly such a necessary and important thing to do?  Had my mother just been waiting for the chance to implement this newly discovered chore?

These were simple questions running through my very uncomplicated little brain, as I listened — musings that, of course, were never allowed outside the confines of the small, young cranium that created them.  I neither refused nor complained about such a consideration that to my simple mind seemed really quite absurd.   No, I dutifully retrieved a broom from a closet, went outside into the summer heat, and deftly swept all the dirt from the driveway, thus relieving my boredom at least for a short thirty minute period, anyway.

Now the question comes to me: if God asked me to take a broom, go outside and sweep — not a concrete driveway, but — a dirt path, would I do so?  Would I do so immediately?  Would I do so willingly?  Would I do so joyfully?  Furthermore, would one out of any of these three be enough?  Could I go immediately and yet complain and sulk the whole time?  Could I go later on only after working myself into feeling like it and doing it with joy in my heart?

The answer is obvious, is it not?  All three — immediacy, willingness, and joy — are absolutely necessary for displaying truly godly obedience.  It doesn’t matter if I understand at all what God wants me to do.  All that matters is that I desire to do anything He asks when He asks simply because He asks.

My sins were tons worse than any driveway dirt He might ask me to sweep!  And, after all, what greater honor is there than serving the One who served me by giving His life for me?  I will never be able to serve Him to the depth and degree to which He served me.  Never.  How can I refuse Him anything in light of everything He has not refused me — especially forgiveness from sin and His own imputed righteousness?

Jesus paid it all — all to Him I owe;

Sin had left a crimson stain; He washed it white as snow!

There is no doubt in my mind that I surely must have told my first lie long before fifth grade ever came around, but, honestly, I cannot remember ever doing so.  What I do remember is  it all beginning with my prestigious appointment as Captain of the School Patrol — with the prettiest bright blue badge you ever saw prominently attached to my safety patrol belt as proof of said honor.  All the other patrol kids wore badges that were plain silver, but mine was bright blue, signaling to all that I was indeed special and someone to be reckoned with.

As captain, my job was simply to make sure that all the other patrols were at their appointed posts at their scheduled times, doing their best to protect life and limb at crosswalks and carports before and after school.  Each day, after seeing to it that all were in place, I was to report to the Supervisor of the patrols, Mrs. Pearson, to inform her that everything was going well.  Easy, nothing to it — much prestige at the cost of very little effort.  (Some might say it sounds sorta like work in D.C.)

At any rate, on one occasion Mrs. Pearson instructed me to make sure to add more patrols at a certain intersection the following day.  That day quickly came of course and I carried out my normal duties as usual, having completely forgotten those previous day’s instructions.  Feeling as confident as ever, I approached my supervisor at her regular crosswalk, expecting the customary chitchat accompanying such routine visits.  Instead, however, I was asked the simple question of whether I had arranged for more patrols as told.

Now, it is one thing to lie — it is quite another to be good at it, or to think you are good at it.  Without thought and without batting an eye, I immediately replied in the affirmative — job done, everything has been taken care of.  Even as the words fell from my tongue, I shocked myself at the ease to which they came.  As I look back I have to suspect that Mrs. Pearson was very likely not duped at all by my Oscar performance, but very much on to me from the beginning.  I say this because of my deep respect for her even now, but also for the fact that I am sure I probably did not linger long enough to seal the ruse with the normal lighthearted chitchat we were both accustomed to enjoying together.  I had unfinished business to attend to and so I left, determined to make things right before she could ever find out otherwise.

Looking back now, I can just imagine her continuing to perform her task, with one eye on her crosswalk and the other eye directly on me — watching for my eventual turn to the right in the direction of the crosswalk she knew was yet undermanned.

If this dear lady indeed had known I was lying, I can only wish she had nailed me for it.  Perhaps I would have been shamed enough early on in life so that my career in lying would have been short-lived.  Unfortunately, it was not.  For many years afterward I continued periodically to lie my way out of anything and everything as the need arose.  I simply could not stand to be caught making a mistake.  Such was the abysmal level of my self-esteem, as I always felt so compelled to uphold any “bright blue badge” that was pinned on me.

But then a wonderful thing happened in my 21st year of life — I came face to face with the “God who cannot lie” (Hebrews 6:18), and He changed my heart completely!   I learned that I was so precious in His eyes that He gave His own Son, Jesus Christ, to pay the debt for my sins.  Wow!  If God loves me, then who cares what anyone else thinks!  I don’t have to lie anymore!  I don’t have to try to make myself look better than I am anymore!  It’s not the end of the world to make mistakes — God still loves me, and will always love me!  Now I can make a mistake and quickly and willingly admit, “Sorry, I blew it!” and then not look back.

Praise God, I am so glad that my sense of significance is not based on bright blue badges  — either perceived or real!