Stacks of resumes of qualified, capable, and competent candidates are piling up on the search committee’s desk.  The ten member committee looking for a replacement for Daniel Vestal is receiving tons of helpful feedback, and a plethora of brilliant nominations, but if we are not careful we will be so thoughtful that we only think of candidates that make sense.  Here are several not-even-in-the-same-zip-code-as-the-logical-possibilities recommendations:

Tony Campolo – He would appeal to those who care about the poor, American Baptists, and bald people.

Bill  Moyers – He’s ordained and a seminary graduate.  One negative is that he hasn’t been a member of a Baptist church in a  while, but he has his own television show and it is not on TBN.

Barbara Brown  Taylor – Anyone who points out that she’s Episcopal is nit-picking.

Tim  Tebow – He would be the first Heisman Trophy winner to serve as Executive
Coordinator. 

His parents were Baptist  missionaries in the Philippines, but he’s not accurate past twenty yards.

Anne  Lamott – She has experience as a political activist, public speaker, and novelist.  Her newsletter columns would be well-written  and she seems to be cursing less lately.

Barack Obama  – He has extensive administrative experience and cute children.  Like Jesus he was a community organizer, and  it’s possible that he will be looking for a job soon.  One negative is that he got into an argument  with his last pastor.

Jeremiah  Wright – He was once Barack Obama’s pastor.

Bill Gates – If he were  our Executive Coordinator we would not need a fundraiser.  On the downside, he is a college dropout—though  in his defense it was Harvard.

Hillary Clinton – She’s a Methodist, but dealing with rogue leaders around the world is excellent preparation for working with ministers.

Mike Huckabee – He was president of the Arkansas Baptist State Convention, so maybe not.

Bono – The lead singer of U2 works hard to make the world a better place.

He was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, but he didn’t win.

Jimmy Carter – He won the Nobel Peace Prize and he’s an excellent Sunday school teacher.

Rosalyn Carter – She’s a deacon, but she has many fine qualities.

Jon Stewart – One hitch is that he’s Jewish, but he’s smart and funny.

Stephen Colbert – He’s not as funny as Jon Stewart, but he’s a  Sunday school teacher.

Tom Hanks  –His roles in Philadelphia and The DaVinci Code might lose him a few
votes, but he saved Private Ryan and Buzz Lightyear.

Garrison Keillor – This captivating storyteller grew up in the Plymouth Brethren, an
Irish fundamentalist denomination, which might be strangely helpful.

Carol Younger – My wife is a seminary graduate and has substantial church experience.  Everybody loves her.  She already lives in Atlanta.

Clarice Younger – My mother would appeal to the Sarah Palin wing of the CBF.

Sarah Palin – She’s not a Baptist, but she has some of the same advantages as my mother.

Pope Benedict  XVI – He’s Catholic, 85 years old, and pretty austere, but it would be a pretty big story if he took the job and the CBF would loosen him up.

Justin Bieber – I keep hearing that we need someone who appeals to young people.  Would being Canadian disqualify him?

Feel free to inundate the search committee with my suggestions.  (It would also be a fine idea to pray for the committee.)  If any of these recommendations actually become the Executive Coordinator, remember you heard it here first—unless it’s Justin Bieber.

McLaren’s words in the chapel were challenging and inspiring. The words in
the hall—not so much. Popular opinion seems to be that peace belongs in
lectures, but not in sermons:

“That peace stuff wouldn’t fly at my church.”

“Now we know why McLaren isn’t a pastor anymore.”

“His last church must have been in Switzerland.”

“If I preach on peace, war will break out in the next deacons’ meeting.”

“I’ll preach against the war when McLaren agrees to pay my kid’s college tuition.”

In Jesus’ day prophets were run out of town, thrown off a cliff, or stoned
in the middle of the village. Now we dismiss prophets in the conversations
between lectures. When did peace become a peripheral issue? How can ministers
read the Gospels and think peace is an optional topic? When Jesus preached,
“Blessed are the peacemakers,” he included preachers. Would the one who commanded us to “love our enemies” think we do enough to stop killing our enemies?

The church has become reticent to preach on war and peace. During
the Vietnam War preachers like Martin Luther King, Jr. and William Sloane
Coffin were well-known for speaking prophetically against the war. Why weren’t
there similarly well-known prophetic voices during the war in Iraq? If Christians never hear a sermon on peacemaking will they assume that faith has nothing to do with the most important issues of our day? Will they get the impression that God has no concern about the war in Afghanistan?

Ministers are not exempt from preaching peace because it will be
uncomfortable, the finance committee will not be happy, or the inbox will fill
up on Monday morning. The United States has amassed the most
formidable weapons systems the world has seen. Our military spending is equal
to that of the rest of the world put together. The combined military budget of
Iran, North Korea, Cuba, and Syria is less than 4% of our budget. The United States’ planned military spending in 2012 is $671 billion while China’s budget is $106 billion (Newsweek, March 19, 2012, 14).

Courageous preachers speak to the cost of war, the present wars, the next war, the shedding of blood, the wasting of innocent life, the demeaning of people, the destruction of property, the poverty that results, and the hatred that poisons. When war is portrayed by politicians as the less painful option, ministers need to persistently speak the hope of peace. Killing terrorists does not defeat terrorism. Pre-emptive wars do not make us safer. Crushing a few despots perpetuates hatred. War on Islamic countries ultimately increases the number of Islamic terrorists.

If the United States supported a policy based more on human rights, international
law, and sustainable development for poor countries, and less on arms transfers
and military attacks, we would be safer. Our national security must be based on
more than military power. We should preach in support of diplomacy, economic
development, and the protection of human rights. We should recognize that
poverty and national humiliation are as dangerous to our security as any weapon.
We need to return to the most effective ways America has influenced nations
throughout the world, by offering a helping hand and abiding by our deepest
principles.

When ministers are afraid to speak prophetically about peace they fail to
be a voice for the Prince of Peace. They have ceased to be ministers of the
Gospel of Jesus Christ. Christian preachers proclaim Christ’s different, better
way—even when it is hard.

Like many reviewers I have not seen all three of the episodes, but what I have seen is irreverent (and not in a fun way), coarse, and petty.  GCB pushes all the buttons.  Many churchgoers—who have no reason to watch other than to be insulted—will be insulted.  This is “Desperate Housewives” goes to church.  The wives’ ring tones are organ music—and not the stuff we like.  The good Christian women (who are stuck with names like Cricket) are more miserable than hypocritical.  They go to church services constantly, but you have to wonder if the creators of GCB have ever been to church.  The announcements are never this interesting.

The backstabbing mean girls are twenty years older but they have not grown up.  The cartoonish phonies have sex with way too many men.  They gossip about the sex they have had and the sex they want to have.  Their teenage daughters have surgery enlarging parts that were fine the size they were.  They throw mud—literally.  They quote more scripture than a Bible drill champion but like a bad TV preacher it never fits the context.  They wear amazingly short skirts.  Some of the hypocritical churchgoers work at BoobyLicious and some own the restaurant that makes Hooters look like four star dining.  The writing is worse than the duplicity—dialogue like “This is my gunfight at the not-OK Corral!”

GCB probably cannot be saved.  The people of Dallas who do not carry multiple guns should be as offended by the ridiculous stereotypes as the people who go to church.  The show aims to make fun of superficiality, but it does so superficially.  The minister continues the long tradition of feeble-minded, one-dimensional, insubstantial TV sitcom ministers.  (Father Mulcahy was the last good one.)

The writers think they are taking shots at hypocrisy, but they are not sharp or funny jabs.  We know that not everyone who goes to church actually leads a Christ-centered life.  We do not need a reminder that there are hypocrites, but if ABC is going to try they should be less shallow about it.  I am offended not because it is not funny, but because it is not true.  If you are going to portray hypocrisy do it honestly.

Our churches are hypocritical, but we are a lot more subtle than the GCBs.  We talk about everyone being welcome, but we hesitate to invite the poor, ex-prisoners, or the handicapped to church.  We ignore those whom Jesus said he came to bring good news.  We let hungry people go uninvited to church dinners where the leftovers look like Thanksgiving dinner.  We let church buildings go empty while people have no roof over their heads.  We build endowment funds while children are starving.  We give most of our attention to ourselves.  Our churches have lots of committees, but few of them deal with real issues like racism or justice.  We claim to follow the Prince of Peace, but we support politicians who rush to war.  Good Christian Baptists understand hypocrisy and we are a lot better at it than the people on television.

I enjoyed graduation, but the real rite of passage took place earlier that morning in my office at 8:05.  Almost three years earlier Caleb began attending the Children’s Center at our church two mornings a week.  On his first day Caleb was apprehensive so we took three books from home (Spot Counts from 1 to 10, But Not the Hippopotamus, and The Runaway Bunny) to read before going downstairs.  The next day we read the same three books.  We kept them on my shelf, but soon decided to pick a book from the church library each day.  We quickly had a full-blown ritual.  We would drop Graham off at school, park in front, unlock the door, turn on the lights, go to the library, pick out a book, and read it in my office.

As a four-year-old Caleb came to the Children’s Center three mornings a week and the next year it was five mornings, so we read in my office over three hundred mornings.  We learned about nature–Our Yard is Full of Birds.  We read books with noises, The Very Quiet Cricket, and blinking lights, The Very Lonely Firefly.  We made friends with Corduroy, Babar, Chrysanthemum, and Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge.  We introduced discussions on the family with Daddy Makes the Best Spaghetti (my favorite) and dealt with social issues like prejudice, Frog and Toad Together, and war and peace, The Butter Battle Book.  We tackled theology with God Made It All, Carol Beth Learns about Following Jesus and When I Talk to God.

As we opened the front door on our last day of pre-kindergarten, I said, “Caleb, this is the last morning we’ll read a book before going downstairs, so pick a good one.”  He thought about it for a long time.  I thought he would choose a recent favorite—The Little Baby Snoogle Fleejer, The Cowboy and the Black-eyed Pea, or the Giant Jam Sandwich.  Instead my suddenly very grown up soon-to-be-kindergartner said, “Let’s read the old ones.”

It may have been the last time that I hear Spot Counts from 1 to 10.  We counted one cow chewing, two horses trotting and three ducks swimming.  We squealed with four piglets squealing, clucked at five chickens clucking, and when ten bees buzzed we shut the book fast before any could escape.

We read But Not the Hippopotamus in unison.  We reminisced with the hog and the frog cavorting in the bog, the cat and two rats trying on hats, the moose and the goose who together have juice, and the bear and the hare who went to the fair.  When the animal pack came running on back saying “Hey come join the lot of us” and “She just didn’t know.  Should she stay? Should she go?”  We shouted joyfully “But yes the hippopotamus!” and feigned tears on “But not the armadillo.”

The Runaway Bunny, not normally a tearjerker, got to me.  The little bunny (just like, I imagine, every pre-kindergarten graduate) feels a need to put some distance between him and his parents.  His mother keeps saying, “If you run away, I will run after you.  You are my little bunny.”  If he becomes a fish, she will be a fisherman.  If he becomes a rock on the mountain, she will be a mountain climber.  If he becomes a bird, she will be a tree to which he comes home.  By the time we read that if he became a little boy, she would be his mother and catch him in her arms and hug him, I was telling Caleb that my allergies were acting up.

My little bunny is now waiting on college admission letters.  Caleb will graduate from high school next month.  This graduation may feel even more momentous than pre-kindergarten.  In our mushiest moments we know that the love we know overwhelms all the sorrow we feel.

Brett and Caleb Younger enjoying some great literature

I show up early for my shifts so I will have time to familiarize myself with that day’s specials.  I pick up pointers from Mavis and Bob.  Imagine Paula Deen and Gordon Ramsay in the same kitchen.  I learn how to talk like a real waiter.

“Can I help you even though you’re wearing an Alabama shirt?”

“Will that be dine in or carry out?”

“How do you want your popcorn cooked?”

“The red skittles make you dizzy, the yellow ones make your hair curly, and the blue ones make you look like you’ve been kissing a Smurf.”

“You understand that two orders of chili cheese fries is not a meal.”

“We need another shrimp etoufee!”

“How about some hot sauce with that pickle?”

“The hamburgers are a tender cut of corn-fed Midwestern beef, USDA Prime at its best.  It’s the rich flavor of sirloin coupled with the tenderness of a filet.  You can have it with mustard or ketchup, but if you want both you have to buy another burger.”

“Enjoy that Coke while you can.  When you’re my age you’ll be ordering diet everything.  Plus you know it’s rotting your stomach lining.”

“I think it’s great that you drink pink Powerade.  Lots of guys would think it feminine.”

“We also have clear Powerade, but we put it in water bottles.”

“It’s two cookies for a dollar, four cookies for two dollars, or everything on the counter for a hundred dollars.”

“This dollar bill looks counterfeit.”

Know your clientele.  Ten-year-olds seem to enjoy witty repartee more than fifteen-year-olds who tend to roll their eyes.

People stare at the menu over our heads as though they are trying to figure out a complicated physics equation.  We get some goofy questions.  “Do you take credit cards?”  “Could I have some lemon for my water?”  “What’s healthy?”

We have repeat customers who think of the concessions stand as a five course meal—Cheetos for the appetizers, green skittles for the salad course, cheese nachos for the soup, pizza for the main course (hot and ready after just twenty-five seconds in the microwave), and Otis Spunkmeyer’s finest for dessert.

I advise customers to get to the concession stand early in the game.  (None of the food is getting any better.)  If you’re worried about germs order things in wrappers (like Snickers bars) or eat at home.

I’ve learned that when a seven-year-old gives you five quarters for a $1.50 hot dog, you hand it to them and say, “Don’t let your dog bite you.”

Unlike some of the wait staff, I like being fifty feet from the pep band—whose favorite song is the classic “Louie, Louie.”  Everything is more fun when you have to shout.

I have considered putting out a tip jar.  If I label it “Bribes for the Refs” we might do pretty well.

On one recent shift I realized that our customers were self-selecting.  The teenage girls were going to the handsome player from my son’s team.  The teenage boys were going to the varsity girls’ team’s star.  Everyone over forty was coming to me.  I pointed this out to my two young co-workers and got a look that embodied the word, “Duh.”

I have discovered that I like saying, “Do you want some fries with that?”  I find great joy in being the one who knows where the extra napkins are.  My hour and a half shifts fly by.

Most people don’t want a future in the fast food industry.  It is hard work when it is eight hours a day, five days a week.  On career day the line at the “Service Industry” booth is short.  “Community service” is a form of punishment.

And yet, “How can I help you?” is such a Christlike question.  Jesus suggested that we try “to serve and not to be served.”  Perhaps Jesus suggested we serve others, in part, because it can be fun.

Brett Younger, concessionaire, before the half-time rush

This year, with Christmas falling on Sunday, many churches have decided that the best way to celebrate the coming of Christ is to cancel worship.  The primary reason given is that attendance will be sparse.  When did we decide that the purpose of worship is to draw a crowd?  Attendance at the first Christmas was not big, but God decided to go ahead with it, anyway.

Another reason offered is that canceling worship is in keeping with a “family friendly” approach.  Pastor Aaron Orlinski of Grace Church, Melbourne, Florida, says, “Christmas is a big family day, and we’re focused on the family.  We should be able to worship the Lord in our homes, also.”

Huh?  Does this mean churches should encourage members to gather with their family for brunch on Easter or go bowling together on Good Friday?  When did we get the idea that the primary purpose of the church is to support the family?  The New Testament teaches that the church is our family.  Christians put Christ ahead of their family.  Jesus felt this so strongly that he said, “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters cannot be my disciple.”  (This verse is not going to make it on to anybody’s Christmas card.)

What about the people without a family—the elderly, singles, lonely people, those a long distance from family?  Isn’t it possible that some of those who are alone at Christmas need to worship God?

The big issue is not that people will skip church on Sunday.  The real problem is that churches are failing to tell the truth about Christmas.  It is hard to read the Gospels and see how our modern Christmas celebration could have begun with the ancient story.  In the Bible, Christmas is not about big crowds, family gatherings, or expensive presents.

The first Christmas marks the beginning of a small, counter-cultural community of people who put their trust in God’s way and none of their faith in materialism and selfishness.  Christmas invites us to have different standards, hopes, and dreams than those who do not know the meaning of Christ’s coming.

If we believe that Jesus’ birth changes the world, then we will change the way we see our world.  The work of Christ’s hands will be continued in the work of our hands.  We will have compassion for all people—especially those that are usually left out.  Because Jesus has come, we will walk out of step with the rhythms of the world.

On Sunday, Christians would do well to gather, sing, pray and listen to the story.  We should celebrate by remembering the first Christmas and giving ourselves again to the one born in Bethlehem.

But there are moments—

moments when, like the Grinch, we discover that “perhaps Christmas is not something you buy in a store, Christmas is just a little bit more” and the sound of the carols becomes less bothersome;

moments when the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future remind us that Tiny Tim lives across town, and we have more turkey than we can eat;

moments when Clarence convinces Jimmy Stewart (and us, too) not to jump off the bridge, and we think we might have heard an angel get her wings;

moments when we imagine God coming as a helpless child who needed his diaper changed and his nose wiped, and for a fleeting instant, we are overwhelmed by the love of God.

The holly jollyness of Christmas will dissipate.  We will be back to the routines soon enough.  So listen carefully for Christmas, with ears attuned to the sounds of Advent.  Be open to the possibility of being surprised by God.  Those moments of hope, peace, joy, and love are not merely tugs on our hearts, but the wondrous opening of our hearts.  Those holy moments, those gracious surprises, are the gifts of God.

My son is a senior on the varsity basketball team at Parkview High School.  Making the team with my genes is no small accomplishment.  Parkview has 2700 students.  Caleb is 5’7” and a reasonable speed in a sport that rewards tall and fast.  He’s pretty good.  Last year on the junior varsity he started several games.  Whenever he made a great play I felt like I was cheering for someone else’s child.  He’s a smart player who hustles, but it’s finally caught up with him that he can’t dunk.  His game takes place several feet below the rim.

We’re now parents who bring a book.  When our team wins or loses by twenty we happily watch our son play the last three minutes, but when I look at Caleb on the bench I couldn’t be more proud.  He claims he’s there to hold up the team GPA, but he knows how to sit on the bench.  He listens during time outs.  He fist bumps players coming back to the bench.  He is appropriately despondent when his team loses.  “That’s my boy” means more this year.  My son has never seemed more like a chip off the old block.

I spent some of the best hours of my life on the bench.  My first bench was in little league baseball.  I sat next to Coach Harbour who was like a gracious uncle taking care of his myopic nephew.  I was on the bench, in part, because I couldn’t judge a fly ball.  Anything ten feet off the ground was an adventure.  I was a blind squirrel trying to catch a nut with a glove.

Baseball benches are good because they’re in a dugout, which is like a really cool clubhouse, except we were allowed to spit on the floor.  Most of us spit sunflower seeds, but a few of the twelve-year-olds chewed tobacco (it was Mississippi).  Bench warmers had important responsibilities like arranging the bats in order by size.  We were the ones who shouted at the opposing team’s hitters, “Hey batter batter.”  The bench was a great place from which to enjoy a game.

I would have sat on the bench during junior high football if Coach Buse had allowed benches.  He felt strongly that players who weren’t in the game should stand.  I didn’t like football, but every male without a doctor’s excuse was expected to be on the team (it was Mississippi).  I enjoyed the pep rallies and the bus ride to the games.  My one attempt at dipping snuff was on the football bus.  It was particularly good that I didn’t play that night.

I was a second string wide receiver on a team that had no pass plays.  I prayed for the first string wide receiver to stay healthy.  The other team invariably included large, violent young men who enjoyed hitting smaller people.  Coach Buse seemed angry that I weighed 120 pounds.  He made Bear Bryant look soft.

My last bench was in the gym.  For most, basketball was a way to kill time between football and spring football (it was Mississippi), but I love basketball.  I was better at hoops, but by my last year I had a place on the bench with my short, slow friends.  Coach Coggins was encouraging, “That was a fine idea, Brett.  If you were Pistol Pete Maravich you might have pulled it off.”  He forgave me for being 5’7”. 

Caleb is an excellent bench warmer.  We enjoyed it when my son got to play every game, but it’s easy to be happy when you’re getting to play.  Sitting on the bench is the real test of character.   Some who could be sitting on the bench decided it was too hard and quit.  Caleb could have chosen to make it to all the meetings of the Latin Club.

God doesn’t just love the tall and fast.  God understands that most of us spend a significant amount of time on the bench.  Some of the best Christians in the sanctuary never sit on the platform.  Some of the most dedicated choir members never get to sing a solo.  Some of the most loving followers of Jesus aren’t on the cover of Baptists Today.  Some of God’s favorite players sit on the bench.

Caleb Younger, #12 — Making His Parents Proud

A new son-in-law will have the feeling that he walked into the wrong class—English literature instead of the calculus for which he studied.  Everyone else knows all the answers.  There will be names, dates, and stories for which they only use the punch line:  “We know not to let Linda fix the turkey.  Ha!  Ha!”  The poor confused son-in-law will smile stupidly, having no idea what’s going on.  Some in-laws will hope to be a little less confused at Christmas.  A few will spend Thanksgiving trying to make other plans for Christmas.

Several college students will second-guess their decision to shave their feeble attempts at moustaches rather than face the humiliating comments of their fathers.  Lots of homes that have gotten along on ham sandwiches and microwave pizzas will see some pretty fancy cooking on November 24.

For all the trouble undertaken, Thanksgiving doesn’t really happen for everyone.  Many will be glad that they have what they have, but gladness is not gratefulness.  The people having turkey and dressing will outnumber those having a real experience of gratitude. Thinking about what we want is easier than thinking about what we have been given.  For most of us, having more hasn’t made us more grateful.

In a letter to his yuppie nephew, Henri Nouwen wrote:  “Increasing prosperity has not made people more friendly toward one another.  They’re better off, but that newfound wealth has not resulted in a new sense of community.  I get the impression that people are more preoccupied with themselves than when they didn’t possess so much.  There is less opportunity to relax, to get together informally, and to enjoy the little things of life.  Success has isolated a lot of people and made them lonely.  The higher up you get on the ladder of prosperity the harder it becomes to be together, to sing together, to pray together, and to celebrate together in the spirit of Thanksgiving.”

God calls us to more than one day to say thanks.  God invites us to spend our lives as a grateful response to God’s goodness.  We should start now.

She asked as though it is a common concern, “Do I have to wear shoes when I preach?”  Seminary students pose odd questions before preaching in class: “Can I tell the parable from the fatted calf’s viewpoint?” “Can I dance my sermon?” “Can I show a clip from Glee?”  (The answer to these is “No.”)  This was the first question on footwear.  The issues surrounding preachers’ shoes are woefully neglected.  Ministers who ignore the homiletical implications of footwear do so at their own peril.

One Saturday evening I drove 200 miles to a small town in Tennessee where I was preaching the next day.  On Sunday morning I realized that I brought two left shoes.  (I owned two pairs of dress shoes because I once went to preach without any shoes, but that’s another story that I should skip.)  There are no shoe stores open on Sunday at 8:00 a.m.  My first attempt to put a left shoe on my right foot was unbearable.  The second shoe, however, was endurable.  I could get through it.  (It should have been comforting to know that right and left shoes were invented only a little more than a century ago, but it wasn’t.)  I considered other options.  I could claim to have sprained my ankle and wear one shoe.  I could say that I felt preachers should preach on one foot so as to communicate urgency.  I could tell the truth.

I was sure that someone was going to ask, “Why are you wearing two left shoes that don’t match?” but no one did.  I was ready with a response, “Like many Baptists, I was born with two left feet.”

When Jesus sent out the seventy, he said, “Carry no sandals” (Luke 10:4)—which indicates I should never have had two pairs of dress shoes.  This is not a universally helpful suggestion, but God said this to one preacher, “‘Go, and loose the sackcloth from your loins and take your sandals off your feet,’ and he had done so, walking naked and barefoot” (Isaiah 20:2).  On the other hand/foot, the father of the prodigal told the servants, “Put shoes on his feet” (Luke 15:22).  John the Baptist says, “I am not worthy to carry his sandals”—which indicates that Jesus wasn’t barefoot.  Solomon 7:1 exults, “How graceful are your feet in sandals, O queenly maiden!”[i]

Preachers have to get off on the right foot, because the truth is still putting on its shoes while lies are traveling half way around the world.  Ministers should not be goodie two shoes, but need to walk in the shoes of those to whom they preach.  As someone said, “You don’t want to dance in a puddle with a hole in your shoe.”  (This sounds like it might be relevant, but isn’t.)

I recently preached at First Baptist Church, Augusta, Georgia.  The congregation was observing a missions emphasis, so I preached on the sacrifices necessary to be Christ’s missionaries.  After I finished, Rodger Murchison, the Associate Pastor, offered the invitation:  “Today, we are taking an offering of shoes for our ministry in Liberia.  We invite you to come to the front and leave your shoes.  I’m about to be barefoot and hope you are, too.”

What choice did I have?  Like everyone else, I took off my shoes and left them at the front.  After the service was over, Rodger graciously offered to let me dig through the pile of shoes to find mine.  I was tongue-tied at first, but then said, “That would feel like trading my soul for my soles.”

God told Moses, “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5).  I told my student she could preach barefoot.  I told myself I should try it, too.

The Sanctuary of First Baptist Church, Augusta, Georgia