It's Father's Day this weekend, a time to celebrate dads and their dadliness. For some it's not so great - either dad was absent or dead or worse. For this dad it is a time to realize how much I need to improve in my dad-hood, and frankly it seems to be getting harder and harder each year.
I found this poem in an old email, I think my friend Marvin Hines sent it to me. I wanted to use it for a meditation in the worship guide this Sunday but our worship pastor ixnayed it. She thought it was a little too depressing. I find it convicting and compelling. Hopeful, in a weird way.
By Reid Bush, from What You Know. Sorry, Reid, I didn't get permission to publish this, but maybe it'll a) Help a dad to wake up or b) Help you sell a book.
Where are MenWhen they're Not at Home?
Different places.
Some are out at the barn checking on the mare that's about to foal. I know, not many now. A few.
Some are running down to the corner store to pick up something they forgot. Be right back.
Some are in offices practicing pitches. Spiels.
Some are phoning from offices—saying they'll be late.
Of course, many are dead. You suddenly think about them because you're back where you haven't been in 20 yearsand go to look them up.
But they're not there.
Just some widows.
But most are way off somewhere searching for fathers who were never home enough.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Who's the Prodigal?
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought
When the Rolling Stones recorded Prodigal Son in 1969, the tune and lyrics were already at least 39 years old. And when Robert Wilkins – blues singer cum preacher – wrote that same song as That’s No Way to Get Along in 1928, the story line of the human condition was already at least two thousand years old.
Jesus told the story of a son who got his piece of the inheritance early and squandered it, only to return home to find his father waiting to restore him fully into the family. We resonate with this well-worn story because it resonates with our experience. It’s all there: teenage rebellion, alienation from family, experimenting with different lifestyles, the fallout of reckless living, the fond recollection of home, the self-awareness of adulthood, and the joy of homecoming. The Prodigal Son is a beloved parable and it is truly timeless.
But the name is all wrong!
Check me on this, but I can’t find the word “prodigal” anywhere in the Bible! Now I’m no etymologist, but if I’ve got the word right, it means “extravagant or lavish” more than it means “wasteful.” So if we’re going to call anyone in this story a “prodigal,” shouldn't it be the father who dons that title? The father’s kiss was a sign of reconciliation, the new shoes as a sign of freedom, and the ring a sign of authority. The father’s feast was a sign of joy, the best robe a sign of honor. It was the father who played the prodigal.
This Sunday is Father’s Day, a good chance for us to remember this story and look for some practical ways we can “prodigally” love our children. I’ve thought of at least five ways to do that, can you come up with some of your own? I’ll share them with you as we wrap up our series Wireless Families – Doing Family God’s Way in a World that Pulls Us Apart. The sermon is entitled Wireless Prodigals and is based on Luke 15-11-32.
With Extravagance,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column I produce for my church family and others who are interested. I’m the pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can learn more about the church at http://www.wmbc.org/. You can subscribe to recieve this email directly at glong@wmbc.org.
When the Rolling Stones recorded Prodigal Son in 1969, the tune and lyrics were already at least 39 years old. And when Robert Wilkins – blues singer cum preacher – wrote that same song as That’s No Way to Get Along in 1928, the story line of the human condition was already at least two thousand years old.
Jesus told the story of a son who got his piece of the inheritance early and squandered it, only to return home to find his father waiting to restore him fully into the family. We resonate with this well-worn story because it resonates with our experience. It’s all there: teenage rebellion, alienation from family, experimenting with different lifestyles, the fallout of reckless living, the fond recollection of home, the self-awareness of adulthood, and the joy of homecoming. The Prodigal Son is a beloved parable and it is truly timeless.
But the name is all wrong!
Check me on this, but I can’t find the word “prodigal” anywhere in the Bible! Now I’m no etymologist, but if I’ve got the word right, it means “extravagant or lavish” more than it means “wasteful.” So if we’re going to call anyone in this story a “prodigal,” shouldn't it be the father who dons that title? The father’s kiss was a sign of reconciliation, the new shoes as a sign of freedom, and the ring a sign of authority. The father’s feast was a sign of joy, the best robe a sign of honor. It was the father who played the prodigal.
This Sunday is Father’s Day, a good chance for us to remember this story and look for some practical ways we can “prodigally” love our children. I’ve thought of at least five ways to do that, can you come up with some of your own? I’ll share them with you as we wrap up our series Wireless Families – Doing Family God’s Way in a World that Pulls Us Apart. The sermon is entitled Wireless Prodigals and is based on Luke 15-11-32.
With Extravagance,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column I produce for my church family and others who are interested. I’m the pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can learn more about the church at http://www.wmbc.org/. You can subscribe to recieve this email directly at glong@wmbc.org.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Presidents - Real and Pretend
Our church teamed up with Westbury United Methodist Church to put on a wonderful concert Sunday night. Traci and I took the three kids and sat about halfway back so the younger two wouldn’t be a distraction to others.
Since the younger sister is taking violin lessons in the Suzuki tradition, she was especially attentive as the strings warmed and tuned to the pipe organ. Soon enough, the first conductor, a friend of mine named Randy Zercher, came out to introduce and direct a Schubert mass.
He came out in his tuxedo and as he expertly explained the importance of the piece we were about to hear, the Younger Sister grabs me by the arm to pull my ear down to her whispering mouth. She asked, “Is that man a president?”
I breathed my answer back in her ear, “Nope, he’s the conductor. All the musicians dress special to let us know how important the music is.”
“Oh.” She whispered. Her brown eyes turned back to him there on the stage and she pondered it a moment or two. Then, no longer whispering she asked, “Are president’s real?” She said it the same way a kid asks you, "Are dragons real? Are monsters real? Is the Easter Bunny real?"
“Yes,” I whispered back. “President’s are real.”
That’s the right answer for a six year old girl who doesn’t yet need to worry about the things I worry about. But the real answer is, “Yes, some of them are real, my child. And some you wish were only a nightmare that ends at daybreak.”
Since the younger sister is taking violin lessons in the Suzuki tradition, she was especially attentive as the strings warmed and tuned to the pipe organ. Soon enough, the first conductor, a friend of mine named Randy Zercher, came out to introduce and direct a Schubert mass.
He came out in his tuxedo and as he expertly explained the importance of the piece we were about to hear, the Younger Sister grabs me by the arm to pull my ear down to her whispering mouth. She asked, “Is that man a president?”
I breathed my answer back in her ear, “Nope, he’s the conductor. All the musicians dress special to let us know how important the music is.”
“Oh.” She whispered. Her brown eyes turned back to him there on the stage and she pondered it a moment or two. Then, no longer whispering she asked, “Are president’s real?” She said it the same way a kid asks you, "Are dragons real? Are monsters real? Is the Easter Bunny real?"
“Yes,” I whispered back. “President’s are real.”
That’s the right answer for a six year old girl who doesn’t yet need to worry about the things I worry about. But the real answer is, “Yes, some of them are real, my child. And some you wish were only a nightmare that ends at daybreak.”
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