While most Americans think of Jonathan Edwards as the one who preached, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” Edwards was as high on Heaven as he was low on Hell. Notice in this excerpt from a sermon, that Edwards encouraged believers will have freer access to Christ on the New Earth than the Disciples did during the Lord’s first advent:
Christ will give himself to you, with all those various excellencies that meet in him, to your full and everlasting enjoyment. He will ever after treat you as his dear friend; and you shall ere long be where he is, and shall behold his glory, and dwell with him, in most free and intimate communion and enjoyment . . . the saints’ conversation in with Christ in heaven shall not only be as intimate and their access to him as free, as of the disciples on earth, but in many respects much more so . . . When the saints shall see Christ’s glory and exaltation in heaven, it will indeed possess their hearts with the greater admiration and adoring respect, but it will not awe them into any separation, but will serve only to heighten their surprise and joy . . . So that if we choose Christ for our friend . . . we shall hereafter be so received to him, that there shall be nothing to hinder the fullest enjoyment of him, to the satisfying the utmost cravings of our souls. We may take our full swing at gratifying our spiritual appetite after these holy pleasures. . . There shall never be any end of this happiness, or any thing to interrupt our enjoyment of it, or in the least to molest us in it.
I’m biased, but I don’t think there is a better place to grow up than on a farm in Iowa. Thirty seven years ago, I won an award at the Van Buren County Fair in my hometown, Keosauqua, IA.
This is how I wrote down the story for my daughter when her third grade class was learning about pigs. I’m the one on the left.
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When I was nine years old I got to have my own pigs. My dad let me choose three small pigs, about the size of your cocker spaniel, Mandy, for my very own. We put them in their own building and I took care of them. All spring and summer I carried feed and water up the hill and cleaned their pen. When it was cold, the water would freeze on my coveralls. And, the wire handles would dig into my fingers. I was little and it was a long ways up the hill, so I would have to stop and rest every 10 yards or so. But, the pigs kept growing and in July I planned to take them to the county fair. One of my pigs was the very fattest and I thought he might win like Orville Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web.
I was so excited when it was time to go to the fair it was hard to sleep. The man who hauled my dads pigs to market, Howard Steeples, told me that he would take my pigs in his big truck to the fairgrounds for free. Early in the morning on fair day we loaded them up with a special ramp (a loading chute we called it) and went to the fair. The fair was a blast. There were places to buy candy and throw darts at balloons for prizes and even a couple of rides. The Methodist church served meals and you could buy homemade pie. The Jaycees sold cotton candy. Animals were everywhere. There were sheep, horses, cows, chickens, and, of course, lots of pigs. Boys and girls of all ages were bringing livestock in from all over the county and their dads would help unload them and put them in special pens. One time a cow got away. It ran around awhile. On the farm that would have been hard. But, there were so many farmers to help at the fair that it was soon caught. The kids all loved seeing their dads chase a cow with the other dads. I still remember one farmer with big muscles pulling on the rope when they finally caught the cow. The rope looked like it might break.
My pigs were in their own pen and I had to wait a day or two for the big pig show. There was a special place for the show. They called it the show ring. It had a roof over it, but the sides were open to the outside. There were bleachers and people from all over our county watched like it was a baseball game. Some of the town kids who watched Bonanza while I was doing chores were there, but they didn’t have their own pigs. Mostly other farmers were there. Where I lived, most people were farmers.
The show was scary. They told us to fill out a form for my pigs with a magic marker. I didn’t know what to put in the blanks and when I did write something down the man in charge laughed at me and said to do it again. Your grandpa tried to help but he didn’t really know what they wanted either. I was supposed to put down what kind of pig I had and I wasn’t even sure what kind to write. We finally just wrote “Duroc-cross.” Duroc is a kind of pig. To this day, I don’t know if my pig was really a Duroc. (The pig in the picture is a Hampshire or as farmers say, a “hamp.”)
I had taken care of many pigs but I had never done anything like this. I was only nine. Others showing pigs were in high school and they had special show sticks with leather handles and fancy little gates with their names painted on them. Their dads were backing up their pickups and taking out special wooden chests with all kinds of show equipment. I didn’t have any of that stuff and I borrowed a show stick from someone else. We had read in a book how to clean our pigs and make them look nice. But, I was nervous that we did it the wrong way or that I might mess up in the ring. Your grandpa helped me get my pigs over to the show ring, but I had to do the rest by myself.
At first, it was confusing. I felt like everyone was looking at me saying, “that kid doesn’t know what he’s doing.” There were many pigs and other boys and girls running around the ring. Cows and horses can be trained to stand in one place. Pigs run all over. Soon, I was so busy keeping track of my pigs that I forgot about being scared. It was a good thing. Some of the pigs were mean and I had to watch out. I couldn’t kick the pigs because they weren’t mine. I didn’t have a fancy little gate. But, when other pigs came around to bother mine I would put my knees together right in front of them and stand my ground just like I did in your grandpa’s barn and they would go away. Other kids, even bigger ones, were a little scared. But, I knew what to do. Your grandparents weren’t worried one bit. They knew I could handle pigs even though I was only nine. I did it all the time on our farm.
The judge was a woman and she inspected our pigs like they were in the Miss America Pageant. She looked them up and down and walked around so she could see them from different sides. She didn’t smile or make faces. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. It seemed like we showed our pigs for hours but it was probably only a little bit. Finally, she took a microphone and told all the people what she liked and didn’t like about all the pigs in the ring. I felt kind of bad because she didn’t like my pigs. She thought they were so bad that I had to leave the ring first. Over the microphone, she said that my biggest pig was too fat. I thought pigs were supposed to be fat! She said that one of my other pigs (the one we thought was the best) had short front legs. One of the older boys had the grand champion. My throat felt really tight and my face was red. I tried hard not to blink because I knew there would be tears in my eyes if I did. I had carried all those buckets of water and feed up the hill; these were the best pigs from our farm. It was hard not to cry when someone said they weren’t very good.
Just when I thought everything was over, I heard my name over the loudspeaker. A high school girl and I were finalist for the showmanship award. I didn’t even know there was a showmanship award. Someone had to tell me. It was given to the person who did the best job showing pigs. This meant that the two of us got to show our pigs in front of everyone in a contest to see who would do better. It seemed like everyone from my little town was watching. Many of my dads farmer friends were there; they wore seed corn caps and leaned up against the fence watching. One truck driver named Sam Jones always smoked a corn-cob pipe. He was there. Boys from my 4H club looked between the boards of the fence; feed salesman and auctioneers and men from the sale barn were all there. Your grandmother and aunts sat in the bleachers. Everyone watched to see who would be better at showing their pigs, me or this other girl.
I wasn’t scared by this time. There was just too much to do. I had three pigs in the ring and the other girl had three pigs as well. We were supposed to keep them separate, but one of the other girls pigs tried to go to my side of the ring. I wasn’t too rough, but I put my knees together and wouldn’t let the other pig get through. I can still remember that moment even today. The other pig stopped and went back.
Finally the judge told us that we could stop. She said that the other girl did a nice job, but I was the winner. I had done the best job showing pigs of anyone in the whole county. I got a special ribbon and my picture was in our county paper right there with the grand champion pig and some of the other boys who won.
There is a copy of the picture below. I don’t know what happened to all the boys in the picture. The smallest boy on the right is Ricky Greenfield. He is an eye doctor now. The boy next to him with the number shirt on is his cousin Brian Caves. He is a farmer and goes to your grandma’s church. Can you tell which one I am?
Later that year there was an awards banquet at the Roberts Building on the fairgrounds on the edge of our little town. All the special awards from the fair were given out. When the ceremony began, I could look up at the stage and there were rows of trophies. I wondered if I would get one of those trophies. Finally, it was time for the showmanship award. The man who announced me as the winner was the same one who laughed at me when I made the sign wrong. He hadn’t really meant to hurt my feelings. He just didn’t know that I was scared. Anyway, this time he didn’t laugh. When he called my named he said, “Chris is the youngest to ever one this award.” I got a trophy and I still have it today. Your grandparents were there.
Suppose that you want to get rid of some behavior in your life. It is never enough to stop doing the wrong thing. In order to defeat that behavior, you need to not only stop doing the wrong thing, but also start doing the right thing.
The Apostle Paul emphasizes this principle.
He tells the Ephesians, “stop lying, instead, tell the truth.”
He also encourages the Ephesians, rather than being drunk, speak to one another with Psalms Hymns and spiritual songs.
And, don’t let unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up.
This is the framework of Ephesians 4:22-24:
to put off your old self
to be renewed in the spirit of your minds
and to put on the new self
So, if you are going to defeat a behavior in your life. One of the first things that you need to do is find the right alternative. Here is one to think about this week. The positive alternative to “worrying” is “thanksgiving.” Paul tells the Philippians, “Don’t be anxious but in everything by prayer and petition with thanksgiving make your requests known to God.”
If you struggle with worry and anxiety, and most of us do at one time or another, make it your goal this week to replace those thoughts with thanksgiving.
Stewart Cink isn’t the sort to believe in good luck charms.
Yet he says it’s hardly a coincidence his good friend Zach Johnson won the 2007 Masters Tournament a year after his appearance at the Augusta Golf Breakfast.
"I thought every golfer would be lined up here to speak," the 13-year veteran of the PGA Tour joked early this morning at Warren Baptist Church.
It was Mr. Cink’s second visit to the Washington Road congregation, which sponsors the annual breakfast alongside The Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Both events drew 600 to 700 fans, who lobbied for autographs before and after Mr. Cink shared his thoughts on the big three "G’s" — Georgia, Golf, and God.
Though he lives in Duluth these days, Mr. Cink was born in Alabama to two golf-loving parents.
"I was always at the golf course," Mr. Cink said. "I never took a lot of lessons growing up. I just played. I let the golf course and my scorecard be my teacher."
The better he became at golf, the less he says he cared about God.
"I don’t think I saw the church doors for three or four years," Mr. Cink said. "I took a detour. It wasn’t a Christ detour."
A friend at Georgia Tech changed that. "He asked me, "If you died today, would you go to heaven?"
Mr. Cink thought he had the answer. "I had a list in my pocket, figuratively, of course," he said.
Are you a good person? "Check."
Are you nice to people? "Check," Mr. Cink said. "I had a checklist that would go on for hours and I, of course, had checked all the right boxes. I had to take a look at the man in the mirror."
Six years ago, he accepted "the gift of grace."
"Augusta National knocks you down more than it picks you up," Mr. Cink said.
One of my favorite subjects lately has been the relationship between the fifth commandment and youth culture. The fifth commandment seems to me to presuppose that human societies flourish most when there is intergenerational continuity and unity. So the very idea of youth culture is an attack on the assumptions about reality that are embedded in the fifth commandment.
Dear Tom: I promise to stumble out of bed Sunday morning, get out of my flannel jammies, drink my Metamucil and cheer like crazy for you to win the British Open today.
And so should anyone else who still prefers vinyl over MP3s, the feel of getting the news from a Sunday paper instead of a computer keyboard, and the original lemon-lime Gatorade instead of Strawberry Kiwi Rain, the choice of wimpy metrosexuals no doubt.
Rise and shine, old schoolers. This is our day. And Tom Watson is our guy.
He’s on a blinding track to become the poster boy of the AARP generation, but not in the stereotypical context. Watson doesn’t need no ‘stinkin’ dinner discounts. As someone who always defiantly throws away those mailers urging me to join the club, I couldn’t be prouder.
Watson is 18 holes from winning a major golf championship. The historical context is maddening. A few months short of 60, Watson is the oldest man to lead a major golf championship after three rounds since officials started keeping such records dating back to World War II.
The dictionary defines a “paradox” as a statement that is seemingly contradictory or opposed to common sense and yet is perhaps true.
Here is a paradox: our culture continues to get more and have less.
Author David Myers call this the “American Paradox.” The American paradox says David Myers is that we are “better paid, better fed, better housed, better educated, and healthier than ever before, and with more human rights, faster communication, and more convenient transportation than we have ever known.’ Alongside all of this largesse, however, are the signs of life in pain and travail. Since 1960, the divorce rate has doubled, teen suicide has tripled, violent crime quadrupled, the number in prison has quintupled, illegitimate children sextupled, and the number of those cohabitating has increased sevenfold. David G. Myers, The American Paradox: Spiritual Hunger in an Age of Plenty (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 5.”
How can it be that at a time when we have so much more that we find ourselves with so much less? The answer to that question is that human beings are created in the Image of God. It is only in Christ that we will find all the needs of our soul are met.
Augustine said, “. . . for Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless till they find rest in Thee.” Augustine in The Confessions, Book I, chapter I, page 3.
How about you, are you finding the needs of your soul met? Is there a yearning at the depths of your heart that cannot seem to be satisfied. Only Christ can meet that need. Be sure and be in a Bible proclaiming, Christ-centered church this coming Lord’s Day.
Lightning, a child of the Ahlers family, had the opportunity to share his adoption story at the Christian Alliance for Orphans Summit this past April. He was adopted from Liberia two years ago.
I’m reading through the Gospel of Luke and recently came to these verses that blew me away.
Luke 12:35-37 (ESV) Stay dressed for action and keep your lamps burning, and be like men who are waiting for their master to come home from the wedding feast, so that they may open the door to him at once when he comes and knocks. Blessed are those servants whom the master finds awake when he comes. Truly, I say to you, he will dress himself for service and have them recline at table, and he will come and serve them.
Now, we all know the story of Jesus washing the disciples feet before his crucifixion, that great act of servant leadership. Books have been written on it, sermons preached about it, selfish leaders criticized by it.
But I always saw this as an act Jesus only did before his death to be an example to us and to display his humility. In the illustration Jesus uses above, he indicates that in the coming kingdom, he (yes, Jesus) will serve those stewards who are ready and waiting for his return. Jesus will serve us in eternity? Apparently, if we are awake, ready, and waiting for him. That blows my mind.
So much about this clip recalls my earliest memories of the news including the references to correspondents in Viet Nam, 1968, the tragic death of Dr. King.
And, of course, Walter Cronkite.
Cronkite’s most famous moments may be either of taking his glasses off and noting the time when reporting the assassination of President Kennedy, or his evident excitement when we landed on the moon (you really should watch the moon clip – - a reminder of how we felt in the middle of the Cold War when such a giant step was achieved).
“. . . Chris Brauns has done a magnificent job in helping us understand the true nature of biblical forgiveness. Every Christian will profit from reading and applying this book.” Jerry Bridges.
“ . . . Unpacking Forgiveness is an engaging, convicting but emphatically encouraging treatment of this hugely important (and sometimes mindbogglingly challenging) part of life. Dr. Brauns writes from the standpoint of a faithful, wise, experienced and caring pastor . . .” Ligon Duncan, First Pres, Jackson, MS
