Stories
What was what?
Holly and I were fresh transplants to the sweltering city of Jackson, Mississippi when a friend and fellow seminary student invited us to dinner. He and his wife were living in the affordable townhouses inhabited by many students not a half mile from the campus. Burgers on the grill, we were enjoying an evening of conversation and laughs after our intensive summer Greek course. Above the cacophony of cicadas and sizzling beef fat, a distant rumble began to harmonize with our ambiance. Soon, the distant rumble became the deafening roar and rattle of a freight train that cut all other sounds from existence. We could feel the train. Our conversation had to pause until the iron horse passed.
My question, of course, was how in the world could you live with that as a constant life interruption? Our friends shrugged and nonchalantly said that they really just didn’t hear it anymore. It had become a mere background nuisance that, if asked, “What was that?” they might respond with, “What was what?”.
I’m afraid that the awe-inspiring, life-or-death message of the gospel has become a “What was what?” . . . in many of our rural areas and small towns.
Many of the churches host pastors who have very little prep time for their sermons and even less instruction on how to prepare a sermon that honors the whole story of God’s heart of rescue. So they resort to what they know, which is typically a “You need Jesus now” message, amped up with zeal and fervor and decibels, with little regard for how a relationship with Christ impacts all of life. The “gospel” gets preached much like a freight train; loud, long, consistent, and on a track to deliver goods but not to me or anyone in the vicinity. Their people become inoculated to the noise of an ineffective and abbreviated story. They nod, say “amen,” and feel good that at least they went to church. But then they go about life as is. There is very little transformative engagement with Jesus.
A small town pastor friend of mine told the story of a salesman with whom he worked. This colleague had been married six times and was currently dating a woman. His summer weekends were spent partying on the lake, but his weekends were cut short as he needed to be back to serve his church Sunday morning. He is a faithful churchgoer. Not only that, he is an elder (leader) in his church. Where is the disconnect between his professed relationship with Jesus and his seemingly unchallenged lifestyle that so obviously transgresses the Bible, contradicts God’s character, objectifies women, and dismisses the gospel he says he believes and seeks to serve? Where is the challenge from his pastor and fellow leaders to exemplify the qualifications and character of a biblical leader?
Rural Church Development seeks to enter in and come alongside, where the Lord is already at work, to assist in equipping people with a tangible Jesus who really does transform lives in real and remarkable ways. How? Through the gracious generosity of our donors and Tennessee Valley Presbytery, we are offering online seminary for young men desiring to become pastors . . . or better pastors. We hope to develop preachers who not only become better communicators of the good news of Jesus, but better pastors who can enter in to people’s lives and see that good news at work in the heart of people with transformed lives. We are seeking to create a gospel culture where people are gathered to worship to know the love of Christ and be so enthralled with His love for them that they can’t help but live out His transformative power in them. We want people to hear God’s Word in such a way that they walk our of a Bible study or service of worship not asking, “What was what?” but proclaiming, “That was none other than God Himself speaking to my heart.”
Preaching angry
I left the house defensive and exasperated. I should have known by my reaction that she was probably right.
Wayne and Madge were an increasingly frail couple from the Western Sizzlin and Shoney’s Big Boy era. He always wore slacks and she a broach. Generally these pastoral visits to their home were pleasant enough. After they kenneled their feisty daschund and invited me in the house, we would sit in the floral den with coffee and pound cake. The conversations were almost predictable. Madge would be out on a worry limb fretting about some culture shift. In 1999 this worry led her by the heart to listen to a conspiracy theorist and send her poor husband stockpiling for the coming year. I was sure this conversation was about some new clothing style, music genre, or popular television program gone to the devil. I would listen, assure her of God’s kind and providential care of His people, and listen to her talk through it slowly and climb down the tree touching the ground with her toe as if the earth could still be lava hot. By the time I prayed and left, Madge was a smidge less worrisome. But this visit was not the typical visit.
The worry that Madge wore on her countenance on this visit had to do with me. After the general niceties and catching up on their health, Madge launched into her question: “Why are you preaching mean?” Mean? I had not been accused of preaching mean since my last year of seminary when our instructor (another elderly lady come to think of it) asked us to do a righteous indignation speech. My speech was a tongue in cheek (sort of) repudiation of the name of our seminary cafeteria. My argument was that Solid Rock Cafe was a transgression of the third commandment; “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.” A cafeteria named after the triune God? There was nothing transcendent about that cafe but for the endless games of pool we played in the back room to ease our studied minds. Nevertheless, like the words from my seminary instructor, I now heard the same words from Madge . . “You’re mean.”
I left frustrated. When I arrived back at my office, one of the church elder’s wives was there tidying up for the coming Sunday. To ease my conscience I asked her if I had been preaching mean? She assured me I had not and said there are times we need to hear hard truths. She then coddled my defensiveness by agreeing with my assessment that Madge was sliding down in her mental health. That’s it! Madge was the crazy one.
It took years of ministry for me to realize and admit that Madge had been right. My anger was not obvious. It was subtle and couched in gospel truth. Madge was intuitive. Looking back I realize that there were things that I expected the church to be and do that, in my estimation, the church was failing to accomplish. If the church wasn’t becoming what I wanted it to be, what did that say about me? The church was making me look bad. What did I do? I know that I still preached the good news of Jesus. But I also know that I nuanced the good news with my own attempt at producing some sort of guilt in the hearers to control them and produce what I wanted to see. That doesn’t work. People don’t experience lasting change through outward conformity to demands, but by internal heart change that has encountered the kindness of Christ.
That was fifteen or more years ago. The church in that town survived my bouts of meanness. They have since had pastors who have led them further and deeper and more graciously than I could have ever led. I am thankful He leads me in His kindness and that, as the saying goes, He uses crooked sticks (like me . . . and you) to draw His straight lines.
To Catch a Fisherman
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It’s a funny phenomenon to watch the social media banter between trout fishermen. There is often animosity between those who fly fish and those who use bait (corn, worms, powerbaits); those who catch and release their quarry, and those who keep their catch. If a person were to post a picture of nine trout on a stringer, well, get ready. The limit (in Georgia) is eight and judgments begin flying like a million dusk bats from Carlsbad before the judges have heard testimony. That stringer could actually be a day’s hard-earned catch of nine different people but the accused will most likely not have a fair trial from their peers.
Judgmental trout fishermen are just a tiny microcosm of our human dilemma. We are all fast to speak and slow to listen. We assume quick ill of others because we have a ravenous appetite to feel superior. James, a disciple of Jesus, addresses our hearts on this issue:
“Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. Therefore put away all filthiness and rampant wickedness and receive with meekness the implanted word, which is able to save your souls.” - James 1:19-21
James is writing to Christians; those whose hearts have been changed to reflect the heart of Christ himself. Yet James knows that those who know Christ often live out of line with their changed hearts. A changed heart means that the righteousness of God can really and actually come forth from the Christian. The anger of man (that which is quick to bring wrong judgment) ought not hold place with the Christian. But it does . . . often. What are we to do? James says to put it away and receive something altogether different.
Every Christian has access to the “power of God unto salvation” which is the gospel . . . the good news that our old sin nature that ruled us no longer rules us. We don’t have to live by its sway any longer. We don’t have to allow anger, leading to a judgmental heart, be the dominant force in our lives. When we do allow a judgmental heart, our hearts experience soul-death.
Think on this story of two fishermen:
Déagol and Sméagol were cousins and best friends. To celebrate Sméagol’s birthday they hiked together to a favorite fishing hole in the Gladden Fields. It was there that Sméagol found the ring. It was a ring of power that seduced the wearer and corrupted the wearer’s heart. Under the ring’s corruption Sméagol became the grotesque and well known Lord of the Rings character, Gollum. Gollum felt a deep need to protect his precious ring and saw everyone else as a threat. Sméagol killed Déagol.
That’s what a corrupt heart does. It becomes paranoid, angry, self-protecting, and feeds on the neglect and demise of others. For the Christian, it strikes at their own vitals while bringing harm to others. Exercising the corrupt heart is soul-killing. The reverse is also true; receiving the grace-given and implanted Word - that word which tells us we have no need for boasting, rightness, self-preservation, etc. - brings soul-life.
By accessing that constant and ever-present grace given to us through His Word and in Jesus Christ, our soul can experience the salvation we were meant to find and exercise. I need His word of grace daily to combat my angry, judgmental, heart and to lead me by the hand to a response to others that brings true life.
The witch tree of tilley bend
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The blank tombstone rests beneath the tree from which she was hung. The hillside is dotted with simple stones born of the wombs she cursed.
Feeling light and refreshed by the warm spring evening, Holly and I decided to wind down unknown roads. A sign had indicated a canoe launch along the Toccoa and I am always up for a trip to the river. Miles into our wanderings found us deep in the oak canopy and cresting a ridge before we would drop down into the rhodedendron-laden river bottom. To the right, away from any seeming civilization, was Tilley Baptist Church. Unlike the typical rural white clapboard churches that dot the North Georgia landscape, this church was a deep, dark brown with windows that had been boarded up presumably guarding the internals from vandals. It was too enticing to not stop and explore.
The small hill behind the church revealed the centuries of family loss as tombstones gave way to dates going back to the early 1800’s. Old deeply-wrinkled names like Pollie, Enoch, and Gilbert were etched and chiseled into marble and limestone. A large tree stood in the middle of the yard. Beyond, there were the small stones, blank of any markings. Short graves. Shallow holes. Little people. Children. Stillborns. We spoke briefly and somberly noting how numerous these stones. Silenced by our unexpected find, we drove off toward the river.
What was an intriguing stop along a pleasant drive became a haunting story of feuds, witchcraft, a rope, and a limb.
The week after our brief sojourn through the twisting roads, I was speaking with a young Baptist pastor whose family goes back six generations in this wild Appalachian area. I mentioned our stop. “Oh, that’s where Elizabeth Tilley was hung for witchcraft.” WHAT? I thought the witchcraft trials were an isolated hyper-Puritan event in Salem, Massachusetts. I thought the scarlet letter was a New England thing.
From a history account by Clay Ramsey:
On the other side of the ridge from Tilley Bend, the Stanley family, originally from western North Carolina, formed a Settlement. Over the years, friction developed and then violently erupted at the turn of the twentieth century when a group of Stanleys shot into the Tilley Church during services, killing the minister and several of the congregants, among them a daughter belonging to Elizabeth Jane Tilley Bradley. In retaliation, a band of Tilleys invaded the Stanley Settlement, murdering several of their number, including the husband of another of Elizabeth Bradley’s daughters. Elizabeth, of Creek ancestry, reportedly put a curse on both families.
For a full year, no babies survived in either settlement. Every child was miscarried, stillborn or died in early infancy. Only a witch could have that power, they believed. So a mob strung her up in a tree at the center of the Tilley cemetery. Before she died, she promised to return. They buried her at the foot of the tree where she fell. She was supposedly buried facing west, not accorded an eastern orientation by Christian tradition. Another year passed with the same degree of infant mortality, so the same mob killed her sister-in-law Mary, believing Elizabeth’s dark soul had found a haven in Mary’s body and continued her vindictive project from beyond the grave.
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The short decades through which I’ve lived have seen a lot of change. I write this haunting account on a MacBook. On it I can not only write, but research any topic from how to hand whip finish a pheasant tail nymph to the location of a particular grave site in Southern Appalachia. I can communicate with anyone, anywhere in the world and actually see them in real time. While typing I can speak over my shoulder . . . “Alexa, play Billy Joe Shaver” . . . and Billy Joe is immediately filling my living room telling me I’ll miss him when he’s gone.
Though we have new technology, we have the same sort of heart haunts and curses as Tilley Bend. Meth has replaced moonshine. Abuses fill communities. We blame and murder even within the church which is commissioned with a message of reconciliation. Human nature marches on leaving in its path a swath of stories both beautiful and broken. I want to take note and listen to the stories. Learn from them. We are the product of community stories for good and for ill. Knowing our communities, and our place in the community, helps us to know how to interact. If we are willing, we can be open to hear the hurts, desires, divisions, and needs. It’s easy to stand outside the communities we do not understand and take pot shots into the unknown. Rather than firing into sanctuaries or conjuring curses against others, we can become avenues of grace and mercy to heal rather than harm.
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“Hear, my son, and accept my words, that the years of your life may be many. I have taught you the way of wisdom; I have led you in the paths of uprightness. When you walk, your step will not be hampered, and if you run, you will not stumble. Keep hold of instruction; do not let go; guard her, for she is your life.”
Proverbs 4:10-13
the power of connection
Have you ever wondered over the name dropping that the Apostle Paul does toward the end of some of his letters? Apollos, Stephanas, Fortunatas, Achaicus, Acquila, Prisca . . . these are not your familiar Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Johns. These are names less familiar to us but every much as important in the working of God’s church and kingdom. These are connections the Lord has established for Paul during his years of ministry. They are encouragements to him and vital members of the body of Christ.
Tim and Debbie own a sporting goods store. They were our only connection in Blue Ridge. The introduction came through an email from an acquaintance. When we entered the store to meet them, we had no idea what would transpire in the following weeks.
While chatting among the rows of Fannin County Rebels cotton jerseys, Aly entered. After exchanging stories, Aly had her husband, Bryon, contact me. On his initiative, Bryon set up two consecutive Friday lunches for me to meet 10-12 others pastors in the area. The first of these Friday gatherings I met Bob. Bob introduced Holly and I to his entire First Baptist congregation that Sunday when we visited. A week later we were in a gift shop and struck up a conversation with the lady behind the counter (I was buying a whiskey glass 🥴). She ended up being Bob’s wife. The second Friday lunch produced a potential candidate for a young pastor to do an internship with me for Rural Church Development. (More on him in my next newsletter. It’s an absolutely amazing story in itself.) Bryon also connected me to the owner/operator of the Chick-Fil-a in Ellijay, Georgia. She and her husband were a part of a Bible study about five years ago that attempted a PCA church plant. They have connected us with four other couples. This is a very small smattering of connections that the Lord has orchestrated. Oh, to tell the stories!
When we moved to North Georgia I felt like a spelunker with no headlamp, feeling the walls and straining at an ounce of light to see my way along the damp cave walls. From our temporary rental we had a thirty minute drive into town and I would use that time to pray, “Lord, I have no clue where to go, with whom to speak, or what to do. Please bring about providential conversations and relationships.” I am learning again and again that His Word is a “lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” His Word tells me that He is faithful and trustworthy . . . yet I am so dull and doubting to hear and learn. Even in this dullness He has so evidently gone before us as we attempt to follow, believing that He is exactly who He declares Himself to be.
Never, never underestimate God’s power in and through you to connect people in and to God’s work for His kingdom’s sake. Never, never be afraid to ask questions of strangers or strike up unsolicited conversations. You never know how God will work to take that encounter and bless it immeasurably for the person to whom you speak, or maybe more significantly, to your very own soul.
Those names that Paul mentions? They are very precious people in God’s eyes. I can’t wait to meet them and every connection ever made for the sake of His kingdom. I cannot wait to hear the multitudinous stories of His grace as we recount who knows whom and how, and the delight we receive, and knowing Jesus is standing back watching us and smiling at our delight because He has orchestrated it all for our benefit and His glory so we can all bask in the beauty of it.
God’s provision in the nick of time
When you reach the community of Hemp, turn onto Sparks Road and then take a right to Squirrel Hunting Rd. In the curves watch for the signs that warn of the big slow dog that might be sunning itself in the road. After about another mile you will reach God’s provision. It’s a small cabin on the side of a mountain for which we are so, so thankful.
The story of Gideon has always been one of my favorites. Here is a man of faith who needs constant reminders that God is really, really His protector and provider and the provision for His people. Gideon is a hesitant leader who needs constant confirmation. If you know the story, you know that Gideon was faced with a daunting prospect that became more and more daunting. The Midianites and Amelikites were a huge, oppressive threat against Israel. You would think that God would bring confirmation to Gideon by strengthening his army, fortifying them through allies, giving them greater weaponry - something big and ominous. Rather, God stripped Gideon of all self-strength. God took away 22,000 of Gideon’s 32,000 men leaving 10,000. But He didn’t stop there. At the end of the day, God stripped Gideon’s strength down to 300 men. Three hundred men against “the Midianites and the Amalekites and all the people of the East [who] lay along the valley like locusts in abundance, and their camels were without number, as the sand that is on the seashore in abundance.” It gets worse. They were to go into battle with a trumpet in one hand and a lantern in the other. No sword. No spear. No cannon or tank or drone drop. That’s just insane.
Like Gideon, it has felt like all odds have been against Holly and I finding a house in North Georgia. One person literally laughed when we told them our price range. Two recommended realtors handed us off to their colleagues. A couple of other realtors just dropped all communication after promises of “we’ll find your dream home.” We toured every house in our price range in a wide region and they were all either major fixer uppers (no ceilings, major leaks, abandoned) or difficult locations. We were not looking for our dream home, just a house we could move into and feel somewhat good about it. To add to the weight, we had a time limit. A couple graciously pulled their Airbnb off the rental market during their slow months of January and February and reduced the rate for us. That rental would end March 4. We moved into the rental January 4 and we visited our first homes the next day. With closings to take 30 days or more, we were very time-limited.
Prior to Gideon going into battle, the Lord had called him to the task. I love how the Lord describes the trembling Gideon and to what He calls him:
And the angel of the LORD appeared to him and said to him, "The LORD is with you, O mighty man of valor." And Gideon said to him, "Please, sir, if the LORD is with us, why then has all this happened to us? And where are all his wonderful deeds that our fathers recounted to us, saying, 'Did not the LORD bring us up from Egypt?' But now the LORD has forsaken us and given us into the hand of Midian" (Judges 6:12-13).
Lord, why would you confirm again and again our call to southern Appalachia and then just drop us like so many realtors? Was this calling a cruel trick? Are the names of Beloved, Covenant child, or child of the King just vain designations? Am I not justified for having these two o’clock a.m. panic attacks?
And he divided the 300 men into three companies and put trumpets into the hands of all of them and empty jars, with torches inside the jars. And he said to them, "Look at me, and do likewise. When I come to the outskirts of the camp, do as I do. When I blow the trumpet, I and all who are with me, then blow the trumpets also on every side of all the camp and shout, 'For the LORD and for Gideon.’” (Judges 7:16-18).
When they blew the 300 trumpets, the LORD set every man's sword against his comrade and against all the army. And the army fled as far as Beth-shittah toward Zererah, as far as the border of Abel-meholah, by Tabbath (Judges 7:22).
We are people of valor only when our faith is in the Man of Valor . . . even when our faith is pathetic. We move forward trembling, needing confirmation and affirmation, and with a questioning heart, yet in trust in a Savior who has made great promises to the people for whom He has entered into an inviolable contract. “Are You faithful even in this?”
I was scrolling Facebook Marketplace perusing odd things that interest me like jet ski trailers (kayakers will understand), reverse flow smokers, and trout fishing vests when a home popped up For Sale by Owner. It was a small cabin in our price range and in a terrific location. I messaged the seller. Holly and I drove to see it, made an offer, and signed a contract. A few moments later the seller had a cash offer for 20,000 over asking price. "The LORD is with you, O (anxious-hearted, fearful, doubting) mighty man of valor.”
We close on March 3. Just in the nick of time.
I cannot express enough how thankful we are to the many, many people who partnered with us in prayer, advice, and contacts over the last month. I can only imagine the delight the Lord received as He heard His children petitioning on behalf of other longing children. The thought of a heavenly Father who delights to surprise his kids with His timely provisions is astounding. Jesus, God’s Son, is the true Man of Valor who brings us into the the Father’s care through His own death on the cross and victory through resurrection. With such sacrifice, why wouldn’t He also care about little things His people need?
Adequate?
Have you ever felt completely inadequate? Sunday morning, prior to our church’s worship service, I went down the deadly serpent’s hole of comparing my insides with someone else’s outsides. I watched a video of a young, hip couple who had successfully planted a church in a rural town. He had a big burly beard, his shirt buttoned all the way to his neck, and he wore Blundstone boots. She had intentionally mussy hair and a nose ring. Their outsides screamed church planting success.
I, on the other hand, am heading quickly to 54, overweight, and talk a big game while having the cold dainty feet of a runaway bride. I went to worship having sufficiently lashed my soul with condemnation and doubt.
I led the congregation in worship (irony of ironies) and sat down to listen as our pastor opened up the Bible. The passage was in Mark and is the familiar story of Jesus feeding the five thousand (Yeah, yeah . . . we all know how it ends. Yawn). In the story there are five thousand plus people who have followed Jesus into a desolate area. It was late in the day and the people were hungry. The disciples implored Jesus to send them away so they could get on their way to find food. But Jesus turned their request on them. “YOU feed them.” Impossible. They were completely inadequate to fulfill such a demand. But Jesus used their inadequacy to show His adequacy.
Our pastor directed us to 2 Corinthians 4:7: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.” He drove home the point that we do not put our greatest treasure in clay jars. That would be irresponsible and silly. We have fireproof and tamper-proof safes for those items. Clay jars are completely inadequate to fulfill such a demand. But Jesus promised to use their inadequacy to show His adequacy.
The sermon ended and the pastoral prayer prayed, we entered into the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. The elements of bread and wine were explained as symbolizing Jesus body given and blood shed. They were dispersed among us to reflect on the sermon, Christ’s work on our behalf, and the application of the Word to our lives. “This is my body given for you. Take and eat.”
I held the bread in my hand and realized I was about to put what represents the Treasure of all treasures into this clay jar of a 54 year old man in khakis and a blue blazer. Clay jars are completely inadequate to fulfill such a demand. But Jesus promises to use my inadequacy to show His adequacy through His surpassing power. And that’s something this church planter needs to grasp.
Expectations
What’s it going to be like to pastor in the rural areas of North Georgia and Southeast Tennessee? Honestly, I’ve struggled with the answer to that question. I also struggle with the pictures I use on my correspondence and website. It’s easy to portray the area with the usual suspects of poverty; gutted single-wides, chickens rummaging through front yards, toothless grannies, bare-chested and dirty kids that seem to only develop in black and white. Yet, people who have visited know that it’s a beautiful place with lots of attractions geared toward vacationers. The reality is . . . I don’t know what to expect. I do expect it will be complicated.
Blue Ridge, Georgia is a relatively progressive town when in season. The siren call of fall leaves and wineries have attracted the wealth of Atlanta and the heat-adverse of Florida into her arms. They have plundered the mountains for funding their AirBNB’s and vacation homes. Blue Ridge is now home to several fancy restaurants, craft breweries, and a handcrafted bamboo fly rod company with startling prices of $2500.00 minimum for a stick that might catch fish, depending on who wields it. Most places are closed Mondays and Tuesdays, which hints that the town isn’t really ready for what has inevitably arrived.
I suspect that locals are conflicted. They benefit from the service industry of tourism yet cannot afford the land their families once possessed. I spoke to a local pastor whose church is made up primarily of transplants. He confessed that they have struggled to gain traction with locals and the amount of meth addicts, alcoholism, and high suicide rates. I wonder why.
Fifteen minutes to the north of Blue Ridge is McCaysville/Copper Hill. It’s a satellite town in which I intend to minister. Just driving into town speaks volumes of its identity struggle. The Toccoa River splits the town in two. To the north it’s called Copper Hill, TN; a land once stripped bare for its copper and promise of prosperity. The houses are crammed onto a hill overlooking the town. Your nose could touch the road as you climb to visit your neighbor. Cross back south over the Toccoa River and you are back in McCaysville, Georgia. A passenger train revels in the scenery from Blue RIdge to this dual town. Once passengers are given a two hour pass in McCaysville/Copper Hill, I’m not sure what they do. Eat at one of two newer restaurants, drink beer at a new brewery, and then wait restlessly for the train’s exit? There ain’t much there. Again, I expect the locals are conflicted. The poverty seems much more prominent in McCaysville/ Copper Hill.
To the south of Blue Ridge is the seemingly pass-through town of Ellijay, Georgia. It also is a satellite town I plan to frequent and of which I desire to know. It seems a more typical small southern town with a quaint downtown square. I know little of this place but that it’s “on the way to Blue Ridge.” Again, I expect its identity is a mish-mash of personality disorder.
What I do not want to do is develop a crop of churches of just Atlanta transplants and tan Floridians (we need them and they need Jesus too!). I want to ask a lot of questions. I want to hear their cries. I want to listen for the heartache. I want to know what brings joy and laughter. And I want to gently, slowly offer a solace and hope that whispers, “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest.” Only the gospel of Jesus can bridge the dividing wall of wealth and poverty; white elitist and the disparaged “hillbilly”; hillbilly and the trail-of-tears Cherokee. Ahhhh . . . there is a bigger history. We are all apart of it. We all have been dispossessed and we have been the dispossessor. We all need rescue from our twisted-up selves and what we communally produce.
Will you help me? Will you help me figure it out. Will you help me ask the right questions and attempt to listen with ears that want to hear what people are truly saying beneath their facades? Will you help me to enter into the mess that we have created and to give Someone else’s Word of hope and rescue?