Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Exec. Director

“Being a disciple means being constantly ready to bring the love of Jesus to others, and this can happen unexpectedly in anyplace: on the street in a city, or during work, or in a city square, or on a journey.” -Pope Francis, from Evangelii Gaudium (“The Joy of the Gospel”), No. 127.

I take a lot of things to work each day.  Most days I carry my laptop.  It’s a very portable workstation that contains a lot of my work and projects.  I also take my cell phone to work each day.  How would any of us survive without the ability to have our contacts, emails, and social media at our fingertips?  Somedays I take my lunch.  Recently my wife bought me a bunch of those disposable containers that I don’t have to remember to bring home.  It makes the whole “leftovers for lunch” thing a whole lot more manageable.  I take other things to work as well.  I take books, snacks, keys, etc.  I also take along my personality, my skillset, my ambitions.  But the real question is, “Do I take along my faith?”

Many might argue that there should be a separation of faith and work; a duality of life that says live your faith at home, but not at the office.  Such folks believe that work practices should not be impacted by one’s faith positions.  Some fear that faith could be offensive, over-bearing, and perhaps even off-putting.  But I’m not in that camp.  I tend to believe that if faith is in you, it should always go with you and should even be evident to those around you.  However, one’s faith should be naturally expressed, lovingly conveyed, and authentically lived.  Faith should not be a club used to impose opinion condescendingly upon others.  It is not to be a litmus test to judge another person’s worth or likeability.  It is not to be used in any way that repels others from honest inquiry about your beliefs.  As I understand it, our faith should draw people into relationship, not push them away.  So how can we take our faith to work in a non-offensive, Christ-promoting, culturally-impacting way?  Here’s a few thoughts…

Be Joyful.  We can’t be up-beat and happy all the time.  That’s not even close to what I am suggesting.  Joy transcends emotions.  It is rooted in the hope that we have in Christ Jesus, acknowledging that his faithfulness and love for us is constant and enduring.  Being joyful means that we can offer peace, calm, and hope to those around us, even on a bad work day.

Do your best, always.  Colossians 3:17 says, “Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus.”  There is a calling contained in that verse to work hard and to strive for excellence.  Because we do all things “as unto the Lord,” we cannot settle for mediocrity.  We must constantly ask, “Is this my best?”  Details matter.

Treat others with civility and respect.    I Cor. 3:16 reminds us that the Holy Spirit lives in us.  The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control. (Gal. 5:22-23)  No Spirit-led person should allow rudeness, anger, or a lack of decency and civility to come from their mouths or hearts.  It’s just not in us if we are Spirit-filled.

Be honest.  Faith demands integrity.  When people can’t trust your words, how will they ever trust in the Savior you proclaim?

Be supportive.  There will always be people around you in the work environment who are experiencing difficulties.  And although we cannot pretend to “fix” everything in their lives, we can offer support and encouragement.  Sometimes it’s as simple as taking the time to listen.  Sometimes it’s as simple as the promise to pray for them, or better yet, to take a moment to pray with them.

Practice forgiveness as a daily discipline.  One of the hardest demands of the Christian faith is that of forgiveness.  It is also one of the most clearly evident ways we have to demonstrate our commitment to Christ.  We should make a habit of telling people that we are sorry when we have wrong them, and forgive them when they have wronged us.  It means that we cannot become “historical” with every infraction.  We have to model a complete offering of grace and a willingness to trust again.

It is never an easy quest to live one’s faith consistently and openly before the world.  But it is what Christ expects of us.  So take your faith along on the ride to work this week.  Let it be lovingly evident in everything that you do.

JR

Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Executive Director

I once heard a story from the days of the old west.  It seems that a cowboy was making the long walk back to his ranch, carrying a load of supplies in a burlap sack that he had slung across his shoulder.  The journey had been long and hard.  His feet ached and his back was tired.  The dust from the dirt road covered his clothing from head to toe.  Mixed with his sweat, the dust made a gritty ring around his collar.  A friend was traveling the same road, riding on his buckboard wagon which was being drawn by a horse.  He recognized his friend and pulled up beside him on the road.  “Hop in!  Let me give you a ride,” said the neighbor.  The tired cowboy quickly took him up on the offer.  But when he climbed up on the seat of the wagon, he kept the burlap sack slung over his shoulder.  The friend said, “Why don’t you set your sack down and rest your back for a while?”  To which the old cowboy replied, “You are kind enough to give me a ride today, I’ll just keep carrying my own sack.”

There are times when life gets overwhelming.  From time to time all of us have to shoulder a heavy load of concern, grief, fatigue, or pain.  No one is immune from the day-to-day struggles of life.  The load can be overwhelming at times… back breaking and soul stealing.  In such moments, it’s always meaningful to have those friends who will come along beside us and help us to carry some of the burden.  But there are some burdens that have to be borne alone.  And that’s hard.

I have a friend who now carries such a load.  His life is burdened by a situation with a family member that he will have to carry for the rest of his life.  And he will carry it well.  He’s strong and full of faith… but he’s also human.  He will get tired.  He will become weary.  There will be days when he will want to do anything to put down his burden but he can’t.  It’s with him for the duration.  And what is frustrating for those of us who know him is that we can’t really make it any better.  All we can do is pray faithfully, encourage verbally, and understand compassionately.  My friend is not to be pitied, but accompanied for some of the journey.  I can’t rest his back from his burden, but I can sit and listen and offer the solace of human understanding.

I am reminded of the Old Testament story of Job.  Job’s life goes to “hell in a hand-basket.”  In the course of a single day, Job loses all of his livestock, servants, and ten children.  Even as he mourns, he is afflicted with horrible skin sores.  Four of his friends show up to offer their support.  They sit with him in silence for 7 days.  No one speaks.  No one tries to “fix” his grief.  They just surround him and let him grieve.  It would have been enough.  He would have found some comfort in the sheer presence of his friends.  But then they do try to answer his grief.  They suggest that his problems are a result of his sins, or those of his children.  They suggest that God is punishing him.  Job becomes so irritated that he calls his friends “worthless physicians” who “whitewash their advice with lies.” (Job 13:4)

I hope that I’m a better friend than that.  I hope you have better sense as well.  We can’t fix everyone’s pain and we sure don’t help when we try to “fix blame.”  Sometimes those who are forced to shoulder an oppressive load, just need for us offer only our presence and not our judgment.  Sometimes we simply need to accompany them for part of their journey.  I can’t fix the pain in my friend’s life… no use in even trying.  But he will know that I haven’t forgotten his plight, nor neglected my daily prayers.  I’m not going to preach empty words of hope nor quote pious sounding expressions.  I’m just going to be there when he needs me, even if it means sitting in silence as he weeps.

Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Exec Director

It happened again.  I got a letter this week from a company informing me that my personal data had been compromised.  This time the company involved is a medical company that connects the dots between a medical provider who provides joint injections for knees, shoulders, etc., with the insurance companies.  It works like this… when the doctor prescribes a procedure, this company is contacted to make inquiry of the insurance company to see if the procedure is covered.  Apparently in order to make all of the necessary contacts, this “3^rd party” has access to a patient’s medical record, name, address, social security number, etc.  Because I had a history of knee injections (23 to be exact) prior to my recent bilateral knee replacement surgery, my personal data has been floating around this system.  The recent letter stated the company’s belief that none of my medical records were compromised, but that everything else was at risk.  They offered to provide a year’s worth of identity protection.

A few years ago, I got a similar letter when the data at Target was compromised.  There was even a third incident a few months before that well-publicized incursion.  I don’t even remember what company was involved, but my bank had a crazy time sending me new cards each time I was at risk.  It’s a huge problem, right?  So many of us have personal information stored with a number of so called, “secure” sites.  And yet businesses and data banks are getting “hacked” with alarming regularity.  It even happens in the cyber world.  How many times have you received a message from someone you know that seems a little strange?  And within minutes you get a “real” message from that friend saying that his/her email has been hacked.

It’s a scary thing to think that someone has stolen my identity, or yours.  We don’t want people posing like us to take our money, ruin our credit scores, or bring upheaval to our lives.  We don’t want anyone doing anything that in anyway falsifies who we are or brings potential shame upon our character.  So why do we allow ourselves to steal the identity of Christ and use it fraudulently?

Consider this verse… Gal. 2:20, “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me, and delivered Himself up for me.” That verse teaches all of us as believers in Christ, that we no longer belong to ourselves.  Our bodies, our hearts, our minds, and our motivations are now the property of Christ Himself.  It is no longer we who live, but Christ who lives in and through us.  So, we become His image before the world.  We become His ambassadors.  We become the standard bearers.  Whenever we choose to act inappropriately, or with malice, or with hatred, or with prejudice, or with greed, we have to borrow His body to commit those deeds.  We become the perpetrators of identity theft.

The problem is that most of us don’t think before we act.  We don’t consider the rippling effects that are created whenever we misrepresent Christ.  We live our lives, tweet our insults, Facebook our opinions, and voice our thoughts as if no one sees, hears, or reads what we say and think.  We have segmented our lives into various categories.  We have a faith/church life.  We have a political life.  We have a family life.  We have a business life.  We have a social media life.  And somehow we think that it’s perfectly fine to live any one of those lives distinctively from the other lives.  We forget that we have taken on the identity of Christ.  His grace, His voice, His ethic, and His authority has to overarch all that we are and everything that we do.  Whenever we fail to practice the belief that “Jesus is Lord,” we have committed the worst kind of identity theft.  If we are going to claim Him as Lord, we must be willing to be claimed by Him.

Dr. Jon R Roebuck, Executive Director

I live in one of the fasting growing cities in America.  By September of this year, Nashville, Tennessee will top the 1.9 million resident mark.  In fact, each day, the population of Nashville increases by 82 residents.  That’s 574 each week or roughly 2500 each month.  Such stats might be frightening to some but exciting to others.  Think about it… if you are in the real estate or construction business you have to think that the surge in population will mean a tremendous boost to your business.  Fast food chains, car dealers, health providers and others will have to step up their game.  So will the church.  While most mainline denominations bemoan the downsizing of congregations, contributions, and influence, maybe they should be rejoicing at the opportunities that are about to knock at their doors.  To be sure, the same old song and dance won’t lure new faces to church each week.  Like everything else, the church will need to adapt radically.  I’m not suggesting that we water down our theology or throw out all we know about ushering people into the presence of God.  But there will have to be new strategies, new settings, new services, and new attitudes.  The fields are white unto harvest… they are just not “mostly white” like they once were.

Since 2012, Nashville has had the fastest-growing immigrant population of any American city.  12% of the ever-growing population was born outside of the United States.  It is home to the nation’s largest Kurdish population.  Folks are coming to Nashville from places like Somalia, Burma, and Honduras.  According to my friends at the Nashville Baptist Association, this past week, like every other week, worship happens across our city in 87 different languages.  That statistic resonates with what Metro Schools has learned about its student population.  Currently, 30% of students enrolled in Metro Schools speak a language other than English at home.  (That’s 1 out of every three.)  The ramifications for how we do church and how we engage our city as people of faith are enormous.

For years, the strategy has been helping others learn how to conform to our image. Maybe now we should think about the ways to conform our image into faces that are welcoming, engaging, and compassionate.  We have to get to the point where we no longer demand uniformity of skin tone, hair color, clothing styles, or worship practices.  We will learn how to become more multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, and multi-lingual or we will continue a slow fade into irrelevance.  The world has come to us and we need to be ready.  Rather than fear the change, we should rejoice in what God is doing.

Let me encourage you and your church to do at least three things.

First, take your family and go to a strange church where the majority of people don’t speak your language or share your ethnicity.  Just go and worship one week.  See how it feels to be the minority.  Take on the experience of not understanding the language, the style of worship, or the cultural nuances.  And as awkward as you feel, think about how you are expecting immigrants and refugees to suddenly embrace your home church as God’s gift to the world.  You have to think like an outsider or you will never understand their worldview.  And if you care about sharing the love of Christ with them, you will have to adjust and accommodate, even if doing so makes you uncomfortable.  And by the way, a warm smile, a firm handshake, and a welcoming hug don’t demand Google translation to get the point across.

Second, when you have the opportunity to hire new staff, don’t hire to match current need, but future need.  That will take some vision and courage on your part.  One of my closest friends in ministry pastored a church in a rapidly transitioning section of Birmingham.  The area around the church was in constant flux.  The once all-white population soon became mixed racially.  So, when the time came to hire a new youth minister, the church intentionally hired an African-American minister to reach kids in the neighborhood who were foundering without the love of Christ and the support of a two-parent home.  When it came time to hire a new Music director, they went with a Hispanic guy because of the Latino population in the church field.  It took a lot of courage and grace to make that happen.  And my friend took a lot of grief along the way.  But the church is alive and well today, and yes, it is very different in every way.

Third, consider the full embrace your congregation could offer an immigrant family.  It’s easy to talk about welcoming the stranger in our midst.  It is quite another thing to invest the time, energy, and resources it takes to make that happen.  What if your church had the vision of making a difference in life of a least one immigrant family this year?  What if you determined to make a difference… a real difference?  What if you helped that family with housing and language skills?  What if you helped them find a job and buy a car?  What if you helped them find the path to citizenship and learned to converse with them in their native language?  What if you helped them navigate the school system and provided all that the children needed to be successful in class?  And… what if every church in the city did the same?

As you look ahead ask this simple question in terms of what God will do in our city… Will the Kingdom grow because of me, or in spite of me?  The world is coming.  We must be ready. Embrace the challenge.

Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Executive Director

It’s always a bit jarring that as soon as December 25^th passes, we very quickly attempt to erase Christmas in a number of ways.  First, we attempt to erase Christmas from our homes which have been so beautifully decorated for the season.  Ornaments are placed back in their boxes, the lights are removed from the tree and rolled up for another year, the tree skirt gets folded, and the tree itself gets disassembled and stored away for another year.  The wreath is taken from the front door and the nativity scene is packed away and placed on the top shelf of the closet once again.  Every scrap of wrapping paper is tossed away and every cardboard box is flattened and taken to the curb for recycling.

Some debate about how long the decorations should remain in place.  I have a friend who absolutely refuses to let any trace of Christmas remain when the calendar flips to the new year.  I know others who just get around to un-decorating the house whenever the mood strikes.  Last year, because of my recovery from double-knee replacement, some of our decorations stayed in place till mid-February.  This year I resolved to do better.  Most of our decorations and Christmas trees, yes trees with an “s”, were packed away before the dawning of the new year.

We also attempt to erase Christmas from our waistlines.  Let’s all be really honest… most of us do not eat with a lot of discipline over the holidays.  The cookies are too good to pass up.  The homemade chocolate covered cherries can’t be allowed to go to waste.  The Hawaiian rolls with ham and honey-mustard seemingly call out from the refrigerator.  And so most of us start the new year with the resolve that we are going to do better.  We dump the sweets and get on the treadmill as though we can erase two weeks of undisciplined eating in just 20 minutes of walking.  By the way… have you had any of those Cheryl cookies?  So good, right?  My wife made an Orange pound cake this year.  Needless to say, it’s long gone.

We even attempt to erase Christmas from our bank accounts.  Because we tend to overspend a little, most of us get down-right cheap during the month of January.  We scrimp and save every penny, vowing to erase the Christmas-caused deficit from our accounts.  As quickly as we can, we attempt to act as though Christmas never even happened.

There is a special feeling that comes with Christmas… it’s a gentle grace, a sense of generosity, a spirit of benevolence and sharing that we don’t seem to experience during the rest of the year.  During the Christmas season, we resolve to have more patience with long lines and weary salespersons.  We give a little extra to organizations that help the poor and needy.  We send cards to old friends.  Somehow the Spirit of the Season just makes us a little better, a little more compassionate, maybe a bit more thoughtful.  However, the problem with the Christmas Spirit is that we tend to pack it away with the decorations.  The joy fades and the kind attitudes dissipate far too quickly.

Why does that happen?  Why is Christmas erased so soon?  Maybe it’s because of what we have done to Christmas.  Rather than join in the sheer celebration of the Savior’s birth, we buy into a frenetic mentality that insists on making sure we have the right gifts, the right food on the table, or the right names of the card list.  We’ve made Christmas into something that we must endure, rather than something we can’t help but enjoy. So, do better.  Don’t pack away the Spirit of Christ with the rest of the decorations.  Resolve to love with extravagance, give with generosity, forgive with abundance, and serve with great fervor.  It’s what Jesus expects you to do, not just during the month of December, but every day of the year.

 

A Christmas Story – Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Executive Director

Joyce found herself alone at Christmas for the first time in her entire life of 82 years.  There was a deep sadness that had settled in all around her like she had never experienced before.  Two defining events had taken place in the past 9 months that profoundly changed her life.  The first was the death of beloved husband Tom.  Tom died in the early days of the Spring after a very long and debilitating illness.  He actually had been in the process of dying for over two years.  During the previous fall, he had become bedridden.  By late November his words had ceased and all meaningful conversation was gone.  But still Joyce talked to him in the hope that he could hear and understand and feel her love.  She often sang the songs that he loved.  She bathed his body, combed his hair, brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, and literally kept him alive with the tenderness of her compassion and the grit of her resolve not to let him slip away.  But despite her best efforts, the illness prevailed and on an unseasonably warm March morning, she watched as the funeral folks lowered him into the red clay soil of South Georgia.  Along with his body, she buried a very real part of her own life.  They had been married for over 57 years.  Unable to have children, they found companionship and joy in each other’s lives until the day he drew his last breath.

Her best friend Margaret had been her rock during the worst of her grief.  Margaret had been a neighbor and friend for over 20 years.  She even insisted on staying with Joyce for the first few nights after Tom had died.  She was that kind of friend.  She did her best to make sure the darkness of grief did not win out over her friend.  She helped Joyce regain her footing after Tom’s death.  She called every day and visited every week.  The two of them even made a summer trip to the hills of Tennessee.  Margaret literally saved her life.  But then it happened.  Margaret’s daughter, Tammy, stood at her door one October morning, clothes and hair soaked by a driving rain.  Mixed in with the rain running down her face were the tears that streamed from her eyes.  All Joyce could muster were the words, “No… please tell me Margaret is okay…”  When Tammy told her the news, Joyce collapsed in her arms.  Apparently, Margaret had a massive heart attack in the middle of the night and was gone in an instant.  Tammy knew something was wrong when she couldn’t get her mom on the phone that morning.  She found her in her bed.  There were no signs of struggle or pain.

Suddenly Joyce was stripped of the two people she loved most.  The pain was unbearable some days.  She cried a lot.  She walked aimlessly through the house.  Some days she would forget to even eat.  Other friends called and came by from time to time.  Folks from the church would check in and Tammy tried to stop by at least once a week.  Joyce slowly began to show signs of emerging life.  Slowly, she looked better.  She seemed to care about herself a little more.  She starting paying attention to her diet.  She kept the routines of her life alive… the simple but necessary routines.  She shopped for groceries.  She attended church.  She ran errands with some friends from her book club.  She kept her doctor’s appointments.  But still the sadness and loneliness were deep and dark.  She felt very alone and living on the fringe, as though life was passing by all around her but she was not included.

The thought of being alone at Christmas was more than she could bear.  The story of hope and joy brought her only sadness and despair.  All she could think about were the memories of the way things used to be.  She couldn’t muster the strength, energy, or care to decorate the house.  No one was coming anyway.  She didn’t set the Christmas table like she had done for the past 57 years.  She didn’t even bother to set out the small tabletop tree on the table in front of the bay window.  She didn’t even bother with Christmas cards… it was all just too sad.  She watched a few of those “feel good” TV movies but even that depressed her.  They all ended on a happy note… she knew her story wouldn’t.  Nothing seemed right, or happy, or joyful.  The short days of December only exaggerated the darkness of her grief.

She turned out the lights and turned off the TV around 10 o’clock on Christmas Eve.  She slipped into her gown and crawled into bed wondering if she could force herself to even think about sleeping.  She hadn’t been in bed for very long when she heard an unfamiliar sound.  At first she couldn’t figure out where the sound originated.  It was coming from somewhere in the back of the house.  It stopped.  Then it started again.  It was like the sound of something brushing against the house.  She decided that it must the wind blowing the limbs of the maple tree in her backyard against the siding of the house.  Her mind got to wondering about how difficult it would be to keep up the house and how much it would cost just to trim the tree.  It was the kind of thing Tom took care of.  After a while the strange noise stopped and she was just about to drift off to sleep when she heard it again. The sound was too constant to be branches against the house.  It sounded more like an animal scratching at her back door.  Her mind raced in a dozen different directions.  Maybe it was a raccoon, or a squirrel, or God forbid, maybe an old possum was trying to escape the cold of the winter night.  She quietly slipped out of bed, stepped into her house shoes and shuffled her way through the house with a flashlight in one hand and her husband’s old cane in the other.  She had no idea what she would do if she happened upon some “wild beast,” but the light and the cane seemed like logical things to take along.

The noise was definitely coming from the back door.  She finally peered through the peep-hole but could see nothing.  She glanced through a small window but could still see nothing at the door.  Whatever it was, it had to be fairly small, but determined.  The noise continued for at least 10 more minutes.  It would stop momentarily, as if the animal was catching its breath, and then continue again.  “I wish it would go away,” she said to herself.  She knew that she couldn’t possibly go back to bed until the scratching on the door stopped.

It was too late to call a neighbor or bother Tammy about it.  She finally decided that it was her problem to solve.  Mustering all the courage she could collect and tightly gripping the cane in her hand, she cracked open the back door to solve the mystery of her persistent intruder.  When she turned on the porch light, she finally caught a glimpse of the nighttime noise maker.  It was a small dog, shivering in the cold… at least she thought it was dog.  He was grey with long, wiry hair… maybe about 10-12 pounds.  His hair was matted and caked with mud and grass.  His feet and legs were wet as though he had been walking through some tall weeds.  He looked way too skinny and had no collar.  His whole body shook with the cold.  She said to the dog, “Shoo!  Go away now!  Go back home!” and the she closed the door in his face.  But he didn’t shoo, or go away, or go back home.  He started scratching again but this time added a very faint whimper.  After about 5 minutes she opened the door again and repeated her admonitions for his departure.  Again, she closed the door and again the scratching began.

She finally thought to herself, maybe if I give him something to eat, he’ll be satisfied and be on his way.  She scrounged around her kitchen trying to think what a dog might want to eat.  She had a couple of leftover Sister Shubert sweet rolls and a piece a bacon.  She tossed it out the back door and within seconds the small dog started gobbling it down.  He looked like he hadn’t eaten in a week!  Before she could close and lock the door, the food was gone.  And within a moment the scratching started again.  She started talking to the dog through the closed door, as if the dog could hear her and understand her.  “Now you need to go away.  It’s time for you to go home.  I’m sure your owner is looking for you.”

Joyce turned on the TV to distract herself and to drown out the noise of the once-again-whimpering dog.  A local weatherman was giving a “Santa watch” report.  He went on to say that the lows would be in the upper 20’s overnight and that houseplants and pets needed to be inside.  She snapped off the TV set trying to act like she hadn’t heard what he said about bringing in pets for the night.  But it was too late.  The words kept running around in her mind.  She knew herself well enough to know that she was going to cave in and let the dog come inside for just the night.  Of course, what she didn’t know was that she was about to let the dog into her heart, and not just for one evening.

She went down to the basement and brought up a cardboard box.  It was sturdy and the sides were tall.  She took an old towel and lined the bottom of the box.  “That ought to do it for just one night,” she said to herself.  She wondered how she was going to get the dog into the box.  She wasn’t about to pick up the filthy animal.  She decided that she would lay the box on its side with the opening toward the door.  When the dog stepped into the box she would turn it upright and he would be trapped inside.   At least he would be warm and dry.  Her plan worked to perfection.  The little dog stepped into the box and when she righted the box he seemed to settle in around the old towel.  He looked up at her with big brown eyes and slightly turned his head.  She walked to the kitchen to get a bowl with some water.  He stood on his hind legs with his paws and face peering over the edge of the box, watching every move she made.  As she walked back to the box, his tail was wagging wildly.  He lapped up the water in about 2 minutes, never taking a moment to stop or catch his breath.

As he started to settle in, she had the urge to reach down and pet the poor puppy, but then she thought about how dirty and grimy he was.  She decided that it was best not to touch him at all.  She turned down all the lights except for the lamp on the end table near the couch.  Once she was sure that he was fast asleep, she tiptoed back to bed.  She looked at the old, wind-up clock on her nightstand.  It was well past 1 a.m.  A bit more exhausted than her earlier attempt at falling asleep, she relaxed and quickly drifted off to sleep.  Her slumber would not last for long.  She was awakened by a loud thump and then the pitter-patter of small dog paws on the linoleum.  Before she could pull the covers off her legs to investigate, the small dog had raced down the hall, and bounded onto her bed and in a flash, was standing on her chest licking her face!  She tried to push him away but he was too quick.  Within moments her face was wet with dog kisses and her bed was filthy with dog dirt.  Her earlier resolve to not touch the dog quickly dissipated.  She grabbed him with both hands and set him not-so-gently on the floor.  He just looked at her, tail wagging, bright eyed and ready to play.

She decided to close him up in the bathroom.  She pushed him inside, turned on the light, and quickly closed the door.  It seemed to work… but within moments, the scratching started all over again.  The little grey dog was at it again, wanting nothing more than to be wherever she was.  She opened the door to fuss at him, but those big brown eyes and wagging tail quickly diffused her anger.  She walked over to the tub and started running the water.  She said to the dog, “If you are going to be a quest in my house, at least you are going to be a clean guest.”  She plopped the small dog into the warm water.  She lathered him up with a little vanilla bean body wash that was sitting on the edge of the tub.  Soon the clean water turned into the color of ice tea.  She rinsed him and repeated the whole process.  She finally toweled him off and set him in the middle of the bathroom floor.  He shook from head to toe in that way that only a dog can shake.  She took her hairdryer and blew him dry.  He seemed to enjoy the warm air and never squirmed at all.  “You’re not a bad looking little pup,” she remarked.  In fact, he was downright cute.

She looked at her gown and had to laugh.  It was as though all the dirt from the dog had been transferred to her clothing.  She quickly changed and loaded the washing machine with dirty towels, sheets, and her gown.  The little hand on the clock had dipped well below 3 and the big hand was swinging past 7.  “What a way to spend Christmas Eve,” she thought to herself.  Before the night ended, she found herself asleep on the couch in the den under a homemade quilt, with a very clean and happy grey dog sleeping at her feet.

Christmas morning surprised Joyce.  The sun was up before she awakened.  She slept a little longer than she had slept in weeks.  She discovered that not only had the sun appeared, bright and cheery, but something about her countenance had lifted a little as well.  Somehow she didn’t feel quite as down, or as lonely, or as defeated as she had before.  She looked down at the small dog still resting at her feet.  She wondered how something so small and seemingly insignificant could change her perspective in a single night.  Noticing that she was awake, the small dog stirred, stretched a little, and crawled into her lap.  It was apparent that he needed her and she needed him.  “Want something to eat?” she asked.  The tail started wagging again

She tried, although not too hard, to find the real owner, which she never did.  She named him Miracle, because of the way the small dog rescued her life.  The two of them became the best of companions and looked after each other for years.

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            Who would have ever thought that a small, tiny, little creature which arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night could change everything?  Who would have ever thought that someone’s darkness, despair, and gloom could be transformed into light, hope, and joy?  Who would have ever thought one night could make a world of difference?  Who would have ever thought that salvation would come through one small miracle.  “For behold I bring you good news of a great joy which shall be for all the people, for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord.  And this will be a sign unto you, you will find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger.”  Luke 2:10-12  One small, tiny, little creature which arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night changed everything.

 

Merry Christmas

2016

Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Executive Director

I realize that my memories of Christmas are not your memories of Christmas.  Each of us experienced the season in special and unique ways as children.  I grew up in Rome, GA as the son of a Baptist Minister.  So, many of my memories swirl around traditions in my household and in my home church.  As I said, they are MY memories.  I spent a little time recently bringing some of those memories to mind.  It has helped me to regain a joyful perspective on the season.  Sometimes it’s good to reflect and remember.

The following is a list of some of those fond memories.  They may or may not resonate with you in any way.  Maybe something on my list will jog your memory a little.  I really encourage you to take a quiet moment in the midst of this hectic and way over-crowded season to recall a few of those special days you spent in the innocence of childhood, believing that Christmas was the best day of the year.

One of the traditions in our house revolved around an annual pilgrimage to Rich’s in downtown Atlanta.  Rich’s was THE department store in those days, rising 7 or 8 stories above the crisscrossing streets of Atlanta.  A huge tree was always paced on the top of the building.  Thousands would gather each year for the lighting of the tree.  It was a big deal.  Joining the tree on the top of the building was a monorail kid’s ride known as the Pink Pig.  For years, it circled its way around the rooftop, giving kids an up-close look at the big tree and other dazzling lights and displays.  I still remember getting a sticker on my dark blue windbreaker which proudly proclaimed that I had ridden the Pink Pig.  One of the floors in the department store was dedicated to nothing but toys.  Just walking through the maze of all those toys was a special time.

One of the local churches always presented a “live” nativity scene.  Every evening during the holiday season, families could drive by in their cars and pause for a moment to take in the scene.  The characters were always dressed in great costumes.  There were live animals as well… donkeys and sheep.  It was a little much to think that a real camel would appear and so a huge stuffed camel was propped up against the backdrop of the scene.  It was nothing short of magical.  We probably drove past at least a dozen times each year.

Long before the days of artificial, pre-lit trees, the annual trip to buy a tree was part of the tradition.  There were lots all over town.  It seems that most years we bought a tree at the YMCA lot, although at times, it seems like we got a tree at the local Piggly Wiggly.  I remember how we tied it to the roof of the brown and white Chevrolet station wagon and drove it home.  Dad would always saw off the end and screw it into the tree stand.  (It was always my job throughout the season to scoot underneath the tree and keep it watered.)  Remember those big old bulbs we used to have?  Multi-colored lights that got really hot.  Dad always lamented the task of getting the lights on the tree.  Some years we went with a spruce tree… sometimes a scotch pine.  We carefully hung the ornaments and placed the foil ice cycles on the tree.  Sometimes late at night, I would crawl under the tree and stare up at the lights.  When my brother and I got a little older, one of our Christmas traditions was gathering up all of the old discarded trees up and down the street.  We would pile them together on the curb in front of the house and light a huge bonfire.

Our local paper, The Rome New Tribune, had a tradition of placing a small cartoon on the front page to count down the days till Christmas.  Every night I would grab the paper and look for the cartoon and think, “Christmas will never get here!”

I remember ribbon candy in the dish in the living room and the huge peppermint log that Doc Elliot gave us.  We would take an icepick and chip away a piece throughout the holiday.  I remember how Mr. Donahue always brought my mother a Whitman’s Sampler and my dad a $100 bill.  I remember the Christmas parade and the decorations that adorned Broad Street.  I remember school plays and the Christmas cards that piled into our home each year.

I also think about the Christmas Eve candle-lighting service at FBC, Rome.  Every year, about 6 p.m. the service would begin and the sanctuary would fill to capacity.  There was Christmas music, solos, and the sacred lighting of the Christ candle on the Advent Wreath.  At the end of the service, weather permitting, we would stream out onto the front sidewalk and sing silent night while holding our little white candles.

I guess what I remember most of all was the emotion of the season.  I always felt loved beyond measure, blessed beyond description, and joyful beyond comprehension.

May your Christmas be filled with wonderful memories, loving friends & family, and the joy of the King’s birth.

Dr. Jon Roebuck, Executive Director

 

Yesterday a devastating wildfire ravaged the town of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  People lost their homes, cars, and businesses.  Having once served as pastor of the First Baptist Church of Gatlinburg, those people, unknown to most of you, are very real to me and my family.  We lived there.  We spent 5 special years there.  Our kids went to school there.  It was our home and now bits and pieces are forever gone.  We are extremely grateful that as far as we know, all of the people we love in that place are safe.  We are terribly saddened however that some of the places we loved are now gone.  We have spoken to a number of our friends throughout the day.  Some have lost everything but the clothes on their backs.  But they haven’t lost their resiliency and the small town of hard working and industrious folk will rise again.  I am certain of it.  But today they grieve and weep and we join with them in the sadness of loss.

Perhaps my favorite place to eat on the planet was a local spot in Gatlinburg named, The Mountain Lodge.  Last night the fire reached the restaurant and in moments it was gone.  Ron and Jennifer Smith have run the place for decades.  They are the best of people.  Strong in their faith and strong in their commitment as members of the community, their first thoughts were not of the loss of their family business, but of their employees who are suddenly without work.  Ron and Jennifer are friends of ours and were great supporters of the church when I pastored there.  Ron and his brother Don prepared the Wednesday night meals… best food in town.  Jennifer was a surrogate mom to every kid in the youth group.  She and my wife, Linda, laughed and cried their way through youth camps and mission trips as counselors.  Ron and Jennifer are safe and we are grateful.  Yet we are heartbroken.

The Mountain Lodge was more than a great place to eat… it was THE place to eat.  Most of the population of the town ate there every week, if not every day.  It was the heart of the community.  Yes, the food was great, but the sense of belonging was even greater.  In that place you were known, accepted, and wanted.  Even after all of these years have passed, whenever we stepped into The Lodge, people called us by name, hugged our necks, and Jennifer always stopped what she was doing to come sit at the table and play catch-up.  Occasionally, I would step back in the kitchen to speak to Ron.  That’s where he always was.  He has to be the hardest working man I have ever known.  We stopped one day to do a little math… we figured that he had served over 3 million plates of food out of that kitchen through the years.  3 million.  Ron and Jennifer served food, made friends, and connected the community together through good times and bad all in that small restaurant.  If you never had their cream of chicken soup, or the cinnamon rolls, or the hamburger always served upside down, you have missed something special.

It’s been a tough few days in Gatlinburg.  It’s going to be a long, hard road out.  I would humbly ask for you to remember that community.  Support them in ways that you can.  And pray faithfully for every family and the losses they have sustained.

Dr. Jon R. Roebuck, Executive Director

What’s wrong with Martha?  I mean, there she is, welcoming Jesus into her home but when the moment comes to sip a little “Living Water” she’s too busy in the kitchen to even notice.  You remember the story well.  According to Luke 10:38-42, Jesus has come to the home of Mary and Martha.  Mary sits at His feet, listening to every word that flows from His mouth.  Martha is in the kitchen, distracted with all her preparations.  She must have been from the South… she cares deeply about hospitality, decorum, and good food.  She and Paula Dean would have been best friends.  She spends the day fussing over the meal while her sister spends the day in the company of Jesus.  Jesus even tells Martha when she comes to complain about Mary’s behavior that Mary has spent the day more wisely.

I’ve read that story a thousand times but have refused to see myself reflected in its image.  Until now.  I’m fearful that I am playing the part of Martha this thanksgiving, because that’s how I usually spend the holiday.  Thanksgiving at our house is a big deal.  Because our home is more centrally located than my wife’s siblings’ houses, we host the family in our home for a few days each year.  It used to be easier when the kids were little and you could sleep all seven on a blanket on the floor.  But now the kids are grown and some are married and some even have kids of their own.  We have to plan through work schedules, nap times, and airline fights just to attempt a thanksgiving meal for all 19 of us.  Ages will range from 2 weeks old to 90 years.  I even built a set of corn hole games for the weekend painted with Alabama and Auburn logos, after all it is Iron Bowl week.  It gets a little crazy… especially when you are hosting the event.  Many of you have experienced some of the same dynamics.

I have discovered through the years, that if I am not careful, I will spend more time fussing over the meal than I will in spending the day in the company of my family.  I worry about having enough ice, a well-cooked turkey, a clean house, and a raked yard.  I want everything to run smoothly and be ready for company.  (The last two years we have even added the stress of having the house decorated for Christmas before the Thanksgiving crowd arrives.)  I have to rethink the question of purpose.  Why do we do what we do at Thanksgiving?  Is it really all about the food we consume, the house we clean, and the paper goods we buy… or is it about the company that we keep?

This year I’m going to attempt to worry less about the details and focus more on my family.  I have no doubt we will have plenty to eat.  I’m not worried about having enough beds for everyone to sleep.  I’m not even going to stress if the dishes pile up in the sink.  Maybe I will have the time to even reflect on the things for which I am most grateful.  Surely that’s a better way to spend the season.  It’s time to get out of the kitchen Martha… the best things are happening in the next room.

Dr. Jon Roebuck, Executive Director

I’m one of those people who believe that our life stories are always being written by God into a much greater narrative.  In other words, some moments that we hardly think twice about, are a part of God’s plan for something greater that He is doing.  I often tell people that God is weaving the tread of our life story into a much larger tapestry designed to change hearts and lives.  And sometimes, we are privileged to catch a glimpse of God at work.  There is great joy in knowing that our lives are being used by God and connected in some exciting ways.  I had one of those serendipitous moments last week…

In the midst of the election turmoil that filled the nation with angst and uncertainty, my family was busy celebrating one of the great days that we will long remember.  Our son and daughter-in-law welcomed their 2^nd daughter into the world.  Her name is Lydia and she is healthy and strong and we are blessed beyond measure.  She is our third granddaughter.  But here’s where the story of “paying it forward” got woven into the story.  While in the hospital, my daughter-in-law picked up the phone to order her meal from food services.  The kind lady on the other end of the conversation took her order and asked for her name and room number.  When she said her last name was Roebuck, the lady hesitated for a moment and asked, “Are you related to Pastor Roebuck?”  (As most of you know, I pastored Woodmont Baptist Church here in Nashville for the past 17 years.) She said, “Yes. He’s my father-in-law.”  The lady on the phone then replied, “He built my house about 2 years ago and participated in the dedication service.”  Her home is located in an area of town where Habitat for Humanity has built a number of sturdy, affordable homes.  I had been a part of the Habitat team that built her home.  My daughter-in-law then replied, “I was also a part of that team.  I too helped to build your home.”  It was a nice moment when the connection between builder and owner was made.  (I’m pretty sure my daughter-in-law got really good service that morning!)

Who knew?  Who knew that something we had done a couple years previous would be remembered on the day our granddaughter was born? Who knew that the one serving the meal would be the same one who 2 years earlier had been served herself by my daughter-in-law’s Habitat involvement?  Simply stated… God knew.  No… it was not some great life-changing, destiny altering moment, but it was interesting the see the connecting points.  What some would suggest was just a wild coincidence, is seen by others as the intentional working of God.  It happens all the time in the presence of those who have the eyes of faith with which to see. God can be seen in the everyday experiences of life, carefully arranging people, place, and moment.

I had an old ethics professor in Seminary who used to say, “You have to be willing to plant a few trees in whose shade you will never rest.”  I think he’s right.  We are called to do good deeds and compassionate acts, not for the glory we will receive or the pats on the back we might feel… we are called to do Kingdom things because they are the right things to do.  We don’t serve the world for the sake of self-adulation.  We serve the world because our faith compels us to do so.  And when those moments do occur… when we see how our hands become the hands of God, we should pause to reflect for a moment, grateful that we have been honored to be used of God.