What the Hay?

This is one of those stories you hate to admit to, but don’t want to see die. I’ve been accused of being a city boy, and this will remove all doubt.

When I was 16 years old I would come in from school to dad’s shop every day, and watch things while he went for a break to enjoy a cup of coffee. One day I showed up after school but instead of dad heading to the coffee shop he sent me on an errand.

Dad had read somewhere that if you are planting tomatoes you want to put some alfalfa hay in the soil. I don’t know if it was to aerate or provide nutrients, or what he idea was. I am not a horticulturist, and so far have never played one on TV. The fact is that I’ve never played anything on TV, although I did play a gangster in a theatrical production once. But that has nothing to do with alfalfa hay.

A lady came in the shop that day and dad made arrangements with her for me to pick up some hay – 2 square bales. They had already negotiated the price and payment had been tendered. All that was left was delivery of the product. And for that he had a strong backed - albeit weak minded - helper (me).

Dad gave me written directions from his shop in downtown Edmond out to a farm just south of Guthrie, down a county road in the middle of nowhere – perhaps a bit to the left side of nowhere – I’m not sure. Nevertheless, I drove… and drove.

After awhile I arrived at the farm, knocked on the door and was met by a nice lady. She pointed to the barn and said, “Go get a couple of bales. It’s paid for.”

And so I drove my 1968 Dodge Charger with the 3 speed automatic transmission and black vinyl top down to the barn. In the process I added another option to my car – a layer of cow fuel on the tires. (Cow fuel – tactful, huh!)

I threw a couple of bales in the back of the Charger and made the trek the 20 or so miles back to downtown Edmond just in time for dad to close up the shop. He came out to see his newly purchased farm product.

“Son,” he said, “I hate to tell you this… but even a city boy should know the difference between hay and straw!”

There’s a difference? (Well, it’s a rhetorical question now. I learned that hay and straw are different when I was a mere lad of 16.)

The drive back to the farm wasn’t so bad. I’d rather be driving in the country than working at the shop. But I did not relish the embarrassment of explaining to the lady that I had to return the straw and pick up the hay dad had actually purchased. I thought about telling her I was just testing dad to see if he knew the difference; or that I was just talking the straw out for a test drive.

When I got back to the farm I made the decision to bypass the farm house and just drive straight to the barn. I figured if I did get caught – well, they say forgiveness is easier to get than permission. I’m not sure how embarrassment fits into that axiom. But it’s a moot point, as I was able to make the switch without having to explain anything to the farmer’s wife.

The moral of the story is, “Don’t send a city boy to do a country boy’s job”. And in the process I learned the coolest way to burn rubber in a hotrod. Well… it’s not really rubber.

The Drought of Twenty-Eleven

For the sixth week in a row the sun beat down upon us. We were tired and parched believers in a dry and thirsty land. Just as a flower will wither and die without the rains, so do Christians need the praise and worship – the fellowship of the brethren – the hearing of an anointed word from a Man of God, lest said Christians suffer that same fate. And now another Sunday morning had rolled around.

For reasons of no consequence to this story Stephanie and I found ourselves without a home church to attend. By now it had been six weeks since we had attended Sunday Service, but for us the drought had started many weeks before, and so we did thirst.

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...what I do know is that it rained today!

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When you love God and realize he has a plan for your life, sleeping in and sitting around on Sunday morning is not an option for very long. And it had been too long. So we made the decision to visit a church that was recently started in an elementary school in our neighborhood. And we’re so glad we did.

The church is called Faith Church and it meets on Sunday mornings at 10 o’clock in the Auditorium of James L Dennis Elementary School. My expectations of church size were confounded when I rounded the corner to a parking lot full of cars. I was expecting about half as many.

The awkwardness of walking for the first time into a group of strangers was quickly allayed by smiling greeters at the door, and again (and again) by friendly people pointing the way to the coffee, the restrooms and the sanctuary (as it were). I even ran into someone I knew a few years back.

Most everyone was standing around visiting with friends so Stephanie and I chose seats and settled in. Almost immediately a guy walked up and said, “Hi, I’m Josh!” From what little research I had done on Facebook and on the church’s website I recognized Josh as the Pastor. And I was impressed at the genuineness and humility with which he introduced himself.

And then church started. And brother – it was CHURCH; the praise and worship, the anointed word from a Man of God, the fellowship after service (with ice cream, no less)!

Stephanie and I were both blessed beyond measure. The picture conjured in my mind was that of a cowboy riding his pony over the brittle, rainless ground, praying for the promise of a cloud and constantly scanning the horizon for a stream or a river. And then one glorious day, there it is – that oasis of water. And then the cowboy stands, arms outstretched to God in thanks, and falls straight backward into the life giving pool. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, the refreshing!

I don’t know if Stephanie and I will pitch our tent at this watering hole, followed by the building of a cabin and dreams of a larger spread, or if this is just a stopover on the trail to our final destination. We’ll look to the leading of the Holy Spirit on that. But what I do know is that it rained today!

Thanks Pastors Josh & Tiffany and Faith Church for the rain!

The Power of the Pyramid

Things I Hate #127 - Amway!

It's not the products – don’t use ‘em, have no idea how good they are. I may be wrong, but I’ve always assumed the name Amway is a hybrid of the words "American" and "Way". But I’m an American, and I get most of my stuff at Wal-Mart. I had an Amway salesman once tell me I could save the gas of driving to Wal-Mart. “That’s ok,” I told him. “I’m headed there anyway for a new set of tires, some shotgun shells and one of those roasted chickens they have in a case up by the register.”

Oh, it's not because they don't have ammo or roasted chicken. And it’s really not the company itself either. I don’t know that much about it. What I hate about Amway is their way of doing business. Rightly or wrongly, Amway has the reputation of being one of the first and the biggest to apply that business model commonly known as the “pyramid”.

The concept is – you sign up to sell the products. Then you start signing other people up to sell the products. And guess what – you get some money for signing them up, AND you get some money when they sell the products. I gather the Amway salesfolk use the products, but does anybody ever really sell the products? Or do they just make their money signing up other people?

But that pyramid thing is still not what I REALLY hate. What I REALLY hate is how, when somebody gets involved in a sales-oriented situation like that, their family and friends become their prospects! Some of them even teach you in their training manual that you have a ready-made base of prospects - your family and friends.

Here’s how it happens. First you start noticing slight changes in the routine that is your friendship - subtle hints that something’s different. You aren’t spending as much time doing the friend things you used to do. Your conversations aren’t as light-hearted as before.

And then you get that all-telling invitation, “We’d like you guys to come over for dinner. We have something we want to share with you!” Oh, you've had dinner there lots of times, but never have you received a formal invitation. That pain you are experiencing in the pit of your stomach right now is what it feels like to realize you’ve just morphed from friend into prospect!

I just hate it when a friend tells me he's signed up for the latest greatest new home-marketing product. See, I don't have that many friends to spare.

If this is the American Way I think I’ll sign up for EgypWay. EgypWay may not have roasted chicken either, but at least their pyramids are real!

The Hop

The Joke
The sole survivor of a shipwreck was rescued from a deserted island after several years alone. His rescuers marveled at the expansive hut he had built as his home. Then they noticed two more huts near one another on the other side of the small island. When asked about the other two huts he pointed to one of them.

“That’s where I go to church!” he exclaimed with pride.

“Interesting”, replied one of the rescuers. “And what is that other hut?”

“Oh”, he chagrined, “that’s where I used to go to church.” (Insert rim-shot here)

Church Hopping
Church hopping - the very term seems to carry an air of negativity - as if a person should find a church, roll up his sleeves and get busy. And never ever again in the unfolding saga of his life should he find the need, desire or opportunity to change from the church where he attends and serves.

But then we are reminded of concepts such as, when one door closes another one opens, or “…for such a time as this…” And we realize that people move from one state to another – and where you begin your spiritual walk may not even be within a thousand miles of where you are finally laid to rest. And a lot of transformations happen in the meantime. Some geographical… some spiritual… some just down right practical!

The Apostle Paul was a church hopper. Oh sure, you could say that he was an Apostle and thus needed to hop to Corinth, and hop to Ephesus, and hop to Thessalonica and Rome and… well, you get the idea. But that’s where his ministry took him. I hate to think of what would not have happened in Paul’s ministry had he not been a church hopper.

Changes
When a church gets new leadership changes begin to take place. This is to be expected - even anticipated. And so when things start happening differently in the Sunday morning service you understand that changes are par for the course. And when staff members start leaving you accept that a new administration brings with it a new team, sometimes by transition, sometimes in mass. So you swallow hard and accept that it is for the best.

Routines are shuffled up. Old programs are phased out and new ones instituted. The very individuals who taught your Sunday School classes and served you communion wafers and changed the light bulbs in the sanctuary change. And in the midst of it all you pray for God’s guidance and look to this new leadership. You look first to see if your needs will be met. And then you look to see where your place may be in helping to meet the needs of others. And you realize that, just as changes are taking place around you, you yourself must be willing to change.

But you also realize that this new pastor is not Previous Pastor, Part 2. He is a different man with a different plan. It’s a plan you may or may not agree with, and you may or may not have a place in that plan. If you do, you re-roll your sleeves and get busy serving. If not, you realize there are others for whom this plan is a perfect fit.

The Hop
But if that plan is designed on pretenses of which you do not approve and cannot support, it becomes obvious to you that there remains no role for you to fill. After all, can two walk together unless they are agreed? Perhaps you have even seen many you’ve come to know and love packing their bibles and leaving, and you start to sense an atmosphere of “hop or get hopped!” And so, after much prayer, you hop.

Your only hopping hope is that by sharing your thoughts others will realize the observations they have observed and the suspicions they have suspected are not merely imagined. And hopping is not a sin. But then, neither is refusing to hop.

Godspeed, my friend.

My Word

The nine month course offered by Rhema Bible Training Center passed quickly and, diploma in hand, I was licensed as a minister through an organization recommended by Rhema. And out into the world I charged!

After a year or two of working in the ministry I applied for ordination and ministerial credentials with a church called Faith Christian Fellowship, located in Tulsa and pastored by Kenneth Hagin’s son-in-law, Buddy Harrison. I received a letter to attend the ordination service where I would be presented with those credentials.

It was at that ordination service that one of the most momentous events of my life unfolded. See, I had read in the bible that certain men, when they were “separated” unto the calling that God had on their lives, had words prophesied over them confirming their call to ministry. And so I asked God for a word of prophesy to be spoken over me at my ordination.

...The Holy Ghost said, "Separate me Barnabas and Saul for the work whereunto I have called them." Acts 13:2

Oh, I had learned from listening to these teachers of the Word that seeking out prophesies for guidance and direction is not God’s plan. Going to his Word and spending time in prayer is God’s way of guiding his children. But this was my ordination service, and I felt I had Biblical precedent for my request.

And so the time came. All the men and women (and their spouses) who were there for ordination were called up front, standing across the front of the church in a line. Pastor Buddy Harrison, his associate Larry Huggins, and their entourage were moving from one end toward the other, laying hands upon and praying for those being ordained. I was antsy with anticipation at the word to be spoken over me.

And then Pastor Harrison moved to stand before my wife and me. And then he laid hands upon us and prayed for God to anoint us and guide us in our ministry. And then he moved on toward the next couple.

“That’s it?” I questioned - silently of course. “Where is my word from the Lord?” And while I didn’t feel cheated, I was nevertheless disappointed. I had not been one to seek out words from other people to guide my life. I had gone to God’s word and spent my time in prayer. And yet, this was my ordination, and I had asked God for a prophecy; just as I had seen in the Bible.

And then, just as Pastor Harrison was raising his hands toward the next couple in line… he stopped. And then he looked back at me. And then he turned around and stepped back to me. And then he laid his hands back upon me. And then he opened his mouth and prophesied over me. And he spoke these words:

“Father, in the Name of Jesus, we lay our hands upon these –
...separate them whereunto they are called.

We declare and we decree that which you desire
to impart as their portion today.

We thank you Father that you give them
new and fresh words to say.

Blessings, blessings, they shall abound;
teaching, teaching, it shall be sound.

The utterance is going to come.
It’s going to be strong, clear, deep and sweet.

You’ll speak as the oracles of God;
so go ahead and yield to it.

And when that boldness comes on you,
don’t back up and get timid, but be strong,

in Jesus’ Name.”

I had my word!

Silkwood’s Noconas

Perhaps you’ve heard of Karen Silkwood, the premier counter-culture icon of the labor unions, environmentalists, and anti-nukers of the world. Karen was working at a facility owned by a major oil company who had ventured into the nuclear arena. Her job involved making plutonium pellets for nuclear reactors.

Of course, she’s dead now. If you saw the movie Silkwood, starring Meryl Streep, you know this. But what you don’t know is what this has to do with me.

Well, as the story goes, Karen found some incredible negligence in the way the nuclear products were being handled (numerous violations of health regulations, including exposure of workers to contamination, faulty respiratory equipment and improper storage of samples). That plutonium is some pretty dangerous stuff, you know.


In spite of the damage to her car’s rear fender and the skid marks in the road, nobody was ever charged in her murder...


When Karen’s breath expelled contaminated air from her lungs an investigation was launched. She, as well as her home, was found to be badly contaminated. The major oil company claimed Karen caused the contamination to make them look bad, or to sell the story, or for whatever reason. Of course, Karen claimed it was from the aforementioned negligence. Others speculated that the major oil company actually planted the contamination to sully her name.

Karen decided to go public with the evidence. She claimed to have a binder full of documentation, and indeed folks in her home town of Crescent, Oklahoma later testified of the existence of such a binder. She called the New York Times and a meeting was set.

And so, on the evening of November 13, 1974, Karen Silkwood left Crescent, Oklahoma to drive to Oklahoma City 30 miles away to hand the evidence over to the journalist. But she never arrived. The next day her car was found in a culvert on the road to Oklahoma City – her body inside the car… the binder nowhere to be found.

Of course, everyone with half-a-brain assumed the major oil company “took care of her”… “had her bumped off”… But in spite of the damage to her car’s rear fender and the skid marks in the road, nobody was ever charged in her murder. In fact, it wasn’t even officially ruled a murder – but an accident! And in fact, in the longest running civil suit in the history of the state, the major oil company paid Karen’s family $1.38 million, and got out of the nuclear energy business altogether.

BUT… what has this got to do with me?

Well, remember that investigation that found contamination at Karen’s home? In the course of the search the authorities did a lot of damage. Later Cher Bono brought Karen’s boots into my father’s shoe repair shop to be fixed. (OK… it wasn’t Cher Bono. It was Karen’s roommate - Cher Bono just played her in the movie).

“Price is no object”, she said. “Hell, they’re paying for it!”

And so I got to tear off the soles and heels from the late Karen Silkwood’s Nocona boots, so that my dad could make them like new again.

So why am I telling you this? Two reasons – One: I don’t know if anybody but me knows this story, and I wouldn’t want it to be forgotten. And Two: it might explain why my fingers glow in the dark!



photo used by permission of: Idea go / FreeDigitalPhotos.net