Ken Pierpont's Blog, page 153

Are You With Me?

Title: Are You With Me?

Scripture: Matthew 12:22-30

Series: Matthew's Gospel

Date: February 5, 2012 AM

Place: Evangel Baptist Church–Taylor, Michigan

Speaker: Pastor Kenneth L. Pierpont

Stonebridge Podcast (Number 2)

Stonebridge Podcast 2

Among My Books

Puttering around among my books I spot and old book of pastoral theology passed down to me from my grandpa's modest library. I take it in hand and turn it over a few times, enjoying the weight of it. Something about it tugs on my memory. I open it. Suddenly it comes back to me why this is a very special book.

Grandpa had great eyesight. He always said that when he was in the Navy he was tested and told he had rare 20/10 vision. (I guess that's twice as good as normal vision). This may have been one of the things that made grandpa a skilled hunter. He was a keen observer of nature. I'm sure the eyesight was especially helpful.

We were on the tractor chugging up the lane aimed at the gate to the field on top of the North hill one mid-summer day when, without speaking, he stopped the tractor and pointed toward the ground.

"Theres's four-leaf clover right over there. Those are pretty rare why don't you jump off and pick that."

I strained eyes. I couldn't see it. "Where, grandpa?"

"You can't see it there? It's about two feet out to the right of the front tire."

I couldn't see it.

I noticed the wide blue sky. I saw the wispy white clouds and the colorful birds that occupied the wide blue sky. I noticed the silvery ripples in the pond in the morning breeze and the glassy surface of an evening calm. I stood in quiet mediation watching how the slanting light of the sun reflected on the water in the deepening dusk. I saw the insects that skittered on the surface of the water in the evening and the circles in the water where the bass would rise as darkness was coming on.

I noticed the graceful way the Maple leaves waved in the wind. I noticed how the leaves of the Maples were minty green in early spring, a light pastel, how they would turn to a rich dark green in summer and then in the shorter days of September begin to blush with color until they displayed their full dying glory against the deep blue October sky. I noticed how by mid-November the wind would blow the Maples bare to leave a stark pencil sketch where the month before there had been a beautiful water-color of a tree.

I noticed the feathery tassels over the corn growing in artful bands on the hillsides and the green pasture growing between the bands of corn. The symmetry-the artistry of a well-groomed hill farm draws my attention to this day-how the crops lay like a mantle on the shoulders of the hills.

I noticed the country noises and the absence of suburban sounds. There was not a highway within miles. The nearest paved road was miles away–Martinsburg Road and that was a lightly-travelled undulating, curving, scenic farm road.

The farm was bisected by a gravel road. There we only a few farms on the road. The mail truck would pass once a day. Only a few cars a day passed the farm. If you were within site of the road when a car passed it would be a great social affront not to raise your head and wave your hat or hand in greeting. The locals would consider you odd and anti-social the talk at the coffee shop would go like this; "You know I was out passed the Kaylors the this morning. I don't know what's gotten into him. He didn't even look up."

You could hear the tires on the gravel and unless there had been a rain within a few days a plume of dust would rise and fall after the car. Once the noise of the passing car or truck fell away the country sounds would be amplified in the quiet.

I noticed the lazy grazing of the cows and how they would always cluster together. I noticed how the cows would graze over to the fence-line in the east and eat away the low-hanging branches leaving a neatly-groomed appearance. For the rest of my life I would notice when livestock or deer would trim the trees and leave the forrest with a park-like grooming along the edge of the wood.

I noticed the pasture in spring green as Ireland. I noticed the bleached white of the limestone in lane and in the two-tracks over the hills. I noticed the blue and purple paint of the hills rolling off into the distance and the cloud of condensation left by a jet thousands of feet overhead silently streaking white across the sky.

I noticed the smell of the barn, a wonderful mix of manure, hay, grease, faint exhaust from the tractor, molassas in the feed, and ancient timber aged by moisture and sun and years. The barn on a working farm has a fragrance, a beautiful perfume you could only appreciate if you cherished a few summers in the country.

I noticed a lot if things, but grandpa had a way of pointing out things I overlooked.

I let go of the fender and jumped down from the draw-bar where I was standing and walked over in the direction of where he was pointing and tried to search every inch of the ground. He throttled-back the engine, took the tractor out of gear, set the brakes, let out the clutch, slowly got off, walked over, bent down and picked a four-leaf clover. I watched him do this more than once. He held the clover up for me to see and then put it in the pocket of his chore coat.

At first I thought it was a prank. I thought he had a four-leaf clover in his pocket and he would do a little slight-of-hand when he bent over the "pick" the four-leaf clover. I expressed my doubts so the next time he made me look at the clover and confirm it and pick it myself and hand it to him.

When we returned to the house he would walk over and pick a thick book of pastoral theology, a hard cover book with a green dust-jacket, and he would open the book and press the clover between it's pages. The book was called Pastoral Leadership, by Andrew Blackwood.

I've had my meetings and closed out my tasks for the day. The phone is silent. The others have gone for the day. I prepare to turn off the lights and go home for supper. The church is quiet.

In the solitude of my study I sit among my books for a few minutes hold this old book in my hands. How long has it been? I calculate the years that have passed. It's been 40 years since we found some of the clover pressed between these pages. The memory draws my heart back to the summers of my youth. I begin to slowly fan it's pages. I'm in no hurry. There are ten or twelve places I find with four-leaf clovers pressed between the pages.

For the first time ever I begin to carefully turn every page of the book to see if there was anything I have overlooked in the years my grandfather's book sat on my shelf. I find an annotation. It is my Dad's careful printing. This book had belonged to my Dad. He had given it to grandpa and then Dad gave it to me after grandpa's death knowing the significance it would hold.

Inside the last few pages is something I have never seen before, a number of four-leaf clovers in a cluster, maybe twelve or fourteen of them.

Grandpa would die within ten years of the afternoon we pressed the clover. A quarter of a century later we would bury grandma next to him in the old Wilson Cemetery. I would meet and marry Lois and serve pastorates in Ohio and Michigan. Our eight children would be born and all that busy time this book would sit silently on my self unnoticed. Years would come and go.

This afternoon, enjoying the quiet luxury of my study I hold the old book in my hands and I feel a connection across the states and the decades to the little farm in the hills of Ohio and and a rare mid-summer afternoon.

I have my grandpa's last Old Schofield Reference Bible. It is stamped REV K D PIERPONT in gold foil. I have the set of Ellicot's Commentaries that belonged to him and I have the book on Pastoral Leadership by Andrew Blackwood. Between it's pages are little plants of green that one day grew out of the soil that lay on the hills of the old farm. Few other physical things remain. I put the book carefully back in it's place. I turn off the lights and start for home with a thoughtful heart.

Stonebridge Podcast (Number 1)

Enjoy the first-ever Stonebridge Podcast. Let me know what you think. Stonebridge Podcast (Number 1)

The Way it Should Have Been

The Way It Should Have Been (mp3)

Last week I watched a lovely old movie about a newly-wed pastor and his young, beautiful wife. The movie follows their first three years serving a rural Methodist circuit charge in the Blue Ridge Mountains of northern Georgia. In the movie the pastor was a good guy. That should tell you it was an old movie. Pastors in modern movies are usually oily charlatans trying to get into people's pockets, week men who are unprincipled and can be bought and sold cheap. They are usually hypocritical and immoral, or effeminate and inconsequential characters. Pastors are rarely principled men of commendable character in modern movies.

This movie is eight years older than I am. The scenery is lush, the churches are quaint, the people are simple and the Pastor is a good guy. The story is told from the wife's point-of-view. She is a girl, learning to be a wife. She is a girl from the city learning country ways. She is a young woman learning to partner in ministry with her pastor husband.

Together they minister for three years amid a contrast of saints and problem parishioners, believers and doubters, triumphs and tragedies, They endure hardship and disappointment but they are happy and they are in love. They learn and grow and serve nobly and leave honorably when their church moves them to a new assignment.

When I'm done with what I do here I'm sure you will want to watch the movie so I won't spoil the plot, but let me say the movie ends well. It is a wholesome, heart-warming film to watch.

As always there is a story behind the story behind the movie. The movie's title is: "I'd Climb the Highest Mountain." It is based on a book by Corra Harris written in 1910 entitled: "A Circuit-Rider's Wife." They say the book was loosely autobiographical. Corra Harris was a pastor's wife. Her first years of marriage were as the seventeen-year-old bride of a circuit riding Methodist pastor. She wrote at least partly from financial necessity. Her pastor husband died at his own hand in 1910 after she had had to endure his alcoholism, depression and eventual adultery and desertion. They had three children but only one survived into adulthood. Corra would outlive her daughter by sixteen years.

She had a troubled and difficult life, but she had beautiful stories to tell. Maybe in writing A Circuit-Rider's Wife she was telling the story the way it should have read. I imagine so. Maybe she was recalling with little romanticism the early and happier days of her youth as a seventeen to twenty-year-old circuit-rider's wife.

I've not yet read the book, but those who have would say she hoped the story would alert the Methodist Church to the hardships of rural pastors. She was not satisfied that it ever did. The book did sell well and made her a popular writer for a time and provided for her a place in the heart and history of her native state. She was able to travel and purchase a unique log home there which she named The Valley. It was there in The Valley wrote her stories.

Your life is not exactly the way it should have been, I'm sure, but that doesn't mean you have to become hard as stone. Difficulty does not have to crush your spirit or strangle your imagination or poison heart. Hardship is often the rich soil where dreams are planted by faith and grow into beautiful flowers and nourishing fruit.

Ken Pierpont

Granville Cottage

February 20, 2012

Riverview, Michigan

Good Read

Here is a suggestion you will thank me for. Get a copy of John Piper's Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ and read it devotionally. It is written in rich, short, chapters perfect for devotional reading. You can buy a copy and mark it up as you read or read it free in PDF format here. I read mine in the wee hours of the morning working the front desk at the Riverfront Character Inn.

You will read things here you have never read before written in a way you have never thought of them before. It is a fresh, Scripture-saturated devotional/theological book.

Of Trees And Truthfulness

This story is an old chestnut I have been telling for years. It is a rare story. I man only gets a few stories like this to tell in his lifetime. I first wrote it about twelve years ago. (2-18-2012)

It had been years since I had seen my grandfather's old farm. It was sold about fifteen years ago. When we moved into the area and I wanted my wife and children to see the place that had meant so much to me growing up.

Off the main highway we wended through the countryside on familiar gravel roads. Every mile was a treasury of memories and stories to tell. Up Sadie's Hill which was always such an adventure in the winter, past the Burger's place and around the last bend before the farm would come into view.

The pond seemed so much smaller than I remembered. The raspberry patch behind the house was gone. My favorite tire swing was missing from the big oak across the lane from the house. Some of the outbuildings had given way to the years. The farm was not as I remembered it. But one thing caused me to catch my breath in surprise.

At Christmas time we would always crowd toward the window of the car as we took the last turn in the road. The farm lay in the valley below and we would and strain to see the lights on the little evergreen beside the spring run. One Thanksgiving I remember helping Grandpa decorate the tree with a six-foot stepladder.

The tree was still there, but it towered over the old two-story farmhouse. The little pine by the spring run was now over forty feet high!

The next time the family was together, I told Grandma about how the tree had grown. Dad laughed and assuming a Paul Harvey-like voice said; "How would you like me to tell you the rest of the story?"

Years ago Dad and his younger brother Bill skipped school on the opening day of rabbit season to hunt with Grandpa. Grandpa gave his approval on the condition that the boys would not lie when asked the reason for their absence. They took the deal and skipped school to hunt rabbits with their dad. Evening came quickly and after a nice dinner with fresh meat the boys tumbled into bed, but they would face the judgement at school the next day.

They weren't alone. The boys were called upon to account for their absence the following day. They joined a long line of boys at the Principal's office. Most of the other boys claimed there were sick. (They were sick of having to go to school on opening day of rabbit season). Dad and Bill, true to their word, told the truth. "we were rabbit hunting with our dad," they said. "Are you sure you weren't feeling just a little under the weather, boys?" the Principal asked. "No, sir, we were feeling fine, and we were rabbit hunting with our dad."

The gavel dropped and the sentence came swiftly. They would stay after school one hour each night until they had made up the time they had missed.

On the final day of Dad's punishment the teacher, out of sympathy, walked back the aisle where dad was sitting and gave him a little gift. It was tiny start of a pine tree in a cut-off milk carton. It didn't seem like much of a compensation for the suffering he endured, but he carried it home. That night Grandpa and Dad set it out in the back yard of their home on Bowers Avenue in Newark, Ohio.

A few years later Dad was serving in the Navy in Korea, Bill and Aunt Ann were married and gone. My grandfather realized a life-long dream. He and grandma were able to buy a small farm north of town. Nestled in the hills were he had grown up. Along with their other belongings, Grandpa took the time to dig up a little pine tree and set it out at the base of the hill by the spring run.

It's always been a source of beauty. It's a haven for birds. In the winter its branches are flocked with snow and glow with multi-colored lights. It's fed year round by the spring at its feet. But I know that it is more than that. It is a forty foot tall monument to the virtue of truthfulness.

Someday, I'm going back to Ohio. I'm going to turn off State Route 13 at St. Louisville and wind my way on gravel roads back to the east. I'm going to go back up Sadies' Hill. I'm going to remember the time grandpa had to get the old Massey-Ferguson tractor and come and pull our car up the icy hill to get us to the farm for Christmas. I'm going to visit the new owners of the old farm and I'm going to tell them what a treasure they have growing in their front yard.

"The truthful lip shall be established forever, but a lying tongue is but for a moment." (Proverbs 12:19 NKJV)

My Pagan Barber

I've always considered a trip to the barber kind of a luxury, a social event. A barber shop is one of the places that hasn't changed much over the last fifty years (except for a brief "styling salon" period in the seventies which went the way of the disco, thank God.)

I just love a good, old-fashioned barber shop. The smells. The local gossip. The latest news. A few new jokes. A fishing report.

A few years ago in a distant city I purred in town in my little brown wagon to visit the barber. I was new to the town.

I got the guy in the third chair. Let's call him Gary. God makes no mistakes. Gary and I needed to talk. We chatted about the weather, the local high school football team, the Reds and Indians and the Buckeyes. (These are Ohio sports teams, for the uninitiated).

Finally he asked what I did for a living. I told him; "I'm a pastor." He said; "Oh, you steal from people for a living. You don't earn your own money, you wait for people to give you gifts." Then he launched into what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech about how preachers take advantage of people for money and get rich off widows.

I listened to his diatribe and thought of my dad working two jobs so he could start a small church. I thought of my grandpa working at a factory and driving out to the little church he served. He and grandma carried their own drinking water because the little church had no inside plumbing for years. If they got rich off the generosity of widows if was a well-hidden secret.

When I got up to leave I turned and smiled and looked him in the eye and told him that most the pastors I know are not in it for the money. And I know quite a few pastors pretty well. Me, my Dad, my grandpa, my brother in law, and two of my brothers. All put together we don't make enough to visit each other regularly let alone lease private jets or build villas on the Mediterranean. I gave him a nice tip and said; see ya' next time Gary.

On another visit I determined to befriend him. I let others go ahead of me and waited so Gary would cut my hair. I tried to think of a good way to start a friendly conversation with him and settled on sports. There had been a big football game that week. I don't remember who was playing but I do remember that I didn't really have time to watch it. I read about it.

"Hey Gary," I said, climbing into the chair. "What did you think of the big game?" He snorted and replied; "Oh, I have to work for a living, I can' t sit around all day and watch football like a preacher."

I told a few people about the way he treated me. Some of them thought I should stop going to him, if he was going to be so rude to me. I was trying to figure the guy out.

Was it because he had had a painful experience with a pastor? Was it because he was generally bitter against God? Was it because he wanted to believe that it was true, but did not want to risk so he was testing me? Was it because he had sin in his life and he had to prove God wrong so that he didn't have to repent and change his ways? Was it something that I didn' t understand?

I guess that is why I continued to go back to him. In case he had had a painful experience with a pastor I wanted him to know that that pastor was the exception to the rule.

In case he was generally bitter against God I wanted him to know how good God really is.

In case he wanted to believe that the things of God were true I wanted him to see it was so.

In case he was committed to his sin I wanted him to know how to find freedom.

In case it was something I didn't know I wanted to learn.

If people don't know Jesus they can develop some pretty nasty habits. Those habits sometimes make them a little difficult to get next to. But if people don't know Jesus they probably never will until they get next to a few real, caring Christians.

Maybe everybody should have a pagan barber.

The Grace of God, by Andy Stanley (review)

Andy Stanley has an unusual gift at making theological, biblical ideas concrete and clear and communicating in a fresh way. Compared to some of his other books, though, The Grace of God is lacking in concrete description.

The book surveys the major movements of the Bible highlighting the grace of God and showing that grace is not a concept that appears in the New Testament, but a truth that appears in the first pages of the Bible and continues throughout the Bible as a theme–the central storyline of the Bible.

Early in the book he acknowledges that the God of the Old Testiment seems to be a God of genociede not a God of grace. He develops his argument slowly and unconvincingly. His defense of the God of the Old Testament is thin and unconvincing. (It's not that I don't think there are convincing arguments. There are, but Andy doesn't really use any of them).

Generally speaking Andy Stanley's books are worthwhile. He is creative. He has a unique gift at communication. Of all the books by Andy Stanley that I have read, this is the least so. A book entitled The Grace of God should display the author's very best skills. He can do better.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 : "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."

Review of "Churched" by Matthew Paul Turner

I've hesitated to do this review because they say any publicity is good publicity and I do not want to have anything to do with giving this book any publicity. Most of it is borderline blasphemy. Some of it is outright blasphemy. It is an arrogant diatribe that is written by a man who openly claims to be a Christian. It would make more sense to me if he disclaimed Christianity altogether. This book sounds like it is written by a person who has no fear of God, no reverence for God and no respect for people who disagree with him.

Anyone who has spent time around people who are Christians or claim to be Christians can tell war stories of hurt or excess or misunderstanding or mistreatment. Someday Matthew's own children will probably point out some of his own inconsistencies, but 250 pages of unbroken, unbalanced mocking is just too much.

I've often considered reading Turner's book on sharing the gospel, but this irreverent memoire puts me off, it gives me a glimpse into his soul and I don't like what I see.

Perhaps he is a good and devout man who simply failed to balance his expose. I tend to like people and if we met, I'm sure he would be much easier to like if we could have a thoughtful discussion of these matters. I'm sure we would laugh and cry at some of the same things.

None the less, this is an unkind, unfair, unchristian attack on fundamental Baptists. If you wrote books like this about almost any other group there would be an outcry against you. It's popular these days to pile hatred and prejudice on Independent Baptists. There is nothing redemptive or worthy about this book. I'd pass on it.

Ken Pierpont

I received this book free in a blogging for books program. I'm hoping my other books will be more worthwhile.