Ken Pierpont's Blog, page 49

Bittersweet Farm Journal (Number 35) When People Bug You

They say it’s going to be in the 60’s on Thursday out on Bittersweet Farm. Today all the ice and snow melted off the circle drive out front. It been covered up for weeks. The yard is still white and gray with snow and ice. Strong winds this winter have littered the ground with branches. I look out my window and yearn for warm spring evenings when I can pick them all up and build a roaring fire.

This afternoon Lois and I ate at a favorite Mexican eatery where they serve limeade. I fill my cup over and over again and imagine myself eating in the plaza of some little down deep in Mexico along the Eastern Sierra Madres on a warm summer evening… then I remind myself that the trees on Bittersweet won’t fully leaf and the Dogwoods won’t be white for two full months and I snap out of my daydream.

In the mornings I walk slow to my car to listen to the birds. They are getting bold. I welcome them. I guess they welcome me. I’m the newcomer.

When People Bug You

I went to a place of business this week and bumped into a young woman who was very efficient. Trouble was she wasn’t efficient at her job, she was efficient at being brash and rude and disrespectful. She was remarkably good at it. In just a few short sentences and a couple of curt gestures she managed to irritate me. I’m not that easy to irritate. Good-natured as I am, she got under my skin. She was one of those types who is good at being bad.

You have anybody in your life like that? I tried to help her out a little bit with a little “stand-up customer service coaching.” It made things worse. She didn’t appreciate it. I have to admit I steamed about it. She irritated me. As I drove away I had a little talk with myself; I said, “Ken. Wait. She does not know the Lord, You don’t know what she has been through, You don’t know her story… You are a Christian. You are a pastor in this town. This is your parish…. What if somebody invites her to the Easter Service…”

Don’t look at me like that. You have people who bug you, you know you do. Have you had an inner conversation like this when sinners bug you, when they disgust you or worse, they relentlessly persecute you?

Maybe you are listening to my little story and thinking “I wish that was the worst of my problems…”

Let me give you some help on this. It helps to remember who you were or who you would be without Christ. Paul said it this way to Titus:

“For we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another. But when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his own mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that being justified by his grace we might become heirs according to the hope of eternal life.” (Titus 3:3–7, ESV)

Remember. If you are Christian you are the Bride of Christ and the Bride of Christ never has to lower herself to mud-wrestling.

I love the French Laundry in Fenton, Michigan. It is one of the most unique places I have ever been. They have a variety of pastries like an authentic rugelach, hamantashen, and a brownie that has a layer of carmel baked into it. (Buenos Ares Brownies) They serve sandwiches with applewood smoked bacon and Vermont cedar cheese. Their coffee alone is worth the drive.

It is one of my favorite restaurants and it is completely outfitted with furniture salvaged from dumps and garage sales. The furniture is stuff nobody else wanted. Salvaged furniture made useful and beautiful by someone with a plan.

A church should be like that—full of people who were once on the discard pile but they were reclaimed and made useful and beautiful by and through Christ.

Our churches will never be like that if we treat people with contempt. We have to treat them with compassion like Jesus did. (If you watch the message below, you will hear a whole talk on this).

When Sinners Disgust You (Sermon) Video

Series: The Little Red Book of Church

Sermon: When Sinners Disgust You

Text: Titus 3:3-7

Speaker: Ken Pierpont

Place: Bethel Church | Jackson, Michigan

Date: March 19, 2019 AM

When Sinners Disgust You (Sermon) Audio

Series: The Little Red Book of Church

Sermon: When Sinners Disgust You

Text: Titus 3:3-7

Speaker: Ken Pierpont

Place: Bethel Church | Jackson, Michigan

Date: March 19, 2019 AM

https://kenpierpont.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/When-Sinners-Disgust-You-online-audio-converter.com_.mp3

Bittersweet Farm Journal (Number 34) His Mercy is More

I’m home from another sacred journey north. Aided by a gigantic diet Mountain Dew, I’m safe and warm in my corner of the living room on Bittersweet Farm, feet up on the ottoman. This evening I’m peacefully reflecting on a perfect winter weekend preaching Christ to young people at Camp Barakel.

The daylight is lingering later. The sun will not set until half-past six tonight, and next Sunday Daylight Savings Time goes into effect in our part of the world. That should brighten things up. Temperatures are climbing a little at a time. Last year we still had some snow toward the end, end I say, of April, so we are trying to temper our expectations. Still it is sweet to look out on the sun on the snow and know that it will not set for another hour.

John Piper wrote: “The true usefulness of our (ministry) will not be known to us until each fruit on all the branches on all the tress that have sprung up from all the seeds we’ve planted has fully ripened in the sunshine of eternity.” (From the Supremacy of God in Preaching)

He is right. We cannot measure the potential of a seed of truth sown in the heart, but we can imagine, as I have done in this little story that came to my heart this evening:

His Mercy is More

Mom and Dad were upstairs. She really should have known better than to go down in the basement with her boyfriend to watch Netflix on the big screen. She told herself it would be harmless fun. Maybe they would cuddle a little. That wouldn’t hurt anything. Maybe he would say things her heart longed to hear.

But in just a few minutes she could tell that he had no interest in the movie. He didn’t want to say nice things or even cuddle. He really only wanted what he wanted and it seemed all about him. When they were done she felt even more lonely and unloved but now she felt dirty and guilty and ashamed.

She lay alone in her bed that night and couldn’t sleep. He didn’t even text her. Now she had an ugly secret to keep. She wasn’t sure but it seemed like people started looking at her different at school. He hadn’t kept their secret.

She knew what they were thinking. She was a tramp. She was used and cheap. She stated to feel depressed and insecure, worried and anxious about everything. It was hard to concentrate on her school work. The was short with her parents, irritable with her friends.

One afternoon he stood by her locker he said; “It’s really not that fun to be around you anymore.” He made excuses and started to ghost her. Soon the rumors were going around that he had another interest.

That is when someone invited her up north for the weekend. They said, “It’s a church camp, but I think you will like it,” they said.

“Why not,” she thought, “I don’t have a life anymore, I might as well.”

When she got there there was a big snow tubing run and a cute outdoor ice-skating pond set among the pines. There were pines everywhere. After a while someone said; “Hey its chapel-time. Let’s go.”

She followed the group along a snowy path that led to a little church building in the woods. She could hear music coming out of the the little building. The windows glowed with light. Inside there were two big stone fireplaces down in the front of the room roared with huge fragrant fires.

The place was packed with other teens, guys and girls. There was a band, but the band didn’t really perform, instead everyone sang—the whole group, all at once. She didn’t know why but it made her want to cry.

After the singing a man stood up and began to tell stories from the Bible. During his talk he said; “We all have a list running in our mind. It a list of things that trouble us. On the list are things we worry about, things that depress us. On the list are things that people have done to us, hurts and things that we have done to hurt others. The worst things on the list are the things that make us feel guilty and ashamed…”

She felt her heart start to beat fast and her face flush red. From that moment on she listened to every talk. Between the talks and the songs and the new friends she made, she couldn’t explain it, but she felt as if her heart started to “thaw out.”

After chapel there were snacks and talks late into the night. There were meals together and a lot of friendly laughter. When the weekend was over her sides hurt from laughing, she’d made new friends, and she knew she would be back.

Looking out the van window on the way downstate she prayed, for the first time since she was a little girl.

The words of a song they sang kept ringing in her heart, “Our sins they are many, His mercy is more.”

“When I get home,” she thought, I’m going to see if I can find my Bible.”

Ken Pierpont

Bittersweet Farm

March 4, 2019

A Family Library

The Influence of a Father’s Library

by Ken Pierpont

Two years
ago I walked for the first time into the rooms in our church that would become
my study. The inner room had French doors, a beautiful arched window, and
eleven-foot ceilings. I immediately imagined floor-to-ceiling bookshelves
lining the walls. Shortly after our arrival the men of the church began to turn
my dream into a reality. Now I spend hours every day in those rooms. I often
instruct my children, counsel others, meet with the staff, study for messages
and write there among my treasured books. Every week I worship God and pray in
the quietness of those book-lined rooms. A personal library is a wonderful
thing.

I have an
Amazon Kindle. It is a clever gadget, but I cannot imagine any electronic
reading device replacing the pleasure of a book-in-hand or a shelf of books, or
a collection of real books in a personal library arranged in floor-to-ceiling
shelves. I read blogs and write for electronic publications nearly every day,
but I cannot imagine a world without things to pick up in hand and read. I like
having pages to turn. The smell of print, the feel of ragged edged book, or the
weight of a book in hand are pleasures I would not want to be without. I like
real books with annotations in the margins and personal indices in the back.

It is my
abiding desire to influence my children and grandchildren and a major part of
my scheme is to do so with words—with spoken words and with the enduring words
of the printed page. I want my children to cherish good books. Sometimes my
favorite books seem to walk away on their own. Before I call the police I
always go to my son Chuk’s room. I look on his shelves. He has great taste in
books. My very best books often mysteriously migrate to his shelves. Sometimes
I just take them from the shelf and inscribe them to him, and make a mental
note to get another copy. I want the influence of my books to continue long
after I’m gone. Books can be a powerful means of influence.

Charles
Spurgeon has more books in print than any other author ever in human history,
but he had only the slightest brush with the university. He never attended a
single class or lecture. He never enrolled in any college or university, but in
the dark attic room among his grandfather’s books he read.  He was influenced profoundly for life by the
puritan books in his grandfather’s dark study. He would be known as the last of
the puritans and the heir of the puritans, because he met the puritans and
spent many, many hours with them in his grandfather’s library. Here is the
account from his autobiography:

But there was one place upstairs which I cannot omit, even at the risk of being wearisome. Opening out of one of the bedrooms, there was a little chamber of which the window had been blocked up through that wretched window-duty. When the original founder of Stambourne Meeting quitted the Church of England, to form a separate congregation, he would seem to have been in possession of a fair estate, and the house was quite a noble one for those times. Before the light-excluding tax had come into operation, that little room was the minister’s study and closet for prayer; and a very nice cosy room, too. In my time, it was a dark den;—but it contained books, and this made it a gold mine to me. Therein was fulfilled the promise, “I will give thee the treasures of darkness.” Some of these were enormous folios, such as a boy could hardly lift. Here I first struck up acquaintance with the martyrs, and specially with “Old Bonner,” who burned them; next, with Bunyan and his “Pilgrim”; and further on, with the great masters of Scriptural theology, with whom no moderns are worthy to be named in the same day. Even the old editions of their works, with their margins and old-fashioned notes, are precious to me. It is easy to tell a real Puritan book even by its shape and by the appearance of the type. I confess that I harbour a prejudice against nearly all new editions, and cultivate a preference for the originals, even though they wander about in sheepskins and goatskins, or are shut up in the hardest of boards. It made my eyes water, a short time ago, to see a number of these old books in the new Manse: I wonder whether some other boy will love them, and live to revive that grand old divinity which will yet be to England her balm and benison.

Out
of that darkened room I fetched those old authors when I was yet a youth, and
never was I happier than when in their company. Out of the present contempt,
into which Puritanism has fallen, many brave hearts and true will fetch it, by
the help of God, ere many years have passed. Those who have daubed up the
windows will yet be surprised to see Heaven’s light beaming on the old truth,
and then breaking forth from it to their own confusion.

Thomas
Edison was born in 1847 in the canal town of Milan, Ohio. He was the baby of
seven children and he only attended school briefly. He was taught at home by
his mother with the use of his father’s library. Paul Ford was a well-known and
widely read historian. As a child he was often sick and educated by having the
free run of his father’s library. Jonathan Edwards, a colonial preacher, was
one of the greatest preachers and philosophers in America. He was profoundly
influenced by his own father’s library.  J.
Hudson Taylor, the great pioneer missionary to China, was converted while
reading on Sunday afternoon in his father’s library.  Loisa May Alcott’s main literary source was
her father’s library. Virgina Wolfe said, “I owe all the education I have ever
had to my father’s library.”

Theodore
Roosevelt wrote of his home: “At Sagamore Hill we love a great many
things—birds and trees and books and all things beautiful, children and gardens
and hard work and the joy of life. The place puts me in the mood for a good
story. Of course, I am always in the mood for a good story. Perhaps that is why
I am rather more apt to read old books than new ones. And perhaps that is why I
surround myself with reminders of stories, long ago told, or those yet to be
told. Life ought to be redolent with the stuff of life from which the stories
of life inevitably spring.”

Doug
Phillips has written with warm affection about his father’s library. “The mere
presence of my father’s library taught me to respect and love important books.
And it increased my respect for my father as a man. My father had chosen not to
invest his limited and precious resources in sports paraphernalia or
entertainment, but in documents, literature, and resources that filled our home
with knowledge. In my father’s library, I met and grew to love the men that my
father respected.”  Mr. Phillips wrote:
“To this day, when visiting a friend’s home, I love to be invited to look at
his library. I can tell so much about the man by looking at the books he has collected,
how he prioritizes them, and whether they are unopened museum pieces, or
well-worn, dog-eared tools of dominion.”

My own
father took me to many, many libraries through my growing up years. He loved
books and he was frugal, so a library is a great place for a frugal
bibliophile. On Saturdays in the fall we loved to follow college football, but
not before we had wandered among the stacks in the old Kregel store in Grand
Rapids, Michigan. The entire basement housed a huge collection of used
theological and devotional books. Eventually Dad acquired a significant
collection of books. I have spent many, many hours browsing and reading and
learning—having my curiosity aroused by those titles and learning to cherish
books.

A few
years ago I was invited to speak to an annual gathering of an organization that
is in decline. It was a delightful meeting but my family nearly outnumbered the
attendees. But it was on the beautiful west coast of Michigan and when the week
came to an end I had met new friends and found some fresh peaches by a roadside
stand and spent a good week with two of my sons. On the way home we would meet
another of my sons in Grand Rapids and then, before leaving town, we would
always browse the stacks in the used book shop. There I discovered the complete
works of Henry VanDyke, many years old and in nearly “mint” condition. I
happened to have set aside a bit of money in my discretionary account and now
they grace my shelves and often delight me with their poetry, prose,
description, narration, nature, and devotional writing. They outlasted their
writer. They outlasted their original owner and they will outlast me. One
winter evening many years from now a young man longing for adventure could sit
before the fire and pass his eyes over the very lines that made their way into
my own soul. That young man or young woman may be my grandchild. My choice of
books is one of the tools of enduring influence at my disposal.

In Shelden
VanAuken’s poignant telling of his young life and love in A Severe Mercy he writes of revisiting Glenmerle in the night. It
was his boyhood home. Among the rich memories that wash over him in the
moonlight are memories of books that opened the world to him. In the same way
his own story has given us a view of the world we could never have otherwise
had—a view of Virginia, of sailing trips, and of Oxford, of misty cobblestone
streets and quiet conversations with C. S. Lewis and friends, considering the
truth of God.

John
Maclead wrote: “It is an old and healthy
tradition that each home where the light of godliness shone should have its own
bookshelf. Blessed is the man or woman who has inherited such a cultural and
spiritual bequest.”  Henry Ward
Beecher, brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe, said, “A home without books is like
a room without windows. A little library, growing every year, is an honorable
part of a man’s history. It is a man’s duty to have books. A library is not a
luxury, but one of the necessities of life.” In 1815 Thomas Jefferson said, “I
cannot live without books” Even the apostle Paul, while he was imprisoned,
instructed Timothy in 2 Timothy 4:13, “When you come, bring the cloak that I
left with Carpus at Troas, ALSO THE BOOKS, and above all the parchments.”

It interested me to read in the essays of Wendell Berry some comments on reading and education:

“Now to my understanding the simplest and most natural way to educate a child is in a place were a collection of worthy books is near-at-hand. The best place to learn is among people who cherish books, in the circle of your homelight, among stacks of compelling things to read.”

Ken
Pierpont is a pastor, writer, and storyteller from Michigan. He and his wife
Lois have four sons and four daughters who have learned together at home for
thirty years. Ken has written a book, Sunset on Summer, and publishes a weekly
newsletter. For more information visit www.kenpierpont.com.

Wrestling Poverty in the Cold

A writer always dreams of having a story to tell, but a good story always has a struggle in it. A great story has a great struggle. My coming book, Finding Bittersweet is the story of a great struggle… I thank God for it looking back.

If you are in a great struggle, God is writing a great story, if you trust Him. Get alone with God and tell Him, “Strengthen me to trust you with this great hardship Lord.”

Your life will make great reading–great telling one day. Your children and grandchildren will tell your story and people will press into Christ because of it. Trust Him and never stop.

Wrestling in the Cold

I yield to moral weakness this morning.

I loop through a fast-food place

for coffee and a sausage muffin

It’s unmercifully cold.

The fast food girl frowns,

and braces against the bitter wind.

It’s blowing directly into her face.

She’s not very friendly.

I try to cheer her, but she is busy and cold.

She’s doing two things at once,

to keep the fast food fast.

I see on old car out of the corner of my eye,

No bumper. Plastic bag for a side window

I wonder if it is hers.

I wonder how hard it would be

to keep a sunny disposition

While wrestling poverty in the cold.

Bittersweet Farm Journal (Number 33) Tommy Minton’s Shirt

Howling in the Trees

You will read the Bittersweet Journal sometime after 5 a.m. on Monday morning. That is when I send it every week, but I’m writing it on Sunday night up in the cozy corner of my writing loft. Our old farmhouse is very tight, warm, cozy, and comfortable tonight, but the wind is howling through the trees outside.

Lois is on the road returning from Kentucky, so I will feel better when we are all home safe and warm out on Bittersweet Farm. Hannah is traveling with her. Dale is on his way over tonight. So a few hours from now the little place will be full and that is the way we like it.

Today I preached at Bethel. I have attached the message below so you can watch it. It is a powerful truth and I think it will encourage you. Next week I will make my way north to Barakel again to speak to teens. It will be the last of the winter camps. Speaking of camp, here is a camp story that I hope will warm your heart and put a smile on your face:

Tommy Minton’s Shirt

You really do meet the neatest people when you set out to serve the Lord. I love this story. It puts a smile on my face and it reminds me of summer. Right now we all need a little reminder of summer and most of our faces look better in a smile.

I was speaking at a camp the summer of the Red Jeep Journey and a noticed a guy that seemed like a good dude to get to know. He listened intently to the messages. He had come from Florida to Kentucky with a group of campers.

When I saw him I noticed two things right away. He had big, white beard. It was really quite impressive. The other thing that stood out was that he had on a very unique, bright blue shirt. To make conversation I said; “Man, I love your shirt. The color really pops.”

He broke into a big smile behind his beard and said, “Well, thank you.”

I discovered that Tommy is a pastor. He is a fisherman of impressive experience.

It was a good week. The fellowship was rich. The campers responded well. Sam Judd led the music and between sessions Sam, Tommy, and I fell effortlessly into conversations in the cool shade of the porch outside the old chapel.

The week passed swiftly. Thursday night was the campfire. The camper testimonies were not so much testimonies of spiritual aspiration like you often hear at camp, but stories of great hardships. Many of the campers came from very troubled homes. After a week of singing and games, horseback riding, hiking in the mountains, swimming, good eating, quiet conversation, and of course, spirited chapel messages they would pack up and return to homes where they would little support for their faith.

My heart just ached for them as I listening to them talking one by one there by the fire up on the hill overlooking the lake. I walked quietly back to my quarters and slept with them on my heart.

It is always hard to drive out of the mountains. Their beauty haunts you and leaving them means that you are entering back into a routine a little more complex than preparing to speak, speaking, hanging out with camper and staff and enjoying food and creation… It’s back to work…

I packed my things and said my good byes and opened the tailgate to load all my things. I took one last look at the camp and walked around to the driver door and got in. There on the seat beside me was a beautiful bright blue shirt cleaned, and folded and gifted to me.

I wrote Tommy and I told him that wherever I spoke all summer I would wear his shirt. When I did I took a picture and sent it to him. I have pictures of me all over Canada and five states preaching in Tommy’s bright blue shirt.

Ken Pierpont

Bittersweet Farm

February 24, 2019

When the Grace of God Dawns On Your Soul (Sermon) Video

Series: Titus: The Little Red Book of Church

Sermon: When the Grace of God Dawns On Your Soul (Titus 2:11-15)

Pastor Ken Pierpont

Bethel Church | Jackson, Michigan

February 24, 2019 AM

When the Grace of God Dawns On Your Soul (Sermon) Audio

Series: Titus: The Little Red Book of Church

Sermon: When the Grace of God Dawns On Your Soul (Titus 2:11-15)

Pastor Ken Pierpont

Bethel Church | Jackson, Michigan

February 24, 2019 AM

https://kenpierpont.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/2019-02-24AM-online-audio-converter.com_-1.mp3

Bittersweet Farm Journal (Number 32) Snow Day

Snow Day on Bittersweet Farm

This week was one of the most productive writing weeks of my life. Wednesday was a snow day. We closed the church office and I did not leave Bittersweet Farm all day. I glued myself in the chair up in the corner of my writing loft early in the morning and wrote all day stopping only for food and coffee. When the snow let up I plowed, then scurried right back upstairs to keep the words flowing.

The new book spilled out of my soul. I wrote laughing and weeping in prayer and in thanksgiving. At times the writing itself was an expression of pure worship. The stories in this book are stories I never want to forget. They are stories I will never tire of telling.

Toward the end of this week, if all goes well, I will finish my self-edits and start sending the book a chunk at a time to the editor. She will work her considerable magic on the text. I will sweet-talk Lois into creating a beautiful cover. By spring you will be able to order a soft-cover or digital copy from Amazon or purchase one directly from me.

My Prayer on a Winter Morning

It was a bit of an ordeal getting out to the church for work this morning. Two or three inches of snow cover everything. It’s a bit inconvenient. If drivers aren’t careful the roads can be dangerous. Our baby (Hope) drives her little green Beatle all the way to Lansing every morning so we turn that worry into prayer continually.

As I pull out onto the road something seems out of place. It is. There, standing in the center of the road right is a graceful gray-brown creature staring right at me. Bright white snow covers everything. I pause in the road a moment. It is a scene of breathtaking beauty I might have overlooked had this creature in the not forced me to stop. The deer bounds away into the north field graceful and lithe.

With a start I’m reminded that I live in a beautiful place and I never want to get used to it. A prayer forms in my soul and spills out to God.

Lord, never let me tire of the beauty of snow covering the brown earth in winter.

Help me never, Lord to get used to the fragrance of woodsmoke on the country air.

Help me keep my soul alert to the beautiful of fresh tracks in the snow reminding me that I live always among wild creatures bright and beautiful.

Tune my ear of a winter morning to the presence of a new bird song that I might overlook by focusing on my worries.

We are still weeks from anything like spring and there are pictures on the internet this week of friends in warm and sunny places. I’m very happy for them. If I were sipping a cold drink in a cabana in the Keys I would posts pictures, too. Yet on white mornings like this I ask the Lord to help me to count my winter blessings.

“Lord, Remind me of the pleasure of

a mug of hot coffee on a cold morning,

the murmur of the faithful furnace warming us,

the weight of the quilt and the comfort of a bowl of split-pea soup…

It just wouldn’t be the same in 90% humidity.”

South of our little country house is a woods. The sun arcs across the southern sky behind the woods. In winter the leafless trees allow the sun to warm the house. In the summer the leaves shade our little home from the sun and provide a cooling shade. This is a smiling providence of which I never tire. I thank God for it and don’t want to ever forget.

The house is one-hundred-and-twenty years old. It’s been restored with modern windows and insulation. It’s tight and warm. Smoke streams from the chimney into the cold winter air. Birds gather at the feeders.

I know these things are small things to pray about but our God is big enough to care about the smallest of things.

So that is my prayer this winter morning.

Ken Pierpont

Bittersweet Farm-Summit Township, Michigan

February 18, 2019

A John Sloane painting. The kind of picture I dreamed about long before we had ever seen Bittersweet Farm