Ken Pierpont's Blog, page 58

Rest A While-It’s a Command of Jesus

“Find me a place on the earth where a weary man can rest and listen for your voice in the turning seasons.” -Fernando Ortega (A Place on the Earth)

Well, summer is all but over. Its the time of the turning of the seasons. The kids have returned to school. Now we can begin to recover from all the exhausting effort we put into taking it easy this summer.

In June, July and August most Michiganders go north. I have in my mind a picture of a big SUV pulling a trailer laden with toys and bikes and kayaks headed north to find a quiet place by the lake for a few days of rest. It must be a lot of work to pull all that off I think. In September we come back home and settle in, check the anti-freeze, storm windows, and the snow-blower.

It’s September in Michigan and hard to imagine a better time of the year to sit on the steps in the quiet morning or stroll in the waning evening, quiet before God. Saints and poets know there is something unusually stimulating about solitude and silence.

Jesus was often busy and surrounded with clamoring need, sickness and shame, brokenness and blindness, suffering and poverty, oppression and death. He often rose early and worked late preaching and healing and forgiving sinners and resisting religious perversion and casting out demons, but He also retreated to the wild and spent time with His Father in unhurried prayer. He taught his followers to do the same. He still does.

Mark wrote: The apostles returned to Jesus and told him all that they had done and taught. And he said to them, “Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest a while.” For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat. And they went away in the boat to a desolate place by themselves. (Mark 6:30-32)?

Jesus who retreated to the wild and taught his disciples to do the same, He is my King, He is my Lord, and He is my role-model. I want to work hard, go about doing good, and rest well, like he did. I want time in the wild, hearing from God and breathing out praise, thanksgiving, confession, and sharing the desires of my heart with Him. To do that I’m going to take advantage of some time on the front steps watching the leaves blow down or the storm roll in.

I will not be distracted by reading, writing, projects, deadlines, or goals. I will not give in to the temptation to worry or fill my life with frenetic activity. I will be quiet. Walking, driving the countryside with the windows down in the evening, listening with heart and ears.

I commend this Christ-like behavior to you. It’s life-giving.

Jesus said; “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-29

Ken Pierpont

Bethel Church

September 2018

Lord, Pass Me Not (Sermon) Video

Series: The Unseen World; Angels, Demons, God, and You

Message: Lord, Pass Me Not

Bethel Church–Jackson, Michigan

September 16, 2018 AM

Pastor Ken Pieppont

Lord, Pass Me Not

Series: The Unseen World; Angels, Demons, God, and You

Message: Lord, Pass Me Not

Bethel Church–Jackson, Michigan

September 16, 2018 AM

Pastor Ken Pieppont

Lord, Open My Eyes (Sermon) Audio

Series: The Unseen World: Angels, Demons, God and You

Sermon: Lord, Open My Eyes

Bethel Church–Jackson, Michigan

September 9, 2018 AM

Pastor Ken Pierpont

http://kenpierpont.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/Lord-Open-My-Eyes.mp3

Lord, Open My Eyes (Sermon) Video

Series: The Unsween World: Angels, Demons, God and You

Title: Lord, Open My Eyes

Bethel Church–Jackson, Michigan

September 9, 2018 AM

Sitting in Church

During a difficult childbirth Lois’s mother Allene had a vision that comforted her. She said in her vision she could see Lois sitting in church. Thus was prophetic. At 13 Lois became a follower of Jesus and was baptized at a small Baptist church with a southern flavor in her neighborhood in Ypsilanti, Michigan in the West Willow subdivision. Her youth pastor encouraged her to attend Bible College where I met her in the fall of 1978.

On September 8, 1979 we married. Since then Lois has spent a large part of her life sitting in church–and listening to me preach. For most of my ministry I have preached three times a week, Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening and Lois has been there to listen.

Today our friend Ken Wyatt snapped this shot just before I rose to preach. It was Lois’s birthday. We have been blessed. We have served the Lord together for 39 unbroken years.

I wrote this on Facebook on her birthday yesterday morning:

At 13 years old Lois walked down the aisle of the Southside Baptist Tabernacle in the West Willow subdivision in Ypsilanti, Michigan, where she lived at the time, and became a follower of Jesus.

39 years ago today on a grey autumn day she walked down the same aisle and vowed to spend the rest of her life as my wife.

We drove away in our little green Plymouth Duster. She changed from her wedding gown to a pretty mint green dress in the car. My heart raced at the intimacy of it. We sat close on the bench seat. She smelled like “Windsong.” The song “We’ve Only Just Begun” by the Carpenters played on the radio as we drove south along Interstate 75.

We stoped for our first meal at Bob Evans in Lima, Ohio. She had ham. I had chicken noodles. We started our life together in a cozy apartment in the up-stairs of a neat farmhouse near Pleasant Hill, Ohio. On autumn nights the wind off the fields blew the curtains in our open windows and scented our love-nest with the fragrance of autumn air.

God has given us an amazing life in spite of our very real brokenness and ever-present faults. She’s been a tough, loyal, woman of stubborn conviction and simple faith. She is still following Jesus and she is still my loyal wife. God has given us four sons, four daughters and soon 12 grandchildren. God has allowed us to be in full-time Ministry almost 40 years starting in the corner of a corn field in the parsonage of a little country church.

This is a testimony to the truth of the Bible and the every-morning new mercies of God.

Two simple kids drove off together crunched together on the front seat of a little Plymouth—looking back over the decades I know we were not alone.

Thank you, Lord for Lois. Thank you Lois Pierpont for the Life you have given us.

Mountain Trail: A Parable

A few years ago I was staying in a mountain lodge high in the Adorondak Mountains of up-state New York. I had been under a great deal of pressure in my work and needed a quiet week away. I found myself becoming a cynical, critical person and I didn’t like it. A quiet, no-pressure week in a lodge over-looking a mountain lake was like a long drink of ice-cold spring water to my spirit.

I had an experience while I was there that changed the way I looked at life. It was on Wednesday morning. I was awakened by the sound of song-birds playing on my window sill and the first thing I remember that morning was a light flurry of air rustling the curtains. Rays of sun shining through the pine branches painted a mottled pattern of light and shadow on the hardwood floor. My running shoes waited at the foot of the bed. I pulled on some shorts and laced the shoes on my bare feet. I left my watch on the dresser and slipped into a running singlet.

The aroma of coffee wafted up the stairs from the dining room but that would wait. I made my way out onto the wide veranda overlooking a pristine blue lake to stretch. Speaking to no one I longed for the quietness of a wooded trail. I walked toward the mouth of the various trails leading off into the timber. The words “High Trail” and “Low Trail” were routed in a redwood sign. I took “High Trail” thinking of lines from a poem by Robert Frost about the difference the choice of a trail can make. I had no idea of the significance of my choice that morning.

I ran easily along the path enjoying the feel of the pine needle cushion beneath my feet. It was early and the dew on the towering pines scented the forest. I filled my lungs over and over with the crisp mountain air. Weaving between the pines the path opened out onto the lakeside and traced the shoreline for at least a mile. I matched my foot-falls to the rhythmic lapping of the water on the rocks. The early morning sun silhouetted a lone sailboat cutting the glassy surface of the water. Further down the trail a father and son silently fished a little cove from their boat.

The path turned away from the lake and climbed gradually up through a stand of hardwoods. A brilliant yellow goldfinch flew along the path for a moment. The forest floor was covered with ferns and wildflowers. Huge rocks jutted up from the earth all around. From one of them a large pine had somehow taken root and flourished. The path threaded between a rock about the size of a small house and a sheer cliff. As I rounded the rock and looked ahead, a doe nursed her speckled fawn in the path directly ahead. They gracefully bounded away up the slope when they saw me.

For a while the trail followed a high ridge. It afforded a breathtaking view of valleys on both sides below. I could see a small house in the distance. A brook lay in one valley like a shinning ribbon. In long lithe motions a fly fisherman plied its waters for trout.

The longer I ran the less exertion I felt. A tingling euphoria crept over me. I felt as if my feet were only brushing the path. Other runners had spoken of this sensation, but I had never experienced it before. I had no desire to stop.

Still running along the ridge I heard voices calling to me from below in the other valley. From a distance I could see a pool of water far below. The people calling to me were swimming in it. A stony by-path descended to its bank. I climbed down to them. As I approached, to my disgust, I realized they were swimming in a pool of stagnant water. Splashing and laughing, oblivious to their foul environment, they begged me to join them. A green film covered a third of the surface of the pond. An unmoving fetid atmosphere filled the valley surrounding the repulsive lagoon. I could see leaches clinging to some of the swimmers. Gagging I turned to climb back to the high trail. I gulped the clear air when I reached the trail above like a drowning man.

For a while a had trouble returning to my earlier cadence. Why would anyone want to swim in the swamp when they could run the mountain trail? How could they endure the stench and the contamination of the repulsive slough when there was such a paradise of nature nearby?

There were stunning vistas ahead. I stopped high on a crag where the magnificent view took my breath away. From my stony perch I could see for miles. High Trail cut through pine forests, fields of wildflowers and over boulders, then crossing a long swinging footbridge over a plummeting gorge it ended back at the lodge. The run was like a long, beautiful symphony rising and falling, sometimes loud and fast and sometimes slow and sweet, a counterpoint of melodies. Thundering waterfall and lilting bird song. The placid surface of a lake broken by a leaping fish. A mammoth pine, ferns growing at its base with hair-like leaves. It was a luxurious run.

Not realizing the trail was a loop I was surprised to be back so quickly. Since I intentionally left my watch in my room I had no idea how long I had run. It seemed like a short jaunt but I had been gone over an hour and a half.

The dinning room was empty when I returned. Breakfast was over and the other guest were playing volleyball on the lawn. I dressed and spent the rest of the morning reading on the big shady porch. Growing hungry, I exchanged my book for a walking stick and made my way toward the little village for lunch.

A quaint string of shops lined the village’s only street. A bakery, a post office, a dry goods store. The bait shop and barber were the same. Locals gathered there to kibitz and tell lies over a game of checkers or just sit idly on the boardwalk in front and smoke. Where the string of shops ended a tree-lined residential street began. The last store and first residence belonged to a little family operation which sold sandwiches and coffee. I devoured both. Besides a few berries I enjoyed on my run it was my first meal of the day.

While I was eating a little old man with a leathery complexion shuffled in. He ordered a coffee and looked for a place to sit. The sandwich shop was full. The only seat available was across from me. I nodded to him to take it. He sighed as he lowered himself into the chair.

“This time ‘o the year you can hardly turn around in this town for the ‘torusts,” he said, not looking up; “You one of ’em?” “Yes, I’m staying up at the Wulpert Inn for the week,” I replied, “Yours is a lovely town. You must be used to tourists by now.” “Well,” he said; “I’m Dale Calhoon my people have made their home in these parts since the only people here were trappers and other such fools but ya’ never quite get used to ‘torusts” “Four generations of Calhoons has been guides in these mountains,” the old man said with a sparkle in his eye, “I spose’ I know every inch ‘o trail ‘tween here and Lake George.”

“I ran a trail this morning marked ‘High Trail’ and saw something very strange”

“People is stranger then wild animals since city folk invaded these hills. Wad’ ya see”

“It was people swimming in the foulest swamp you’ve ever seen. They asked me to join them. There must be hundreds of clear pools fed by mountain streams around here, why would they do that.?”

He looked me in the eye for a long time without speaking then he unsnapped the flap on the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled our a worn and yellowed piece of paper. “I haint never done this before, but I want you to have this,” he said, pushing the paper across the table to me. Then he got up and shuffled to the door. Leaving he turned and said; “Them trails hasn’t always been called ‘High Trail and Low Trail.” Then the strange old man was gone.

That night the temperature fell into the low forties in the mountains. I found a comfortable leather chair near the fire and gazed into its relaxing flame. The popping of the wood was soothing. The cherry and apple wood burning were fragrant. I felt something in my pocket and drew out the paper the old eccentric had given me. It had slipped my mind. I studied it for a while. It was an old map scratched out with a quill pen. Something about it was oddly familiar. Than I realized it was a map of trails leading away from the Wulpert’s Inn. The Inn was labeled “The Calhoon Place” and the hight trail leading away was called “Praise Heights.” The low trail was called “complainer’s swamp trail.”

Bair Lake Bible Camp, Lowry’s Books and Jerry Jacoby, Kid Motivator

This morning I met Jerry Jacoby, Kid Motivator for breakfast. That was fun. I discovered that we live only a few miles way from each other. It’s a small, small world. I preached for the families and enjoyed a nice lunch and some more conversation with Bair Lake’s new Director, Drew Gardner and Event Coordinator, Daniel DeForge.

Camp Isn’t Really Camp

One thing I love about camp is that camp isn’t really camp. I have an air-conditioned private room with an attached bath. A variety of meals are served hot at scheduled times in an air-conditioned lodge. Camps are built in places of natural beauty but you don’t have to risk unwanted exposure to the elements if you don’t want to. You can sip coffee here, enjoy the WiFi and look out on the lake through a plate of glass ten feet tall here at Bair Lake while watching the sun bring the lake to life in the morning. Or, I suppose you can hike around and canoe and kill bears if you want to. There’s just not a lot of hardship here, they even bumped my session forward a bit so it would not interfere with the traditional Notre Dame vs. Michigan football game, complete with hot snacks and two huge projector images of the game with thunderous speakers to capture every nuance of the mayhem.

Bair Lake Bible Camp is a few miles south of M-60 near the village of Jones, Michigan. Bittersweet Farm is a few miles south of M-60 about and hour and three-quarters northeast. It’s pleasant drive, every mile the scenic route, no need to use the frantic interstate.

Lured Away to Lowry’s

I was lured away for an hour and a half this afternoon by the rumor of an good indie bookstore in Three Rivers. I had to manage my way around a bit of a street fair into the store but I was well-rewarded for my efforts. Right on Main, Lowry’s Books and More

Next week I’m launching a series of messages on angels. I found a collection of sermons on angles by great preachers of the past. For a few dollars I now own a three-in-one volume of the first three Miss Read novels, The Chronicles of Faircare. (Something I have been keeping my eye open for, for a time) I now own another title by a favorite author, Charlie Shedd, How to Make People Feel Loved, and a wonderfully preserved copy of Adventures in Insight by Michigan author and pastor Harold Kohn. So for less then 20.00 I walked away with some treasures with which I hope to color my talks and entertain my heart.

So it has been a good day. Now I’m writing in my quiet quarters. There may be a nap in my future, dinner with some new friends, and a circle of friends around a good fire after dark to crown the Lord’s Day with some fellowship, singing and storytelling.

Tomorrow I will preach again, one last time, and head back to Bittersweet Farm for a reunion with Lois and Hope and whoever is visiting when I return.

If you ever get a chance, take in Bair Lake, visit Lowry’s and by all means meet Jerry Jacoby , the Kid Motivator and his wife, Michaela. You will be glad you did.

Oh, and serve the Lord. It’s the life!

Ken Pierpont

Bair Lake Bible Camp

Jones, Michigan

September 2, 2018

A Lifetime Supply of Stories

People, knowing that I am a great lover of stories and Jesus, the Master Storyteller often ask me; “What if you run out of stories.”

I like to tell them, “As long as I live there will be new stories, mine yours and the whole wide world of stories. After I die we will have an eternity of stories in the New Heaven and the New Earth. Imagine.

Today our son Chuk sent me a wonderful resource from the people at Story Corps. It is an instrument to mine stories from those around you… You can see it here.

Never Lose the Wonder

I pull quietly away from Bittersweet Farm this morning a few minutes after dawn.

I aim my car through a tunnel of trees just west of the house.

Just beyond the trees I crest a hill and a wide vista opens before me.

There hanging in the western sky is a full moon silver in the blue sky over a vast field of green.

Across the sky flying southeast are a half-dozen beautiful Sandhill Cranes crossing the just under the moon.

I breathe a prayer; “Lord, help me never to lose the wonder of that.”