Fad or Faith?

My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires. Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you. (James 1:19-21)

COVID-19 is spiking to its highest levels in the Upper Midwest, far outpacing the summer wave. Most states with the highest COVID infection rates in the country form a ring around Minnesota. Our state is not quite as severe, but rural southwest Minnesota is the hottest quadrant in the state. Earlier this week I had a serious discussion with our elders about closing the church building again. After difficult debate, we did not take that step. Under certain conditions, however, closing down remains a future possibility. And so the COVID story continues to unfold. It is nowhere near finished.

When widespread response to the pandemic began in March, the governor’s stay-at-home order provided citizens an opportunity to hit the “reset” button for our priorities and habits. In my case, the freedom to control my complete schedule allowed me to exercise more and eat less. The motivation was simple. My flabby physical condition and my fourth-quarter age put me at higher risk for COVID complications and death. I wanted to be highly prepared to contract, not just avoid, the nasty virus.

An unintended consequence of the strict, new regimen turned out to be weight loss. I didn’t step on the scales at the beginning because weight loss wasn’t a goal. But as my weight decreased, my motivation increased. Soon I began to track it. I pushed hard on the exercise bike. I pulled back from the dinner table. My motivation was so strong that I wasn’t even hungry for three or four months.

A few people commented, “It must have been hard to lose all that weight.” No, it wasn’t hard because I wasn’t even trying. Until I was. It just happened. Until it didn’t. Somewhere around July or August, I found it easier to miss a day of exercise. We were no longer locked down. The novelty of COVID was gone. My schedule was more complicated. The bicycle became an unwelcome intrusion each morning. About that time I also began to get hungry. When it gets hard, most diets fade and the results are temporary. But a lifestyle change is permanent. A question from the back of my mind in March jumped to the front of my thinking in August. Is this a diet or a lifestyle change? The answer will determine my future.

During the pandemic and the accompanying social unrest, economic upheaval, and political polarization of the 2020 election, our church has been crying out to God to help us become quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. Several times recently, as part of a sermon series based on James 1:19-21, the congregation has prayed in unison, “Heavenly Father, help me to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger.”

Is it a fad or faith? The answer will determine our future as a church, especially in the aftermath of whatever comes next.

A Tribute to Tom Elliott

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his faithful servants. (Psalm 116:15)

I had anticipated my next blog post would be lessons from listening, but life has intervened. Rather, death has intervened. Yesterday I received word that Tom Elliott, my closest childhood friend, has passed away suddenly. I can’t say he died “unexpectedly,” because nothing on earth is more certain than death. We deceive ourselves by assuming tomorrow will always come. It won’t. Death may be sudden, but it’s never unexpected.

Tom had a good day on Thursday. He did some farm work, practiced target shooting with a friend, ordered a new crossbow and visited with guests. Then he walked into the house around suppertime and collapsed. His wife told me he was dead before he hit the floor because he didn’t even try to brace his fall. Janet’s CPR efforts were useless, even though she is a skilled and experienced ICU nurse.

I met Tom in second grade, shortly after our family moved to New Concord, Ohio, in the summer of 1963. I remember nothing about how we didn’t get along at first, although Tom later filled in the gap for me. What I do remember is walking home one day from school in second grade. We lived less than a mile from school and I was about a quarter of the way home. It was snowing lightly and I had my face turned up to the sky with my mouth open trying to catch snowflakes. I was literally in my own world. Suddenly, four boys jumped me, beat me up, ripped my shirt, and bloodied my face. Tom had planned it with another second grader and their two older brothers, who were fourth or fifth graders.

Lest this turn into a bullying complaint (it’s not), I should explain further. I don’t remember this, but I had teased Tom and called him names, including “fatso.” If anyone was a bully, it was me. The bottom line is I had it coming. I have no memories of subsequent trauma from the beating. I have never regarded it as bullying.

Back to my story. When I arrived home from school bleeding and crying, my mother immediately drove to Elliott’s house and read Tom’s mother the riot act. I don’t remember that. I don’t remember what happened next, either. But my mom later told me the story with amazement and wonder. The next day, Tom knocked on our front door with the biggest apple my mother had ever seen, asking if I could come out and play.

Very quickly Tom and I became best friends. By third grade it was typical for us to walk home from school together. We would stop at the Muskingum College student union and buy penny pretzels. Then we would stop at his house and watch George Reeves as Superman on TV. Included in our play as young children was the unique game of croquet. Sometimes Tom’s older brother joined us. Denny was merciless as he would “send” our croquet balls into the hinterlands.

Soon Tom invited me out to the family farm. We often rode in their pickup truck. Tom sat in the middle and shifted gears for his father, who had lost an arm in a corn picker. I was amazed at that. I learned to throw hay bales on a trailer and ride a horse. I remember Tom’s favorite horse Missy and his dad’s stallion Chief. The Elliotts lived in town until Tom and I were in high school, when they built a new house on their farm. By then I was spending more time with another classmate on a dairy farm, milking cows and gaining more experience putting up more hay.

As grade school children, Tom and I were unlikely friends. I was thin, frail and studious. Tom was round, strong and irreverent. He taught me how to curse, although I didn’t even know what it was until I called my younger brother a “son of a ______” on Christmas Day one year at my grandparent’s house. My grandmother was horrified. “Do you know what that is?” She bellowed. “That’s swearing.” I was soooo embarrassed. I don’t remember ever swearing at my brother again.

I began to call out Tom’s swearing. I think he cursed just to set me off. Sometimes he called me “preacher.” Every Sunday his family attended the Presbyterian church while my family attended the Methodist church on the same street two blocks east.

The contrasts between us continued. I was a city slicker. Tom was a farm boy. I loved school. Tom hated it. We both participated in Boy Scouts, where Tom excelled. He became an Eagle Scout long before me. Tom Elliott is the reason I achieved the rank of Eagle. I was a weak swimmer. In the final year of my eligibility, I failed Lifesaving Merit Badge at Boy Scout camp because I couldn’t pull the instructor out of the pool. Lifesaving is required for Eagle, so that was the end of the trail for me. But Tom wouldn’t let me give up. Several times after preseason football practice, Tom drove me a hour to the camp where I would practice with him in the water and then try to rescue the merit badge instructor. I failed again and again. Finally, at the very end of the summer, I drug the instructor out of the water just one time. The poor guy signed my merit badge card probably because he was tired of swallowing water. He could have drowned me any time he wanted. So Tom made me an Eagle Scout.

Tom usually was the Scout who pulled the watermelon out of the pool in the greased watermelon scramble on parents’ night at summer camp. On one occasion, Tom hid the watermelon between his legs, swam alone to the other side of the pool and heaved the monster melon onto the concrete. The maneuver was cunningly planned and perfectly executed. The crowd went wild. Our troop ate well that evening.

One side benefit for Tom was that the aquatic director at the Boy Scout camp had a cute younger sister whom Tom got to know. Eventually, Tom married Janet four months after I married Carol. I sang at their wedding.

In the meantime, a neighbor had invited Tom to his church, the Worthington Grace Brethren Church, where Tom heard Jim Custer preach. For the first time, Tom understood the gospel and became a man of strong faith. A few years later Tom participated in a church plant and served as an elder in a C&MA church in Zanesville, Ohio. It was a long drive to church from the farm, so when their nest was empty, the Elliotts resettled in a Baptist Church near New Concord, where Tom remained active until the Lord called him home this week. Tom is the only childhood friend with whom I have remained in constant contact for over 40 years. Carol and I visited Tom and Janet on most of our family trips to Ohio.

When we were young, Tom used to say I was smarter than him about bookish things and God. Now Tom has surpassed me. He knows God far better than I do, for he has seen Jesus face to face. Tom shall not come to me, but I shall go to him.

Remembering Ann Jennings

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:1-4

Today would have been Ann Jennings’ sixtieth birthday. Ann was my wife’s younger sister. She died a week before Christmas. Her memorial service was last week in Norwalk, Ohio. The public gathering was very small, as she was not well known in the community. Ann was deprived of oxygen at birth due to a complication, resulting in severe brain damage. She could not read. She could not count. She could not write her own name, though not for lack of trying. Her family worked hard to give her the best education possible.

If I had just one word to describe Ann, it would be childlike. Ann was inquisitive and often asked questions. She loved all things Mickey Mouse. She wore a Mickey Mouse watch for decades (several, actually), even though she could not tell time. She was trusting, dependent, and vulnerable.

It turns out that child-likeness is one of the highest virtues of Scripture. Jesus’ disciples didn’t have it, even though it’s essential. Jesus said they couldn’t enter heaven without it. They would have to change first. One of the traits of child-likeness is humility, taking a low position. That didn’t describe Jesus’ disciples. They weren’t childlike, not until they changed. But that did describe Ann. She took a lowly position her whole life, holding babies in a church nursery, wiping tables at a restaurant, or putting handles on ice cream buckets at the workshop. She did her menial work with pride and joy.

Such humility reminds me that Jesus was talking about child-likeness, not childishness. A childish person is demanding, self-centered, and disrespectful. Ann was childlike, not childish. Oh, she did have many childish moments. We all do. That’s one reason Jesus came and died for us, to relieve us of that burden.

The disciples didn’t have a clue about child-likeness. They would become the pillars of God’s church, but they didn’t understand much about character. Very few pillars of the church today understand child-likeness, either. We don’t like lowly positions. We prefer promotions and sophistication. We want to advance in this world rather than in the kingdom of God.

Ann Jennings advanced in the kingdom of God rather than in this world. She was childlike, a trait we don’t value much. But Jesus did value it. We devalue Ann’s life at our peril. We diminish Ann’s menial service to our loss. We discard Ann’s disabilities to our folly. Ann was a model of childlike faith. According to Jesus, that’s a virtue we need.

Death

For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. (Philippians 1:21)

Mom died just a few minutes before midnight last night. She has completed her sojourn. She now walks by sight, not by faith. It is well with her soul.

The doctor was right yesterday morning. It did turn out to be mom’s special day. About 4 p.m. Carol and I were alone with her when Carol noticed that she seemed to be awake. These moments would last only a few seconds, so Carol quickly suggested that I read Scripture and pray with her again. I read Joshua 24:15 and reminded mom about her plaque with that verse. She nodded weakly. I told mom that for her, that verse was more than a plaque, it was a proclamation. It was a promise mom kept.

Back on Saturday when we arrived at her hospice room, I told mom she had lived her life well and had two remaining tasks. The first was to meet her eighth great-grandchild, James Walter Clevenger. She performed that assignment admirably to our joy and delight. I might add that James played his role perfectly, as well. Mom’s second task was to blaze the trail of faith to the end of life and model for her family how to die well. Usually that task is given to dads. Husbands die first in a majority of marriages. But in this marriage, that responsibility was given to mom. She was doing her final task very well.

After Scripture and prayer yesterday afternoon, mom was still awake. So I took the opportunity to tell her we thought she still had some time left. Carol and I might return to Minnesota. I told her that dad, Pam and Brenda would take good care of her. Would it be OK if Carol and I returned to Minnesota?

Mom croaked, “Yes!” in a loud, clear, deep tone that sounded almost like her normal voice. She was giving me mother’s permission for the final time. Perhaps she was also giving herself permission to die.

Within a few minutes, her condition deteriorated significantly. Her breathing became much more shallow and irregular. At 4:30 p.m. we called in the rest of the family, sang hymns for mom, and watched as death crept nearer. Dad sat silently and held mom’s hand. We all had one question, “How long?” Pam and Warren were sitting attentively with mom when she quietly passed into the Lord’s presence.

Barbara Bush, one of the world’s most prominent women, recently died. She is reported to have been a great woman of faith who loved Jesus and anticipated heaven. I marvel that the transcendent God who directs with the flick of his finger the course of the universe – or multiverse, if you prefer – would stoop in his imminence to notice Barbara Bush. I marvel even more that this same God embraced an obscure, unknown, elderly woman lying unnoticed by the world in a hospice bed and carried her into his presence. More astounding yet is that this same heavenly Father offers the same invitation to anyone who will respond to him in faith. If God’s transcendent power is unspeakable, his unmatched imminent grace can only be called “amazing.” The superlatives of language have been exhausted before they plumb the depths of God’s divine attributes. No wonder the great Apostle John concluded his book of the Revelation with, “Amen! Come, Lord Jesus.”

      And Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
     The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
     The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
     Even so, it is well with my soul.
                                                 Horatio G. Spafford, 1873

Uncle Bob

My Uncle Bob died yesterday in Ohio at the age of 88. I had four uncles but he was the only one I knew well. He was the last uncle standing, so I’m now uncle-less. It’s a genuine loss.

Everyone should have an Uncle Bob. He was a gentle, soft-spoken man of clear and genuine faith in Jesus. I never heard him say a cross or unkind word about anyone, even with easy targets like celebrities, politicians, and TV preachers. I never saw him get angry, even when I put a baseball through a front-door window at his house.

I was shagging fly balls that day in Uncle Bob’s (small) front yard. I had guessed I could aim closer to the house without reaching it. I’m not a power hitter, so it seemed safe. Not quite. After the crash, my mother was the first person out the door. She saw all us kids, but I was the one with the red face holding the bat. It was probably the only home run I ever hit in my life. I think she was swinging before she got to me. Spank first. Ask questions later. I never saw what happened to the rest of the kids.

No matter. I deserved the spanking. It probably helped me that my grandfather installed windows for a living. He ended up with an extra service call that day. But Uncle Bob never said a word to me about it. He just didn’t get angry. I was around him enough to know what he was really like. People often say nice things about the deceased at funerals. But in this case, it’s really true.

Uncle Bob encouraged me in my preaching, even when I was a youth, and was always interested in my ministry. Last month Carol and I stopped in to see my aunt and uncle at the end of our Ohio trip. Uncle Bob slipped $100 in my pocket. He had cancer and knew it didn’t look good, although a month ago they were still treating it aggressively and hoping for recovery.

We agreed it could be the last time we might see one another on this earth and rejoiced in the promise of eternal life in Jesus. I reminded Uncle Bob that we already knew how this would end. We just didn’t know when. He would eventually die even if God extended his life now. He agreed and said he had only one wish. He hoped when his time came, he would go quickly.

God answered that prayer. Uncle Bob declined quickly and was in hospice only five days before passing away yesterday morning at home with his wife and son beside him. He left behind a widow of strong faith who will follow him to heaven some day, three children of faith who will follow him some day, and six grandchildren–all of strong faith–who also will follow him some day.

Don’t you wish you had an Uncle Bob like that?

Pastor or brother?

And he has given us this command: Whoever loves God must also love his brother. 1 John 4:21

My brother Darrell is dying of pancreatic cancer. He is a 13-year survivor. Almost 14 years. We’re not aware of anyone who has lived longer. When the cancer was first diagnosed, Darrell and his family were casual participants (perhaps members) of a Methodist church. They had a good relationship with the pastor. Then in the time of their great need, the church suffered a split. The pastor was ousted. As I understand it, they tried another church. Then it, too, suffered a split. Or maybe it was the same church a second time around.

In any event, my brother had what we call “a bad church experience.” There are two sides to every story. I didn’t hear the entire account. But in the aftermath, Darrell and his family essentially adopted a secular worldview. They felt burnt by the church. He never ceased claiming to be a believer, at least with me. I didn’t observe anger directed toward God. But his attention was drawn to other endeavors, especially beating his cancer by medical means. In my last extended conversation with Darrell, he described his walk of faith as “slow.”

When we arrived at the hospice home Sunday night, Darrell had been unresponsive for a couple days. Nevertheless, I read Scripture with him, invited him to faith in Christ and prayed with him. To watching family members, this was my pastoral task. Every day I’ve read Scripture to Darrell, expounded on the passage, and prayed with him. My role here has indeed been spiritual. But is it pastoral?

As Darrell has lingered, the question has arisen whether I should continue to stay near Darrell or drive to Ohio in support of our parents. In considering this decision, someone asked me what I want to do about Darrell as a brother, not just as a pastor. In other words, am I a pastor or a brother?

The question surprised me. As a pastor, I’ve read Scripture and prayed with people thousands of times. That experience has given me familiarity with the situation here. But I’m not Darrell’s pastor. I’m his brother. As his brother, I’m required to love him. In this situation, that means reading Scripture to him, presenting opportunities of faith in the face of death, and praying with him. I can do nothing less for my brother.

Pastor or brother? The answer isn’t both. I’m not the pastor here. I’m a brother.

 

A Breath of Mercy

My brother Darrell, 56, is dying of pancreatic cancer. He has only a few days to live at most now, perhaps less. We may get to South Carolina in time to see him before he dies. Or we may not arrive in time. When he passes, the immediate cause of death will be complications from a series of strokes.

Today God breathed a moment of mercy. Darrell regained enough awareness and lucidity to address end of life issues. Someone contacted a lawyer and he was able to sign a will. Although speech is impaired, he was able to communicate by phone with our parents, who still live in the same house in Ohio where my siblings and I all grew up. Most important, he met with a chaplain. Although I don’t know the details of their conversation, that is a very positive sign. The south is, after all, the Bible belt.

I am reminded of the incident recorded in Numbers 21 when the children of Israel grumbled against the Lord in the wilderness. God sent venomous snakes among the people. The bites of the serpents were lethal. When the people repented of their sin, God didn’t remove the snakes. Instead he instructed Moses to make a bronze snake and put it on a pole. Anyone who was bitten had only to look at the pole and he would live.

Jesus referred to this event when he was speaking to Nicodemus in John 3. He identified the pole as a type or a symbol of his coming cross. He himself became sin for us, which is pictured by the serpent on the pole. Like the serpent in the desert, the Son of Man would be lifted up on a cross. Those who look at him will live. It is the look of faith.

Salvation is not achieved by a lifetime of good works. In this word picture given by Jesus to the educated rabbi, salvation results from a mere look at the cross. Maybe it’s just a glance, but the cross arrests our attention. It turns our glance into a gaze. We can look at the cross with full confidence in our salvation. We can do nothing because Christ has done everything. We can receive deliverance only by faith. It is God’s love poured out for us.

If God had removed the snakes from among the people, the people still would have died. They already were bitten. They were guilty of sin. By leaving the snakes in their midst–the consequences of their grumbling, God graciously pointed them to the only deliverance from their condition.

We are in the same condition today. We are guilty of sin. We have been bitten by snakes. Have you looked at the cross? Will you gaze at the cross today? it is your only deliverance from sin.

The Endurance of Faith

If you hang around any church long enough, you discover there’s a drop-out experience for some people of faith. We don’t talk about it much, but in truth some people not only start believing in Jesus, they also stop believing. You probably know somebody like that.

Maybe they believed when they were a child and gave up their faith in high school or college. Maybe they came to Christ through a dramatic conversion as a young adult, but fizzled out a short time later. I’ve heard of Christians who were active in their church for decades, then they chucked it all—their faith, not just their church. Some wander for a while and then come back. Others never return. Some, but not all, had bad church experiences involving mistreatment. Some, but not all, rebelled and fell into habitual sin, which destroyed their faith. Some, but not all, asked honest, deep questions, but received only glib, superficial answers. Some, but not all, were disillusioned by religious people around them who had lost their first love and were just going through motions of empty faith.

Does that describe anyone you know?

Theologians have argued for centuries how and why people lose their faith. We’re not going to solve that problem in a blog. But one thing is crystal clear in the New Testament: God’s wants our faith to vibrantly endure to the end of our lives. In the New Testament losing one’s faith is not normal. In the New Testament losing one’s faith is not necessary. In the New Testament losing one’s faith is not negotiable—it’s not an option for God’s people.

But it still happens. If you’ve lost your faith, I’d love to hear your story. Would you be willing to share it with me? If you’re trying not to lose your faith, would you share your struggle with me? I’d love to walk beside you, just to listen.

We’re going to talk about losing our faith–or better–hanging on tight this Sunday in Clarkfield. I’d love for you to join us and enter in the discussion.

A Gangster and Faith

When I was a kid, I ran a morning paper route seven days a week for over six years. I’m grateful for the discipline and relational skills it built into my life. There are some riveting paperboy stories stashed away in my memory: delivering newspapers in blizzards, fruitless attempts to collect from people who couldn’t pay, two dog bites, and one memorable encounter with a gangster.

At least I thought he was a gangster. It happened one day when I stopped to collect at the home of Miss Sharp, a 90-year old spinster who had taught English at the local college. She had no family and in all my years of delivering her newspaper and collecting, I had never seen another person at her house.

To my surprise, a man answered my knock. He looked to be about 60 years old with a mustache, bowler hat and pinstripe suit. I thought, “This looks like a gangster.” I think maybe The Sting had just come out, a movie about the Chi­cago mob. The man had a crooked smile like Humphrey Bogart. His voice had a nasal accent. He paid me with a $20 bill, which was much more uncommon then than it would be today.

I was immediately suspicious. I examined the $20 bill at home and asked my parents if I should call the police. It was exciting to think that maybe I had a counterfeit $20 bill in my possession. To their credit, my parents didn’t take my anxiety seriously.

Finally my dad flattened my excitement completely with just one sentence, “If it’s counterfeit, you can’t spend it.” I hadn’t thought of that! But it was true. Counterfeit money is worthless.

So is counterfeit faith. It’s worthless. Counterfeit faith is as old as the story of Cain and Abel. When it comes to faith, we need the genuine item.

We’ll talk about discerning real faith this Sunday at New Life Church. You’re welcome to join us.

What have you forgotten lately?

The pastor of New Life Church has some strange personality quirks. He’s forgetful. He can be so focused on a given task that he misses subtle social cues or works past a scheduled appointment. At the other extreme, he can be so scatterbrained that he becomes forgetful. Sometimes he’s working at the church and discovers he needs something at the house. Maybe it’s a book or a flash drive. So I run around the corner and rush in the back door. Then I get distracted—usually by something delicious in the kitchen— and return to the church without the book or flash drive.

It works the other way, too. Like several in our congregation, we get our drinking water from the church. Sometimes Carol sends me over to the church for water. I arrive with a gallon jug swinging from each arm. Then I think of something to do in the office and return home a few minutes later—without the water.

Leaving on long car trips are particularly adventurous in our family. We forget things so often that we congratulate ourselves when we don’t forget anything. Sometimes we pat ourselves on the back too soon. Through the years we’ve forgotten food, water, wallets & purses, cameras, audio CDs, coats, gloves, sunglasses, boots, jumper cables, tents, towels, matches, money…. On our last trip to Ohio, we forgot a phone charger cord at Carol’s parents’ house. We’ll pick it up on our next trip—if we remember.

Before you get too high and mighty about your good habits, you should admit you forget some things, too. In fact, the best story I know about forgetting something happened to an elder in our first church. They had seven kids, five still at home. One Sunday they arrived for worship like they always did, in a little hatchback sedan. The two youngest girls rode in the trunk. True story. That day they left church without their youngest daughter, who was about eight years old at the time. This was before cell phones, of course, and they lived in another town. So Carol and I took Rebekah home and fed her lunch, laughing the whole time, while her unsuspecting family drove all the way home, only to discover they had forgotten something rather important in their trunk.

We’ve never stopped laughing about that, but the truth is, some of our worst moments come when we forget something. I’m sorry to report I’ve even slammed my fist into the steering wheel and said a bad word. If you do that, too, you’re taking yourself too seriously. Take it from one who knows. Been there, done that. And I have several T-shirts to prove it.

If there’s more than one of you in the car when you’ve forgotten something, this is when the blame game begins.

“I thought you were going to bring that.”

“No, I thought you had it. That was your responsibility.”

That’s just the part of the conversation I can print. Have you ever blown everything out of proportion and lost something you couldn’t afford to lose around your family—your temper?

People who take themselves too seriously don’t take God seriously enough. They just can’t stand it when they make mistakes. That’s me and that’s you. And it’s also Jesus’ disciples. They took a trip and they forgot something important.

Mark 8:14—The disciples had forgotten to bring bread, except for one loaf they had with them in the boat.

Carol and I went to Montevideo this past Tuesday, intending to eat lunch in the car. True to form, we forgot the food. But it was no big deal. We just ate a little later when we got home. It wasn’t that easy for the disciples. They weren’t on a one hour excursion away from home. Rather, they were on an extended trip out on a lake. No McDonald’s, no lunchboxes, no fishing poles. And no chance to turn around and grab the grub. It’s pretty obvious what happened next: the blame game. They started complaining and arguing. Then one of them, probably Judas, held up a loaf of bread, waved it at them teasingly and said with an impish smile: “Hey fellows, look what I brought!”

The conversation went downhill from there. It became a window into their hearts. Then Jesus stepped up and challenged them with one statement and eight questions. The questions were designed to help them understand the statement. Yes, the disciples had forgotten something important. But it wasn’t bread. Food was just the conversation starter. They forgot something else. It’s something we forget, too. Yes, the disciples forgot the food, just like we often do. More importantly, they forgot that the bread of life was with them in the boat.

When the bread of life is with you, everything changes. So why do we keep forgetting that?

We’ll talk about it this Sunday.