Making Changes

In 1987 my family and I made a huge change in our lives. It shaped us for the next two decades. I left my role as assistant professor at Houston Baptist University and accepted the call to serve as pastor of the University Baptist Church. For twenty-two years, that has been our life. Melinda and I have raised our children here and it is here that they were spiritually formed, educated, and launched into the world. It has been home.

Four months ago, that began to change. I received an email from a friend of mine who teaches on the faculty of Baylor University’s George W. Truett Theological Seminary. He told me of a position at Truett that was open and urged me to consider applying. I went on-line to read about the position. It was Professor of Christian Ministry and Director of Pastoral Ministries. The requirements outlined on the position description matched my own resume pretty closely. Melinda and I talked about it, and for the first time in twenty-two years I took a step that could lead to my leaving UBC. I put an application packet together and submitted it to Truett.

The next four months involved several interviews, conversations with trusted friends who served both as advisors and prayer-partners, and discussions at home with Melinda and Jenna. I talked to Alan and wrote to Taylor. As long as the door remained open, it seemed right to move toward it.

Finally, two weeks ago, the letter of appointment to the faculty arrived by FedEx. I signed it and returned it. Life is now in the transition mode.

In some ways, the decision to accept Truett’s offer was a no-brainer. I love teaching. I have a passion for theological education. UBC has been kind and generous to allow me to scratch that itch by teaching M.Div. classes for two seminaries. I have directed eight Doctor of Ministry projects for four seminaries. I have managed to continue writing a bit. And Truett is very fine school, with an outstanding faculty, and I’m a Baylor alum. It just all fits so well.

On the other hand, it was one of the most difficult emotional decisions I have ever had to make. I have so many valuable friendships among the congregation at UBC. These people trusted me to serve as their pastor when I was 34 years old. I knew a bit about biblical studies back then, but practically nothing about serving as a pastor. They have affirmed my gifts, encouraged me, humored my whims, forgiven my mistakes, challenged my thinking, and trusted my leadership. We have been partners in ministry for a long time. What I do know about Christian ministry and pastoral leadership I have learned from these dear followers of Christ. I have had the privilege of working alongside staff members who have been, not only co-workers, but my best friends. Deciding to leave this was difficult.

When I arrived at UBC I had some ideas about church and mission. I had some theories about leadership and ministry. I needed a laboratory, a field in which to put to the test these things I deeply believed. Now it is time to return to the classroom with all that. I look forward to the opportunity to engage the next generation of pastors and leaders who are preparing to enter the field.

The journey continues . . .

A Good Day Fishing

I went fishing with a friend on Wednesday for the first time since last May. I didn’t even have a valid license, so I had to go to Academy and get legal. I picked up some new line to load on my reels and some purple and chartreuse plastics that I heard were working well.

Last week I consulted with three fishing gurus in our congregation, explaining that we would be going in kayaks and wading. Their eyes lit up as they described their favorite place. They explained how to get there and even sketched a map for me (see photo). I was afraid that they might decide to shoot me after telling me. They told me stories about all the fish they’d caught there. I could already feel the taut line and taste the fresh seafood dinner. I was set.

We arrived at the boat ramp just after dawn and launched the kayaks. We compared the hand-drawn treasure map to our charts and GPS map and were certain we were on the way to a great day of fishing. The wind had picked up something awful and we paddled into it about a half-mile to the spot we thought we’d been directed to. The area looked perfect. We got out of the kayaks and waded the area for two hours, testing every likely looking spot. But the wind was fierce and we had no response from the millions of fish holding up in the area. No signs at all. No bait. No birds. Nothing.

We consulted the charts again and decided to move to another promising area a little further east. We headed into the wind again and after some effort arrived at a place I’m sure redfish hope they go to when they die. It was beautiful. Egrets and herons erupted from the tall grass as we paddled our way through. Once more we got out and waded for a couple of hours with no response from the billions of fish in the area.

Finally we decided it was best to head back home. The wind had shifted about ninety-degrees, so now we paddled back in a strong cross wind, struggling to keep the kayaks pointed in the right direction. I’ve never been more tired at the end of a day of fishing. And no fish.

That night at church someone asked me how it went. I explained that it had been windy and that it was physically tiring, but it was a good day. I told them, “I have never in my life said, ‘I wish I hadn’t gone fishing today.’”

That provoked a discussion from some who knew a few of my fishing experiences.

“What about that time your Suburban wouldn’t start and you had to abandon it on the tidal flat with the tide coming in, and had to hike back home in the dark?”

“Yeah, that was kind of hard. But it was a good day fishing.”

“What about the time you went out with the guide and the wind came up and you had to ride 20 miles back to the marina, full-speed into the wind and got drenched and your cell phone was destroyed?”

“Yea, that was a tough ride. But it was a good day fishing?”

Then I remembered on my own the trip to Colorado Bend State Park to catch white bass, when the deluge hit and Cherokee Creek flooded and we couldn’t cross at the low water crossing for a full day and were stranded. The river was the color of chocolate milk and the fishing was non-existent. Finally, just at dark I ventured across the river (idiot) in the Suburban with my wife, son, and daughter in the car. Other pickups had made it. Water was sloshing up over the hood of the Suburban. Just as we started out on the far side of the creek, the engine died. I prayed. I turned the key. It started right up and we drove out and found a motel and a dry bed.

It was a good day fishing.

Neither Rain Nor Hail

When I’m in Floresville I do business with the local mom and pop operations in town as much as possible. We have a Wal-Mart there and an H.E.B. But we also have vegetable stands like Bush’s in Stockdale and a farmers’ market on Saturday mornings in Floresville. The Wilson County Hardware & Lumber store downtown on 3rd Street is one of my favorite places to trade.

The hardware store is one of those requiring the aid of the clerk at the front desk for you to actually find something you are looking for. Items are arranged helter-skelter on crowded dusty shelves in infinite variety, vintage, and volume. If you ask, the elderly proprietor walks directly to the item and pulls it down, hands it to you, rings it up, and puts it in a brown paper bag. On the other hand, if you are not specifically looking for a rattrap or a toilet intake valve, you might find some pleasure in walking the narrow aisles and browsing.

Last spring I was in the store for rattraps. A family of field mice had determined that living in our house while we were gone was convenient. They chose the clothes dryer as their mansion and chewed the wires to the starting mechanism and I needed to evict them. With the assistance of the man up front, I found the traps and proceeded to check out.

The gentleman held my debit card at arm's length and squinted at it. “Creech,” he said. “Any relation to Lillie Creech?”

“She was my grandmother. I’m taking care of her place now.” I guessed the man was old enough to be my dad, probably near eighty.

“I knew your grandfather, Irvin. He delivered mail to our house when I was a kid,” he told me. “He was regular as clock work. I would go out to the road to wait for him every morning. Sure enough, his Model A would show up on time.”

“When the oil fields started going in the big trucks would tear up those county roads something awful. ‘specially when it rained. Sometimes it would be days before he could get his car back down our way.”

“My mother always mail-ordered chicks to raise in the spring. One time the chicks came in and the road was too big a mess for Mr. Creech to get there. He went to the feed store and bought a starter kit and cared for those chicks for a couple of weeks until he could deliver them.”

I’d never heard that story before. You don’t hear tales like that in Wal-Mart.

A Dry Spell

Last weekend I made my first trip back to the farm since December. The early signs of spring were emerging. The young peach tree growing crookedly by the tool shed is covered with pink blossoms attracting a half dozen black butterflies. The red oak on the side of the shed is putting out its buds on every branch. I walked under its branches and heard a buzz like flowing electricity. I looked around for the source of the sound and noticed that every bud had its own honeybee. They were everywhere. It was the last day of February and it was 96 degrees by the afternoon. It is spring in South Texas.

What a difference a year makes. Last year at this time the fields were green with the emergence of our wheat crop. But we were on the leading edge of a drought that would profoundly affect much of the state over the following year. We are in the middle of it now and there is no end in sight.

September 2007-May 2008 (the period during which we had wheat in the ground) was the driest on record (25% drier than the previous record). Last June was the second driest in history. The rest of the summer, fall, and winter did nothing to improve conditions. Forecasts are for things to continue or worsen at least through May. As you can see on the map, Wilson County is right in the middle of the most extreme drought conditions in the state.

Jesus said that God causes rain to fall on both the just and the unjust (Matt. 5:45). That would be nice.

I don’t know what role drought plays in the ecology of the land, but I do know that dry periods in the spiritual life are seasons of preparation for something new. The desert serves as the setting for important events in the lives of God’s people. Moses, Israel, Elijah, David, Jesus, and Paul all spent time in these dry places. It is the case in the lives of God’s people that the dry periods prepare us for more.

I’m eager for the rain to fall in Floresville. I look forward to the wildness of the land when its thirst is fully quenched. Meanwhile, we plant nothing and wait on the only one who can provide rain.

Check Out the Library

Reading has been one of my favorite things since I became literate, which I don’t actually remember becoming. During the summers of my elementary school years I spent the hot and humid Houston afternoons before the invention of air conditioning reading whatever I could get my hands on. My cousin, Raina, and I traded Hardy Boy novels and volumes in the Brains Benton mystery series. I also became a fan of Freddy the Detective novels, stories of a pig who also solved crimes. I enjoyed the science fiction of Robert Heinlein, especially the ones that dealt with time travel.

One of my favorite excursions during those summers was accompanying my mom on her weekly shopping trip to Weingarten’s supermarket on 43rd street. She would drop me off at the Oak Forest Library so I could turn in one armload of books and gather another. It was air conditioned in that building and I could browse between the stacks for an hour or so.

Were time travel possible back then, and could I have ventured forty-five years into the future, I would have been astounded. I would find my son Alan living around the corner from that very library, down the street from my high school, married and raising my granddaughter. I would have seen my wife taking that little girl to visit the very same library, checking out her own armload of reading material.

Then I would have observed something even more amazing. Alan is an architect. And there he is remodeling my library!

I haven’t been inside that building for more than forty years now. But the next time I do it will be completely renewed. I have seen the virtual version as I have wandered through the 3-D rendering on Alan’s computer screen.

My children constantly astound me. Must be their mother’s genes.

Last Day in Jerusalem

Today was our last one in Jerusalem, and was a beautiful one. The weather was crisp, but not windy and perfect for all the walking we had to do.

We walked into the Old City through the Jaffa Gate and made our way through the Christian Quarter following the Via Dolorosa. Because of the political tension we could not enter through the Lions Gate near the Temple Mount and follow the path in order, so we did it out of order. Nevertheless we visited all the stations of the cross. We stood on pavement from the Fortress of Antonia, where Jesus was scourged. We walked through the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which covers the site of Golgotha and the Empty Tomb. We visited the excavations of the Pool of Bethesda, where Jesus healed the lame man (John 5). We sang in the Church of St. Anne there, a building erected in the 12th century.

After lunch we drove to the Yad Va Shem, Jerusalem's holocaust museum, and were reminded again of what human beings are capable of, both in terms of sheer evil and cruelty and in terms of endurance. We returned to the Old City, entering through the Zion Gate, into the Jewish Quarter where we walked to the Western Wall. Then on to one more church, St. Peter Gallicantu, built over the traditional site of Caiaphas' house where Jesus was interrogated and where Peter denied knowing him.

We are back at our hotel to pack up, enjoy the last supper, and head for Tel Aviv. It is 5:00 PM here, 9:00 AM back in Houston. We'll be home in about twenty-four hours.

This group of pilgrims has been a delightful one to travel with and we have learned and experienced things that will continue to shape our lives and friendships.

New Year's Day in Jerusalem

We did the life of Jesus in reverse today. We began at the Mt. of Ascension and ended at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Sort of like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. After the place of Ascension I walked with my friends down the road that Jesus walked into Jerusalem – down the Mount of Olives, past Gethsemane, toward the eastern entrance into Jerusalem.

We stopped at Gethsemane and read the story of Jesus’ praying and his arrest there. I was reminded there of his struggle to go ahead and do what he already knew the will of God to be for him. His “thy will be done” was not a prayerful “whatever.” It was a prayerful “yes” to his Father. What God wanted took precedence over what he wanted. We walked among the olive trees and remembered what went on there.


We entered the garden area around Gordon’s Calvary and the Garden Tomb. Although I have my doubts about the authenticity of the site, I was reminded again of the authenticity of the deed of God it represented – Jesus drank the cup. He took it and drank it to the dregs at Calvary. He suffered under Pontius Pilate. He died. He was buried. We read the story and drank the cup and ate bread and sang and prayed.

We rode past the huge grey wall surrounding the Palestinian-controlled Bethlehem, plastered with tourism posters on the outside and covered with painful graffiti on the inside. It was like crossing the Rio Grande into a Mexican border town. An ironic sadness hovers over the City of David, the Christmas town, the birthplace of the Prince of Peace, where angels announced to shepherds the coming of “peace on earth and goodwill to men.” Black flags fly over the Church of the Nativity, expressing a grief over the conditions in Gaza, as bombs continued to fall today.

We joined pilgrims from around the world crowding into the most ancient church in Israel to breathe the kerosene aroma from centuries of lamps that have illuminated its dark interior. We filed through a narrow passage, down worn stone steps, into the grotto tradition has identified as the place where Jesus took his first sip of the cup, where the Word became Flesh and began his dwelling among us.

We did other things as well today. We studied a huge scale model of Jerusalem in the first century. We gazed on the ancient Hebrew scrolls found at the Dead Sea. We ate falafel sandwiches and shopped in Bethlehem. We talked and laughed and worshiped.