A word about Heirlooms.

Yesterday my wife told me that she needed my help. She said that out in one of our storage areas there was a large plastic tub container with pictures and picture frames that she wanted me to bring into the house so she could go through them. She said they’re too heavy for me, so you’ll need the hand truck. Well, she was right, a ton of pictures. When I brought them into the house, my wife and our son sat for two hours, slowly going through those framed pictures of our family, friends, scenes from our past. We’re in the throes of it, you might say. We are literally deciding, almost on a daily basis, what to keep and what to get rid of. We’ve been married for 58 years, and you can you can gather an incredible amount of stuff in that length of time. You can take a lot of pictures. So much deciding that has to happen. I’ve distilled my own thinking into three buckets in my mind to help with that process. One bucket in my head, I mark get rid of it. Stuff to sell on a yard sale or take to the goodwill or down to the mission, but get rid of it. The second bucket in my mind is what I call the heirloom bucket. It’s memorabilia I want to leave behind that sort of documents or memorializes my journey on this planet. Sentimental things, you could say. And the third bucket is what I’ll call the inheritance bucket. That one takes a lot more thought and attention. Those buckets of mine create tension when it comes to deciding about pictures. When my wife looked again at some of those old photographs, she could remember some of the days they were taken, the circumstances, perhaps even something someone said. She remembered the person behind the picture. Tough for us to get rid of those pictures, except well, except that my kids or my grandkids will probably look at those same photographs after I’m gone and see only people they don’t recognize or places they’ve never been. To my wife and I some of the things we want to pass on to our kids and our grandkids are treasures, maybe even heirlooms. But I suspect that to them some of those things may just be stuff that has no meaning. I think that’s the difference between an heirloom and an inheritance. The difference is the story. In Joshua chapter four, when Israel crossed the Jordan River, God instructed Joshua to have twelve men carry twelve stones out of the riverbed and arrange them as a memorial. Those walks weren’t extraordinary, they weren’t valuable gemstones, they were simply rocks from a riverbed. But God said there was an important reason for those stones. In the future, your children will ask, What do these stones mean? said God in Joshua chapter 4, verse 6. What made those stones valuable was what they represented. Those rocks were reminders of something God had done, reminders that required an explanation. The stones were not an inheritance. The inheritance was the testimony, the story behind the stones. Some of the pictures in that tub I brought to my wife remind me of people of God that He used to change my life. Some of those pictures are scenes that record a moment when God’s faithfulness was particularly evident. And there’s another reality worth noting about that story in Joshua chapter 4. God didn’t tell the Israelites to collect the stones so that they could admire those stones or collect those stones. He told them to gather those stones so that future generations could hear what God had done. An heirloom, I believe, is something someone leaves behind, but an inheritance is something someone receives. For certainty, I’d like to leave my kids and my grandkids meaningful heirlooms that they can hold in their hands. But the treasure I am asking God to help me sort out involves the story behind God’s grace in my life that I will leave behind, a story of inheritance that they can hold in their hearts.

The post Heirlooms appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about Dread.

I heard through the grapevine yesterday that a friend of mine was having some health problems. All I could find out was that whatever was happening, it didn’t sound good. I couldn’t shake my concern, so I called my friend and left a message. Could he call me and let me know how to pray for him? Thirty minutes later, he did call. Doctors had told him he has a terrible disease. We talked. The word dread. My good and godly friend has what I would call a dread disease. And now, along with the disease itself, there’s everything he fears it may bring. That’s how dread works. It looks ahead, takes the news we’ve received, and starts imagining what comes next. The next appointment, the next test, the next conversation we don’t want to have. The phone call is over, but Dread keeps talking. We’ve all experienced it. Something happens today and suddenly tomorrow occupies every corner of our thinking. We may be sitting in our favorite chair in our own living room, but our thoughts have gone somewhere we don’t want to go. In Job chapter 3, that man who had experienced devastating losses said, For the thing which I greatly fear is come upon me, that which I was afraid of is come unto me. That’s a difficult verse. Job had feared something terrible would happen, and it did. It’s an unavoidable truth. People who love God get terrible news. Good and godly people answer phone calls that change their lives forever. My friend did. And telling someone there’s nothing to worry about doesn’t help much when there is something terribly wrong. I certainly didn’t tell my friend that there was nothing to worry about, but I did remind my friend, I remembered that old hymn we’ve both sung for years. What have I to dread? What have I to fear? Leaning on the everlasting arms. How can we sing that? The answer, I think, is in those arms. The hymn finds its footing in Deuteronomy chapter 33. Deuteronomy chapter 33 says, The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms. Underneath. I’ve been thinking about that word too. When I’m afraid, I want to know what’s ahead of me. I want details, dates, outcomes. I want someone to tell me how all of this is going to turn out. And there, in the middle of all my questions about what’s ahead, Scripture tells me who is underneath the everlasting arms. Leaning means letting someone else bear some weight. It means admitting that what I’m carrying is heavy, that I need help, that my own strength has limits. God knows about us. He knows that about my friend. I don’t know what the next phone call will bring. I’m praying for his strength. I’m praying that in this very difficult hour my friend will know the nearness of the God he loves and serves. Those arms will be underneath him at his next appointment. Through the long night, when he has words to pray, and when he has no words to pray. The disease has no effect on the everlasting arms. They are still everlasting, and they are still underneath, especially in the realities of dire circumstances and dread diseases.

The post Dread appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about, Gifting.

My wife has already started asking me. It’s early fall, and she asked me just a couple of days ago about Christmas ideas for our six grandkids. Four girls, two boys. She said the girls aren’t hard for me, but the boys are harder. I’m not sure what to give them. You have any ideas? One grandson’s fourteen, the other’s nineteen. One just started high school and the other started college. Different stages, different challenges. My first inclination would be get them get them each a pair of socks and a gift card and call that good. But I doubt seriously that my idea will resonate with my wife. What to give someone we love can be a serious matter. Some thoughtful parents give their children handmade gifts. They’ve thought about the child and they want to give something meaningful, perfect fit for that child’s uniqueness. It’s that way with God too, I think. In Romans 12 and again in 1 Corinthians chapter 12, Paul lists gifts that God gives believers. Over the past several weeks, I’ve had numerous conversations about spiritual gifts. I’ve been somewhat amazed at the number of people who cannot bring to the front of their minds what their spiritual gifts might be. In fact, the most common answers are I don’t know, and I’m not sure. I virtually never accept those answers as proof of ignorance. I think we do know what our gift from God is, and we can be sure of that. If there’s a mystery, it’s because we haven’t given ourselves permission to acknowledge what we see as outcomes and what we hear from others who observe our lives. Ever hear someone say they aren’t talented? That all they can do is, quote, just cook, or they can’t get in front of people and talk. All they can do is, quote, just set up chairs and tables so people will have a place to sit and listen? They’re not looking at their lives correctly. Cooking is not just cooking. For those with a gift, it’s a demonstration of the gift of serving. Setting up chairs or helping a neighbor with a project is an expression of the gift of helps. I can fry an egg, but there’s a world of difference between that and nurturing people through what I prepare. I can set up a room, but I don’t have a spiritual gift that urges and equips me to always be on the lookout for ways to serve. That that’s a gift. My own gifts are wisdom and encouragement. I know that because of what I believe the Lord has revealed to me. Because others have affirmed and confirmed what they see in my life. And that’s a good place to begin looking for your own gifts. What do people think when they think of you? What do people thank you for? What happens in their lives because you’ve been there? Pay attention to those answers. Be careful about putting the word just in front of something God just gave you. Peter tells us to use whatever gift we’ve received to serve others. That meal you prepared, that afternoon you spent helping, those words of encouragement that you spoke, God uses those things to care for people He loves. My wife wants our grandsons to open their Christmas gifts and find something they’ll use, something chosen with them in mind. Well, God has chosen with all of us in mind, too. He knows how he made us, and he knows the people whose lives will be touched when we use what he’s given us. Never doubt your gifting. Because of God’s sovereign goodness through Jesus, you have something perfect to give. No need to say I’m not sure. God’s given his perfect gifts to you, because God created them just for you. And somebody in your life needs your gift, a gift that God Himself has placed in your hands.

The post Gifting appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about foundations.

We’re getting a new deck at our house. Several years ago, we asked a contractor friend of ours to design and build us a deck out our back door. But recently I noticed that it was in need of some repair. So that same contractor came over and looked at our deck. Turns out we have to replace that deck and its foundation structure. We hadn’t planned on that. Foundations are easy to forget about, of course. Nobody pays much attention to foundations. No friend, for example, comes over to your house and says, I’d sure like to see your foundation. No, they they notice the furniture, the pictures, the view out the back window. But everything they’re looking at is resting on something they aren’t looking at or even paying any attention to. The foundations. Life’s like that too. For me, my first foundation is the book. There are lots of books, of course, but only one book whose author is God Himself, the Holy Bible. When God decided to write his book, he didn’t begin like a lot of mere men authors do. He didn’t begin with once upon a time, not only because that’s a boring way to begin, but because, well, when God wrote the holy book, time hadn’t happened yet. So there was no time to be once upon. So he didn’t say once upon a time, he just said, in the beginning, God, when he started his book. The book from the very beginning, then, was the book of God, the book about who he is, the book about what he’s done and will do. It’s an eternal recording of God about men, the story and drama and disobedience of man toward the God who wrote the book. Read the book, and you’ll be reading about people who insisted on doing things their own way, and you’ll recognize yourself. You’ll read about a God who kept his promises, a God who sent his son to redeem us. The book is a holy narrative of the declarations of God toward men. Holy things. I mean, why else would we call it the holy Bible? And eternal things besides, things that will never go away. Heaven and earth may pass away, says the God of the book, but my word will abide forever. Words in a book are important, of course. One of my friends says words are placeholders for ideas. Words mean something. But important as they are, words are limited. The words I use to describe a sunset may, if I carefully craft them, describe the majestic beauty I see as I watch the day end in splendor. But my words about the sunset will never be a sunset. My words are mere placeholders for those ideas of a sunset. But when the God who created everything said, Let there be light, he wasn’t describing something he had seen. He spoke, and there was something to see. My words can tell you about the light. His words brought light into being. The words in the holy book are not mere words, they are not merely placeholders about life. They are the very power and plan and purpose and pursuit of God Himself, lived out by God in the flesh. The Word, says John in the first chapter, became flesh and dwelt among us. And Jesus had something to say very important about words and foundations. He said, the person who hears his words and puts them into practice is like a man who built his house on the rock. The rain came, the water rose, the wind blew, but the house stood. He didn’t say that building on the right foundation would keep the storm from coming. He said the house would stand. Our contractor saw something I hadn’t noticed when he came the other day. I’d been looking at the deck. He’d been looking at what’s holding that deck up. And it’s a good thing to pay attention when you’re building a deck. It’s even more important when you’re building a life. The book is foundational to my life. I endeavor to put his words into practice and rest the weight of my life on what he says. Whether you’re building a deck or a life, paying attention to the foundation is incredibly important.

The post Foundations appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about absent.

When I was a kid growing up, one of the vague memories I have when I was going to school was my teachers calling the role. Miss Jordan in the fourth grade would stand in front of the class the first thing every morning with her gradebook in her hand, and she would say, It’s time for roll call. On the first day of class for the school year, she told us what that meant. She would read our names. We were supposed to answer with either here or present. I do remember one morning when the roll was called that Janet Callpaper, who was very smart and knew some Latin, said odd sum when Miss Jordan read her name. Oddsum, I later learned, is Latin for present or I am here. I never said oddsum, though. I just said here when Miss Jordan read my name. I still remember the time when my buddy Ron Yates was absent for three or four days in a row. And Miss Jordan asked, Does anyone know anything about Ronnie? Is he sick? Of course I always knew what was going on in Ron’s life because we were best friends. And I spoke up and I said, Yeah, he he jumped off a roof and bit his tongue really bad. Had to go to the doctor and get it sewed up. He’ll be back on Monday, I think. Miss Jordan always looked sad when one of her students was absent because of sickness, but you know, she never said, okay, we need to pray for Ronnie or or offer prayer for anyone else who might be absent. I always wondered why that was, that we never prayed for sick kids, but I never asked. Absence and silence were always understood in Miss Jordan’s class. The fact that there was silence after she read the name of a person who was absent was logical. When a person is absent, their voice is silent too. I’m very acquainted with seasons in my life when God was silent. I prayed. The room didn’t shake or quake when I called his name. I listened for some unmistakable answer, some odd soon, or I am here, I am present. I called, but no voice came out of heaven. All I heard was a clock on the wall or the hum of our refrigerator. I make a serious mistake, however, if I assume that silence indicates absence. The Bible is honest about this. David cried, How long, O Lord, will you forget me forever? And Jesus himself prayed from the cross, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Those are not the words of people pretending that faith is easy. Those are the words of people standing in the ache of silence and still turning their faces toward God. And then of course there is that little Latin word that Janet Culpepper knew before the rest of us ever learned what it meant. Oddsum. I am here. In a sense, that’s the whole story of the gospel, isn’t it? Not that we finally learned how to climb high enough to find God, but that God came looking for us. The word became flesh and dwelt among us. Jesus is God’s great oddsum. God saying to a frightened, broken, lonely world, I am here. Emmanuel means God with us. That does not mean we always understand what he’s doing. It does not mean that his silence will end on Friday afternoon, and then he will finally speak up. It does, however, mean that God’s chair is not empty. When the role is called in whatever classroom of sorrow, confusion, waiting, or grief you find yourself sitting today, do not mistake God’s quietness for his absence. God has already answered. Od soom, says Jesus, I am here.

The post Absent appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about garbage.

I have to remember something important every Monday night. Every Monday night, before I can turn out the lights in our home and retire for the evening, I have to take out the garbage containers, take them out to the curb. Because early Tuesday morning a truck comes by and empties our garbage. Last night a strange remembrance came to me as I wheeled our container out to the curb. I remembered an old woman, Clara, who I wrote about many years ago. This is what I wrote one evening many years ago about Clara and her garbage. Clara died yesterday. I saw her for the first time several months ago while we were visiting relatives in her hometown. I’d heard about her before, but the sight was more than I expected. The locals called her the garbage lady. She couldn’t get inside her house because it was full of garbage. Piles stood six to eight feet high in every room. Her front door stood open, unable to be closed because of the rubble. Garbage cluttered her entire front porch. Tin cans, empty boxes, old rags, and the residue of years of living spilled over the sides of the porch like a cascading waterfall of filth that ran into the yard and filled it too. Clara sat on top of one particular heap, five feet high like a cherry atop some grotesque sundae made of a giant scoop of garbage. Frequently she would talk about why she could not go back into her home, some events she would not discuss that had caused her to fear its safety. Aren’t you afraid out here in the dark and cold? A passer by would ask, and she’d reply, I’m very often afraid, but I can’t go back inside. She didn’t spend days or weeks sitting in the midst of that squalor and filth. She spent years. Every morning a kind neighbor would bring coffee to her and local residents would walk by and wave and speak, but no one took responsibility for cleaning up Clara’s garbage. And yesterday was the rest of Clara’s life. Hypothermia and exposure to the elements were listed as the cause of death. But I’ve always wondered if the garbage was really Clara’s problem or merely what accumulated around a hurt, some fear she could never bring herself to face. Speaking of faces, I saw him again this morning. In fact, I look into his face every morning as I shave. Thinking about that garbage lady made me wonder how he was doing with the garbage in his life. I wondered how many people walk by his life every day and wish he’d do something about his anger or his resentment or his pride. I wondered how many rooms in his life were not available to him because unresolved issues stand in the doorway like a silent sentry. What fears, insecurities keep him from God’s very best for his life? Garbage is a byproduct of living. You can’t live very long without accumulating garbage. Disappointments, hurts, failures, injustice, things people have done to me, things I’ve done to other people, things I wish had never happened at all. The question is not whether life will produce garbage. The question is where in my life do I put it? There’s a big difference between a garbage dump and a compost pile. A compost is worked, it’s turned, it’s exposed, it’s allowed to break down until something that once smelled terrible becomes capable of producing life. God has his own way of doing that with the garbage in my life when I turn it over to him. The Apostle Paul says in Romans chapter 5 that suffering can produce perseverance. Perseverance produces character. Character produces hope, that lasting confidence that we can have in God’s perfect plan for our lives. Challenge doesn’t suddenly become good. God produces something good from it. So I can wrap myself in some plastic facade, climb atop my own personal pile of life’s inequities and unfairness, slowly allow the accumulated garbage of my anger, my hurt, disappointment, resentment, fill the rooms in my life, or I can acknowledge that God is at work in the midst of it all and turn it over to Him. Garbage is a byproduct of living, but in the hands of God, so is a compost. The fragrance of a rose fertilized by a compost heap is an amazing, amazing aroma. 2 Corinthians 2 15 says, Our lives are a Christ like fragrance rising up to God.

The post Garbage appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about grace.

A couple of years ago, I discovered something about the way I pray that had a gnawing impact on my life. I will tell you the story of what I discovered. At our house, I’m sort of the undeclared and unofficially nominated prayer at mealtime. Whether in some diner, restaurant, or just sitting around our table at home, like many families I know, we thank God for our meal. I guess I should say I thank God for our meal. While others sitting around our table bow their heads and join me silently. I am the designated prayer, you might say. True confession time, I suppose. I’ve grown accustomed to that simple time of saying grace around our table, thanking God for our food. So comfortable, in fact, that I’m afraid I’ve become predictable, at least when my family is waiting for me to pray. I can say the same short prayer at every meal. Thank you, Jesus, for this food, blessed to our bodies’ use. In Jesus’ name. Amen. And then the noise of forks and knives. It’s legal now to begin the meal. I don’t sermonize. I don’t pray for the missionaries in far-off lands. I don’t ask God to heal my sore knee or forgive the sins I have no doubt committed in thought or deed since the last meal when I said grace. No, I just bow my head and say, Thank you, Jesus, for this food. Blessed to our body’s use in Jesus’ name. Amen. I’ve become so accustomed to my comfortable way of thanking God for his provision that my wife made note of it. She often makes note of things in my life that I would do well to take note of myself. She said, and I’m not kidding, this is a direct quote. She said, I think we could make a tape of your prayer at mealtime and just play the tape instead of you needing to say it each time. It’s always the same. She laughed as she said it. I laughed as she said it. My son laughed at the table too. We all had a good laugh at the way I say grace, except except well, except I I wondered if God was laughing about the way I thank him for our food. A few days after my wife had made her observation about how I pray at mealtime, my prayer life, I guess you could say, I experienced another poignant and gnawing moment in my life. I sat at lunchtime in a large buffet restaurant. I’d already made a visit with my plate to several stations in that restaurant, filling it with various kinds of food, and then with my head bowed, I prayed my prayer, but not aloud. No one sat with me. God would hear me, even if I only prayed my heart. Thank you, Jesus, for this food. Bless it to my body’s use. In Jesus’ name. Amen. Immediately after my prayer, I remembered my wife’s funny comment. I could have played a tape. But I gave that thought only a passing notice as I reached for my fork and began my lunch. And then they walked in. Eight men, all dressed in slacks and nice shirts, gray-haired, jovial. They didn’t look related, but they did look as if they were all together. One by one. After filling their plates, they returned to their large table, each one finding their place, but waiting until all eight of them were seated. And then it happened. As I sat across the room peeling shrimp and eating chicken on a skewer, they all rose in unison, as if some marionette had pulled an imaginary set of strings that connected all of them together. In quiet and exquisite reverence, they stood in that restaurant. They stood by their chairs. One of them spoke to God in a language I could not recognize, slow and deliberate. I have no idea what he said to God. I did understand one word. It was the word Amen. They all repeated the Amen. Can I tell you something? As I sat there in that buffet restaurant, part of me desperately wanted to pick up my plate, walk across the room, and find a chair at that table. I wanted to ask those guys questions about who they were and their standing for prayer at mealtime. I wanted to ask the guy who prayed what he said to God when he thanked him for the food. I’d love to have had a tape of that prayer for my future reference. I think taping that prayer would have been different than taping my mealtime prayer. I would not be surprised for a moment if the translation for that prayer that they prayed began with Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Somehow, standing together in a circle praying made those guys seem like they were truly thankful for what they were about to receive. They certainly weren’t saying grace by rote.

The post Grace appeared first on Ken Jones.

A word about,… Unheard.

I had a sad conversation a few days ago. I talked with someone who told me about their life and, in so many words, described what I would call a very lonely place. A woman who loved her husband and family was confronted with a variety of difficult circumstances and issues. Challenges that were so difficult to manage, feelings that were raw, relentless, and real. When I asked her who else knew about her feelings about life, she said she told her husband about how she felt. She had a very close Christian friend that she’d confided in, but she said, in all honesty, I don’t feel heard. It’s as if I say the words, but then the people that I’ve told don’t react as if I’ve actually said anything that they understand. For example, my husband says he understands, but then he doesn’t do anything that makes me feel like he heard me. He doesn’t change. I come away feeling unheard. I asked the woman what the difference was between not being heard and the person I’m talking to not doing what I think they should do in response to what I’ve said. She sat quietly for several seconds and then she said, Hmm, that’s a good question. It may be that my husband heard me, he just doesn’t do what I want him to do. And then she chuckled, maybe I’m heard, I’m just not paid attention to. I don’t think there is a lonelier feeling in the world than the feeling that I’m not being heard. In the first place, for me at least, working up the courage to express what I sense is going on in my life isn’t that easy for me. Being vulnerable and exposed to another person’s opinion demands a lot from a person. And of course, sometimes I’m not even sure what I feel anyway. If I disclose my hidden thoughts to someone else, I open myself up to not only examination but criticism or correction. The only remedy to that is silence. And if I’m silent, well, I have no one to blame for my feeling unheard except me. If I’m talking to someone else and I’m expressing what I think they should be doing, and then they act as if they haven’t heard me, it may very well be that they heard me perfectly. They just don’t intend to comply. That reality can be extremely frustrating and yes, even lonely. I have been known to have conversations with God where I come away feeling unheard. But there’s an enormous difference between unanswered and unheard. There’s probably no better example of that reality in all the world than in the scriptures. The Bible contains unanswered requests, delayed requests, altered requests, and yes, even denied requests. But for the child of God, unheard request is you might say unheard of. That’s the one category of request that positively does not exist. There is the confidence that we have toward him, says 1 John 5.14, that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us. There’s never a question in my life about whether God hears me. The great question is, as Adam of old must have known, can I hear him as he walks through the garden of my life? In many of my circumstances I have become aware that I’m expecting God to start answering my prayer before he’s finished listening to my truest need. A haunting thought that I pray never becomes a reality in my life. I wonder if God ever feels unheard by me. One of my life verses is Psalm 27, 8. In the New Living Translation, it reads, My heart has heard you say, Come and talk with me. And my heart responds, Lord, I am coming. May the God I love and serve never know a moment of being unheard.

The post Unheard appeared first on Ken Jones.

A Word About Firsts,…

Life in all its complexities and nuances is crowded with occasions we call ‘first times.’ 

My life began, almost certainly, with a crying episode. (Although I don’t recall it, I must have been absolutely squalling,)
The first time I ever took a breath.
The first time I ever got smacked on my behind,
As some doctor I’d never met before,
Held me up to a world I’d never been to before,
And said, “Welcome to humanity.”

I’d never been welcomed to humanity before. And I’d never cried, before, either.
Very first time for both things.

A friend gave us some persimmons the other day. I love persimmons, now.
But the first time I ever tasted one?
I remember it well.
My cousin, Billy Chilton, who lived in the country,
Thought it would be hilarious to watch a kid from the city,
Take his very first bite of a green persimmon.
I know it was hilarious for my cousin. But for me? Not so much.

I remember the first time I ever tasted coffee, too.
And I wondered who in their right mind could ever like something that bitter?
But I drink coffee, first thing every morning, now,
Because my life is still filled with first things.

I remember the first girl I liked in the second grade.
And the first job I ever got paid for.
(My mom gave me jobs, like taking out the garbage,
But she never thought taking out the garbage should warrant any paycheck,
So I can’t remember the first time I had to take out the garbage. But it was a lot!)

I remember the preaching of the first sermon I ever delivered.
(I don’t remember the sermon; just the preaching, which was pretty sad.
I tried my best not to make the people who were listening too sad,
But I could tell by the expressions on their faces: they were pained, as they sat listening to the first sermon I ever tried to preach)

The first time I kissed my wife.
The first time I looked through a hospital nursery window at my first-born son.
The first fish I ever caught. (A bluegill in a farm pond. My dad put the worm on my hook.)

Lot’s of firsts I can’t remember, of course.
First time I ate ice cream?
First time I tasted a lemon?

I don’t remember the first words I ever spoke, even though I was there.
And for a certainty, I won’t remember the last words I will speak, either, even though I’ll be there.

Just as certainly as there was a first word … there will be a last.

My life has included an incredibly long list of first time things.
But, today, I was also somewhat struck with an equally challenging idea:
My life also includes a number of last time things. Funny thing about last times—they happen quietly, without fanfare, and we don’t realize they’ve occurred until they’re long gone.

There’s a good chance I won’t know it when I’m doing something important for the last time. I need to pay more attention when I tell people ‘Good-bye,’ this week, I think, just in case … well, you know.

“Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.” — Ephesians 5:15-16 (NIV)

The post Firsts appeared first on Ken Jones.

A Word About Backstage

Every Sunday morning, I get to lead The Classic Service at church. We have a wonderful group of committed musicians and singers. We help the congregation that’s gathered focus on God musically, with traditional hymns, choruses, gospel songs, and even an occasional contemporary worship song. We try to keep the focus on Jesus. But everyone in the room is facing toward the platform, or what a secular audience might call the Stage. Whatever is happening on the stage is what folks are thinking about and focusing on.

But some of the most important elements of what I get to do every Sunday morning don’t happen on the stage. They happen backstage.

Have you ever noticed? When you go to a concert, nobody cheers when the microphones are plugged in correctly. Nobody applauds the guy who’s adjusting the curtains or sweeping the stage after everyone has gone home. No. We’re accustomed to thinking as audience members that the people standing in the spotlight, or standing out front, or in my case, leading the service are the most important thing that’s going on. 

But as a Classic Service worship leader for many years, I can tell you: I know better. I know how many unseen hands it takes to make our worship time possible.

We live in a culture fascinated by platforms and stages. Bigger audiences. More followers. Louder voices. Even stadiums full of people raising their hands in worship, experiencing brightly lit stages occupied by well-known pastors or worship leaders.

But Jesus never suggested the kingdom would mainly move through celebrities or even people standing in the front who are well known.

When he taught kingdom principles, he chose common, ordinary things to describe impact potential in the kingdom: things like seeds, or bread, or yeast , or salt. or lamps that give light in the darkness. Jesus still looked at ordinary people and said, “You are the light of the world.” The challenge is not knowing what Jesus said. The challenge is truly embracing the idea that small things really do make a huge difference, that ordinary people, living godly faithful lives every day have an extraordinary impact on the world in which they live.

Most people will never stand before thousands on some stage.
Almost no one writes a bestselling book or become a household name.
Most believers — believers Jesus described as the light of the world — will live their entire lives in what they might perceive to be relative obscurity, unless … well, unless they embrace the reality that there are far more dark rooms in this world than there are stadiums. And the darkest rooms often need the steadiest lights. 

Some people are called to stadiums. Most of us are called to hallways, or dinner tables, or classrooms. We don’t stand on stage where everyone can see us. We’re backstage, plugging in microphones, or ushering people to their seats, or greeting people at the door.

But that is where much of the kingdom quietly advances. The light dispelling the darkness, one soul at a time one conversation at a time, one act of faithfulness at a time. It is a profound truth: When life becomes painfully dark, nobody asks where the light is coming from. Nobody critiques the style of the lamp or complains about its design.

They simply move closer to the light because it dispels their darkness. The light that has Jesus as its source of power and most often has its effectiveness from a venue unnoticed because its not in the lime light. It is totally committed to being the light of the world … backstage.

The post Backstage appeared first on Ken Jones.