The Substance of Faith

The Substance of Faith

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About – The Substance of Faith

 sub·stance  [suhb’- stuhns] n. that of which a thing consists; the actual matter of a thing


The Substance of hosts the reflections, insights, and study of  Joel Snider, who recently retired after serving 21 years as the Pastor of First Baptist Church, Rome Georgia.

Are you searching for information on the “the substance of faith?”  More searches for that phrase bring readers to this site than any other.  If that’s why you came, here is a simple summary:

The phrase comes from the King James Version’s translation of Hebrews 11:1 – “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”   J. B. Phillips translation clarifies the idea: “Now faith means putting our full confidence in the things we hope for…”

Clarence Jordan has a famous sermon using the phrase “the substance of faith.” .  When Jordan’s sermons were gathered and published, the editor took the title from that particular sermon.

Clarence always made this point: faith is a verb, not a noun.  He based this statement on the fact that the Greek New Testament contains both a noun and a verb form of “faith”  but, the verb is more common than the noun.  English has no verb that can be translated “to faith,” so in our Bibles, the verb is most often rendered “to believe.”  The poor English equivalent leaves us thinking that faith is a mental activity: believing facts about Jesus.

So here is the idea behind “the substance of faith”: If you hope for something, then you live for it even if you can’t see the outcome.  Living for what we hope for makes hope tangible; it gives hope substance.  Living the convictions  of our faith makes our hope concrete.  Hope is just an idea – it is simply a wish – until we give it genuine substance through our actions. Living for the convictions we cannot see is the substance of our faith.   As Clarence Jordan said, “Now faith is the turning of dreams into deeds; it is betting your life on the unseen realities.”

I wrote my dissertation on the preaching of Clarence Jordan and his theology still has a major impact on what I believe.  Thus, I took The Substance of Faith as the name for this website.  I hope that you will find concrete expressions of faith in my posts.  My goal is to apply real faith for the real lives we live.

The menu headings above are:

Bucket Books are the 50 books that have had a significant impact on my life.  They include literature, fiction, business, theology and more.  What books have been most influential in your life?

Other Reads are any other book I’ve been reading.

Observations are comments on life, culture, and faith.

Prayers –  I’ve written some of these prayers.  I’ve found the prayers written by others helpful.

Meditation Texts are printed in our order of worship every Sunday.  They are printed to encourage engagement beyond the worship service.

Quotes – I’ve collected thousands over the years.  Here is a place for some of the best ones to see the light of day.

Elsewhere contains anything I’ve found on the internet that I want to highlight.

Life is my place for travel, hobbies, or anything that doesn’t fit the rest of the categories.

To continue the conversation for any post, click on the title of the post and a comment section will appear.


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So this is Love

Left to Right: Cherry, Donna Brown (aunt), Jordan, Natalie Brown (cousin), Rachel, Joel, Dottie Grace (cousin), Kelly Brown (uncle).
Kayytie and Jace in front.
Paulo is on duty and missed greatly.

Many of you know our older daughter and her husband have been working toward the adoption of a daughter.  Yesterday, July 11, Kaytie was made an official part of their home, joining Jace as our grandchildren on the Hernandez side of the family.    No adjective describes fully the power of the day.  Paulo was patched in, via conference call.  The judge asked him why he wanted to adopt Kaytie.  He gave a simple, powerful statement.  The judge said it was one of the best rationale’s for adoption he had heard.  Until Rachel spoke.   I don’t have a copy of what Paulo said, but here are Rachel’s words:

Your Honor, I have known that I would be asked this question for many weeks and I have struggled to put my feelings into words. Part of me feels very guilty to say that, but Kaytie’s life, especially the beginning, has not been easy and therefore perhaps that it is why I couldn’t just give an easy answer. I don’t know a lot about Kaytie’s first 6 years but I know that the culture of where she was what not one that cultivated love, learning, laughter or loyalty. Thankfully she found her way to a loving home filled with several foster siblings, and a foster mom whom Kaytie loves fiercely and I don’t think will ever forget. When she entered this home she did not know the basic things most 6 year olds know such as colors, animals, letters, or numbers. She struggled with coordination and strength. She did not like to speak to others and was obviously afraid of much. Through diligence, love, and patience she has surpassed what anyone thought she might accomplish. Since she came to be a part of our family she has grown even more. Her favorite color is pink, with purple as a close second. She hasn’t met a dog that she didn’t instantly want to pet or take for a walk. Her favorite letter is K for Kaytie and her second favorite letter is J for her brother Jace. She loves turning somersaults into the ocean waves, swinging, and riding her bike. And she is learning to live with less fear.

My life has been very different from Kaytie’s. I have been blessed to know a lot of different kind of loves from many different people and if I am honest most of those loves have come with only a few challenges. You may be familiar with the Love Chapter in 1 Corinthians 13. There are many characteristics mentioned about love in these verses but not one of them says that love is easy. My love for Kaytie, if I am honest, it is not easy. But I have learned much about love and perseverance from this 7 year old. It has helped me gain another glimpse at just how much God loves me and how I am called above all else to love others. I read a quote that says “’Family’ isn’t defined by last names or by blood; it’s defined by commitment and by love. It means showing up when they need it most. It means having each other’s back. It means choosing to love each other even on those days when you struggle to like each other. It means never giving up on each other.” I believe this world be a better place if we all defined family in this way. So, today and all of my days, I promise to be strive to be that kind of family for Kaytie.

The judge said he thought it was impossible to improve on what Paulo said, but Rachel did it.

As a pastor for more than 40 years, I have often preached and written about love that is distinctly Christian.  Rachel’s comments contain more power and passion than any sermon I remember preaching.    If you aren’t sure what love is, here it is, lived clearly…and fiercely.

We welcome Kaytie Hadassah Hernandez to this family of love.

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The Lottery

“The Lottery” is a famous American short story.   It has appeared in countless literature textbooks and anthologies since The New Yorker first published Shirley Jackson’s piece in 1948. The event which gives the story its title takes place in a small American town as residents prepare for the annual drawing of lots. Jackson describes the preparations and the emotional anticipation of the characters getting ready to pull slips of paper from a black box.   Not until Bill Hutchinson draws the black dot do we begin to see that this is a lottery no one wants to win. After a second drawing among the Hutchinson family, Bill’s wife, Tessie, holds the single slip with the black dot. When the story ends with the rest of the village stoning Tessie, we realize that the only thing Tessie wins in this lottery is the opportunity to be a victim.

The story has sparked controversy for decades. Most readers find it hard to identify with a village that could turn its back on one of its own and ignore the cries about the injustice of the lottery of death.

My mind turned to “The Lottery” recently when I heard the story of Brian, a middle-school student diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. The treatments compromised his immune system and he was forced to avoid crowds. For months his mother home schooled him until his ability to fight infection recovered to the point that he could return to classes. You can imagine his anticipation as he prepared to get back to his normal routine and to be with friends again.

You can also imagine his surprise when he returned to school and his friends ignored him. Maybe we should say they shunned him. None of his friends had anything to do with him. Disturbed by her son’s account of the day, Brian’s mother called the mother of one of his friends to see what happened.

The friend’s mother reported that several parents met during Brian’s absence and decided their children could not be Brian’s friends any longer — because he was going to die. His death, the woman explained to Brian’s mother, would be too traumatic for their children, so it was best they cease being friends now, in order to lessen their grief later. No one has said that Brian is certain to die, but Brian’s friends ignored him to save themselves the possibility of pain.

Congratulations, Brian, you’ve won “the lottery,” where being one among thousands means losing, not winning. It means being cut off from the people who once surrounded you as community and friends — and now turn their backs on you as you die. Just like Tessie Hutchinson.

In case you are wondering, yes, this is a true story. I’ve altered the circumstances to protect both the innocent and the shameful. Though I will never meet them, I would like to address the parents of Brian’s friends.

If you only take one thing from this article let it be this: you cannot protect your children from grief.  If Brian dies, your children will still grieve. Long ago I tested a theory of mine. I asked people, “Who was the first person your age that you can remember dying?” As most people remember where they were when Kennedy was shot or when the World Trade Center was attacked, every person I asked had an immediate answer. They remembered a child hit by a car. A teenager who died of a mysterious heart attack. A suicide. They remembered the name of those who died and their age when it happened. Your children will remember, too. You can’t protect them from knowing and you can’t make them forget.

You cannot stop death from coming near your children and you cannot stop them your from grieving when it does. By removing them from contact with Brian, all you have done is added the prospect of shame to your child’s grief if Brian dies. Your children will know he died and they will remember they turned their back on him when he needed them most. I have seen the grief of those who failed to do their part as a friend or family member died. No grief is pretty, but the grief of the guilty is the ugliest of all.

And, in your effort to protect your child, what if you do raise a son or daughter who has no connection to those in pain, no grief for the dying, and no guilt for their own actions? Congratulations, you have raised a sociopath. Look up the definition. Was that your intention?

And, if we follow the plot of Shirley Jackson’s story, what about next year? What if your child is the next to win the lottery? Will you voluntarily withdraw from public life so that their surviving friends will not have to love your sons and daughters, lest they grieve more when your children are gone? What if you get cancer? Will you move away from your children to spare them the pain of seeing you die? No, you will cling to every precious moment because, like Brian, you will need the presence of those you love.

I have a suspicion that the issue here is not the tender feelings of the children, but your own fear. The fear that you will have to think about death and try to explain it to your children. The fear of your own children’s grief. The fear of facing the prospect that your children are also mortal. It is a terrible thing to love that which can be taken from us.

The adage says “growing old is not for sissies.” Neither is parenting. So buck up and take the responsibility that you cannot put aside, no matter how difficult it is. You signed on for the task when your children were born.

Teach your children that true love is not without sacrifice, but it is the sacrifice that makes it most dear. Teach your children that real life cannot be avoided, but it can be lived courageously. Teach them that faith in Christ is strong enough to sustain us, even when we don’t understand all that happens around us.

You cannot control the events in your child’s life. Such control is an illusion.   You can, however, help your children develop the virtues and the faith that empower them to bear with and to overcome life’s most painful moments. But first you will have to acquire them yourselves.


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Planning for Retirement

This post was originally prepared for the Center for Healthy Churches. If you are interested in discussing how to plan for retirement in another field, make a comment below, or email me.


I admit it – I am anal. A classic “Type A.” I’ve tested as a conscientious personality style, the characteristics of which include: not resting until the job is done and done right, working hard to do well, and loving to work and be challenged. If there were a club for those least likely to retire early I would be a charter member. Last May, however, I retired at 63 and haven’t regretted it a day.
In order to make this transition, I started thinking about retirement eight years ago. Two factors weighed on me. First, I knew I wouldn’t be happy in retirement without something meaningful to do. Finding something to fulfill me in my post-pastor chapter of life could not wait until the day after my last Sunday. Second, my love for the congregation would not allow me to walk away from the pastorate with a large amount of unfinished business (there’s the conscientious personality trait rearing it’s head). If I had hopes of retiring I had to know what I could do for personal fulfillment and I had to know what God needed me to do in the church I served. I could not discover these two things overnight; they required much prayer and work. Eight years seemed a workable timeframe, so at 57, I began a journey of spiritual discernment.

I “tried out” a few paths to personal fulfillment. Some did not satisfy, including training as a mediator. I also created a website where I could author in small doses to see if writing would be gratifying. That experiment worked. Leadership coaching already provided significant gratification and felt like a ready-made extension of ministry, so I continued to develop those skills.

Additionally, a friend and I developed a list of things we wanted to do, if only we had more time. We all know the tyranny of a crowded calendar on a beautiful spring day. These are the days we want to be outside, soaking up the sunshine, but we have people needing appointments and deadlines to meet. With the help of my friend and I created a simple catalog of “things I’d like to do today.” I wanted to learn Excel, take better photographs, go cycling…I have more than 25 things on that list.

Consequently, the day I retired I was training for a cycling trip. Three writing projects awaited me, along with multiple coaching clients.

Along with the joy of grand-parenting and family life, they provide satisfaction and avenues to continue my calling to minister. Had I not planned ahead and discarded a few interests that did not fulfill, I would not have been ready. On the few days I’ve suffered boredom, I take a hike, grab my camera, or cycle an extra hour, relishing the fact I have time to do them.

The discernment process also uncovered three major projects which seemed necessary in the life of the church. I sketched a rough timeline for them and began to work toward their completion. A nugget of wisdom says: “the days are long, but the years are short.” Without the intentional plan for these long-range projects, it would have been easy for time to slip away, while waiting for a more convenient time to begin them.

God speaks to each of us in different ways. On a February day, two months after surgery resulting from cancer screening, God spoke to me. I didn’t hear a voice, but the Spirit made a clear impression on my heart. It was time to retire. When I felt that prompting, I was ready. I had discovered some things that were fulfilling to me and I could see the end of the church projects I had started. I could see where one path transitioned into another. In May I announced to the congregation I would retire twelve months later.

One more thing remained. During my last year, I made regular lists of my duties. What pastoral tasks happened weekly, monthly, and annually? What processes did I initiate that might not occur to anyone else? I was 42 when I went to First Baptist in Rome — the junior member of the staff. After 20 years I possessed much of the institutional memory. With the help of others, I compiled a list of my duties and made explanatory notes for many of them. I believe that list was the most helpful thing I did for the congregation, prior to retirement.

Planning for retirement is about more than IRA’s and Social Security. If we take our callings seriously, retirement planning includes discerning what Christ needs from us in our current roles. We all want to know we finished well. We also want to consider how to continue our calling in another form. There is no retirement from our Christian commitment, but that doesn’t mean we have to keep the same role.

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Seventeen Year Locusts and the Long View of Life

I wrote the following article for The Center for Healthy Churches.  It originally appeared at

Recently I returned to my home state of West Virginia to conduct a funeral for a distant relative. Following the service at the funeral home, we drove to the cemetery in a procession. After arriving, I walked to the back of the hearse where I joined the funeral director and six pall bearers I did not know. We stood awkwardly while we waited for others to exit their cars and for the family members to take their places.

While standing there, we heard it A loud, metallic buzz that came from nearby trees. Very loud. It faded slightly and then rose again. The pall bearers looked over their shoulders, trying to see the source of the noise. “The seventeen year locusts,” pronounced the funeral director, who had seen the questioning on all our faces. “They’re back. Its the seventeen year locusts.”
I had not thought of them since I was a child, living with my grandparents. Perhaps I’ve lived in the wrong regions of the country, or in a city, where they don’t’ swarm, but I hadn’t heard them or thought about them in decades. But I remember my grandmother telling me how particular strains of locusts had a long life cycle, much of which approached dormancy. Then, after seventeen years they appeared again in large swarms. Now, here they were, swarming and buzzing, One pall beard noted that they sounded apocalyptic – so great was their noise.
My grandmother warned they’d be back, but I wasn’t paying much attention when I was twelve. I had more pressing things to do in the next seventeen years than to wait on the return of locusts. From the time she told me about them until they returned the first time I would live in four states, get my driver’s license, graduate from high school, college, and seminary. I would marry and be waiting on my second child to be born. With that much living to do, who has time to think about something that takes seventeen years to happen?
Now, in my sixties, I stood behind the hearse and listened to the swarm. I made the quick calculation and realized, that since my first encounter with the locusts, I have lived through three, seventeen year cycles. How long seventeen years seemed back then; how quickly 51 years have gone by since. This is always the problem in taking the long view in life. The future looks incredibly distant from the front side and remarkably short from the back side.
If only we could learn to take a long view of life when we were younger. When I hear an older people say, “If I had known how long I was going to live, I would have taken better care of myself,” I know they wish they had taken the long view. I’ve read articles by investors who wish they had placed more trust in the power of compound interest over time instead of trying to hit the moon every year with a hot stock tip.
I believe the long view of life is the healthiest and most effective. It allows us to be intentional about life and purpose instead of responding to the “tyranny of the urgent” the things which get in our way and demand our attention.
What does it look like to take the long view in ministry? Here is one, simple idea: write down a preferred future for you and your church. It may be a detailed strategic plan, but it may simply be a guiding sentence. Look at it no less than once a month and do one concrete thing to move forward the vision God has given you.
Funerals happen. People show up at your office door unannounced. Interruptions abound. Therefore, don’t get discouraged if you don’t wok on the plan every day or every week. But every month, do at least one thing to move it forward. Do something to move the glacial pace of change and improvement one inch in the direction God indicates. Just one inch.
An inch every month may not seem like much, from where you stand today, but by the time the locusts return you’ve moved seventeen feet. When you take the long view, incremental movement adds up over time.
We can apply the power of long term, incremental change to the churches we serve, or to our personal lives – losing weight, working on a degree, or writing that book we’ve dreamed of authoring. Moving an inch here, losing a pound there, writing a page this month and next. Pretty soon you’ve made progress. Real progress.
The key is to get started today. From experience I can tell you that the locusts will be back before you know it.

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Lila by Marilynne Robinson – A review

Lila is a hard and tender book.   Until she arrives in the town of Gilead, the best part of Lila’s life came among migrant workers in the dustbowl, where she was cared for by a scar-faced woman who stole her from a life of neglect.  That is a hard life.

But the novel is also tender because Lila perseveres;  she fights against the worst of her ghosts and wants to care about others.  She cares about Doll, who raised her, John Ames, the elderly pastor who marries her, and the expectant child she talks to for much of the novel.  The fact she wants to love and wants to trust at all is a testament to grace.

If there is one word that describes this novel it is grace.  It is not a pretty, pretend grace that makes everything rosy.  Rather, it is a grace in spite of Lila’s  dangerous life that is always on the edge of abandonment, It is a gritty grace that overcomes being a second generation knife-totting woman.  The only grace that can touch Lila is a gritty grace experienced in the most dire of circumstances, ministered by the most unlikely of characters.

Reading reviews on is an interesting experience.  The people who respond negatively to the book most likely prefer action over character development, which Robinson does so well.  With consummate skill, Robinson follows the writers’ adage to “show, not tell Your Domain Name.”  Showing the characters in this book takes a while, but seeing their souls grow is worth it.

People of faith and people of no faith are touched by Robinson’s ability to capture the mind of a woman who can carry her worldly possessions in her hands for decades, and how this woman becomes a wife – a pastor’s wife, at that.

Robinson is a rare theologian who can translate the deepest theology into life-giving words.  John Ames says:

I realize I have always believed there is a great Providence that, so to speak, waits ahead of us. The father holds out his hands to a child who is learning to walk, and comforts the child with words and draws it toward him, and he lets the child feel the risk it is taken, and lets it choose its own courage and the certainty of love and comfort when he reaches his fathers…I was going to say safety, but there is no safety.  And there is no choice, either, because it is the nature of the child to walk.  As it is the want of the encouragement and attention of the father.  And the promise of comfort. Which it is in the nature of the father to give.  

She is also an accomplished student of the Bible, using  a book as difficult as Ezekiel as the place where Lila encounters the God who rescues abandoned babies and is the source of hope that seems to grow out of nowhere.

I remember Gilead, as a warm and tender book that a give me much joy to read.  Lila is a stand alone prequel to Gilead and a  part of a trilogy that includes Home.  Any of the three stands by itself.  But as soon as I finish this review, I intend to start reading Gilead again, with a new understanding of how the characters arrived to the beginning of the story it tells.



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Pictures from May 1

Special thanks to Sam Ratcliff for the great shots from my retirement day.  Thanks to Nancy for delivering!

Our family - back row, starting left: Jordan and Dave with Josie, Paul, Jace and Rachel, my sister Jennie McNeal. Lucy is in my lap.

Our family – back row, starting left: Jordan and Dave with Josie, Paulo, Jace and Rachel, my sister Jennie McNeal. Lucy is in my lap.









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A great staff to work with.








Friends from high school and Auburn came from Birmingham: Susan and Rusty Foster, janet Walker.

Friends from high school and Auburn came from Birmingham: Susan and Rusty Foster, Janet Walker.


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A Review of The Sunflower by Simon Wiesenthal

Forgiveness is the number one spiritual problem.  That’s my experience after 40 years in the ministry.  More individuals struggle with the dynamics of forgiveness than any other spiritual issue.  They ask questions such as:

“Can God forgive me for ________.”  Fill in the blank. with your own worst sin.

“How can I ever forgive ______ for what he/she did?”  Fill in the blank with the name of the person who has hurt you the worst.

“How can I forgive myself?”

I’ve encountered very few people – Christians or non-Christians – who have resolved all of these questions.  Consequently, I’ve preached often on forgiveness and collected many books on the subject.  One book that I’ve seen referenced, but had not read is Simon Wiesenthal’s The Sunflower.  Thus, during my first week of retirement I read it and offer some observations.

Those with a decent memory of the Holocaust will remember that Wiesenthal was a Austrian Jew and a concentration camp survivor who went on to be the most effective hunter of Nazi war criminals following WWII.  The Sunflower represents his own encounter with the dynamics of forgiveness and is written in two parts.

The first portion of the book describes an event that occurred when Wiesenthal was a prisoner in WWII.  One day while on a work detail in a hospital, a nurse approached him and bade him to follow her.  Wiesenthal found himself in a room with a single patient, an SS officer dying of grave wounds.  The Nazi officer’s head  was wrapped in bandages could see nothing of his face.

With great physical and spiritual difficulty the officer described his transition from “a good Catholic” prior to the rise of National Socialism in Germany to an SS officer who participated in a heinous atrocity against the Jewish inhabitants of a village on Germany’s Eastern front with the Soviets.  This officer helped corral old men, women and children into a house drenched in gasoline and then set the house on fire with grenades.  He and his comrades shot those who tired to escape. He shot one family in particular who stared straight at him in fear and pain as they jumped to their deaths.

The SS officer explained that he did not want to die with this crime on his conscience.  He had asked the nurse to bring a Jew to his room in order that he might confess to him (all the prisoners in this context being male.).

Although Wiesenthal shows fragments of compassion to the SS officer during his telling of his story, when the officer asks for forgiveness, Wiesenthal eventually leaves the room in silence, withholding the forgiveness that he had sought.   Wiesenthal then struggles with his decision and discusses it with other prisoners.  After the war he located the officer’s mother and visited her, offering solace.   But he did not forgive and asks the reader whether or not he was right in his decision.

On the day Wiesenthal encountered the SS officer, he saw sunflowers planted on the graves of Nazi soldiers. Photo linked from http://impracticalcatholic.blogspot

The remainder of the book is comprised of essays by Jewish, Christian, and Buddhist thought leaders who respond to Wiesenthal’s question.  Their divergent responses further suggest that forgiveness is a pivotal, spiritual problem.   There are themes that appear and reappear, but there is no agreement on what Wiesenthal did or should have done.

Several of the essayists ask whether Wiesenthal had the capacity to forgive on behalf of others. If he was not among the SS officer’s victims, did he have standing to forgive?

Others ask if Wiesenthal had forgiven the SS officer, would he have done justice to the victims.  They suggesting that for Wiesenthal to forgive would slight the victims’ injuries; therefore, they counsel that he did the correct thing by not forgiving.

Other writers ascribe impure motives to the SS officer.  Was his confession genuine?  Did he continue to objectify Jews by asking that a representative Jewish man hear his confession?  Why didn’t he confess to a priest?  I found the assumptions behind many of these criticisms to be highly prejudiced and unhelpful.

A few respondents, chief among them the Dali Lama, recognized that forgiveness is essentially about the heart of the person offering forgiveness.  With that understanding of forgiveness, Wiesenthal could have offered forgiveness from himself to the officer.  He could have expressed that the officer’s past actions did not dictate Wiesenthal’s future attitude and actions toward him.  This view coincides with my own understanding of forgiveness.


The essays not only point out the critical nature of forgiveness as a spiritual problem, but they also serve as evidence that there is confusion about the vocabulary surrounding forgiveness.

In the New Testament, forgiveness is not presented as the equivalent of full reconciliation or as the restoration of fellowship between two, estranged parties.  Forgiveness is the attitude of the injured party directed toward the injurer.  In this attitude the heart of the injured does not count the injury as the defining issue between the two.  Instead, love – agape love – defines the relationship – at least from the side of the injured.  Forgiveness is the removal of the obstacles of hate, anger, or the desire for vengeance which stand in the way of possible reconciliation. In direct relationship to the Greek of the NT, it is letting go of all these negative attitudes.
With humans, this new perspective represents a change from all the negative emotions which had previously defined the relationship between the injured and the injurer.  With God, the desire is always there, always reaching toward us.  Forgiveness is an expression of God’s constant and abiding love. Romans 5:8 says: “but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
Therefore, forgiveness in the NT is not identified with reconciliation; it is a stage antecedent to reconciliation.  It is that which makes reconciliation possible.  Repentance on the part of the injuring party allows forgiveness to be received.  Then reconciliation may take place.  In our relationship with God, it means accepting what God was already  offering.  This understanding of forgiveness is missing in the majority of essays in the second part of The Sunflower.
Additionally, as a Christian I remember Jesus’s resurrection statement to the disciples in John 20:22-23:

“And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit.  If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you withhold forgiveness from any, it is withheld.”  (ESV)

Christens do have a ministry of forgiveness.
I don’t offer these observations as a debate about the correctness of Christian theology vis a vis Jewish theology, but my tradition does direct my response, just as the Jewish tradition directs Wiesenthal’s.

I wonder what the response of a Viktor Frankl or Corrie Ten Boom might have been.  Both were alive and available when the first edition of The Sunflower was published.





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Our First Sunday

Cherry and I have spent our first Sunday of retirement going to church together.  We have done that rarely over the past 35 years and it was one of my goals for this new chapter of life.  We worshipped at the Chapel on Bald Head Island, NC.

We also enjoyed watching worship at FBC.



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No Words

Sunday marked my retirement from First Baptist Church of Rome. It is a wonderful church made up of great people.

I’d like to thank the ministers I’ve worked with:  Keith Reaves, Music and Worship; Tamara Smathers, Education and Administration; John Uldrick, Students and Missions; Gwen Stephens, Interim Faith Development (Children and Preschool.  They are a wonderful group of Christians who are dedicated to their callings.  They have made me a better pastor .

I’d also like to thank the church for hosting a marvelous reception last Thursday night.  Cherry and I were honored and humbled by the presence of everyone who came.  We are not half-way through reading notes, letters, and remembrances that you have sent.

I’m also thankful for conversations that retirement afforded.  Concluding  my ministry at FBC precipitated the opportunity to express affection, respect, healing, and hope to each other in ways that we might not do if next week looked the same as last week.  Routine can kill initiative, but the conclusion of 21 years together made it possible to say things that were long overdue.  I am thankful for these exchanges.

John Head mentioned on Sunday morning that I plan to write.  You could not tell it from visiting this website over the past weeks.   One of my goals is to write here much more often than I haven the past few months. Without a sermon to prepare, The Substance of Faith site will be primary outlet for book reviews and observations.  I’ll have more on those future plans soon.

Again, there are no words to express appreciation to the great people of FBC for your kindness and generosity.  Cherry and I love you all and join you in praying for the Pastor Search Committee as they continue their work.

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R. I. P. Rocky

He was a bantam weight dog with a heavy weight personality.  He was funny and exasperating; loyal and obstinate.  He loved people and hated other dogs.  He taught me that “terrier” and “territorial” come from the same root.

I’ve written about Rocky twice before.  The post on his TV-watching idiosyncrasies was very popular.  I also used him to describe our culture’s relationships to pets.    He died last Wednesday and like most pet owners, we  feel as if part of our family is gone.

It’s been coming for a while.  Eighteen months ago he had his first seizure while walking around the block.  He lost balance, feel over, and flailed his legs for a moment.  The first time I thought he had just lost his balance, but a couple of months later another seizure hit and I knew age was catching him.

Cataracts affected his sight.  He operated around the house as if he could see perfectly, but he would walk right by Aggie, a neighboring dog, and never see her.  His hearing began to fail and he no longer reacted to the AFLAC Duck on TV, nor hid in the closet during college football games.

Last fall we had our granddaughters for the weekend.  Saturday afternoon and evening Rocky hid.  Two preschoolers can create a lot of chaos, so it didn’t seem abnormal for him to stick his head under the bed.  He thought he was hiding although we could clearly see his legs.  Then I heard his breathing and realized that, as a farm dog goes under the house to die, he was going under the bed to be at peace while he slipped away.  A quick trip to the vet resulted in a diagnosis of congestive heart failure.  All you had to do was hold him as he panted and you knew what it was.  The rasping of his lungs sounded wet and labored.  Dr. Pate was on call and came in, even though he’d never seen Rocky before. Some medication relieved the worst of Rocky’s symptoms and he came home.

But he wasn’t the same.  He slept more and seemed to lose track of when he had gone outside to the bathroom.  We could no longer interpret his needs like before.  Out? Food? Water? We never seemed to know what he wanted when he pawed at us.  I’m not sure he knew, either.

Last week the seizures started daily.  Instead of just falling over, he dropped to the ground, contorted, and howled.  It was haunting and painful to watch.  Kneeling over him one morning as another struck, I prayed this would be the seizure to kill him so we wouldn’t have to make a decision about his life and death.  So he wouldn’t suffer any more.  After being perfectly  still for a minute, he struggled up and pranced into the house.  Just when you thought you knew what to do, he broke into that terrier strut.

Tuesday afternoon, through Wednesday morning, he had four seizures.  The prancing strut was temporary.  Tuesday night he never moved while sleeping.  I heard him grind his teeth early in the morning; it was the only way I knew he was still alive.

Wednesday morning we made an appointment at the vet for late afternoon, the first time available.  Rocky had another seizure on the way there, leaving no doubt we were doing the right thing. We waited our turn while Rocky quivered.   Then it was our turn.  I had a brief conversation with Dr. Dixon to say I understood why we had come. Three minutes later it was over.

Several years ago I  read a story about Sigmund Freud’s evaluation of a boy whose father had died.  Freud was shocked that the boy said he still expected his father to come through the door.  Freud thought the boy’s reaction was abnormal.

If the story is true, Freud must have never had family, or a friend, or a pet.  I find myself still expecting Rocky to bark at the doorbell, or paw my leg and tell me it’s time to go out, or kick his bowl across the floor, hoping for different food.

Absence is not felt in general, but in the particular patterns which once existed – and now are lost to us.  It is felt in those places where our lives were once entwined with the presence of another and now feels frayed. Unraveled.

With people it isn’t just that someone is gone, it is the phone call which can no longer be made, the advice which can’t be sought, the door which a father  won’t walk through again.  These moments are not part of a theory about grief; they are the concrete expressions of  our love and our lives joined to those we loved.  Even a pet.





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