PHILosophically Speaking

2011-12-08T08:28:00.000-08:00

Let Me Have Christmas!

It was one of the most unusual funerals I ever conducted. The deceased woman had converted to Judaism when she married her Jewish husband. He had long since died and as she grew older she had a strong desire to return to the Christian faith of her youth--and she did. I took her confession in a hospital room and we cried together tears of joy.

But her family connections were now strongly Jewish and I was asked to share the funeral with a young rabbi.

He called me and very bluntly said, “You know, if you mention Jesus at the memorial service you will offend the Jewish people present."

"Could you just do your eulogy and leave Jesus out?" he almost demanded.

Of course, I replied that what he was asking of me was impossible. I couldn't preach a sermon, I couldn't offer a eulogy, I couldn't even pray a prayer without mentioning Jesus! To be honest, I was a much more worried about offending God by not talking about His Son! To make a long story short, we compromised. I preached the funeral (and talked about Jesus) and the he did the graveside service (and talked about death).

I have a few words for the ACLU, the Jewish community, the Muslim community, the public school administrators, and anyone else up in arms about the Christian emphasis at Christmas time: we Christians have feelings and rights, too! I find myself totally offended when you suggest I can't talk about Jesus or put on display the symbols representing His birth at this season of the year.

When my religious freedom and yours clash in this country, it would seem that compromise is in order. I will make you a deal. If you will let me rejoice and celebrate Christ's birth at Christmas, I won't say a word about your overt acts of religiosity on Hanukkah, Ramadan, or Kwanzaa.

Go ahead. Light a candle. Take a pilgrimage. Chant a mantra. Put up a star of David or erect a statue of Buddha. It's a free country. But in the name of fairness, let me have Christmas!---Phil LeMaster

2011-07-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

My Tobacco Role

The summer before my first year of college, I worked for the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service (ASCS) office in Lewis County, Kentucky, doing a job that no longer exists. It was back in the days when tobacco allotments were distributed by acreage rather than by pounds, requiring surveyors to measure each plot to be sure that farmers weren’t growing too much. That was my job and I crisscrossed the county that summer of 1966, going up hills and hollows, paying visits on farmers and their burley crops.

It was an interesting job and helped to teach me quite a bit about human nature. All the farmers that summer knew exactly what their allotment size was and most had gone to the trouble to carefully plan their planting. These fields were blissfully trouble-free for the surveyor, with straight rows and squared ends that made my job easy. When I came upon such a tract, I almost always knew that the calculations I made at the end of the job would indicate that the amount of tobacco planted and the allotment allowed were precisely the same.

But there were some fields that were not that way. The rows were less than straight and the ends were uneven. Sometimes the lay of the land dictated such a pattern, but often it seemed that the farmer had just thrown the tobacco plants in the air and let them take root where they landed!

I hated measuring such fields. It was my job to square them up on paper and produce a consistent pattern that would translate into a measurable plot. To be honest, sometimes it required a great deal of imagination to make sense out of such haphazard and careless planting. Invariably, I would find that most of farmers with such fields never had a clue as to whether they were over or under their prescribed allotment allowance.

If they were under in their allotment, they were cheating themselves out of part of their crop and if they were over they would have a second visit from an ASCS employee. I would return (or another surveyor) to see them in an even less enjoyable role, that of the tobacco destroyer.

On this second visit, I was required to oversee their destruction of the excess part of their crop. I hated that phase of the job and, of course, farmers hated to see me return! To add insult to injury, they had to pay a pretty steep fee to ASCS to destroy their own tobacco.

My experience that hot, hazy summer over forty years ago really imitates life, doesn’t it? Some people plan their lives very carefully, knowing what the requirements are and taking great pains to establish the proper boundaries. As a result, the blessings from God flow. Other folks are careless and carefree, not putting much effort or intentionality into their life plan. The end result is that they cheat themselves out of the real joys of life and find themselves unprepared for the final day of reckoning (from PHILosophically Speaking, pages 139-142).

2011-07-18T09:49:00.001-07:00

He Is the Boss of Me!

After my freshman year at Kentucky Christian College, my brother Mike invited me to come to Galion, Ohio, where he and his family lived to look for summer work. Fortunately after only a couple of days of job hunting, I was hired by Urban Industries of Ohio, a company that manufactured awnings for mobile homes.

My first and only factory job, I was required to help roll panels, make screened windows, and assemble awning kits for shipping. Work began at 7 a.m., necessitating getting up at 5:45, a time of the morning that I had seldom seen in my teen-age years! The small factory had only about twenty workers, most of whom were rough on the edges and laced every sentence with profanity. My boss was Carl Snelcker, a tall, balding man in his late 50s, who said little except when he was chewing me out for the mistakes that I made. It took only about three weeks of work for me to conclude that I thoroughly hated the job.

Even though I had gone to college for a year, this was my first real experience away from home. I became increasingly homesick with every passing day. Before the first month of summer was over, I was ready to quit and go back to Kentucky.

But then one evening while reading the Bible and having my devotional time, I came upon a verse in the New Testament that changed my summer and my life. The verse was Colossians 3:23, where Paul wrote, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.”

It was almost like the words leaped off of the page and into my heart. God seemed to be saying to me, “Phil, you are not working for Urban Industries of Ohio. You are not working for Carl Snelcker. You are working for Me!” And, of course, this was true. I was earning money to go back to KCC so I could continue my training to become a minister of the Gospel. It suddenly struck me that any task or job that I endeavored to do deserved my best because my ultimate employer was God.

When I went back on the job the next morning, Urban Industries had an entirely new employee. I began to work at every task with the thought, “I am working for God. I need to do my very best.” And I did. When I wasn’t working at an assignment given to me by Carl Snelcker, I was sweeping up our work area, rearranging parts in their bins, or assembling extra kits. After a couple of weeks, I was even given a ten-cents an hour raise!

The summer flew by and soon it was time to go back to Kentucky. A younger brother, Rowland, had also worked that summer and worked well. I went to Carl Snelcker and told him that we would be leaving to go back to school at the end of the week. On our final day, he came to us and said, “I just want you boys to know that you will always have a job here if you want it.”

The lesson that I learned that summer of 1967 has blessed my life ever since. As a Christian, any endeavor I undertake in this world deserves my best because I am doing it ultimately for my Heavenly Father. Most of all, I want Him to be pleased with my effort. In the process of doing my best, I have also learned that life is a lot more fun!--Phil LeMaster (from PHILosophiclly Speaking, page 146-149)

2010-07-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

Trophies in the Attic

While cleaning out the attic recently, I came across a box filled with basketball trophies from my high school and college days. I was surprised to see how tarnished and broken they had become with the passing years. Once tall soldiers holding miniature basketballs aloft in outstretched arms, now most of the figures have been broken off at their bases. The shiny gold and silver gloss of the awards has dulled and an ugly patina with some rust spots has started to appear on most of them.

What a metaphor of life, I thought to myself. Here I was thirty-plus years later, carefully working at a task that demanded that I protect my fragile back and gimpy knees. I couldn’t help but find my mind wandering back to an earlier day when I had raced up and down the basketball court with reckless abandon, giving little thought or worry to bodily concerns. In those days, I literally threw myself into the fray, diving for loose basketballs and running into thinly-padded brick walls. Now, quite gingerly, I went about a much less demanding task, worrying if I would be able to get out of bed the next morning.

Even more, though, I found myself thinking of how quickly the years from youth to middle age have passed. It seems like only yesterday that I was a kid bouncing a basketball down the floor at the old Prichard gym, listening as Coach Dace and Mr. G called out instructions. Now I anxiously await each month’s arrival of AARP’s newsletter. I need that information!

What’s the point? Simply this. Life is short regardless of how many years God blesses us with in this world. This is why it is absolutely imperative that we seize each day and live it to the fullest for Him. Have you been thinking about doing some good deed? Ending some bad habit? Telling someone you love about Jesus? Do it today! (from PHILosophically Speaking, p. 226-228)

2010-06-29T10:06:00.000-07:00

How Not to Parent!

One of my favorite topics to address, either from the pulpit or in the classroom, is the subject of discipline and children. As a psychologist as well as a minister, I have a very thorough understanding of the war going on between fundamental Christianity and childhood development specialists on this issue. To say that the two groups are at polar opposites on what constitutes good discipline is probably a fair statement.

My purpose here is not to give my personal primer on the subject, although I will be quick to point out that Teresa and I had a red fly swatter that had a prominent place in our kitchen closet and that this “neutral object” was never used to swat flies!

I generally conclude my strong recommendations about childrearing and discipline by letting people know that this preacher-psychologist and his wife were not always good at the job! I do so by telling them of the time we really blew it with our older daughter, Mandi.

It was after dark on a late fall evening and we were returning as a family from visiting Teresa’s folks in Olive Hill, Kentucky. The return trip to Ironton, Ohio, from Olive Hill is about fifty miles. You travel the interstate highway for about thirty-five miles, then exit and take state routes to complete the journey.

Mandi was twelve years old at the time, quickly heading into her adolescent years. Always a strong-willed young lady, she had recently developed a mouth to match her age. (If you don’t understand that last sentence, you either have no children or your children have not reached pubescence yet!) She and her mother became involved in a heated conversation about something that increased in intensity as we drove the thirty-five miles on the interstate.

The discussion reached the boiling point just as we exited I-64 onto Route 60 near Summit, KY. Mandi finally half-yelled, “I want out of this car!”

To my utter surprise, my mild-mannered wife retorted, “Okay! Phil, stop the car and let her out!”

It is at this point in the story that I would like to say that with calmness in my voice, I was able to defuse the situation and return our family to our usual state of bliss. I would like to say that, but I can’t! Totally fed up myself, I stopped the car alongside Route 60 and told Mandi to get out. And she did! And then we drove off!!

Please understand that it was about 9 p.m., a moonless night, and we are in the middle of nowhere! As you are probably hoping, it only took about one-half mile of travel for sanity to return to the occupants in our car. We made a quick U-turn, retraced our steps and found our daughter sitting on the hillside, hands folded and a frown creasing her face. In spite of her displeasure with her parents, Mandi readily got back in the car and we traveled the last fifteen miles of our trip in almost total silence.

Since I believe that the statute of limitations on such child cruelty has expired, I now feel free to share this story in print for the first time. Truthfully, the lesson to be learned on that night was for Dad and Mom. For a home to function well, there always has to be at least one person acting like an adult. Unfortunately, for about five minutes on that particular night, we were all children. (from PHILosophically Speaking, p. 45)

2008-10-21T12:33:00.000-07:00

The Rich Little Boys of Mozambique

It was the summer of 1999 and I had traveled to Africa to visit some of our missionaries in Zimbabwe. A few days later, I went by truck with a friend and two missionaries to neighboring Mozambique where the mission was trying to start some churches.

At that time, Mozambique was a war-torn nation that had suffered through 15 years of civil conflict and fighting. Crossing the border into the town of Chichulachula was not really a difficult task. The tariff was only 83 Zim dollars, a little over $5 American. The bad news was that we learned from the border patrol that it would cost us $30 American to cross back into Zimbabwe at the end of our visit. They went on to tell us that they would not accept Zim dollars, Mozambique medicais, or even American Express travelers' checks! My problem was that I had brought only travelers' checks and an American $100 bill.

We decided to enter Mozambique anyway, hoping that we could somehow find change for my $100. We tried the bank in this little town of 10,000 refugees, but they only had medicais. The bank did give us the name of a local man who might be able to help. With the assistance of one of the villagers, we were taken to this man's rather elaborate compound. Amazingly, without quibbling or questioning, he willingly gave me two twenties, a ten, and a fifty dollar bill in exchange for my hundred. No fee, no charge. What a relief! I saw the easy exhange then as a "God thing" and I still do today.

I tell you that story to tell you another story. While we were surveying the town, we were followed everywhere by a group of little boys who obviously had suffered the devastation of war. Their clothes were ill-fitting and tattered, their feet were shoeless, and their faces dirty. But laughing and kicking a soccer ball made of plastic bags and string, they followed us throughout the dusty streets with faces aglow with what I could only call joy. With holes in their pants, I am sure that not a one of them had a red cent, much less a single centavo (100th of a medicai). But for them it was a great day. They were alive and living in the moment.

Much more than me. Worried over my $70 problem (if I had to surrender my $100 back at the Zimbabwean border), I had been so preoccupied with my money woes that I had failed to take in the amazing sights and sounds of my only foray into Mozambique. We visited the marketplace and interacted with dozens of people, but most of it was lost on me. I was too busy worrying.

I will leave the application to you, my friend. I am far too embarrassed by the story to even consider it. I can only say I know who the real pauper was that day.

2008-05-19T11:23:00.000-07:00

Scoot Back, Daddy, Scoot Back

I had accepted the call as senior pastor of a large congregation that had recently erected a huge state-of-the-art building, resulting in a major indebtedness. Feeling the pressure of my new responsibilities and with a strong desire to impress my parishioners, I had hit the ground running. I was in the office early every day and almost every evening found me out shepherding the flock or reaching out to potential church members.

My wife, Teresa, was very understanding, but our little daughter, Mandi, at two and one-half years of age was perplexed by my absence from home. She loved for me to read to her after dinner each evening and it was a practice that I continued in my new position—with one caveat. I would sit on the edge of my recliner with her seated by my side and read a quick story or two before rushing out for another night of harried activity.

One evening Mandi said something that jolted me back to reality about my role as a father. I had sat down with her in my recliner, once again on the edge, ready to quickly read and run. Mandi stopped me and, patting the recliner seat, said, “Scoot back, Daddy, scoot back.” She knew on those rare occasions when I wasn’t going out for the evening that I would relax, sit back in my recliner, and leisurely read stories to her heart’s content.

Her words pierced my soul as I understood what she was really saying, “Slow down, Daddy, please. Make time for me.” Appropriately chastened, I scooted back.

2008-05-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

A Small Change Can Make a Big Difference

Sometime ago, I talked Meg into visiting the Louisville Slugger Museum during a visit to her new hometown. For the uninitiated, Louisville Slugger has been the premier producer of major league baseball bats since the turn of the last century. The Hillerich and Bradsby Company (parent company of Louisville Slugger), in the days before aluminum bats, made almost all of the wooden bats that boys of my generation used. Although 95% of bats today are metal, the Louisville Slugger factory continues to turn out 8,000 bats per week from the Northern Ash billets which arrive each Monday morning from a lumber mill in Pennsylvania.

Because the major leagues are the only “purists” still using wooden bats, they are the main customer (along with collectors) for this former booming business. Perhaps the most intriguing thing I learned in the tour of the factory was that almost all bats before 1935 weighed 38 ounces or more. A 38-ounce bat is heavy and close to what Babe Ruth used when he hit 60 homers for the Yankees back in 1927.

But it all began to change in 1935 when a brash young hitter made his first trip to Louisville and ordered bats weighing only 32 ounces. This kid had figured out something that had escaped the minds and calculations of all the major leaguers up until that time. He had determined that it was bat speed and not bat mass that was the most important variable in being able to hit a baseball long and true. Now most major leaguers use bats that weigh 32 ounces or less. Alex Rodriquez, the highest-paid player in baseball today, uses a 31-ounce bat that has a scoop of wood removed from its top, thus making it weigh in at 30 ounces.

Everybody today who swings a bat owes the kid from 1935 a lot. He had the courage to challenge the prevailing paradigm and try something new. Maybe there’s something for us to learn from him as well. Sometimes a seemingly small change can make a big different whether it is in our personal lives or in the life of the church. It just takes the vision and courage to step out in faith with our Lord.

Oh, the kid from 1935? Why, Ted Williams, of course, the greatest hitter in the history of our national pastime!

2008-05-08T08:50:00.000-07:00

The Last Word in Lonesome

Country music icon, Eddy Arnold, died this week at 89, just a few short months after his wife of 66 years, Sally, passed away. Interesting, really, was the timing of his death. Just this morning our Cracker Barrel Men's Group was discussing The Man in a Mirror and how we guys tend to be so poor at social networking. In the simplest terms, we don't have many friends and don't try too hard to make new ones.

Someone in the group made the observation that most men die years before their wives and--if they don't--they die soon after their mates' demise. So it was with this pioneer of "The Nashville Sound." Once a man's spouse and closest friend (perhaps only!) dies, his ability to cope with a world of increasing solitude is often nil.

Not to belabor the point, but of all the songs that Arnold recorded I remember best his 1966 hit, "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me." It reached No. 2 on the U. S. Country charts and is still heard frequently on radio stations that cater to old-time country music lovers. "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me!" Yeah, I know that the lyrics really speak of a lost romantic partner, but beneath the surface the pathos suggested by our male isolationist tendencies looms large.

Caught up in family and work responsibilities from early adulthood, many of us males allow our friendships from high school and college to go dormant. Sensing that most of our social needs are met by our wives and our children, we blindly trudge through life, oblivious of our relational needs beyond our nuclear family. Then, one day we look around and notice that our kids are grown and have their own lives,the workplace no longer needs us, and our robust social network of childhood years is nonexistent.

My observation about Eddy Arnold is just that, an observation. Perhaps his social network was intact and strong; I hope so. I'm just wondering about yours, my brother. And mine.

2008-01-28T13:04:00.000-08:00

Grandma's Pickled Corn

It always seemed to be a risk worth taking. While Grandma and the others were preoccupied with more important things, I would sneak out to the backyard, pass the persimmon tree, and down the dark stairs that led to the basement cellar. Lifting the wooden chuck that had long since replaced the Yale lock on the door, I would silently enter the cold, damp confines of the dirt-floored depository of Grandma's jams, preserves, canned beans, and pickled corn.

The pickled corn! Her other treasures were of no importance to me, but her pickled corn was too mouth-watering for a country boy to pass up. Like a thief executing the greatest heist of history, I would stealthily make my way through the darkness to the large brown-and-white crock that was covered with cheesecloth. Almost delicately pulling the cloth aside, I would reach down into the briny fluid to retrieve an ear of the delectable delight. Not daring to be caught, I would hide in the shadows of that cellar and consume my prize much too quickly, considering that most of us like to savor our culinary favorites.

I have searched the world over trying to find pickled corn that could begin to match Grandma's. Most of it is pickled in jars today and simply cannot compare with the briny ears that sat and soaked in old crocks in those damp, dark cellars of the past. Oh, I have the pleasure of eating a whole pickled ear of corn now and then--there are still some folks who like to do it the old-fashioned way. But even then, none tastes as good as hers.

I wonder what the difference is. Was it just a young boy's first experience with a taste that suited his palate? Was it the thrill of a "stolen pleasure," pickled corn enhanced by the adrenalin rush? Or, is it simply that my taste buds have acquiesced to time and lost their acuteness? I'm not sure, but there are days when I would give almost any monetary price to have that experience one more time.

And about my thievery. I certainly wasn't the first grandchild to do it and I wouldn't be the last. Somehow, I sense that Grandma knew what we were up to anyway.

2007-11-26T07:43:00.000-08:00

Vanity Plates

Teresa and I enjoyed a vacation at historic Williamsburg, Virginia, recently. I am not the most astute observer in the world, but it became apparent very quickly in our daily drives that vanity plates seem to be "in" in that commonwealth. I saw more vanity license plates on cars in one week there than in a year in middle Tennessee.

I wasn't surprised, therefore, when the newspaper mentioned last week that Virginia has more vanity plates than any other state in the union. Of the 9.3 million vanity plate owners in the United States, 1 out of 10 is a Virginian. According to the Association of Motor Vehicle Administrators, 16% of the drivers in Virginia have vanity plates. At the other end of the spectrum is Texas, where less than 1% of registered vehicles are "vanitized." I guess when your state is that big, you don't have to brag.

Before you and I start to think of Virginians as our country's egomaniacs, I should point out that such plates only cost $10 extra there. My vote for the Carly Simon "you're so vain" award would go to those 1.3 million folks (most actual number for a state) from Illinois who purchased vanity plates at $78 per pop. Now, that is paying a price to make a statement!

Although I am too tight (I would like to think unvain, but...) to purchase vanity plates, I confess that I enjoy them nonetheless. Like the urology specialist back in my home territory of Appalachia whose car was tagged I HLP U P. Without saying too much, "Doc, I get it--and I've got it." Speaking of Kentucky, we have worn out the
I AM 4 UK plate, but how about I H8 UT after last Saturday's 4-overtime lost in football to the Volunteers?

No doubt, my favorite vanity plate is the one that our daughter Megan pointed out to me on our trip home from Louisville over Thanksgiving. I had seen it on another car in another state once before, but it still touches my heart as a believer. It reads simply 4GVN. How amazing the grace of our loving Lord!

2007-11-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

It Is Autumn and I Can See

Donald M. McKinney tells the story of being in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1947 and walking down Prince's Street on a beautiful spring day. The birds were singing, the trees were budding, the flowers in the garden-like setting were brilliant with their multi-colored hues.

Walking toward him in the distance was a man with a white cane, prodding his way down the street. He held a tin cup in one hand and McKinney noted something unusual. Everyone who passed him made a point to stop and drop money into his container--everyone! Some even went out of their way to intercept the man and add to his receipts.

As McKinney drew closer, he noted the reason the man was receiving such a positive response. He was wearing a placard that rested on his chest and read, "It is spring and I am blind."

The sightless man's message caused all of his audience to reflect upon their own blessings and to respond with compassionate charity.

How often we take for granted the blessings in life that God has given us! How seldom we stop to give Him thanks for eyes that see, ears that hears, and a world that He has so gloriously made for our pleasure.

No, it is not spring. It is Thanksgiving week, in fact, and God's autumn display in the trees of the middle Tennessee hills has reached its zenith. The brilliant reds and golds and oranges are balanced by the muted tones of browns and tans. It is a picture no artist could paint and one that dances on the eye of the mind of the thoughtful and thankful viewer.

No, it is not spring, but it is autumn, and I can see. Thank you, my Father, for a beautiful world and eyes with which to behold it!

2007-06-13T13:46:00.000-07:00

Life Lessons From An "Old Man"

I turned 59 yesterday and was reminded once again that time marches on. Could I use this occasion to share an article I wrote shortly before a significant birthday back in 1998? Thanks!

"I appreciated the surprise 50th birthday party last night. It was so nice of you to remind me that this coming Friday I will have spent one-half of a century in this world. The many cards and gifts--both gag and good--touched my heart. Thanks. For what it is worth, I would like to share some of the lessons I have learned along the way. After all, at fifty I am old enough to be a member of the AARP and would be considered a sage in some circles!

I have learned that people are wonderful if you think they are. Wherever I have been, folks have risen to reach my expectations of them. A long time ago I began believing in people and I have never been sorry that I did. Not everyone rises to the challenge, but the vast majority do.

I have learned that if you put peanut butter and jelly on a piece of bread and accidentally drop it on the floor, it always lands jelly-side down. Always.

I have learned that if I have something bad or negative to say to someone, it is better for me to keep it to myself and not say it or write it. Once spoken or written, a word has a life of its own. You can't recall it or negate it regardless of how hard you try.

I have learned that kids are the most honest people in the world. If a five year-old tells you that you are ugly, you probably are.

I have learned to practice grace with others. Since I am well aware of the grace that God has extended to me, I don't demand perfection from my peers. If someone stumbles and falls in my presence, I try to offer them my hand and not my boot. Eventually I know that I will need them to do the same for me.

I have learned that the speed of the cars in front of you on a busy highway is directly proportional to the amount of time you have to get to your destination. If you are in a hurry, they crawl. If you are on vacation and driving leisurely, they are all behind you playing Mario Andretti and laying on the horn.

I have learned that God can be trusted. His timetable is not mine and His ways I don 't always understand, but in the final analysis, He has never failed me. I can utterly and totally depend on Him.

I have learned that self-adhesives will stick to absolutely anything--except their intended surface.

I have learned that in life you generally get what you pay for. Invest in quality with your time and money and it will come back to you. Buy cheap or cheat on your investment of time and energy and the end result will reflect your attitude.

I have learned never to trust a golfer who pauses at the green and tries to recount his strokes for the hole.

I have learned that the first prayer I was introduced to as a child was also probably the most accurate. It began, 'God is great; God is good ...' And He is!"

-----Phil LeMaster

2007-04-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

Life Lesson from a Cheese Cube

It was one of those learning experiences you would just as soon read about in the life of someone else. I was a sixth grader at Garrison Consolidated School. Delores Bays was my teacher for the second year in a row—she taught the fifth and sixth grades together. She was a strictly business type of teacher who allowed absolutely no misbehavior from her students.

It was chili day in the lunchroom cafeteria. That also meant that you received a peanut butter sandwich, carrot and celery sticks, and cubes of American cheese. The cubes were a real temptation to some of us boys, especially when we were not too hungry. They were excellent projectiles to toss at an unwary enemy.

I am not sure exactly how it happened, but I made the totally unwise decision to throw a cube of cheese at someone. The memory seems to unfold in slow motion when I think about it now. In mid-toss, Mrs. Eakins, our principal, opened the “spy door” from her office and caught me in the act. Now, if Mrs. Bays was a Nazi storm trooper, Mrs. Eakins was the Fuhrer. She absolutely terrified me. Her yell of “stop that immediately” reverberated off the walls of the cafeteria. I stopped immediately. Sitting like a choir boy the rest of the lunch time, I ate the remainder of my cheese cubes, hopefully destroying any damaging evidence in the process.

I walked back to our classroom like a condemned criminal heading to his execution. I was sure Mrs. Bays was going to kill me. I had embarrassed her in front of the principal, the worst possible offense. In my mind, I was already dividing my worldly goods among my survivors.

Back in our classroom, I waited for the explosion. It never came. Mrs. Bays, a very wise woman who--I now know—really cared about me, simply said, “Phil, I want you to go to Mrs. Eakins’ office and apologize for your behavior.”

Well, as you can imagine, the gas chamber would have been easier. The trip to the principal’s office I have somehow blocked from conscious memory. Repression would be Freud's diagnosis.

Needless to say, it marked the end of my cheese-throwing career. It also taught me a very important lesson about accepting responsibility for your behavior. Sometimes when you do something wrong, you are able to make amends via restitution. Sometimes all you can do is to say that you are sorry and change your behavior for the future.

In retrospect, it was one of the most important lessons I ever learned in grade school. Thanks, Mrs. Bays.

-----Phil LeMaster

2007-04-05T08:27:00.000-07:00

Permanent

Women of the world owe a great debt to Charles Nestle and it has absolutely nothing to do with chocolate! Nestle was the German-born hairstylist who was determined to perfect a wave that could properly be called permanent.

In his first experiment, he baked off all but one lock of a woman’s head. But Nestle was jubilant--the one lock curled, permanently! His perfected process used a chemical solution and took six hours. It would change the entire hairdressing industry.

But permanents are not permanent. A hairdresser friend explained to me sometime ago that they will last from a few days to perhaps three months, according to the texture of the hair and how “tight” the hair is wound. How can anything that lasts just three months be called “permanent?” Seems to me there are other things in life that beg the same question.

How many permanent addresses have you had in your lifetime? According to my calculations, Teresa and I have had at least seven in our thirty-seven plus years of marriage. The forms we fill out for tax, census, and other purposes always call for a permanent address, but the reality is that no such place exists in this world!

Then, there are those folks with permanent disabilities. You know what I am talking about, don’t you? Following a “terrible” injury and seemingly endless litigation with the government, a monthly stipend is awarded for a bad back. Amazingly, a few months later the individual is seen lifting eighty-pound sacks of flour into the bed of a truck! A miracle? Hardly. In our society, for many at least, permanent injuries are simply not permanent.

I could go on, but I think you get my point. Almost all of the things that we call permanent in our world are, in reality, temporary at best. And yet our souls cry out for something that is lasting, something rock solid that does not change with the changing times. Something to which we can anchor ourselves during the storms of life. The good news is that something of such permanence exists! The prophet Isaiah said it best, “The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever” (40:8).

God’s word is permanent. His truth has always existed and always will. You won’t wake up tomorrow and find that the rules are different. In a capricious, constantly changing world, I take great comfort in this reality. In fact, I have anchored my soul to the Christ of this immutable Word. As we celebrate His resurrection this Lord's Day, it is my prayer that you have, too.

-----Phil LeMaster

2007-02-27T13:58:00.000-08:00

The Real Proof the Unisex Movement Is a Hoax

I never really believed much in the unisex movement that began a generation ago. After all, the Bible says "male and female created He them." But just in case you still wonder about it all, I have a sure-fire way of proving to you that there is a world of difference between the sexes. Just go shopping with a woman for a day.

A woman will travel a dozen miles and spend an extra $5 on gasoline to save 15 cents on a bottle of ketchup and feel good about the experience. A man will grab a jar of Del Monte's off the shelf and never look at the price. He just knows that it is the ketchup that pours slower and that's endorsed by Michael Jordan.

A woman will spend an hour of her time (she's paid $15 per hour at work) to clip coupons which will save her $5 at the grocery store. Most men have never willingly used a coupon in their entire lives.

A woman will buy ten cans of gnu meat because it is on sale ten for $3.95, although none of her family really likes it and she probably won't use ten cans of it during the next millennium. Why? It's on sale, you silly thing!

If it is true that a woman has a gene for bargain hunting, it is also true that she has another for comparison shopping. A woman will go into a store and find an item which she likes. She will try it on and find that it fits perfectly and looks great on her. Does she buy it? Certainly not! You know better than that! The game is not over until she has gone to at least a dozen other stores searching for the same or a similar item at a better price. Six exhausting hours later she returns to the first store and the first item and makes her purchase. Her husband is exasperated, but she has only done what any normal woman would do.

A man, by comparison, will walk into an automobile show room and purchase a $30,000 truck in less than ten minutes. As long as it is not pink and has a V-8 engine and a gun rack behind the seat, he's satisfied.

I noticed something else different about women in this regard. When they get home at the end of a shopping day, they have to show off their purchases to every other woman in a mile radius, sort of like a fisherman displaying the catch of the day. I could go on, but I think you have the point.

No, you will never convince me that women are even remotely the same as men. With a Mom, a sister, a wife and two daughters, I've shopped with too many of them to ever be fooled again.

-----Phil LeMaster

2007-02-01T12:24:00.000-08:00

Shattered Dreams?

It just shattered. No forceful blows, no errant objects slammed against it, no body tosses. I went into the kitchen one winter evening and heard a crinkling sound coming from the direction of the patio doors in our then Grayson, Kentucky home. I pulled back the curtain and was shocked to see that the glass in one door was fragmenting into a million pieces.

The glass was still in place and looked rather artistic with its mosaic design, especially when the sun caught it just right. Of course, removal was necessary, calling for a whole new set of doors; frames, hardware and all.

I was questioned by our insurance adjuster and a repairman at some length.
"What happened?" they asked.
"Nothing," I replied.
"Nothing?" They continued.
"Nothing," I said with more emphasis the second time.

Of course, I didn’t really mean nothing. Obviously, one look at the door and you knew something had happened, but you understand my answer, don't you? I mean, to the best of our knowledge, neither Teresa nor I had done anything to produce the particular problem.

That's the way life is sometimes, is it not? Difficulties and problems appear out of thin air with no obvious origin. Maybe it is a health concern we wake up with one morning. We went to bed fine, but daybreak finds us writhing in pain. We search our minds as to what caused it, but come up empty. But still the ache persists.

Or our adult child gets into trouble. We rehearse our child-rearing practices and try to find the reason, but are clueless at the end.

Or we give our employer our best efforts for a dozen years and then receive a pink slip one Friday afternoon. We try to figure out how we went so quickly from being an asset to being a liability, but no answer comes.

What do we do when our neat world of cause-and-effect breaks down? When our question "why" bounces off the walls and reverberates back unanswered?

Well, I will tell you what we did with our patio doors. We laughed at our bizarre accident, replaced the doors, and trusted God. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. Please understand the emphasis is on trusting God, not on our stoic acceptance of that which we were unable to change. He'd led us through bigger problems. I knew He could handle this one. And He did!

Panefully yours,
Phil LeMaster

2007-01-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

Anybody who knows me knows well that I am no mechanical genius. A faux pas I made several years ago illustrates the point perfectly.

The rearview mirror had fallen off of our ‘91 Lumina. It is a simple problem to fix and one that a third-grader could handle. I got the little regluing kit from a local auto supply store and carefully went about reading the instructions before doing the repair. I wanted to do it right!

There is only one basic step. You reglue the metal piece that holds the mirror in place to the windshield. The piece is beveled on one side so that the mirror will slide down over it. All you have to do is make sure you glue the beveled side to the windshield. A friend who had replaced a mirror a few days before even reminded me of this fact before I tackled the job.

You guessed it. I glued the non-beveled side to the windshield. Then I let it set over night so that it would be sure to hold. When I went to attach the mirror the next morning, I discovered my mistake. And you talk about a product that works--the metal piece was superglued in place!

I won't tell you how I finally got the metal piece loose (or how many man-hours it took), but the experience left me feeling that I had secured a place in the Mechanically Declined Hall of Fame.

It reminded me of that old joke about the man who had some less than intelligent workers sodding his front lawn. From time to time he would yell out the window, "Green side up!" Someone needed to be yelling at me, "Beveled side in!"

You're laughing at me and I am laughing, too. The simple truth is that I am not gifted in the area of mechanics. (Well, let's be honest, I am a mechanical moron.) But that's okay. I realize that God has given me other talents that I can use in serving him.

The real tragedy would be if I spent much time lamenting my mechanical ineptitude instead of using the abilities God has given me to His glory. God has gifted us all differently. Our job is to identify these gifts and get busy using them in the work of the Kingdom. From now on, I will leave auto repair jobs, even the simple ones, to someone else. I have plenty of other tasks to keep me busy!
-----Phil LeMaster

2006-12-27T07:22:00.000-08:00

The phone rang and immediately the precise diction of the caller tipped me off that it was a business solicitation. After a couple of opening niceties, the spiel came.
"Mr. LeMaster, I am calling to say that you are pre-approved for our new platinum Discover Card!"
Quickly I deflated the solicitor’s enthusiasm by responding, "I am sorry. my New Year’s resolutions is not to obtain any more credit cards. Thank you for calling."
I went back to my chores, but could not seem to get the call off my mind. Like most of you, we receive frequent phone and mail solicitations for credit cards, even our younger daughter Megan whose credit history is shorter than a "give-me" putt. Any day now I expect to receive a credit card invitation addressed to Miss Priscilla LeMaster. Prissy, our dog, has never charged anything, but she has had her eye on a platinum card from Wal-Mart where we get most of her dog food.
That was what stuck in my mind--the platinum idea. Gold is no longer good enough when it comes to credit cards. Only platinum cards will do now for the really discerning consumer.
Platinum, so I am told, is the world's newest, rarest metal, discovered only in the 1600s. How rare? All the platinum ever mined would occupy less than 25 cubic feet. More precious than gold, some would say. Recent metal prices had platinum at $1116 per ounce compared to gold's $628 per ounce. Just last week The Tennessean carried a front page article about the recent wave of thefts of automobiles’ catalytic converters in our area. The reason? Each converter contains a small amount of platinum that will bring up to $100 on the black market.
Platinum is all the rage today. You have not really made it in the music industry any more when your recording has gone golden (50,000 units). You must have a platinum album (100,000 units) to really be considered a top draw. Platinum wedding bands are being touted as the superior choice when deciding to "tie the knot." And the day will probably come when we award four medals to Olympic competitors instead of the present three. Gold medals will go to mere second-place finishers. The winners will have platinum draped around their necks.
Call me old-fashioned, but you will never replace the "gold standard" as far as I am concerned. To me, a man's word can be as good as gold, but no better. And a proper silence will always be golden in my book. And, please, no platinum streets in heaven! Gold will do just fine!!

Yours ‘til they ring those golden bells,

Phil LeMaster

2006-11-27T09:56:00.000-08:00

Let Me Have Christmas

It was one of the most unusual funerals I ever conducted. The deceased woman had converted to Judaism when she married her Jewish husband. He had long since died and as she grew older she had a strong desire to return to the Christian faith of her youth--and she did. I took her confession in a hospital room and we cried together tears of joy.

But her family connections were now strongly Jewish and I was asked to share the funeral with a young rabbi.

He called me and very bluntly said, “You know, if you mention Jesus at the memorial service you will offend the Jewish people present."

Could I just do my eulogy and leave Jesus out? Of course, I replied that what he was asking of me was impossible. I couldn't preach a sermon, I couldn't offer a eulogy, I couldn't even pray a prayer without mentioning Jesus!

To be honest, I was a much more worried about offending God by not talking about His Son! To make a long story short, we compromised. I preached the funeral (and talked about Jesus) and the rabbi did the graveside service (and talked about death).

I have a few words for the ACLU, the Jewish community, the Muslim community, the public school administrators, and anyone else up in arms about the Christian emphasis at Christmas time: we Christians have feelings and rights, too! I find myself totally offended when you suggest I can't talk about Jesus or put on display the symbols representing His birth at this season of the year.

When my religious freedom and yours clash in this country, it would seem that compromise is in order. I will make you a deal. If you will let me rejoice and celebrate Christ's birth at Christmas, I won't say a word about your overt acts of religiosity on Hanukkah, Ramadan, or Wesak.

Go ahead. Light a candle. Take a pilgrimage. Chant a mantra. Put up a star of David or erect a statue of Buddha. It's a free country. But in the name of fairness, let me have Christmas!

----Phil LeMaster

2006-11-15T09:59:00.000-08:00

Over forty years ago a cousin who was teaching in Cleveland, Ohio, at the time remarked about how unruly the high school students there had become. Her chief complaint? The boys refused to wear belts with their pants.

The recent rash of school murders reminds us once again how far we have slipped as a civilized nation in the past few decades. Hardly a school semester passes today, it seems, without another incident of tragic proportions on a high school or middle school campus somewhere in America.

A friend of a friend resigned his teaching position a few years ago, saying, “I am tired of working in a system where the teacher is afraid of the principal, the principal is afraid of the superintendent, the superintendent is afraid of the school board, the school board is afraid of the parents, the parents are afraid of the kids, and the kids aren’t afraid of anybody!”

Therein lies the problem, I believe. The kids aren’t afraid of anybody. Too many young people in America today grow up in homes where they are not taught to respect any authority. There is a hierarchy of respect that God intended for all of us to learn when we are young. It starts with a respect for Him. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” the Bible says (Proverbs 9:10). Building on this respect for God, children learn to respect the authority of their parents, governmental officials, and even their local school leaders.

The truth is that God is such a minor player in most American homes today that children grow up never knowing or understanding the importance of respecting authority. The end result is the murder and mayhem of Columbine, Pearl (MS), and Lancaster County (PA).

Moms and Dads, don’t blame the school system. Today’s public school teacher has a job that is ten times harder than their predecessors of a generation ago. They are doing the best they can with what you and I are giving them. In all honesty, the “product” teachers have to work with today is an inferior one. The new millenium’s average child is rootless and thus often ruthless. Until we begin to take God seriously again in the American home, I am afraid we can expect such carnage to continue.

-----Phil LeMaster

2006-11-06T12:08:00.000-08:00

Raw Umber and Burnt Sienna
In late October I drove over to Lewis County, Kentucky, to see my Mom and do some work for my brothers. It was interesting to note the change in the colors of the leaves as I traveled the A-A highway. The beautiful reds, oranges, and yellows of early autumn had disappeared and in their place were darker hues that were much less pleasing to the eye.
In trying to pinpoint the colors, I found myself thinking of crayons and of the hues in the boxes of 64 which seemed to match up with the Eastern Kentucky hills’ late fall display. "Raw umber!" I thought (actually "burnt umber" is what I thought, but Crayola assured me that they had never produced such a color). Raw umber and burnt sienna are two of the colors we ignored in our Crayola "big boxes.” (Crayola tells me that they retired raw umber in 1991, but I was able to find a nearly new one downstairs in our First Grade classroom.) The reds and yellows, and even the golds and silvers, were pulled out of the box and used over and over again.
But raw umber and burnt sienna would sit there, patiently waiting their turn, but never being used. Those two dull earth tones were just a waste of space in the box, it seemed. But God needs them and uses them! There comes a time each fall when he presses them into service and they become the main players on His autumnal canvas.
It shouldn't surprise us that God has a use for every color--and every person. Maybe you are more of a raw umber than a brilliant red. That's okay--God has a ministry for you. Your job is to find it with His help. Have you?

-----Phil LeMaster