The blog of Greg DeLoach
Roswell Georgia
Mercy…me
A beach is a lovely place for me to go to escape, but this year there was no escaping some of the big events in our country. The Charleston tragedy was just over a week old on the day I left for vacation. That same day with my Jeep loaded with chairs, towels and swim suites the Supreme Court handed down its decision making legal same-sex marriages in our country. There is a lot of anxiety that has been raised, primarily in the faith community, about what this means for the church. As far as the decision itself, it does not mean anything directly to our church. The First Amendment protects all religions to practice according to its beliefs. It is a great gift of freedom that our Baptist forebears struggled for in the earliest days of our country. Unless our church decides to change the wedding practices of nearly 200 years and wed same-sex couples, the Supreme Court’s decision has no impact. There are those that say this decision threatens the institution of marriage. I have to disagree. Marriage, however, does have threats. Take co-habitation as one example. I estimate that 75% or more of the couples I counsel and whose marriages I officiate are cohabitating or otherwise sexually active. Many of you have children that are cohabitating with a significant other. Data suggests that cohabitation can contribute to less-stable marriages due in part to an unwillingness to make lasting commitments, yet this lifestyle, according to data and my own observations, is on the increase. Divorce is certainly another threat to marriage. In fact the issue of...
Walking Across the Street on Sunday
It has been a difficult seven or so days for this country, but especially those at Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston. We all know what happened there, so there is no need in repeating what we know. We know it was horrific. We know it was drenched in hate. We know too that in spite of the intended racial division, we have witnessed great acts of charity and forgiveness. You and I know all of that. What I do not know, however, are our neighbors. Right across from our magnificent church is a smaller congregation that sits in the shadow of our steeple. Gardner Grove Baptist Church is primarily an African-American congregation. They are not particularly prominent or large in number, so maybe that is why I have not encountered my neighbors. I do know they are faithful. Sundays and Wednesdays their parking lot is full, as well as other days when there is a wedding or funeral or some other special event. Still, after ten years I have never met our neighbors across the street from our church. Following the Charleston massacre I knew it was long overdue for me to meet our neighbors. Between worship services this past Sunday I walked across the hot asphalt street that divides our congregations and entered the foyer of their sanctuary. They were well into worship so I was sensitive to the fact that my presence would be conspicuous as well as an interruption to their service. I left a card with the sound technician to give to the pastor that said something to the effect, “I...
In Search of Our Laughing Place…
In my hometown we still remember a man who grew up on a plantation on the east side of the county (just a couple of miles from my family’s dairy). As a boy he listened to the enslaved Africans tell folk stories that originated in West Africa and beyond. When he grew up, Joel Chandler Harris brought those stories of Br’er Rabbit, Br’er Bear and Br’er Fox to life through print. Not many people today know much about the “Tales of Uncle Remus,” but those stories were a steady part of my own upbringing. We read them and home and heard them read at school. Our town is so proud of these beloved tales that there is even a statue of Br’er Rabbit at the court house square in “downtown” Eatonton. About five years ago a few young men thought it would be funny to steal the statue. This turned out not to be funny at all because in the dismantling of the rabbit, an ear broke off and an Eatonton “APB” was issued. The assailants panicked, ditched the rabbit in the woods, and eventually confessed to their bunny burglary. The statue of Br’er Rabbit has reassumed its prominent place on its podium in my dear town. One story of Br’er Rabbit is about his “Laughing Place.” Space does not allow the sharing of the whole story, but one line is sufficient: “Everybody needs a laughing place.” Lord knows, everybody needs a laughing place. Where is your laughing place? Growing up our kitchen table was the source of our family’s laughter as stories were told (and...
Our Shabby Biographies
I have a couple of special places at home designated for reading. In the early morning (before daylight) I sit in my recliner in the living room. Beside my chair is an “end table” which was originally an old chamber pot bench (complete with chamber pot). On that small bench is where I stack my books. My other spot is on my back porch. I have been known to sit out there in the dead of winter – gloves, heavy coat and all – deep in a good read. This year, for no particular reason, I have read several biographies and memoirs. Biographies are not necessarily my favorite genre, but one well written is worth the time. From Genghis Kahn to Johnny Cash, people are generally interesting if you pay attention to their story, and everybody has a story. At the risk of sounding narcissistic, sometimes I wonder what an author might write about my life. “A thoughtful soul; quick to laugh at sophomoric things; and has a fondness for strange antiques.” No doubt my biographer would pour over all my writings, including articles like this one. From such research it could be said of me, “Grammatically clumsy, but passionate in convictions and winsome with nostalgia.” Of course biographers have to get into the family background and here again I am not wanting for material. “An eclectic upbringing; surrounded by hard-working farmers on the rocky piedmont soil of middle Georgia.” A good biography usually shows the complexity of its subject. No one person is “all good” (not even Johnny Cash) or “all bad” (same with Genghis...
Keeper of Bees
There was a time in my life when I was no friend of a bee. Today, due to the generosity of a thoughtful church member, I am a keeper of bees. Each morning I walk out to the hive to wish them a good day and every evening I lean in close to the entrance of their home and wish them a good night. I would name them, but there is right at 20,000 of them and it is challenging to tell them all apart. Plus they fly so fast. I never thought insects that sting would bring me such pleasure, but they most certainly do. Selfishly I am hoping to reap some additional benefit this summer in the form of golden honey. I am not sure what to label it – “Parson’s Nectar;” “Biscuit Blessings;” “Samson’s Syrup”? I am amazed that such a tiny insect – about a half of an inch – can be so wondrously designed. One queen controls the entire colony that by day explores the surrounding landscape. The workers carry on the vital task of pollination, gently filling the hive with pollen, nectar, wax comb and honey. They even talk with each other in a coded dance telling where to find the next great patch of pollen: “past the poplar, left at the geranium, and there you will find a large bed of lantana. Watch out for the creepy guy with a beard.” What amazes me is that these bees by the thousands know to come back home at the end of each day. They know where they belong and how they belong...
Mamas in the Birdhouse
This is the time of year in which I am endlessly entertained with bluebirds nesting and now hatching out another generation of young. Papa birds are easy to identify with their brilliant colors. It was Henry David Thoreau that said a bluebird looks as though he “carries the sky on his back.” While he gets all the attention, it is the mamma bird that really counts. Without her there would be no eggs and therefore no young. One year one of our birdhouses was a home to a mama squirrel and her young. From does tending to the fawns, to herons guarding their nests perched at the top of sycamores, may God bless all the good mammas in this world! Over the years I have known some wonderful mothers. One mother I knew would arise in the dark hours of the morning and see to it that my sister, brothers and I awoke to a crackling blaze in the fireplace. While we were not the wealthiest family in Putnam County, we ate like royalty. Biscuits were her specialty, but she was not bad with fried chicken or mashed potatoes either. Everyone in our family called her Nannan – my grandmother. She died just over eleven years ago and I still miss her, but she still shows up in a sermon illustration here and there. Amy’s mother died about two weeks before my grandmother, and she too was a “mother of mothers.” I called her Ruby when I was a newly minted husband as well as an official member of the family but within a year or two...
According to Nature
A few evenings ago I was cutting grass along the shoulder of the road while my neighbor was cutting down and sectioning a dead tree in his front yard. As I was trudging behind my push mower, my neighbor was hauling away the logs of the hollowed out pine. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed he quickly dropped a log and so thinking that he needed help I shut off the mower and met him in his front yard. He looked at me and said, “I think there is a snake with a bird in the log.” Not wanting to pass up this act of nature and I had a look for myself and sure enough, there was a king snake coiled around the remains of a bird. Apparently earlier in the day the bird flew into the hollow of the tree and was surprised by a visitor for dinner. When I left this morning I noticed in my neighbor’s front yard the log still in place, presumably with the snake ensconced in it digesting its meal. I have a feeling the log will remain for the foreseeable future. Not-so-pleasant surprises come in all forms: snakes in the grass, yellow-jackets in the shrubbery, or bats in the eaves. I suppose at times it feels like nature is working against us, but then again nature usually does what it is supposed to do. What about our nature; how do we live and act according to our nature? The evidence is mixed. We pollute the earth and our bodies; we exact great harm upon others out...
Good Friday Means it is God’s Friday
The events of Good Friday are well known and often told by believers and followers throughout the world. Each Gospel offers only one word to describe what happened: crucified. Though we want all the gory details – we live in a culture of violence after all – not much is actually told. He was beaten; a crown of thorns was pressed on his head; nails secured him to the cross beam; a spear pierced his side. There are very few adjectives used and not much in the way of grisly poetry to elevate this story. We are left with our imaginations to fill in the spaces. In fixating on the violence we sometimes overlook the more subtle indignities. There is the sign we read of in John’s Gospel that hangs over Jesus’ crucified head. In three languages it reads: Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews. Today this sign is symbolized through the acronym based on the Latin letters: INRI. At that first Good Friday many saw this sign as false advertising, including the religious leaders. “He is not our king.” Some perceived this as his charge and therefore justification for this capital punishment. He says he is king of the Jews so the Romans will show you what they do to those who think they can usurp their imperial power. Maybe the sign was just a simple mockery; a humiliation. Some king, right? What sign are you hanging on Jesus today? Is it political, using Jesus to defend your ideology? Is it a sign of convenience, labeling Jesus as your own, but only partly so?...
Ah, the Beautiful Smell of…Compost?!
Do you compost? It is the best kind of recycling one can do. Compost consists of most any biodegradable material such as raw vegetables, coffee grounds, leaves, grass, and fruit. I keep a compost pile in the woods out behind my yard. Once it has thoroughly rotted – I think the correct term is “decomposed” – it becomes “gardener’s gold” and useful for all sorts of planting needs. I use it to amend and nourish the soil so that it will bear new life in the spring. I suppose Holy Week is a composting of sorts. We are spiritually stripped down to the essentials, reminded that we must die to our old lives of sin and waste. But through this spiritual death God is able to raise within us new lives full of beauty and promise. Holy Week is the biblical reminder that we cannot long remain the same. The weeds of care and concern, sin and transgression threaten to choke out the good fruit of generous lives. Our generous God transforms all this waste into something good and holy through the cross and into the resurrection. This Holy Week and Easter here are the ways in which you and I are invited cultivate our hearts and souls: Maundy Thursday (Matthew 26, Mark 14; Luke 22) will be observed in the Fellowship Hall at 7pm. There are a number of themes observed or commemorated on this day including the last meal with the disciples, which was probably a Passover meal, the institution of the Lord’s Supper or Communion, the betrayal of Judas, and the washing of feet....
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