<![CDATA[BEULAH METHODIST CHURCH OF GILBERT

<![CDATA[BEULAH METHODIST CHURCH OF GILBERT - Pastor\'s Blog]]>Wed, 04 Dec 2024 13:51:31 -0500Weebly<![CDATA[“Tell Them the Story of Jesus”]]>Mon, 02 Dec 2024 02:05:54 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/tell-them-the-story-of-jesus

She woke with a start. A strange light filled her small room, a light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. As she rubbed her eyes, trying to wake, a voice startled her. A voice so powerful, so filled with authority that it made her quake, and yet so compassionate and filled with love that she almost wept at the sound.

Gabriel, God’s right hand angel, had come to this young teenage girl, Mary, in the middle of the night to give her some news. She was the chosen one, he said. She had been chosen by God Almighty to bear the Christ child. The long awaited Messiah was finally on the way.

Of all women, she had been chosen to love him, to raise him, to nourish him and then to watch him die a cruel death for all humankind. Jesus was to be her firstborn.

In one of the greatest understatements ever written, the Bible says she was unsure when she heard this. It says that she was hesitant. After all, she was a virgin. She had never been with a man. To quote her, “No man has ever touched me;” but the angel told her that all would be well.

The child that would be conceived in her was to be of the Holy Spirit. The child she was to raise would be God himself. God incarnate, the Lord God made flesh. She was to name him Jesus, which means “the Lord is our salvation;” But folks could call him Emmanuel, “God with us.”

Then in an act only slightly less amazing than Christ dying on the cross for our sake, Mary gave her life away for God’s sake. She gave her young life over to God to do with as He wished: A miracle in and of itself; and indeed as Gabriel declared, the child was conceived in Mary.

Now Mary was engaged at the time to a young carpenter by the name of Joseph. When Joseph heard Mary’s story, he was understandably unsure as well. Suspicious might be a better way of putting it.

In response to the news, he made plans to break their marriage contract, quietly to keep from shaming her, but break it nonetheless. Then a message from an angel of the Lord in a dream convinced him that the Christ Child was indeed in Mary’s womb. So against all reason, tradition and cultural expectations, he swallowed his pride and stuck with her.

As time progressed in the pregnancy, Mary went to visit her older cousin, Elizabeth. You see, Gabriel had told Mary that Elizabeth was expecting, as well. Now Elizabeth was well past child bearing age and Mary knew this, but she believed nonetheless.

Sure enough, when Mary arrived and greeted her cousin Elizabeth, Elizabeth was great with child; and then in a beautiful moment in Biblical history, upon their meeting Elizabeth’s child leapt for joy within her womb as the Christ child, Jesus, within Mary came near. That child, John the Baptist, was to prepare the way for the coming of his earthly cousin, and his Heavenly King, Christ.

As the due date drew near, a census was called by the Roman Emperor Augustus; as always the government needed some tax money, so everyone had to go to the traditional home town, where the bloodline of their family started, to be counted.

Mary and Joseph headed for Bethlehem; the City of David, for Joseph was in the bloodline of King David himself.

In calling for the census, the Roman Emperor unwittingly played right into God’s hand by fulfilling an age old prophesy concerning the Messiah.

Mic 5:2
2 "But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times."
NIV

The way was rocky, rutted and long, but in time the young couple made it to the little town of Bethlehem only to discover that all the rooms were taken. You see they were young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and they simply forgot to make plans soon enough to get a room.

In time, though, after much perseverance, Joseph and Mary were offered an inn keeper’s stable as shelter; and it was in this place that Mary and Joseph settled down for the night for the birth of their firstborn.

The birth was as all births before and after: physically exhausting and tremendously painful for Mary; agonizing for Joseph and terrifying for both.

Contraction followed contraction, followed contraction; pain built upon pain, hour after hour the agony continued until with a final flurry of painful pushing, the Christ Child, the Son of God, Our Savior came into this world of His creation.

Head first, then a shoulder, and with a slight twist, the second shoulder came and then in a rush, the author of all life, and the answer to all prayer was born. After a moment’s pause, his lungs convulsed, and God Almighty took his first breath.

Shortly thereafter, the Christ child let his displeasure be known at having been introduced to the world in such an unseemly fashion. He was cold and he was hungry.

Joseph swaddled him in whatever cloth was available for the purpose. He then picked him up, and laid him gently unto Mary’s chest where her pain of a moment before turned to the joy only a mother can know.

She kissed this new life of old that lay in her arms and brought him to her breast. God Almighty was hungry and held safely in his mama’s arms, he suckled until he drifted off to peaceful sleep.

I was planning to expand upon the story in this writing, but the Lord stopped me. The story is enough.

If you have never heard it before, let me know, and I will tell you the story again.
If you have heard and never accepted the truth of it, do so.
If you believe it, tell others the story.

Tell them of the love and forgiveness, the joy and the peace, the life and life everlasting made possible on that cold night so many years ago when God came down in the person of that little child in Mary’s arms.

Be the light God made you to be and carry the light, the joy, the peace, the love and the grace of God to a world desperately lost in darkness.

Tell them the story.

Love,
Pastor Tony

]]><![CDATA[The Thanksgiving Conundrum]]>Thu, 21 Nov 2024 19:28:05 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/the-thanksgiving-conundrum8697130Since childhood I have pondered the difference between dressing and stuffing. For the past fifty or so Thanksgivings, the subject has crossed my mind. Is it simply a matter of location or are they actually different? Maybe it’s a cultural thing or perhaps it’s a regional thing and semantics are to blame for the confusion. Personally, if I were to be given a vote on the matter, I would go with dressing. It is certainly more appealing to say that this food or that makes the entire meal fancier than it is to imagine ingesting something that emerged from the dark internal recesses of a turkey unprotected by shell. Yep, I’ll go with “dressing.”

And then there is cranberry sauce. Before I go any further I will confess a bias against the substance.

When her children were young, my mother found it interesting to have her progeny try different things. In my case she found a great deal of pleasure in watching me sample various culinary delights. To a casual observer it would be obvious that the less delightful I found the delight to be, the more delightful my mother found my facial contortions to be. I have yet to decide if this side of my mother arose from a loving desire to expand my horizons or from the Mrs. Hyde within. Personally, if I were to be given a vote on the matter, Mrs. Hyde would win, but that’s just me. One way or the other, Mom’s shenanigans stopped when the ambrosia forced upon me at the tender age of seven was returned to sender via airmail. I think the enjoyment was diminished a bit for Mom after that.

One of these experiments dealt with cranberry sauce. I distinctly remember being confused. Was this substance in my mouth a solid or a liquid, animal or vegetable, good or bad, dead or alive? For the life of me I couldn’t tell, and that lack of certainty remains with me to this day; and, in turn, I cannot bring myself to revisit the experiment.

Now the Thanksgiving turkey, I understand. Let me explain.

First of all there are two basic entrées associated with Thanksgiving and Christmas, at least according to my reckoning. As a rule, depending upon the holiday, either a turkey or a ham makes up the bulk of the meal.

Now my Mom, being Mom, liked to shake things up from time to time with the likes of raw oysters or burritos, but I think we can all agree that Mom had a culinary screw loose. For those of you who prefer adventurous gastronomy, my Mom’s forays into the epicurean wilderness would have been enchanting; but for those of us who prefer plates with little compartments to separate our dressing from our stuffing and our cranberry sauce from everything else, Mom’s wanderings were a certifiable nightmare. But like my mother before me I find myself wandering. Let me return to the subject at hand: ham or turkey?

From my observations I have discovered that in most cases, ham is reserved for Christmas while turkey is for Thanksgiving with the leftovers spanning the month in-between. I have often wondered why these two foods were chosen for such honorable tasks. I think I may have found the reason.

Christmas, Santa Claus aside, is designed to be a celebration of one miraculous and beautiful event: the birth of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Christ and His incarnation is why Christmas exists. Without Christ there is no Christmas, and no I don’t care what anyone says about it. Christ is Christmas and Christmas is Christ.

The humble ham is a relatively boring, if not tasty entrée. There is just so much you can do with a ham. From my experience ham tastes pretty much the same no matter from where you take a bite. From the outer edge to the bone the ham is relatively unchanged. It tastes like ham. It looks like ham. It’s ham.

Ham is the perfect food when only one thing is being celebrated. There are few distractions when you sit down and eat a ham. There are few decisions to be made when a ham is set before you; thin or thick slices, that’s about it. I love ham; it fits well into my entrée compartment.

Now the turkey is another matter altogether. From the dark meat to the white meat, from the breast to the leg, from the neck to the giblets; the turkey has many facets, many tastes, and many textures to revel in and savor. Now in that Thanksgiving is a time to celebrate the myriad gifts that our Lord has rained down upon us; the turkey is the perfect Thanksgiving table centerpiece.

I love Thanksgiving. I love it for several reasons, but for me at least the main reason is family. In my line of work the Christmas season is very busy, and while others enjoy some time off with family and friends, I am often occupied with the various duties that are specific to my chosen vocation during the holiday season. So Thanksgiving is the time when I bask in the glow of family.

Thanksgiving is that one day a year, when I can look around the table and marvel, without distraction, at all of the blessings that surround me. Not only that, but I also marvel at the blessed memories that return those long since gone back into the familial fold; as the matriarchs and patriarchs of the past populate the family portrait in my mind.

My prayer for each and every one of you is this:

I pray that on this Thanksgiving, no matter your circumstance, no matter your station, you take the time to reflect upon the wonderful gifts God has given you in this life.

I pray that we all can take the day, this one day and be thankful and joyous. We can all return to the pushing and shoving, to the angst and anxiety, and to the incessant clamor of the world later. On this Thanksgiving Day I pray that you enjoy your family, enjoy your friends and give thanks to the God of peace and love who makes it all possible.

Love,
Pastor Tony

]]><![CDATA[Smitten]]>Wed, 18 Sep 2024 21:28:08 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/smittenI was scared half to death. I had my eye on her for quite some time, but unlike my brother who was a Casanova: brash, smooth, and cool; I tended to lean more to the awkward, halting, and when the occasion presented itself, cold sweat side of things.

Whereas Mike could glide in and out of the presence of the gentler sex with ease and panache, I tended to keep to myself. When I encountered a girl, any girl for that matter, my mind tended to go into the fetal position and hide under a table somewhere.

I could talk; but there was a perceptible tremor in my voice, and my old nemesis, stuttering, would often raise its stammering head only making ma-matters worse. Suffice it to say, if there was one part per million of estrogen in the atmosphere, I generally made a fool of myself.

But she was special, so special that I overcame my fear; and trust me, I had plenty. I’ll tell you, it took a herculean effort on my part for me to pick up the phone and invite her to the State Fair, but on the fourth try, I did.

After I finally got the request out of my mouth, the crazy girl said “Yes.” Much to my surprise, I remained conscious long enough to make the arrangements. I don’t remember anything after I hung up.

So the day came around, and to the fair we went. Mary and I and my brother Mike and a little girl named Kay. I couldn’t drive yet, but Mike could.

To say I was unsure of myself is a laughable understatement. I was terrified. Terrified I would say something or do something wrong, or not do something or not say something right and blow the whole deal.

For one of the few times in my life, I swallowed my pride, and I asked my brother for advice. He said, “Just be yourself and watch me.”

Well, I was fifteen at the time and didn’t have the foggiest idea who I was yet, but I did watch carefully.

We had to park way down in Olympia that afternoon, so we all had to walk a mile or so to get to the front gate. As Mary and I walked behind Mike and Kay, Mike took Kay’s hand; I took the cue and reached for Mary’s hand while Mary reached for mine. Now while Kay didn’t reciprocate, you know the mitten hand hold, Mary gave my hand a squeeze and interlaced her fingers with mine. That did it for me. I was eternally smitten, and my path was set in stone.

It was twilight when Mary and I walked by the Tilt-a-Whirl and I noticed Mary gave a little shiver. I took my old worn-out and in turn favorite army coat off my shoulders, and laid it across hers, and it would appear that did it for her.

Later that night when two terrified young’uns’ shared a good night kiss the deed was done. The deal was sealed. We were hitched at the heart never to part this side of Heaven or on the other side, if I figure correctly. God is good all the time.

Now why in Heaven’s name did the Lord want me to open up about this miraculous and marvelous time in my life? You see it was kind of private, but the request was rather direct. I lay down in the hammock for a little nap on Saturday afternoon and said to the Lord, “I don’t know what you have for me this month but you better hurry. If you’ve got something on your mind please let me wake up with it on my mind as well.” When I woke up, there it was, and I have given it to you; but why?

Well, the best I can figure the Lord simply wanted to remind me and, in turn you, of the many undeserved gifts that He imparts upon His children. Some of the gifts are small and transient in nature and others are grandiose and affect your life in ways never imagined, seldom appreciated, and often delightful.

The Lord has gifted me in this life in ways that boggle my mind, knowing how callous I have often been toward His love. That delicate hand with fingers interlaced with mine is the greatest I have received, save the underserved grace of God, both of which have affected my life in ways never imagined, seldom appreciated, and often delightful.

My challenge to you is to slow down long enough to recognize the gifts of God in your life. Take the time to appreciate them, great and small. Take the time to appreciate the God who loves you enough to bless you in such marvelous ways.

Take the time.

Love,
Pastor Tony

Tony and Mary (1981)

]]><![CDATA[ Just Shut Up and Fish]]>Sat, 29 Jun 2024 14:49:03 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/shut-up-and-fishI know it’s not politically correct to say this, but I was a weird kid. I mean all the way down to the core, strange. For instance, I have liked documentaries for as long as I can remember. Since knowledge started to fill the little creases and crevices of my brain, I have always preferred the documentary. Go figure.

When I was a young boy and I was given a choice between Bugs Bunny and Jacques Cousteau, I would take a documentary on the humpback whale every time. Now I’d think twice if the Roadrunner was on. I loved seeing old Wily Coyote smacked, but as a rule, old Jacques came out on top.

Now perhaps the documentary was more of a rarity back in the mid-60s and early-70s. I mean today we have so many channels that there are documentaries on just about every subject you can think of, just to fill the space. I actually saw a documentary advertised the other day on the “Life and Times of The African Dung Beetle.” I resisted that one. I just don’t want to know. Back in the old three channel days, if there was a documentary on, it was well done, well thought out, and on a subject that most people would find interesting.

Now as a caveat to all of this; if Jeannie, or Elly May, or Mary Ann, or any of the “Petticoat Junction” girls were on, the documentaries could take a powder. Priorities, you know.

Another thing that my oddball brain enjoyed doing was reading odd books; odd books for a kid at least. Things like The Origin of Species by Darwin, The Book of Mormon, East of Eden by Steinbeck, Absalom, Absalom by Faulkner, and other weird stuff like that. I wasn’t a brainiac by any means, trust me. I was just strange.

By now some of you are thinking, “Yea, I always thought a couple of his wheels had a spoke or two missing.”

Well, while on the subject of odd books, I was down in Panama City one summer when I was maybe twelve or thirteen at the most, and I found myself in the book section of Grants Department Store. While rummaging around in the place, I came across a book entitled “The Art of Bass Fishing” by none other than Jerry McKinnis.

As weird as I was, I was still a Southern boy at heart, and bass fishing in the deep South was and is about as close to a sacrament as you can get without going to church, so I bought the book.

Since everybody in Panama City and the surrounding area bass fished and was good at it, nobody wanted the book. So for a meager $0.25 I purchased a nice hard backed copy of “The Art of Bass Fishing” by none other than Jerry Mckinnis.

Summer was just about over, and I was heading back home pretty soon. So I found this treasure a little too late for the season; but I took it home and studied, and read and studied some more until when the next summer came around, I was loaded for bear when it came to catching bass.

Well, to shorten the story a bit, the next summer grandpa and I were sitting in an old rented Jon boat sculling our way up the Brother's River near my favorite haunt, Whiskey Slough, doing a little bass fishing.

The weather was perfect for the panhandle of Florida. It was scalding, but we had hats, and we had bass on our mind so the weather wasn’t a problem. The problem was, I was a teenager, and as is true of all teenagers worldwide, I knew everything; and on account of that, I was telling my grandpa how to fish because let’s face it a fourteen-year-old boy from out of town knows much more than a 60-year-old native born man when it comes to the art of bass fishing on the panhandle of Florida. After all, I read a book by none other than Jerry Mckinnis on the subject, and I was up on all the modern techniques and products.

Being properly full of myself, I was telling my grandpa what color rubber worm he needed, and when and where to cast it, and just how to jig that worm so it looked like a critter a bass would eat.

Well, while I was pontificating my grandpa was fishing; and as he put his third largemouth in the cooler, he started to chuckle to himself ever so gently. After a time he looked up and over at me and said with a knowing grin, “Why don’t you just shut up and fish.”

When I went to bed last night, I was struggling to come up with the subject for this month’s newsletter. This happens from time to time, so I prayed a little prayer to the Lord and said, “Lord if you’ve got something for me, please let me have it by tomorrow morning. Time is tight.”

Well, when I woke up this morning, this old story was on my mind. That happens once in a while; sometimes just because I ate something spicy for dinner, and sometimes because the Lord’s got something for me. I’ll let y’all decide.

I’ve been thinking about this mess in the Church as of late. I know that Beulah has voted to break away from the United Methodist Church simply because integrity demands it. While I truly believe that Beulah has made a Godly decision, the reason behind Beulah having to make that decision breaks my heart.

Some within the Church have been acting like a bunch of know it all teenagers as of late; thinking that they have all the right answers and all the right ideas. Forgetting that the One who wrote the book on fishing for men indeed has all the answers and those answers, are all eternally correct. Like teenagers worldwide though, puffed up and proud, they thought they needed to correct the only adult in the room. They were mistaken.

As we here at Beulah start down a new path, let us take note. Let us remember that while we have the Greatest Book ever written at our disposal, we do not have editing privileges. The Word of God stands on its own, and it needs no help from us.

I can almost hear the Lord’s gentle laughter, as He looks down upon His Church and with a knowing and sympathetic grin says: “Why don’t y’all just shut up and fish.”

Love,
Pastor Tony

Henry Clayton Tharpe - Grandpa

]]><![CDATA[God and Grandpa]]>Wed, 27 Mar 2024 01:46:21 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/god-and-grandpaMy Grandpa Tharpe was not what you would call a large man. As a matter of fact he and I were exactly the same size; the same height and weight, the same slight stoop; the same big ears; and while I am not overly ashamed of my physique, large is not how I would categorize either myself or my grandpa. With that being said, in many ways the comparison stops there.
You see, unlike me, in all of my dealings with Grandpa, I cannot remember a time when he raised his voice in anger. I cannot remember a time when I heard a harsh word leave his mouth. I cannot remember a time when he spoke ill of anyone. Now I know that as a rule, memories come with their own filters, but I have carefully looked back over the archives of my mind and will stand by those statements nonetheless.

I do remember a certain titanium edge that would come into his voice every now and again. An edge that was apparently keen enough to stop Granny in her tracks, and that was a heroic feat to my way of thinking. That bit of titanium was the only indication that Grandpa was anything other than the quiet, gentle man he appeared to be.

Well, there was one other thing.

As a teenager I happened to be passing by Grandpa’s bedroom one evening as he was in the process of changing his shirt from his Borden uniform to something more comfortable; and I was surprised to see a six to eight inch scar, running across the ribs of his right side. It was a wide, angry scar from a wound that had been deep and cruel.

Later that evening, being the curious sort, I asked Grandpa about the scar. He offered no explanation other than to say “You should’ve seen the other guy.” After that, no amount of prodding could make him explain further. He simply said that was in the past, and the past was best forgotten.

Not being one to let things go that easily, the next morning I asked Granny about it. In response she said:

“Oh that, well your Grandpa has not always been the man you see today, and let me give you a little advice. I wouldn’t ask him about it again. There is a side of your grandpa that you don’t want to meet.”

Well, for once I took her advice and didn’t pursue the matter any further because I sensed that Granny was right. There was a part of my Grandpa I did not want to disturb.

Now up to that point in my life, I had my grandpa all figured out. He was a quiet fella with a laidback personality who did his best to get along with folks. He tried to help folks whenever possible, and basically he lived his life at peace with the world around him. From my understanding of Grandpa, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Now I don’t know who the other fella was, or even if he survived the encounter, but somehow I figure his mental picture of my gentle grandpa did not have him quite so laid back and harmless. No, if he got worse than that nasty scar that grandpa sported, then he went away from their encounter scared to death and thanking his lucky stars that he was still breathing, if he was. I never got a satisfactory answer on that one.

I got to pondering about this dual aspect of my grandpa the other day when I was going over some of the modern day theological thinking, in one of the modern day theological journals. For the record it wasn’t what I would call a satisfying intellectual meal. It was more like a bowl full of theological popcorn. The bowl was full, but it was pretty lite when it came to substance. No calories to speak of you know.

            As I sat there thinking about what passes for theological thought in some circles today, I realized that a great deal of the thinking, is for lack of a better term, wishful thinking. Today many have a concept of what they consider the perfect God, and they have written a recipe that when followed carefully produces the God they would like to meet.

            Now this recipe is of their own making and it bares a striking resemblance to my view of grandpa as a child. I loved grandpa with all of my heart, and because of that love, my young psyche simply could not fathom anything other than my loving, gentle grandpa.

            To my way of thinking, some of my fellow children of God have a similar view of their Creator. They love Him, and because of that they cannot picture Christ as anything other than the loving and caring God of the New Testament. Because of this they tend to shy away from the God of wrath often seen in the Old Testament. The result is a skewed recipe and a ruined meal.

            I wrote this a few days prior to the beginning of Holy Week and as I considered Holy Week and all that my Lord went through, something occurred to me. The God of the Old Testament and the God of the New Testament were both present during that joyous and horrendous week.

Our rebellion, and the sin produced by that rebellion, demanded a response from our Creator. A sacrifice, a payment as it were, was required to set things right, to balance the books. By all rights, that payment was our responsibility. Each and every one of us should have died on that Cross. All of us should have been tormented, and beaten and nailed to that tree. The wrath of God is what we deserve for the pain and disappointment we have foisted upon Him; and yet when that payment came due, Christ, the God of the Universe and the Creator of all of us, stood between all of us and the wrath to come.

You see in an unfathomable act of love, God Almighty vented His anger upon Himself so that we could be saved. The whip intended for our backs was laid across the naked and bleeding back of our Lord. The humiliation and shame we should feel was felt and despised by our Savior. The agonizing death that was our sentence was experience by Christ in our stead. Because of His amazing love for all of us, God Almighty vented His great anger upon Himself so that we could be eternally free.

What an amazing Savior is He; and on Easter morning, His wrath exhausted and His love reborn, God stepped out into the morning air with a grin, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. Salvation had been won. Hallelujah!

Love,
Pastor Tony

]]><![CDATA[Distractions]]>Fri, 02 Feb 2024 06:40:53 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/distractions

If there was one thing that my Granny Tharpe loved doing, other than fishing of course, it was tormenting my Grandmother Rowell. Now don’t get me wrong, they loved each other. After all, their progeny had come together to produce their favorite grandson; and who wouldn’t love that; but they came from different sides of the tracks which set up a not so subtle competition between the two of them.

You see Granny came from the blue-collar side of the tracks where pride was a luxury; and Grandmother came from the blue-blooded side where pride was a staple. Because of this, Granny and Grandma viewed life from different perspectives. One saw it from a lowly little asbestos sided house on Drake Avenue and the other saw it from the height of a three story antebellum home over near the bay.

Now they both loved the Lord which made them sisters, or cousins at least when they were in the Church. Sometimes, however, just to even things up a bit, Granny would pick on her sister, and Margaret Jane had a gift for getting under Lula Marie’s skin.

Granny could get the best of Grandma every time. You see she knew just when and how to play off of Grandma’s overabundance of pride to be the Devil’s Advocate. As it turned out it was always on Sunday morning. Saint Andrews Methodist Church was their arena, and barbed banter was their game.

I preferred to stay at Granny’s house for several reasons. Number one, the food was better. Granny was the queen of southern cooking, and Crisco was her king. Secondly, the company suited me better, as well. Maybe it was the Crisco in the air, but things just seemed a little smoother, a little mellower over at Granny’s than they did over at Grandma’s.

My Grandma Rowell had two specialties when it came to cooking. She had Campbell’s tomato soup, and toast. I know there had to be something other than that, but those are the two that stuck to the ribs of my memory. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved my Grandma, but she could be a little starchy sometimes, and the friction produced tended to make this little boy seek shelter on the other side of town.

Because I preferred the company of Granny, most of the time the task fell to her of getting my disorderly rear-end to church on Sunday mornings. She probably would have let me play hooky had she not promised my Momma she would do it, but she promised and because of that, Sunday morning tended to be a bit of a challenge.

You see, I have never put much stock in dressing up. I figured that if I had to go to church and be bored to death, why should I have to dress up and make matters worse. I think Granny agreed with me, but she had promised my mom I would go, so go I did. That being said, there was usually a bit of a tussle so both she and I looked a bit bedraggled upon arrival; but we always made it on time to slide into the pew right behind Grandma Rowell. Not beside her mind you, but behind her. You see Granny preferred a clandestine attack over a full frontal assault any day.

First of all, my less than stellar appearance set the stage just right. Grandma would look back at me with the same disdain that the townsfolks held for Ol’ Huckleberry, but for a different reason. Ol’ Huck couldn’t help it you see, but to Grandma’s mind, Granny should have known better. Well, Granny knew better than to do a lot of things she did, but I don’t think she put too much stock in what other folks thought anyway.

My untidy appearance aside, the real fun started once Granny spied her quarry. She would survey the congregation in search of just the right morsel, and then in a conspiratorial undertone, she would begin her attack.

I can hear her to this day. Just a bit over a whisper to make sure Grandma could hear her; Granny would pick some poor unsuspecting teenage girl, and make a sideways comment about her outfit.

“Would you look at that, Tony. Does she think she’s Jeanie C. Riley or something? I can’t believe her mamma would let her out in public like that. Would you look at all that skin she’s showing, and in church no less?”

Then, once she was sure that Grandma had honed in on the target, she would never look that way again, content that Grandma was fuming at the poor girl’s mamma and at Granny for pointing such a scandalous thing out to the young boy in her charge.

For the record, the young boy in her charge didn’t mind at all.

It happened almost every Sunday: A hat, a pair of dungarees instead of a dress, a run in some poor girl’s hose, the preacher’s hair. You name it. Granny always found something, and Grandma always fell prey.

In retrospect, Granny was being the perfect Devil’s advocate, because if there is one thing that the Devil uses to get into the minds of the children of God to distract them; if there is one thing that Satan uses to pull the children of God away from what they’re supposed to be listening to or doing for their Lord Jesus Christ, it is the other children of God.

You can say amen to that, even if you don’t want to admit it.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Not all Christians agree on all things; but disagreements aside, we are called upon by our Lord to love one another in spite of our differences.

That being said, our disagreements and/or our differences may call upon us to separate ourselves from those with whom we disagree for a time. Because of our strongly held convictions, there may be times when our Christian integrity demands that we go our separate ways. But separate or together we must keep in mind that:

“There is no difference, 23 for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God…” Rom 3:22-23   NIV

The lost world is watching and hoping against hope that our witness is true. In spite of any differences we may have within the family, we must always remember to lead with love.

19 We love because he first loved us. 20 If anyone says, "I love God," yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen. 21 And he has given us this command: Whoever loves God must also love his brother. 1 John 4:19-21 NIV

Love, Pastor Tony

]]><![CDATA[Great Expectations]]>Tue, 02 Jan 2024 05:08:35 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/great-expectations

It seems to me that everyone and their mother is offended these days. The number of people wearing their feelings on their sleeves and then wondering why they get their feelings hurt is astronomical and amazing to me and a little dumb. That is probably something I shouldn’t say as a loving pastor, but then again the truth of that statement is evident.

It seems that, in the United States at least, the idea of bucking up, keeping a tight upper lip, and ‘you ain’t the center of the Universe’ has gone out of style.

Now as for me, I was taught by my Granny, and everybody else who loved me, to buck up, to keep a tight upper lip and to stop thinking of myself as the center of the Universe. Personally, I consider that to be good parenting, but then again; I’m not a snowflake.

You see, I don’t want a safe space to protect me from things that might hurt my feelings. I do not need a Teddy Bear or a comfort Cockatiel to help me deal with the negative feelings that come from living life with my eyes wide open; and just in case you haven’t noticed yet, I am not politically correct either. Never have been and don’t intend to start.

Now I am not going to hurt your feelings if I can help it, but I am also not going to engage in verbal calisthenics to protect you from the truth when the truth is what is needed.

I don’t know what y’all think of all that, but personally, that is what I want in a best friend and a preacher; but that’s just me.

That is also what I want in a God. I don’t want a God who says he loves me and then lets me do whatever tickles my fancy. To me such a permissive God is not a loving God. That is the God of an agnostic; a God that really doesn’t care about me or you. That’s just a God that doesn’t want to deal with the negativity that naturally comes from properly raising a child to adulthood.

Now while some in the Church today are engaged in avoiding the hard truths and in coddling the sinner, I don’t believe in that. You see, as a practicing sinner myself, who is well versed in many lines of sinning; I don’t need coddling. I need the truth. I don’t need beating around the bush; I need directness. I don’t need a safe space to protect me; I need my feelings hurt by a God who loves me enough to hurt them in order to save my eternal soul.

Well, how was that for a beginning of the year tirade?

While we’re on the subject, I have never considered God Almighty, nor the Word of God, The Holy Bible, to be politically correct either. It speaks the truth, the unvarnished truth most of the time whether we like it or not, and I tell you right now it hurts my feelings. It lets me know where I am failing and just how I am disappointing my Creator, and what I need to do to make things right.

I contend that if you can read the Holy Scriptures and not get your feelings hurt; then you are either not being honest with yourself, or you’re skipping over every other word or so.

Now that being said, the Holy Bible is also the most loving and caring book ever published. The Word of God is filled with the love of God for His creation. It is filled with His grace, the undeserved love and forgiveness of a God who has every right to turn His back on us as we have turned our backs on Him.

It tells the story of a people who continually turn viciously toward or apathetically away from their Creator, a Creator who loves them enough to take the punishment they deserve just so the ingrates can live eternally with Him in peace, joy and happiness. Go figure.

While I’m on a roll, let’s keep going.

My God is a God who understands that strength comes from perseverance and that perseverance never comes to a mollycoddled child. It takes making it through a trial or two in life to develop the strength and determination it takes to keep going in the face of the world.

Now sometimes when things aren't going our way, we might think that God has forsaken us, and that he has left us all alone in the wilderness to fend for ourselves. He hasn’t.

I am reminded of an old tale my grandpa told me years ago of a Native American tribe that engaged in an old fashion coming of age ceremony for the boys when they reached thirteen.
No, they didn’t suspend them from hooks or anything like that, but rather they took them out deep into the forest where all the creepy crawlies, not to mention the predators live, in the dead of winter, in the dead of night, blindfolded and left them there to fend for themselves all alone, all night long.

Out there all alone listening to the night sounds which always seem sinister, it seemed like the boys would never make it through, much less go to sleep; but in time, fatigue born of fear over took them and sleep came.

When they awoke the next morning, the first thing they noticed was the warm blanket and the second was their Father standing a few feet away where he had stood guard all night long, watching over them while they slept.

Our God is that kind of God. Our God is a God who never lets us down, never lets us off, and yet never lets us go.

There are many aspects to our God. We must remember that every part of God, from the comforting to the terrifying, must be considered in order to get the full picture of who our God actually is and what our God expects from His children.

Far too many believers these days are clinging to the benefits of the Savior while shying away from or simply ignoring the expectations of the Almighty.

Our God is the perfect combination of love and wrath, and to disregard any aspect of His character is to flirt with danger.

As we begin a New Year, I pray that our Lord and Savior will bless us with both His truth and His grace; and also with the grit needed to do what the Lord above expects from His children, unflinchingly and with courage.

Love,
Pastor Tony

Light and Darkness / Love and Wrath

]]><![CDATA[What Would You Do?]]>Sun, 10 Dec 2023 02:16:22 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/what-would-you-do

If Mary and Joseph were to arrive Tuesday night in Gilbert, tired, lonely, penniless and pregnant; what would we do? Would we see them and walk on by? Would we pray to God above that they bypass our house and get help somewhere else, maybe down to Lexington or up to Batesburg - Leesville? Would we send them down the road or to the barn? Would we help or hurt?

I have often wondered what my reaction would be if Jesus Christ were to be born in a barn down the road. What would I do if a couple of farm hands happened by and told me that God was a little bit down the way asleep in a feeding trough? Knowing me, skepticism would be my response. I would more than likely figure that those fellas had simply had a bit too much to drink and let it go. Because let’s face it, it makes no sense whatsoever for the Son of God to come to earth that way. Above and beyond that, it is ridiculous to think that He would have anything to do with the likes of me. I am selfish and self-absorbed. Seldom do I even notice my neighbor in need, much less help. Seldom do I do what the Old Testament law requires, much less the Law of Christ.

My love is limited to say the least. I love my family. I love a few other folks, and I love myself. I try to love the rest of the world, I really do, but it’s awfully hard. Yet with my limited understanding of love, I am supposed to believe that God Almighty loved me enough to send His Son to save me. I find that almost impossible to believe, and yet deep down in my inner most being, I know that is exactly what happened.

Through His birth in that stable all those years ago, I have been promised that God loves me enough to die for me, a fella no better than a shepherd. I can’t believe it, but I must. I can’t understand it, but I pray I can accept it. I can’t fathom that much love, but I must accept it if I am to become the Child of God for whom Christ came to this earth.

The birth of Christ is wonderful, beautiful and divine in its simplicity because it demonstrates to you and me that God is a God who loves all, no matter what the station, no matter what the color, no matter what the sin. God is a God who loved us enough to send His one and only Son to teach us how to live, to teach us how to love, to teach us how to die and to give us life eternal in the bargain.

The beauty of the birth of Christ Jesus is not found in the circumstances of Christ’s arrival on this earth. No matter how we try to dress them up, they were not beautiful. They were not lovely. They were humble and tired and dirty.

The beauty and fascination of the birth of Christ is that He was born at all. The beauty and fascination of the birth of Christ is that in spite of our rebellious, sinful, down right awful nature; God still loves us, and in spite of our wanderings, yearns with all His heart to bring us back home. He longs to rescue us from the grip of sin and Satan and to give us life eternal in Heaven.

That is the meaning of Christmas, and that is what I pray that each and every one of you have received. I pray that you have accepted the love and forgiveness demonstrated by the birth, life, death and resurrection of Christ. I pray that during this Christmas Season and indeed beyond, that you remember that little baby born in a manger, wrapped in rags and bearing the name, Son of God, Creator of the universe, Savior, Lord and Friend. I pray that you remember that He came to save you and to sacrifice Himself for your sake, so that you might have an eternal life filled with joy, peace and contentment.

Merry Christmas, Folks!

Love,
Pastor Tony

]]><![CDATA[The Blessed Table]]>Fri, 17 Nov 2023 20:18:43 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/the-blessed-table

Granny at her table.

Those of you who have read my writing before know that when I was a kid, back in the early nineteen sixties, I spent most of my summers down on the panhandle of Florida with my Granny and Grandpa Tharpe. For a little boy who loved the outdoors and fishing in particular, I could not have asked for a better place to be or two more loving folks with whom to share that wonderful time of my life. As I have said on several occasions over the years, if you want to blame someone for the bulk of who I have become, you need to look no farther than the corner of Drake Avenue and West Seventeenth Street in Panama City, Florida to find the culprits.

Granny and Grandpa were great. They taught me how to catch `em, how to clean `em and how to eat `em. They kindled within me a love for the woods, the swamp in particular, and an inner itch to explore the wilds. They also taught me to watch my language, to love my family and to respect my elders and others with no regard for anything other than the person before me.

We used to spend every Wednesday up in Wewahitchka, Florida; Wewa for short. Wewa sits to the left of Apalachicola and to the right of Panama City, about half way between Port Saint Joe and Bristol, and it has two claims to fame: Genuine Tupelo Honey, everything else is just a pretender, and the Dead Lakes dam. It was a little spill way of a dam that spanned the Chipola River up until 1987 when some paper pushing bureaucrat over in Tallahassee decided the world would end if it wasn’t removed. Please forgive that outburst. I just loved that old dam and hate to see it gone.

From the dam and the banks surrounding it, you could catch everything from shell-cracker to largemouth bass, from bream to channel cats and from warmouth to mullet. It was a great place to fish.

Now my granny was one of those chosen folks who have the ability to always catch fish. She could catch fish in a dry river bed in the mid-summer heat. Today she would be called a fish whisperer. The fish just seemed to love her more than most, and they weren’t alone. Her fellow fishermen loved my granny as well, mainly because she loved just about everybody she met and always said “Hi,” no matter who you were. On top of that, she would tell you exactly what she thought, no matter who you were. So people never doubted that she loved them, and they always knew exactly where they stood with her, and you have to love a person like that.

Like I said, Granny was a great fisherman because she could always find them, and in turn, we always had fish to bring home.

I will never forget, when I was maybe six or seven years of age, what happened one day after we had caught ourselves a cooler full of fish and were heading back home. Somewhere along the way Granny said something to Grandpa after which he altered his course just a bit, and we soon found ourselves in the poorest section of Panama City. As it turned out, Grandpa had a friend who lived down in that section of town.

The man, whose name escapes me, was a mechanic for the Borden Milk Company, and my grandpa was a driver; and somehow they had hit it off and become friends over the years.

We were going by to drop off some of the fish for this fella’s family; and Lord knows he had a lot of mouths to feed. Later, I came to learn that this was a habit of Granny and Grandpa. Not just with this family, but with anyone in need.

On this particular occasion though, we arrived somewhere around 6:00 in the evening. Well, supper was already on the stove, so we were invited to dinner, and what a dinner it was. As old Andy would say, “It was lip smacking good.”

Now I was just a kid, so I didn’t understand that the civil rights movement was in full swing in the early sixties. I didn’t know of the separate bathrooms or the all-white counters or stuff like that. I didn’t know of riots, or water cannons or police dogs. I just knew that these folks looked a little different than us and we from them. I soon learned, however, that our differences aside, man, that woman could cook, and that man could laugh as if his life depended on it; and my Granny and Grandpa loved them. So, I did the same.

As we sat around the dinner table, I can still hear the laughter and the gentle tinkling of the silverware against the plates. I still hear the shared “Amen” after the blessing. I can still see the picture of Jesus hanging over the mantle; the same one, by the way that my Granny had in her house and the one that now hangs in my office.

I didn’t know it at the time, but my Granny and Grandpa were radicals; but radicals or not lessons were being taught and understanding was being born right there at the dinner table.

They were lessons of respect; respect for differences; respect for others.

They were lessons of charity; of giving, not out of abundance, but out of love.

They were lessons of love; love among friends and love within the family that is the body of Christ.

They were also lessons of understanding, that no matter what station we hold in life, we all struggle. We all hurt, and we all need forgiveness and love. We all need Christ, and we all need each other.

I owe quite a debt to my Granny and Grandpa and to that unknown mechanic and his family for those lessons. They have held me in good stead over the years.

With that being said, I wish with all my heart that I could invite today’s world to return with me to that same blessed dinner table on that long ago Wednesday afternoon.

Mark 12:29-31
29 "The most important one," answered Jesus, "is this: 'Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.   30 Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.'   31 The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."      NIV

Love,
Pastor Tony

The Dead Lakes

]]><![CDATA[The Old Outhouse]]>Thu, 05 Oct 2023 04:59:18 GMThttp://beulahmethodistgilbert.org/pastors-blog/the-old-outhouse

The old outhouse is gone. It used to be right over there resting under that timeworn cypress. I don’t know why its absence struck me so. It isn’t as if I enjoyed using the old outhouse. Use was born of necessity, not desire. Yes, going in there was an adventure in many ways, but I can’t say I was fond of it. I contend that on any given day in mid-July the vapors, were they to be properly concentrated, could be weaponized to good effect. Not to mention the winged inhabitants of the place and the fear of being carried off to who knows where that drifted into a young boy’s mind while he was in there. Lord have mercy, the bees and the yellow jackets and the blow flies and the nameless creatures that lived in that place.

It’s strange that there’s pain in its passing, but there it is. I do have a lot of old memories and old stories with that outhouse in the background; perhaps that explains this inward aching. A precious privy; go figure. Well, honestly I never really have had any philosophical fondness for that particular outhouse, any port in a storm you know; but Lord, I do love the memories in which that rickety old place now resides.

The hogs have moved on as well. I’ve mentioned them before. They weren’t regular hogs. They were boat landing hogs and they were bred for the purpose. This particular brand of hog, the Willis Landing hog, had a hankering for anything nasty and slightly rotted. They were forever chewing on something that you didn’t want to know about. They were panhandlers and general nuisances as well, with breath like Satan and little beady eyes like a demon from Hell.

As a young boy, I quickly learned that boat landing hogs weren’t good company and were best avoided, if you knew what was good for you; and no, I didn’t always know what was good for me. One of these days, I’ll tell you about it.

Yeah, those old hogs would spend the heat of the day up underneath the porch over there. They would grunt and squeal and make all sorts of racket. If you got too close they invited you to dinner, but not in a good way. More as a side dish than as a visitor, but they were part of the scene, so you didn’t mind all that much. As long as you watched where you stepped, there was no real harm done.

Well goodness gracious, the porch is gone, so is the old store for that matter. I mean there’s nothing left, not even a foundation. There’s just a patch of grass, some tidbits of the past scattered about and one old glass bottle with just the shadow of Old Milwaukee clinging to it. It was way off in the woods. I figure some teenage boy must’ve tossed it over there when mama got too close. Things could get hopping on a Saturday night, or so they said.

I wonder how time missed that old bottle; it must’ve gotten distracted somehow looking for some other old man’s memories to mess with.

That old store was where I had my first taste of Tupelo Honey. Man, that was some good stuff.

With the flood of memories rushing my way my eyes moistened up a bit, but about that time my mind brought back that Tupelo taste to my lips, and I had to smile. It was then that I turned to look at the old river, and it was like coming home.

The sorrow of loss and the longing for the way things once were succumbed to the joy of the untouched. Yes, the store has vanished, the outhouse and its kind are all but extinct, the hogs have long since become side meat and sausage; but the river, the river remains the same.

Just around that bend to the right, right past that little seductive curve is where Whiskey Slough can be found. Somehow simply knowing that place of my childhood, with its coffee colored water and ever present shade was right over there like always lifted my heart from the doldrums into the morning light of years gone by. What a gift that was. What a blessing.

We live in a time that is ever-changing, it seems. As things change around us, as the things of the past are cast aside, as new realities raise their heads, it can be very frightening. As the age old institutions upon which our stability rests are shaken by new generations with new ideas and new beliefs, fear and sorrow can overtake us.

As this world changes around us, many have a sense of loss and longing for the way things once were. I number myself with those people; but as a child of God, I must allow my sense of loss and longing to succumb to the joy of knowing the untouched, the unchanged and the unchangeable.

Let the world change around me, if it wishes; I will rely upon the steadfast sameness of my God and of His Word, and in so doing, I will find true peace, stability and joy. I pray that you do the same.

Rev 1:8
8 "I am the Alpha and the Omega," says the Lord God, "who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty." NIV

Love,
Pastor Tony

(This story was hatched during a short visit Mary and I made to my childhood haunt of Willis Landing. Willis Landing was half way in between Wewahitchka and Port St. Joe on the Panhandle of Florida. The landing has gone, but the memories are faithful.) Tony

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