"Golf is played by 20 million mature American men whose wives think they're out having fun." - Joey Bishop

When my pastoral students reached graduation I gave them each a framed picture of an ass facing away from the camera with the caption "Cover yours." I told them to keep it in their top drawer or somewhere they'd see it often, as a reminder that the pastor can't be too careful to protect himself against false accusation. It happened to me, and steps I took to protect myself proved critical to my professional survival.

I was disappointed in church yesterday. The music had more energy than any previous two services combined, and for that I was grateful.
More on that in a coming post.
But Brett's sermon didn't crack the Bible. He told us that going in - that it wasn't a biblical sermon in that sense. "So if you brought your Bible this morning set it aside because you won't need it."

He then did what's called vision casting. It's one of the big things in pastoral ministry these days, and maybe the demise of Pathway is due in part to the fact I didn't do it sufficiently. (I've wondered about that.)
Vision casting is about assuring that everybody is on the same page about the church's vision, goals, and methods. So Brett talked about the six values that form the core at UFC and how the church tries to put them into practice. All good stuff, but I go to church to hear, "thus saith the Lord," not "Here's what we want to be and do."
The six core values are each biblical, so let's go to Scripture to elucidate them. No, you won't get through all six in one sermon if you do that, but you do make it clear that these aren't strategic business tactics, they're God's directives.
Yeah, I'm old school.

I love my dad more than I can express in words, verbally or in a blog post. I also have great respect for him. I recently learned that he was within one or two classes of having a Ph.D. in both math and physics from the Univ. of Washington before he withdrew to get a job because his wife was pregnant with their second child. (Technically their third because an earlier child died shortly after birth.) He taught himself biblical Greek, he read theologies like some people read the newspaper, and he rose from meteorologist to chief of the flood control division of the Army Corps of Engineers for the NW U.S. He served his church for decades as a lay leader - chairman of the elders, adult S.S. teacher, and the point person who led the congregation through more than one serious crisis.

He's now 94 and that's taking a toll on his physical and mental abilities. The latter frustrated me for too long; now I've come to understand it's who he is. He's still my dad, he's been God's faithful servant for almost his entire life, and his current limitations are God's perfect will for his life. I'm upset with myself that I too often got impatient with him when he didn't grasp what I was telling him, and wish I could go back and change that. Now I find his struggles to understand create within me a new kind of endearment.

Last Thursday night we all went to a restaurant in Edmunds for dinner. The streets in that area totally confuse me, so the easiest way to get back to the Ida Culver House where they live was to plug in our old version of a Garmin GPS we just leave on our dash pad. Their address is in the "recently found" folder so it was easy to select it. He heard the voice giving me directions and asked who was talking to me. I told him it's Michelle, the name Garmin assigned to one of the two voice options built into the system. (I don't know the name of the other one, but she's annoying and nags. "Recalculating!")

Dad asked questions about how Michelle knew where we were and what turns to make so I explained about the satellites that communicate with that little box as I drive.

I could tell he was having trouble with that, which didn't surprise me. He asked some questions and I tried to explain in ways he'd understand. Then he asked, "When the satellite is talking to you, what about all the other people who want directions. What do they do?"

I don't remember what prevented me from answering. I *think* it was my mother in the back seat telling me we had driven past their place. (It was dark and she got confused by landmarks she couldn't see.)

It's OK that I didn't answer; he'd forgotten the question two minutes after he asked it.

I love my dad. I found his question endearing, what Pam would call cute. It was honest, sincere, and perfectly reasonable for someone whose mind is slowing right along with his body.

Is he who he was? Or someone else? The answer depends on how we measure who someone is, and I'm not particularly concerned with the answer. I just wish my folks didn't live six hours away 'cause I'd sure like to spend more time with them. And I wonder how much longer my dad will be "here."

Love you, dad!