For God’s Sake Archive

I have a friend who is obsessed with the proper use of grammar. One time when going through TSA security screening at the airport, he felt the need to correct the TSA agent’s grammar.

November 27th was the first Sunday of Advent; its theme was hope. When Winston Churchill learned that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and the United States had entered World War II, he said, “Silly people, and there were many, not only in enemy countries, might discount the force of the United States…But I had studied the American Civil War, fought out to the last desperate inch. American blood flowed in my veins.

My wife has an endearing habit that I am gradually making my own. She says, “thank you,” for everything I do. If I take out the trash, she says, “Thank you for taking out the trash.” When we go grocery shopping, she says, “Thank you for helping me do the shopping.”

I awoke with a start in full panic mode. It was morning and sunlight flooded our tiny motel room. Shaking my wife, I shouted, “Get up, we overslept! We’re going to miss the ferry!” We bounded out of bed, threw on clothes, and wrangled our suitcases out of the room.

“Do we have enough candy?” my wife’s text read. It was Halloween, she was leaving work, and her commute would take her past several grocery stores. I considered last year’s brisk trick-or-treat traffic and replied, “You should pick up another bag.”

I downloaded grammar-checking software recently, and I am having regrets.

The software scrutinizes everything on my computer screen, and I mean EVERYTHING, highlighting what it deems to be grammatical errors. It is like having someone peering over your shoulder and constantly criticizing your work.

During the first ten years of full-time ministry, I was best known in the congregation I served as “the minister of music.”

It was not my main responsibility, but it was certainly the most public. I was often asked what I did for a living. People assumed that I must have an outside job since picking a few songs each week couldn’t take very long.

It amazes me how a small, unrelated stimulus sparks a memory. A recent, unrelated conversation with a store clerk brought to mind my call to ministry.

I sensed the call about thirty-seven years ago, mere months after coming to faith in Christ. Sunday evening services were the norm for churches and the guest speaker that night was a missionary the congregation supported.

I hadn’t checked my mailbox at the post office in a few days, so it was rather full.

I set about trying to remove its contents but complicating the job was a small, stout envelope. It was the lynchpin to the jam and had to be removed first.

“All you preachers ever talk about is money,” a man complained having just sat through my once-a-year sermon on giving.

Clearly, giving was a sensitive subject for that man, as it is for many. It seems that all the preaching on giving, including the televangelists’ shameless shakedowns, is balled together and attributed to every preacher.