"Sin of Poverty"

One day several years ago I was recovering from an intense workout at rehab after total knee replacement by sitting in the car in the Demopolis, Alabama Wal Mart parking lot.  I told my chauffeur that I would wait while she went in for a few things.  Now all you know that if you go to town, Wal Mart calls you to it like a bug zapper attracts insects.

The parking lot had more cars than normal.  My friend reminded me that it was the fifteenth of month, government checks.  She ought to know, she delivered them for a quarter century with the United States Post Office.

All that I saw intrigued me.  I am a people watcher and I observed people getting out their vehicle and sashaying into the land of bargains.  Folks were in raggedy old trucks, red mud covered Tahoes, nasty rice burners (Hondas, Toyotas, Nissans), BMW’s, and Mercedes.  There were big people, extra-large folks, short people, and tiny folks all coming and going.

I watched a customer gather buggies and return them to the proper place. Other folks, removing junk from their buggies, left them in empty parking spaces, where arriving customers would have to move them to park.  Some folks just have a knack for sorriness

I had the windows and moon roof open enjoying the smell of spring, only to have it ruined with the nasty smell of a cigarette.  I watched as the lady puffed and blew that blue nicotine toxic cloud my way.  She, along with all the other smokers deposited their nasty cigarette butts on the pavement at the Wal Mart entrance.  People can be so inconsiderate.

We experienced the same inconsideration at the monthly distribution of food for low-income folks at the Bethel Baptist Building Annex each month.  Pam, the Associational secretary and I had to make and post signs reminding the folks that it is a no smoking area.  One day I told a man it was no smoking.  He said he did not know it was no smoking.  I asked if he smoked at his church.  He said no.  I asked could he smoke on school property.  He said no.  I reminded him that he was on church owned property and parked his car on school property.  NO SMOKING.

What amazes me is the fact that people receiving this low-income food have money to waste on junk.  My experience living below the poverty level, according to the IRS, for four years while attending the University of Montevallo, my wife, the kids, and I lived on bare essentials.  There were no vacations, no ball games tickets, no new clothes, just what we needed. 

I am reminded of a devotional about the “sin of poverty.”  It is the dialogue between Jesus and the rich young ruler.  Jesus told him to sell all he had and to give the money to the poor.  He lacked faith.  Most of us are aware of the sin of riches, but what about poverty?

Poverty also can block faith.  People use being poor as an excuse.  Most of us find it difficult to give food to a person with a cigarette dangling from their mouth, the smell of liquor on their breath, marijuana in their pocket, a designer purse on the shoulder, and sporting a new Mercedes.

I decided to do a word study on poor.  The Bible is full of references to the poor.  Jesus said that the poor would always be around and to help them, Deuteronomy 15:7-8.  The tricky part is how to help.

What I learned was that being poor is about attitude.  Heck, some the richest people in Marengo County are poor when compared to Donald Trump.  I know growing up we did not think of our family being poor, is just those folks in Jemison were rich because they had a lot of new stuff.

If we are not careful, we can foster an attitude in the poor of expecting handouts.  I remember in economics class at the University of Montevallo the Chinese proverb:  Give a man fish you feed him today, teach a man how to fish and feed him tomorrow.

I also remember the University had a partnership with Guatemala.  During one of the exchanges, a delegation from Guatemala wanted to see the poor of Montevallo.  They took them to a rundown area.  The Guatemalans said, “No, show us you are poor.”  They were carried to a place where there were a few shanties.  Once again, “No, show us you’re poor.”  Finally, they showed them a rundown old shack.  They were amazed and said, “Everyone here is so rich.”

What about the sin of poverty?  I have concluded that people are poor by birth, by choice, and by uncontrollable forces.  Think about it.  One cannot control what family they were born, what conditions they face, and what calamities that will come. 

My late friend Jim Baker said that he went from being wealthy to pauper overnight in the soybean business when President Jimmy Carter imposed the grain embargo on Russia in the late 1970’s.

The sin of poverty must be a choice (Proverbs 10:4, 21:17).  The rich young ruler had to decide to stay rich, or trust God.  The flipside is the poor, to stay poor or trust God (Psalms 69:33; Proverbs 13:7, 19:1; Matthew 5:3; and James 2:5).

Two things stand out in God’s Word about the poor.  God has always been on the side of the poor, not just any poor, but those who were poor with material things, but rich in faith.  The church’s duty is defend the poor and preach the Good News/Gospel to them.

 

Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble (Psalm 41:1 KJV).

 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor (Luke 4:18a KJV).

 

Lest I forget Calvary, “For ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though He was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through His poverty might be rich” (II Corinthians 8:9 KJV).

Bumps Ahead

 

The other day I was spending some time alone by riding in West Alabama and East Mississippi.  I did not have any particular place to go or to be.  I wanted to meditate as I drove.  Each time I came to an intersection I would think a minute then turn.

I was traveling in places I had never been before.

Most of the traveling was smooth for my little Honda.  I like driving my old truck, but it takes too much expensive gas to joy ride in it, but it is more comfortable.  I drove without the radio or CD playing.  I just wanted to watch, observe, and listen to God.

Not knowing where I was or where I was going was uncannily soothing.  I was not lost because I knew that if I went north, I would intersect at I 59.  If I continued west, I would be in Meridian.  If I traveled south, I would intersect US Hwy 84.  If I went back east, there would be Alabama Highway 17.

Somewhere in East Mississippi, I was reminded of home.  The roads were deplorable.  They were worst than anything we had up home including red dirt roads and converted pig trails, but it was east Mississippi.  There were no signs to let you know where you were.  I thought I might have changed commissioner districts.  Used to be up home, commissioners responsible for our “red” neck of the woods could care less if we had good roads.  The commissioners claimed lack of money.  When they did get money, they would spray tar and cover it with crushed limestone that was excellent sand blasting material for pulverizing windshields, stripping chrome bumpers, and removing paint.

The poor commissioners did not repair potholes or ditches in the road when putting in drainpipes.   I hit a pothole in the town of Thorsby one time that caused my tire to go flat.  I thought I ruined the tire only to find I ruined a tire and the rim.  This highway was worse than Chilton County.

The landscape was very familiar until I saw something redneck that we do not have up home.  There was a fencerow that baseball caps adorned the top of the fence posts.  I noticed that the caps were Alabama and Auburn caps.  That is not unusual for East Mississippi, but it got me to thinking about the change in the road a couple miles back.  I paid attention to the car tags of the next house and discovered I was in Choctaw County Alabama.  I asked the Lord to forgive me for thinking bad thoughts about the poor poverty, last in everything, State of Mississippi.  I thought about it a moment and realized that the County tag for Chilton is 14 and the one for Choctaw is 15 and suddenly everything in the world made sense even the identical highway connecting Magnolia to Lamison.  I am getting scared to make a church visit to Lamison in my small Honda.  I am afraid if I don’t disappear in a hole, the potholes are going to destroy my front end.  But I get the same sensation when travel State Highway 183 from Union Town to Marion only poor Perry County has paved that highway three or four times in the past sixteen years.

I continued on the road, it carried me to South Choctaw Academy in Toxey, then Gilbertown where I crossed the railroad tracks and started back on my journey into uncharted territory in search of peace, meditation, and dinner.

I saw a sign with Welcome to Mississippi. Other signs warned of road closure, lane closure, flagman ahead, slower traffic keep right, and detours, low shoulder, and bump ahead.  I can testify that there was a bump, but it was a long way from the sigh. On my journey to “find myself”, I found that there were very few places that were different from where I have been.  I found myself at a catfish restaurant in Stateline, Mississippi. I found the people nice, the patrons friendly, and the catfish delicious.  In Stateline, I thought about the gecko in the GIECO commercial where he is jumping from Tennessee to Virginia.  When I turned left, the highway changed tunes and I saw the Sweet Home Alabama sign.

I drove slowly and thought about the things I saw.  I crossed over rivers and creeks that continue their journey endlessly flowing since the Lord created them.  I saw empty towns, houses, and land that were once productive now sitting idle and forgotten.  I saw large homes, small homes, new homes, rundown homes, mobile homes, and nursing homes. 

I saw a wreck or two and people helping.  I saw people in a hurry and some like me that were poking along.  There were the courteous drivers and the road rage maniacs.  There were safe drivers and the idiots that pass on hills and on double yellow lines.  There were new things and plenty of the same. 

In my time alone, God was showing that life is a journey and the road will have its challenges.  As we journey into a new year, we can expect the unexpected.   Every year I pray the New Year will be better than the last.  In some ways, it is, but there are ways that are as my journey. 

I pray that we travel the road God gives us with confidence and it will be a great journey regardless of the bumps.  I remind myself to thank God for roads, which remind of life.

 

The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.  Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain:  And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it (Isaiah 40:3-5 KJV).

That Bunch From Mars Hill

I never will forget the first time I heard the phrase “Below the Bogue” which I learned is the same as “South of the Bogue.”  I think I understood its meaning before anyone told me.  I am from across the tracks myself.  I grew up in rural Alabama in a community called Mars Hill.  While in school, Jemison folks called those who lived across the tracks “that bunch from Mars Hill.”

Most of us from Mars Hill lived in shacks, used outdoor toilets, and wore hand-me-down clothes.  We went to school Monday through Friday, to town on Saturday and church on Sundays.  Our dads hauled pulpwood and our mammas stayed at home. 

The best thing about being from Mars Hill was most were great athletes.  A picture of the 1917 Mars Hill baseball team crowns the cover of A Pictorial History of Chilton County.  Jemison High school state championships in baseball, basketball, football, softball, tennis, and volleyball all have Mars Hill athletes as their all-states, all conferences, and captains. 

It was in Sunday school that I learned that the Apostle Paul preached at Mars Hill, not the one in Chilton County, but the one in the Bible.  He had a difficult time preaching there.  They were a tough bunch in Mars Hill.  Mars Hill people are always tough.  If the Bible mentioned Mars Hill, I knew that being from Mars Hill was prophetic and had its advantages.

I have always had to defend my Mars Hill roots.  A church I pastored was one of the places I felt the bias.  A church member confronted me about the issue of prayer for one of our mission programs.  I wanted the leaders to teach our children and youth how to pray.  We had a wonderful mission's program, and it was a model for the Alabama Baptist State Board of Missions in Montgomery.  Two of our RA’s were pages at the Southern Baptist Convention in Salt Lake City one year.  One of the two got a scholarship to Samford University through our RA program. 

I did not want to sidetrack mission ministries but wanted incorporate prayer and teach the importance of prayer in concert and in support of missions.  The response I received knocked the wind from my sails.  The sin of sanctifying geography and the sin of sanctifying size reared its ugly head.  The church member said, “I know that you pastored a little old church in the sticks of Bibb County, and you did not have many members, so you know nothing of missions.  You need to leave the missions to us.” 

The truth was that I served as vice-moderator, moderator, and the Associational Brotherhood director for Bibb Baptist Association.  My Bibb church was a mission church.  I had been a Royal (RA) Ambassador since boyhood and understood the value of missions very much.  The Bibb church lead Bibb Association churches in giving eight percent of its money to the Association. 

I did not take his statement as personal attack, but it did affront me because he offended the kind, generous, and saintly members of that little church.  I felt as though this church member had slapped little churches and pastors of little churches in the face by such a diabolical statement.

I have learned that it is more important where the Lord takes you than where you have been.  Jesus’ teachings speak volumes about geography and size when He calls us to follow Him.  Let me use this paraphrase:  “Give me who you are and forget where you came” is the call to follow Jesus.  Wow, I wish I had known back then what I know today.

Are we guilty of the sin of sanctifying geography when we refer to “that bunch from Mars Hill” or “South of the Bogue?”  Where the Lord takes us is more important that where we have been.  Are we guilty of the sin of sanctifying size when we compare churches or say we are too small to do anything?  God has no small churches.

The day following Jesus would go forth into Galilee, and findeth Philip, and saith unto him, Follow me.  Now Philip was of Bethsaida, the city of Andrew and Peter.  Philip findeth Nathanael, and saith unto him, We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.  And Nathanael said unto him, Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth? Philip saith unto him, Come and see (John 1:43-46 KJV).

 

 

To The Entitled

I will never forget the first time I realized that a turkey sacrificed his life for me to have turkey and dressing.  I remember the episode well.  Smoke swirled in the fall air and coolness surrounded you like a cold cloth wrapped around your head when running a fever. 

We were playing near the fig trees and the ash dump at Grandpaw and Grandmoe’s underneath an overcast sky.  Grandpaw and daddy busied themselves sharpening an axe after splittin’ kinlin’ for a fire burning around the wash pot.  They were boiling water in anticipation of scaldin’ a turkey.  My cousins and I were very familiar with scalding hogs, but the turkey scaldin’ was a first.

It seems as though Grandpaw had raised a few turkeys.  At one time people raised turkeys just as they did chickens.  Turkeys are ugly fowls.  It is hard to believe that some of our founding fathers wanted the turkey to be our national bird instead of the eagle.  Can you imagine what kind of respect the United States would have received had the turkey been on our national bird? 

You do realize that there would have been no turkey and dressing had the turkey been our symbol of power and strength.  Heck, most of the male citizens of Alabama would never have passed through the rite of passage into manhood by going turkey hunting.  There would be no beards displayed on walls of many homes, no turkey feet would proudly exhibited in the den, nor would there be any tail feathers proudly flaunted in the living room where tall tales of calling a gobbler would be shared.

The industry of producing, marketing, and using a turkey caller would not exist if the turkey had been our national bird.  I cannot imagine what are forefathers were thinking when they even suggested the turkey as a national emblem of strength and power.

As I reflect on that morning at Grandpaw’s, I wonder if Grandmoe would had Grandpaw and daddy “ringin’ chickin necks” instead of “choppin’ oft” turkey heads.  When I think about what momma said on many occasions, Grandpaw and Grandmoe might have had possum instead. 

Momma said they ate possum on several occasions.  She said they would “catch em”, “cage em,” and “clean em” out by feeding them “Irish and sweet tater peelin’s.”  For those that don’t know it, possums are scavengers that do not know how to get out of the road when a vehicle approaches. 

Daddy used to make fun of momma saying that before he married her the only thing momma had eaten was chickens and possums.  Daddy did not have it much better.  He ate chitterlings, mountain oysters, and pig feet with pickled collard greens.  I bet some of you are getting hungry and cannot want for the Thanksgiving dinner. 

I guess knowing all these things helped my family to appreciate Thanksgiving dinners.  Gathering around momma’s table was a feast fit for kings.  There was joy around the table.  Usually daddy got a turkey from his work and we grew corn, peas, butter beans, okra, sweet potatoes, pigs, chickens, and such which momma would transform into some of the finest meals.  We were thankful.  Looking back, I realize we were not a thankful then as I am now. 

I look back at that special moment in time as Grandpaw and daddy were about to kill “Ole Tom” and think how things have changed and how we as a nation have digressed from “thank full” to “thank less.”  Sometimes I think that I would enjoy being that small boy witnessing the first time a turkey gave his all for us to eat.  Reminiscing about a simpler time creates a longing to share special times today.  The Lord may be reminding me, and maybe you, that we grow in times of adversity, times of economical downturns, and times of hurting.

At thanksgiving dinner, momma would remind us that God loved us so much and we needed to thank Him for we had so much and many people did not.  We were poor, but we had neighbors who had less than we did.  I realize this is truer today than years ago when momma said it.

So will I compass thine altar, O Lord:  That I may publish with the voice of thanksgiving, and tell of all thy wondrous works (Psalm 26:6b-7 KJV).

 

Mother's Day Poem

Mom has been dead for thirty-one years.  I think of her and hear her voice almost every day.  I wish I could talk with her and tell her that I am sorry for all the times she cooked and I grumbled about fried taters, field peas, and corn bread.  Bless her hear that was the best she could do at times.  At other times we had only brown gravy and biscuits.  What I would give to eat momma's fried taters, brown gravy, peas, cornbread, and biscuits.  I would love to spend Mother's Day with her.  I promised her that I would put flowers on her grave and I do.  Her birthday is close to Mother's Day and I will place flowers there and I dedicate this poem to her.

“ODE TO ROE”

There she sits with a peach in one hand and a paring knife in the other,

looking up with peach juice dripping off her elbows and yelling stop hurting your brother.

She is singing and smiling clothed in a cotton dress covered with tiny flowers, her hair pulled back and washing clothes, cleaning house, and canning peaches for hours.

This picture is one of many whirling in my head,

realizing that there are many moments not caught on film or picture now that she is dead.

Of all the scenes of my memory it is the one in the cotton dress that comes to me,

a great provider, a great comforter, and a great leader, my momma Roe Leecie.

She hated that name Roe and would get aggravated and mad when we would call her Roe,

but today that name is a precious name and I miss her and I want the whole world to know.

There’s the picture of us in the cotton field and her grabbing me and running in fear,

while picking cotton, a violent thunderstorm with lightning was popping very near.

No more than age three she held my hand and we ran to cover from the lightning and rain,

I still see her scared, trembling in fear and on her face the sight of great pain.

There’s the picture of her on the 8-N Ford tractor plowing the ground,

not looking as a farmer girl, but a queen on her throne wearing a golden crown.

She as a tomboy, who could play very rough,

making us holler “calf rope” when we had enough.

She was tall and lean, her daddy’s other boy on the farm,

but she was very much a lady and had a smile that worked like a charm.

She was a picture of beauty when she stood by daddy’s side,

so pretty and happy, but nothing compared to the beauty inside.

In my mind there’s the picture of her holding us tight,

when the fever made us see the boogie man and we were filled with fright.

Standing in the kitchen is where she worked and slaved the most,

fixing fried taters, fresh field peas, cornbread, and on Sunday’s that delicious pork roast.

There’s the smell of fresh biscuits, chicken and dressing, and homemade pies,

a yard full of boys and cousins when feeding them joy filled her eyes.

There’s the picture of her working late into the night mopping and waxing the floors,

letting us kids shine it by sliding on rags back and forth and through the doors.

Oh, the picture at age six of us in the old toilet with no top and us looking at a plane in the sky,

me asking her if they could see us using the restroom and her telling me no they were too high.

She had an eye that was better than a carpenter’s level,

and she made daddy so mad when building the house he thought he was dealing with the devil.

She labored in love while daddy was sick and confined to a bed,

Telling him she loved him and she was sorry for all the bad things she had said.

There’s the picture of her trying to get up and wash her hair,

but the pain of the melanoma was more than she could bear.

When she had only days to live she wanted to know the truth, how long she had,

when I told her there was no hope, that’s a picture of her that’s very sad.

Forever etched in my mind is the night I spent with her in the hospital and listed to her yell,

everyone on her floor was dying and their moans and cries were a picture of hell.

There’re many pictures that I could share with you about the one named Roe,

many of you would not believe them even if I told you so.

She is there in my mind in that cotton dress all covered with tiny flowers,

praying for all of her family to become Christians filled with God’s power.

Her last words were that she wanted Christian kids, never to be rich or famous and have stuff,

having children who were Sunday school teachers, deacons, and a pastor were enough.

That’s all she wanted in the world and I thought you would want to know,

that’s not bad for a momma named Roe.