Writings
It was a Saturday pretty much like this one, albeit thirty years ago. The place was the Methodist Theological School in Ohio where I was a trustee in those days. Given its setting on the banks of a meandering river, the graduation exercises were held out of doors on the lush green quadrangle. The library formed the background. The platform was elevated for the seating of the dominant players. Everybody else sat in folding chairs, grouped on the grass.
Before we go any further with this little exercise, let me say clearly and confidently (leaving no room for anyone to misunderstand or take offense), that I believe you can worship anywhere, any way, any time, with anybody, wearing pretty much anything. But speaking solely for myself, it feels good to once again pray, preach and sing the praises of almighty God in this place, wearing my brand new tie.
I do not know how the crow flies. All I know is that’s the way most of us want to go. The shortest route. The straightest path. The quickest way. The crow, of course, is not dependent on good roads, open roads, paved, plowed or salted roads. For the crow can fly above it, to it. To my knowledge, no old timer at a backwoods gas station ever said to a crow: “Birdie, you can’t get there from here.” The crow can get there from anywhere.
Some years ago, I began my Easter sermon with the line: “Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.” As sermon openers go, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t altogether true. There are some people who want to die. I know more than a few of them. And not everybody wants to go to heaven. I know a few of them, too.
