Tribute to an Amazing Man

 

The information in this blog is based on what I have read, on interviews with people who knew Daniel Webster "80 John" Wallace or who were only a generation away, and from general knowledge of him. My own claims to information lie in my own experience. I was privileged to teach for two years at Wallace High School in Colorado City, Texas, no longer a segregated school, and I lived for twenty years within five miles of his ranch, and have seen his house where his descendants still live, and the cemetery where he and other family members are buried. I realize that I cannot guarantee all of this information, but those who spoke of these things were relating these things to me as factual. I hope you enjoy what I have to say about this amazing man.

He was born a slave in 1860 in South Texas. After Emancipation, his mother chose to stay with the family where she had served. In a way that our current culture may not understand or even accept, there was a mutual love and trust that extended beyond the days of slavery between the servants and the family they had served.

But John Wallace wanted more. At 15 he got a chance to participate in a cattle drive, and was overjoyed at the 15 silver dollars he earned for the trip, and never got over his love of cattle work. After being involved with several ranchers, it was Clayton Mann in Mitchell County, Texas, who acted on Wallace's natural talents and abilities. Mann paid his cowboys a dollar a day, payable at the end of the month. But with Wallace's consent, he only paid him five dollars a month, holding the rest in savings, and helping him buy his own herd. He also allowed Wallace to graze his cattle on Mann's land until Wallace had earned enough in cattle ranching to buy his own land. As a result, Wallace assembled quite a respectable spread of land in Mitchell County, Texas, a ranch that survives today, and his family still manages the ranch.

Wallace brought innovations like windmills to the dry plains, and the first Hereford bull to Mitchell county. When he died at 78 years old in 1939, he was a millionaire with a majestic ranch headquarters/house, which is still occupied by his descendants today.

His story is one of integrity and dependability. One of the men he worked for trusted him to be a courier of thousands of dollars to take to a bank in Fort Worth. At the time, there were still possible clashes with Indians, and of course, outlaws, but he managed to do the work and earn the respect and trust of several ranchers who employed him. 

When his mother died, still with the family that had once owned her, he went back to arrange services, and stayed with the family. Later, many of those same people would visit him on his ranch in Mitchell County, and were always welcomed as guests. He even helped them financially during hard times. 

In a "Jim Crow" era, John Wallace could walk into any bank, restaurant, or other establishment in Colorado City, Texas, and bankers, ranchers, and businessmen gathered around his table to gain financial advice. He was the one who told them the railroads were the future, and barbed wire was necessary, and gave counsel on how ranching in the 1890s and beyond was going to work.

When the Depression came, he had invested wisely, and bailed out many who had not. He helped churches, businesses, and even banks, stay afloat. The Wallace School where I taught was not built by him, but named in his honor, though two of his daughters did teach there later. He had built schools earlier, which he financed. Though he was a Methodist, he paid to build a "colored" Baptist church in Loraine, Texas, with the provision that it would be used during the week as a "colored" school as well. The church still exists, and I have driven by it several times. It is not a Baptist church any longer, but still being used as a church, and a devout Black man serves there as a pastor. Of course, there is no longer a need for "colored" schools in Colorado City, as all the kids attend school together.

One Colorado City man, a Mr. Wood, who was a friend and perhaps a distant relative of the Wallace family, told me that Wallace insisted that his daughters get their teaching degrees in college, and of course, Wallace paid for them. His son, however, was expected to stay on the ranch and keep the operation going. When the girls got their degrees, he insisted that they return to Colorado City and teach there at no charge to the school, that he would pay their wages. Mr. Wood lent me the first biography (and maybe only one) that I got to read about Wallace, and it was written by Wallace's teacher/daughter, Hetty Branch. I was glad to have Mr. Wood lend me the book because at the time, I could not find one online. Today, I noticed a used one on Amazon for over 40 dollars, so it's hard to find. Mr. Wood also told me about his own father's disgust when Wallace brought a 5000 dollar Hereford bull to Mitchell County, something he thought a great waste. But as usual, Wallace knew what he was doing, and turned his investment into more money.  I regret that I didn't get to spend more time with Mr. Wood, as he passed away a few years ago, and had some wonderful stories about himself as well, and deserves his own biography. I love the time I got to spend with him.

A woman who lived in my community was in her nineties when she told me about Wallace's visit to her father. At that time, Wallace had also set up a cousin in ranching, east of Loraine, and both of them, for whatever reason, were helping my friend's father with a project on his own farm. At lunch time, the farmer sat at his table to eat, and Wallace and his cousin stood at the kitchen door, not entering. She told me how he stopped and looked at them, and stated, "Well, I may starve because I'm not eating a bite until you two sit at the table and eat with me." She was astonished at something culturally radical at the time, but that was the type of respect that Wallace earned.

Another man in my community, who died ten years ago, could remember some things about Wallace when I asked him, since his family was from the Loraine area. He remembered the day of the funeral in 1939, even though he was just a boy himself. He said that the old dirt road was full of cars, "More cars than I ever saw anywhere else," he told me. I assume people in two counties and even further away came to pay their respects to him at the humble service on the family plot on his ranch land.

He is remembered at Texas Tech, where one of his earlier ranch houses was moved and reconstructed at the Museum at the university. There is also a windmill he used that has been rebuilt there. Today, there is a historical marker at the entrance of his ranch, and a state sign noting that the ranch has been in the hands of the same family for well over 100 years.

I know I'm rambling here, but it's interesting to know that since Wallace had no formal schooling, he returned as an adult to an elementary school, and spent a year there, learning how to read, and ending up marrying his teacher, Laura Owen, who came back to the ranch with him. He never grasped the concept of classroom math, but Clayton Mann boasted to other ranchers how he had a cowboy who could look at a herd and tell you how many were there, and give you the relative value of that herd, based on size, health, and type of livestock. He couldn't do math, but he knew how to make a million dollars.

There is a lot more available about him that you can Google, or if you're willing to pay for it, you can locate Hetty's book about him online, though I will warn you she wrote it for school children, so it is simple reading. Daniel Webster "80 John" Wallace lived in a time of segregation and discrimination, and of course, had been born into slavery. None of those things meant anything to him, and he opened many doors that could have easily been closed to him. The picture that accompanies this essay was in the front lobby of Wallace School, and I stopped to admire it every day. He doesn't look like a millionaire, but the dignity and integrity still shine through. 

I have been told that he was Mitchell County's first millionaire, and I'm not certain that's right, but even if it's not, it's a testimonial to a man whose life span went from a child of a house slave to a millionaire cattle rancher and philanthropist. Though he died at 78, locals have told me that he was busting broncos in downtown Loraine when he was 75 years old.

One article I read said he was one of "the most respected Black ranchers of his time," and I would say that phrase has one word too many. His respect was earned as a rancher, not a "black" one, and I give credit to Clayton Mann who could see the potential of a skinny young man who had a businessman's head on his shoulders, and who helped him get a start in ranching.

I wish there were more books about him, more information that I could find. Though there are several sources on the internet, I find that many of them have misinformation about him -- nothing serious; for example, he was not "the oldest man in Mitchell County" when he died. I have given you some facts that are not in books, that were given me by three people who are no longer alive to attest to these facts, but it's as close as I could come to meeting the real John Wallace.

I encourage you to find out more. In these days of the internet, it is literally at your fingertips. But he's definitely worth a "shout out," and deserves to be remembered permanently. His influence extends into the 21st century.

My only regret in writing this whole article is that there were not more "Clayton Mann's" who could see the potential that Mann saw in young "80 John." I think how much better the world -- our country -- would be today if other young men and women with such powerful potential had been recognized and encouraged. We can't change the past, but we can look around in the present, and make sure that no new "Daniel Webster Wallace's" are being left on the wayside.

What Did They Do?

Many, many years ago, I was at a Wednesday night meeting and a missionary was showing us slides, as they always used to do back in those days. He was telling us of the great need for the Gospel in this far Eastern country, and showing us the multitudes of people. Then, toward the end of the show, he said, "I saw this poor woman, grieving, holding this starving, dying child in her arms," and showed us a terrible picture of that dying child and his poor mother.

When the lights came up, he asked us if we had any questions. Someone immediately asked, "What did you do for the child?" I don't really know what the situation was, but the missionary stammered and stuttered about the impossibility of the situation, and how so many were beyond help, and that the Gospel was the only thing that could change the country and combat hunger, but even as a child, at that point and from that time, all I heard was, "Blah blah blah..."

You see, this man had seen a child dying of hunger before his eyes, and all he could do at the time was take a picture. Of course, now he could speak out about how evil the devil and that country were for letting kids starve like that. I think I was not the only one that was thinking, "I might not have been able to change that whole country, but I sure could have done something for that child and his mother. The picture still haunts me.

Over the past few days, we were given the grotesque picture of a Minneapolis officer letting a human being die while he pleaded for his life. We have pictures; we have more. In this era, where everyone with at least a double digit IQ can be a photojournalist, we have several angles to view. A man died. It doesn't matter what color he was. It doesn't matter if he had a criminal record or not. What matters is that a man died. And the immediate answer we might want to give is, "Those evil officers!"

My problem is, it seems that all the crowd around the man did was take some pictures and fuel the fire and rage that is burning in Minneapolis right now. We have pictures of that officer with his knee on the man's neck, lying next to or under that car. Yes, it's horrible. Yes, it's cruel. No, he did not deserve to have his life end that way. What would I have done if I had been there? I think I would have kept the camera in my pocket, and tried to stop the murder.

"Oh," they say, "the officers were threatening everyone with pepper spray and violence. Maybe tasers. Those big bad policemen were going to hurt anyone who helped. From what I can gather, there was a crowd around, composed mainly of phone video takers, photographers, and people telling them to stop. There was at least one off-duty medical professional there, telling him to take a pulse. There were other people there; we have their testimonies.

What I don't see is anyone who would have been willing to knock that policeman on his back and get him off that man. Now I am an old guy. I know; I might have been pepper sprayed, tasered, or beaten up by some cops. But I would have let that officer know that a citizen was not just going to stand there, taking videos.

If everyone who says they were there really was, and everyone who says that the people said what they did, really saw it, I can tell you this: those cops were outnumbered. Instead of a major mob the next day, assaulting cars, breaking into stores, blocking streets, and hurting people, we could have formed a mini-mob, and let those officers know we were not going to just stand there and watch an innocent man die; that we were willing to risk pain, comfort, convenience, even our lives, to try to save him.

Proverbs 24:11-12 says, Deliver those who are drawn toward death, And hold back those stumbling to the slaughter. If you say, "Surely we did not know this," Does not He who weighs the hearts consider it? He who keeps your soul, does He not know it? And will He not  render to each man according to his deeds? There may be other interpretations, but I see Proverbs saying, "If you stand by and do nothing as someone is being killed, you are complicit in the murder."

Maybe you are saying, "Well, you weren't there. You don't know how bad it was, and you don't know what you would have done." I think of a rainy Sunday afternoon in a large city in Ecuador. We were finishing a service in a small church in the neighborhood, and as I stood with two missionaries by the store front where we had just finished, we saw a commotion. Three men were chasing a fourth, who was obviously a little drunk. As they caught up to him, he stumbled into the ditch by the curb across the street from us, and went face first into the water. The other three stood over him, watching him drown, and the other two men and I could not let that happen. We started across the street. The other three men, seeing us, started to move toward us threateningly, daring us to try to help the man. As I was walking toward them, I remember thinking, "This may not turn out well," but we didn't stop. Unknown to me, one of my friends turned back toward his pickup parked on the curb. All I saw was the men suddenly look startled, turn, and run away. I would find out later that he remembered he had a tire iron behind the seat, and decided that anything that could protect us could help. I'm sure they thought he was going for a gun, but they left. When we got to the man, we got him out of the water and sat him on a bench, making sure he was breathing.

I wish I could tell you how we changed that man's life, but we didn't. We were asking him if he was okay, and he was coughing mildly, shaking his head to get the water out of his face. Then, he looked at us angrily, and waved his hands to tell us to "beat it." We spoke for a minute, and then left the ungrateful man on the bench.

But we knew that we had done what we were supposed to do. We had risked life and limb for a man who was in danger of dying, and it didn't matter what he though. We did it because we served "He who weighs the hearts," "He who keeps our soul." We had done right.

I like to think that, if anyone had made a move toward that cop, and knocked him back off the man, that others would have been emboldened to do the same. Some of us might have been sprayed, some of us might have gotten tasered, some of us might have gotten worse, but I have a problem with the fact that those who were there could only take pictures and tell them how bad they were.

For some reason, I'm supposed to feel some racial guilt for what happened in this. Sorry, not happening. I have never done anything like this, even close, and you already know what I would have done if I had been there when it happened. You might be reading my obit instead of this blog, but you would know that I tried to do something. An old white man who thought it was worth risking his life to help another human being who was dying.

Why did no one try? I saw the videos later. People blocking streets, breaking windows, assaulting cars, even cop cars. But the guys who did this got away. They will certainly be fired, and probably jailed, but a man is dead who didn't have to be.

I cannot go back in time and stop slavery. I cannot go back and stop the lynchings in the South, and now I cannot go back and stop this murder in a Northern state. But I did not do this. I am seeing a lot of good people, well-meaning people, expressing outrage, and telling all us safe, privileged people how we need to feel guilt and blame over what happened in Minnesota. Don't get me wrong. I feel genuine grief. I saw the one still photo, and cannot bring myself to watch the video. I have seen people die, several of them, and I don't want to see it again. I feel genuine grief.

But I feel frustration too. That same energy, directed at traffic and businesses and cop cars and people who had nothing to do with this -- that energy could have been used to let some evil officers know that they were about to get the stuffing beaten out of them if they didn't let that man up, that they might get the first wave of us, but that wouldn't be all of us.

You can show your justifiable rage now at how bad it was, and, symbolically, how bad we are for living in a country that has this happen, but that's not going to raise the dead, and it's not going to stop the rage.

I know what should have been done, and I would have done it. And if it happens some time before me, I will do something besides take a picture. Count on it.

Closed Doors

I still see doors in my mind that have been closed for a while.  Two immediately come to mind.  The first is the door from the cafeteria at Highland High School, a door that I went through into a hall that led to my English classroom, where I taught for five years.  It was a refuge for me, surrounded with great books and materials, a place where I did my best to teach some great kids how to write and prepare for the future.  That classroom -- in fact, that whole hallway -- is gone forever.  Highland remodeled a few years ago, and replaced that wing with something much better.  But when I enter the cafeteria, I can still imagine that door in my mind, and with my back to the location, I think that I can just turn around and enter that room again.  But it's gone forever.

The country church where I have been the past thirteen years, and where I have spent a total of seventeen years of my life so far, furnished a place of refuge for me:  a tiny office where I could go to be alone.  It was in the Mesquite Wing, an attachment that was added to the building some sixty-odd years ago.  The wing had been a church until it combined with ours at that time.  Before that, it had been a school; I'm not sure how long, but I know the school consolidated with Highland in the late 1930's.  Now, the wing is gone.  I'm excited about the new building that is taking its place, but I still have urges to go through the door.  There is now a piece of paneling covering the previous door, but in the corner of my eye, it still looks like the door is there, and I still have an urge to go through it and re-enter a world that no longer exists.  The Mesquite Wing is no more.

As I grow older, I find that I am becoming the person I used to make fun of, the person who constantly longs for the "good old days," who wishes that things had not changed so much.  So many of my favorite products and name brands have been discontinued or so modified that they no longer resemble the product that I enjoyed.

And then, there are all the things I was accustomed to in our culture.  I loved the TV, the movies, and much of the music of the 80's, and tend to measure anything current by that era of my life, and in my own cultural base, most things come up short.  My wife probably tires of hearing me talk about how the things of today just don't come near the things in the "good old days."  In fact, I'm sure she's tired of it, because I get tired of myself saying these things as well.

This past month, I've been grateful for what I've seen in my experience with the "Two Doors."  Behind those doors are some of the best things that ever happened to me, and I would never try to forget them or put them out of my past, but it is futile trying to enter them again, to go back to the way things were.  When I come to grips with the fact that some doors are closed forever, and I can never open them again, I realize I need to get on with my life, to go to the doors that are still open, and experience what's there.

The same is true with the rest of life.  It's time to stop whining and complaining about changes that I cannot control, to look around and see what's important now.  Highland School has a beautiful new building, and it's filled with capable and dedicated teachers, and I enjoy going back and contributing by substituting there.  Our church is about to have a new auditorium to replace the 97-year-old one, and we will have ample parking and, if all works well, some day a new educational building to augment what we have now.

It's time for me to look around and see what new products are here for me now.  I'm sure I can find something good to replace my flip phone when it finally dies, to find an after shave that can replace the old formula Old Spice, and maybe even a convenience store snack that will be as satisfying as Tom's Peanuts.  I might be able to find music, movies, and cultural items that I enjoy as much as those I enjoyed in the 1980's.  If not, maybe I need to see about making some light instead of cursing the darkness.

I can't open the old doors that I loved so much, but there are a lot of options out there:  doors to be entered, some already opened, some just waiting to be opened.  Some are no good at all, but others are filled with great potential.  It's up to me whether I will go looking for them, or stay at home talking about how good everything used to be.

Breakfast on the Shore

John 21:1-14

Taken from an Evening Message

Sunday, January 6, 2013, at Champion Baptist Church

What would you have done after such a stressful month?  The disciples had seen their Leader arrested, executed, and then resurrected.  It didn't seem real to them so I think they just looked for some routine in their lives, a "return to normalcy" that would never actually happen, but they just decided to go fishing.  It’s not even all of them; only seven of them.  We can’t be sure who the missing four are, because two are unidentified, but one that is there is Thomas.  Nathaniel is another one that we haven’t heard much from, but he has held on, and has continued with the apostles. 

You may have heard Einstein’s famous quote about the definition of insanity: “Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”  The disciples were not insane, but I find it humorous that they do the same thing after the Resurrection that they did at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.  They fished all night and caught nothing, but after all, this is the way they had “always” done it.  I find in my own life that I am caught up in that same vicious circle.  I want to make a suggestion.  If you feel that you are in a “rut,” be it spiritual, emotional, or in the work place, try something simple before you do something drastic.  Before you quit your job, sever a relationship, or change churches, ask yourself, “what am I looking for in my life, and what am I doing to accomplish that?”  Sometimes, it’s not the boat, it’s not the place in the lake; it’s just which side of the boat you are casting the net.  Try a change in your routine – ask, “what is not working in my situation that I keep on doing?”

I wonder if it crossed the disciples’ mind that maybe they should try the other side of the boat, but seeing the rub marks on their side of the boat, seeing the hooks where they hung the lanterns, they felt it would be just a little “too much trouble” to re-work the fishing arrangement.  All it took was a subtle suggestion from a Stranger on the shore that, at the time, they did not know was the Lord.  Could I suggest that you take a little inventory.  Ask yourselves, “What have I been doing that has not been doing any good?”  Realize, I’m not asking you to look for “bad” things in your lives – that’s what you expect preachers to do; I’m asking you to look for those things that, of themselves, are not evil, just fruitless.

Usually, we can see what’s going on.  Try looking a different direction, maybe even re-arranging the order of your daily routine.  Then, look for a “stranger on the shore,” because you might just get the Lord’s counsel through that person.  Most likely, you don’t need to ask a real “stranger.”  Talk to your spouse, your parents or children, your friends, or someone else that you trust.  Sometimes, people who are not looking from your point of view – from inside – can see something you did not see.

The results were immediate to the disciples.  The nets filled up.  I wonder some times if Peter later saw the significance of this moment that Jesus was training them to increase their effectiveness as “fishers of men.”  First, he preached at Pentecost to Jews from outside Palestine, including Greek speaking Jews.  Then, there were the Samaritans who heard his words and received the Holy Spirit.  Peter ended up with Simon, a tanner, not the most respected profession of devout Jews.  Then, he was summoned to the court of Cornelius, a gentile, and saw the Spirit of God descend on them.  I wonder if it clicked that the Spirit of God had led him to cast the net in other directions, and see them fill up.  The number of fish, 153, has been seen by many as symbolic.  At times, that has been the official UN count of recognized nations of the world.  The fish are called “large” fish – they were all of importance and value.  Jesus had told them that the Gospel of the Kingdom would be preached to every nation of the earth before the end came. 

I think it also interesting that they had to find another way of harvesting them.  The boat did not work; they couldn’t just drag the nets up over the side like they had always done.  That was fine for smaller catches, but not this one.  They instead left the boat and dragged the net to land.  I can only begin to think of all this symbolizes: “But we’ve always pulled them into this boat, and taken them to shore this way.”  The Gospel of the Kingdom says that we don’t trust the boat; we concentrate on the harvest instead.

When they got the fish to shore, something was happening that has always perplexed me: Jesus asks them to bring him some of the fish.  That alone is not puzzling; rather, it’s the fact that Jesus was already cooking fish.  The most I can tell you is the message that the Lord will win whom He will win; His kingdom will increase, but He has chosen to involve us, not for His benefit, but for ours.  The Harvest is for our blessing, our edification.  The Harvest has been determined; what is not sure is your part in it, or mine.  What will you do to become a part of the great catch of fish?  The resurrected Christ invites us all to breakfast.  I find it interesting that in Revelation, He calls us to commitment, and says that if we will open the door, He will have “supper” with us.  That’s the fellowship meal.  But to those who are willing to be part of the great harvest, He invites us to breakfast.  Many have called that the most important meal of the day, the one that sets the tone of all we do.  Would you be willing to have breakfast with the Risen Christ? You are invited.

 

Peter had jumped in the water in his enthusiasm to see Jesus, leaving the other six to drag the nets through the water to the land.  When Jesus gave the command for fish, however, it was Peter who returned and finished the job.  For two thousand years, faithful believers have been pulling in the nets for the great harvest, and now, in these times, which may be the last days, the Lord Jesus is looking for people who will finish the job, through their praying, their giving, and their going.  Will you be a part of that powerful force?

A Shepherd's Story

In December of 2010 I wrote this story to present to the congregation of Champion Baptist Church for a special Christmas event.  I used it again in an evening service this year.  Of course, most of it is speculation, but the principles in it are what drove the first century church, what made it spread.  The central idea is the power of all that we do that is of any lasting importance.  In my own heart, Christmas and Easter are inseparable.  They were both needed in order to "fulfill all righteousness."  I hope that you enjoy the story, told from the point of view of a Shepherd born about 20 B.C.

Let me introduce myself.  I am Lemuel, and I have always been a shepherd.  My father before me was a shepherd, and all of his family.  As I write these words, I am old and barely able to hold a pen.  You might ask, “How does a shepherd know to write?” and you would be asking a good question.  I was a grown man before I first took up a pen, but it was out of necessity.  However, I’m getting ahead of myself.

You have read about me in the New Testament, though not by name.  I was one of the “shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night.”  I was only sixteen at the time, and was only there because my father had sent me to the field with my uncle.  It has been many years, and I have forgotten the reason I was there, but I know that it was planned by God.  I had spent the entire night in the pastures many times before; I think the first time was with my father when I was six years old.  But that night would change my life forever.  We shepherds know many things about the sky, and the wonders of the sky.  I always loved to watch those stars that suddenly shoot across the sky and die, and once a star spent several evenings with us, moving slowly across the sky, with a long tail of light trailing behind it.  But that night, what we saw was sudden and brilliant.  I know now that it was an angel, a messenger of God, and I marvel now when I think of it, that a created being who, only a moment before, had seen the face of God Himself, was now in our presence.

The light around him was blinding, and though we could understand his words, they were spoken with a roar that surpassed any thunder I had ever heard.  He told us not to be afraid.  He said he had wonderful news.  He told us that on that same day, a Baby had been born, and he called Him “Christ the Lord.”  My parents, though Jews, were not highly religious, but I had heard of a promised Christ: “Messiah” is what we called Him, and from the stories my grandfather had told me, I expected Him to ride into Jerusalem one day on a war horse, slay Herod with His sword, and put a descendant of David back on the throne.  Then He would lead us in killing the oppressors all around us, including the hated Romans.  I did not expect Him to be announced as a Baby, but when you hear a sound like thunder in the midst of an almost unbearable light, you tend to throw out your preconceptions and accept what is being said.

The other shepherds and I had almost gotten used to the sound and the voice when suddenly there appeared a whole multitude of angels with the first one saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men.”  The light and sound were all around us, and I still remember noticing that I had no shadow, since the light was coming from all directions.  As suddenly as it had happened, it was over.  For a moment, until our eyes adjusted, we were in total darkness.  When we could see each other again by the starlight, my uncle looked at me and said, “We are going to Bethlehem to see the Messiah!”

The first angel had told us how to find Him: He would be in a manger, wrapped up tightly in strips of cloth.  I was amazed at how quickly we found Him.  The family was from Galilee, we found out, a very young couple, and though they believed the baby to be the promised Messiah, they were as astounded as we were that it had happened, of all people, to us!  You see, shepherds and carpenters are not exactly at the top of the VIP lists in Palestine, and we were amazed that God had used us instead of prophets, priests, and kings.  We left there rejoicing, and proclaimed the coming of the Messiah to anyone who would listen.  Many people had realized that something different had happened that night, and they were more than ready to hear our story.

After a few weeks, like all human experiences, the excitement died down, and I sometimes wondered if it had just been a fascinating dream, but I knew it was too real to be a dream, and, after all, my uncle and several other shepherds had the same memories that I did.  I have to tell you, though, that my life for the next several years was nothing special nor exciting, except that I had been driven to the Scriptures, and I paid attention to what was being read in the Synagogue on Sabbath days.  I was amazed at how many scriptures pointed to the Christ.  When Passover came each year, I saw how it was filled with hope for a Redeemer, and knew I had seen Him; however, I was somewhat distressed because I was not sure why we killed the lamb for the meal, and how that fit in.

I never saw another angel, nor any signs in the heavens.  I heard about a Star, and remember two years or so after the night at the manger when Persian noblemen, swords on their sides and mounted on fine horses, entered Jerusalem with expensive gifts, asking for the King of the Jews.  It scared our whole country.  Rumors were that they had found the same Child we had seen, and after visiting Him, had departed undetected.

When I was nearly thirty, I was in Jerusalem on business, and was surprised to see a familiar face.  It was the mother of the Baby, with a worried look on her face.  I recognized her husband as well, and spoke to them: where was the Child?  How was he?  I was alarmed to find they had lost Him, and were in tears and panic looking for Him.  I was with them when we found Him in the Temple, speaking as a scholar – no, better than a scholar – to the teachers.  He spoke of the business He had with His Father, and He wasn’t looking at Joseph when He said those words.  Shortly afterward, they left the temple, and I returned to the fields and continued to tend sheep.

Fifteen years later, my father and my uncle both had died.  I had taken my own family and moved to Galilee after we lost our land near Bethlehem (it's a long story and not important right now), and we were living near Cana.  The region I was in was known more for its fishermen than its shepherds, and as one of the few people who knew how to raise quality sheep, I was able to develop a rather profitable business which grew comfortably and actually became better than the family business we had lost near Bethlehem.

A few years after moving there, a prominent family asked me to provide sheep for a wedding feast, and I brought them a week before the feast. I had been invited, as a courtesy, to return to the feast the next week, and went, I will admit, planning to "settle up" with the bridegroom's family, since the feast was nearly over. I was surprised to see once again the mother of the Child.  I knew He would be a man by now, and wondered why I had not heard of Him.  I was 46; He would be 30 by now, and should have established Himself.  I wondered why He had not.

I’m sure you know the story.  It was told everywhere; how He turned water to wine.  That was when I began to follow Him.  Oh, I was not what you call an “apostle,” but I was one of hundreds who were following Him at times.  I saw the work He did.  I was there when He preached the Sermon on the Mount, and at a later event I feasted along with 5,000 others on the loaves and fishes; that time I had brought my whole family with me.  My sons were getting old enough by then to tend the business, and I spent more time following Him, even when He returned to Jerusalem.  I could tell the stories to you again, but you’ve read what was written by others.  I knew both Matthew and John, and later met Mark when Peter visited my church.  Even Luke was introduced to me by Paul many years later as they traveled through my region, and Luke asked me for any insights I had on the Christ I had known.  He was astonished when I told him I had been one of the shepherds.  He had heard the story, but I was the only one of the shepherds he had ever met, and yes, it is the story I told him that is recorded in his gospel.  But again I digress.

You all know how Jesus talked about being fishers of men, and about laboring in the harvest, but have you noticed that most of His references to Himself were of sheep and shepherds?  This was language I understood, but the concept was still hard for me at times.  Sometimes He was the Lamb of God, and at others, He was the Good Shepherd.  Yet I listened and learned.  I began to have a nagging worry in the back of my mind as I thought of the Passover lamb, the scriptures about the suffering Messiah of Isaiah, and the need for shed blood to take away sins.  I put these thoughts out of my mind.

I followed Jesus, and saw His declining popularity among the people in that last year of ministry.  I was there when most left Him behind.  I was in the crowd on that last fateful trip to Jerusalem, and I am ashamed to admit that I was one of the disciples who scoffed when He told us He would be killed in Jerusalem.  After all, He was the Messiah, and had been announced as such by the angels themselves.

We were astonished when we heard the news that fateful morning.  Jesus had been arrested during the night, betrayed by one of the Twelve, and denied by another.  They were going to put Him to death.  Several of the others who had followed Him like I had ran to the place of crucifixion.  We thought there might be something we could do.  This was so sudden.  We had not been in the upper room with Him that night before; only a select few of His disciples had.  I was somewhat disgusted that none of them except John was there at the Cross.  As I watched, He died.  I thought, “We could have done something!”  But who was I – just a shepherd who had never been in the inner circle.  Jesus had spent time with me, and had addressed me directly a few times, and I still think that those “shepherd” allegories were for me, but really, I was only a footnote in the story of Christ.  I had once mentioned to Him that I was one of the shepherds that had visited Him the night He was born, but He seemed unimpressed, and I never brought it up again.

You know the other things that happened.  The darkness that covered the earth.  The “accident in the temple,” where the veil that covered the Holy of Holies was ripped in two.  The earthquakes and the dead people that many said they saw walking into Jerusalem.  But I was very disheartened and confused, and I just wanted to go back to Cana.  I had bought some sheep in Jerusalem, most of them unsold sheep designated for the Passover sacrifice, intending to enrich our own flocks with these unblemished sheep.  I had started back, and was almost to the border of Samaria, when Caleb, another disciple you have never heard of, caught up with me.  He said that there were reports that Jesus was alive.  I sent the sheep on home with the group I was traveling with, and hurried back with Caleb.

By the time we got back to Jerusalem, the apostles were talking about the Living Christ.  They claimed they had seen Him, and seen the scars in His hands.  Don’t get me wrong; I wanted to believe them, but this doesn't happen every day.  I knew He had raised some people, like Lazarus, from the dead, but even Jesus had told us that was just a temporary thing.  During my three days of soul-searching after Jesus’ death, I had reluctantly come to grips with the fact that He was the Passover Lamb.  I knew that the lamb came to dwell with the family, and that they got attached to it, and then it was slain for the Passover meal; that used to really affect me when I was a child.  I knew that its blood was put on the frame of the door, and now I had finally understood that Jesus the Messiah had come like that lamb, had lived among us, and that He had come to die.  I had finally realized it was not our fault He had been crucified, but that He had intended this from the beginning, and I was content that His shed blood had taken away my own sins and made me clean before the Father.  It was a sad story; my heart was broken, but I was grateful for the Sacrifice.

But I didn't expect Him to come back.  That was an incredible surprise.  I would only see Him one time.  I was watching some sheep east of Cana, near the Sea of Galilee, and somehow ended up near the shore as the disciples pulled in a great catch of fish.  It was mildly surprising to see the Twelve, back in boats, fishing, looking as normal as anyone.  But what were they doing now?  They were walking toward a small fire on the shore, where someone was tending a fire, and I smelled the aroma of cooking fish.  I suddenly realized that the Man who was cooking the fish for them was Jesus Himself: He was alive after all.

As I neared the group, Jesus caught my eye and beckoned for me to sit and join them.  I noticed that there were other disciples, in addition to the Twelve, who had somehow showed up there as well.  It was not coincidence; He had drawn us there.  He talked of many things, but I was most touched by what He told Peter.  He asked him three times if he Loved Him, and after each time, He had a different instruction for Peter.  It didn't involve fishing or agriculture; it involved my field: “Feed My lambs; Tend My sheep; Feed My sheep.”

He looked at me and made eye contact after having said these things, and I knew that I suddenly understood what He had commanded better than anyone else in the group at that moment.  I knew what I was supposed to do next.  Shortly after this, He would return to Heaven, and I would never see Him in His resurrected body again, but once had been enough for me.  Somehow, this event brought me into a closer fellowship with the apostles, and I was one of the 120 that were in Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost.

From that revival, I returned to Cana with other merchants and visitors from my home town, and I began to tell them all I had learned from Christ.  With my sons well situated in our sheep business, I had more time to pray and study what I had heard the Christ teach.  We began to meet in the synagogue in Cana after the Jewish Sabbath services, but when there was mild opposition, we changed to meeting on the first day of the week, in honor of the Resurrected Christ.  We met in homes, often in my own, and I was set apart as the chief elder of the church at Cana.  For forty years I have done that now, and I am nearing ninety years old.  Our church has not grown large, but we have sent out laborers for the harvest, southward into Samaria, northward into Syria, and beyond our local provinces to new places where the Light has not yet shone.

I was never the great evangelist that Peter was.  Though honored that Paul and Luke once visited my home and spoke to our church, I was never the missionary that Paul was.  I have just been a shepherd.  I tend God’s people, I feed the lambs so they will grow, and I feed the sheep so they can be equipped to feed others.  In the process, I learned to read and write, and have even copied some of Paul’s letters so they can be circulated among the dozens of new churches that are springing up each day.

I will die soon, and that does not frighten me at all.  My wife is already there with Christ, and my children, grandchildren, and their children are with me tending the sheep – the church that God has given us in Cana.  I am looking forward to seeing the glory of God again, as I saw it in that field near Bethlehem over seventy years ago.  The picture is still as clear in my mind as it was on that night, and I know I will see that glory again, and hear those roaring voices of praise again, but this time with a body that can appreciate it.

I consider myself blessed.  I have seen the Messiah as a baby, as a boy, and as a man.  I have seen Him as a prophet and as a sacrifice.  I have seen Him dead on a cross and glorified by the resurrection.  All that is lacking for me is to see Him in His fullness with eyes that are capable of beholding Him.  It won’t be long, and I anxiously await the face-to-face encounter with my Savior.  But until then, I will continue to do what He called me to do when I was just a little boy: feed His Sheep!

Living with Low Beams

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.
Psalm 119:105

I'm the obsessive/compulsive type. If I had my way, God would have already given me a road map of my life. I would be able to chart all the major events, how and when they happen, and what plans need to be made. An optional added feature would be a "you are here" arrow that would show me my exact status.

I've always wanted to know God's long-term will, and I've wanted Him to be specific. Unfortunately for me, God does not work that way. He usually deals with us on the short term, and His will is made known generally instead of specifically.

I used to say it like this: "God's will is directional, not terminal." He leads us in the short term because He has planned many turns and twists in the fascinating life he has planned for each of us.

And then there's that "general/specific" thing. Basically, most of us are looking for the specific will of God: "Should I buy this? Should I change jobs? Should I get married? What should my major be?" On the other hand, God's revealed word tells us the generalities: character, conduct, preparation. If we are willing to accept the principles and standards of His general will as revealed in His word, we will be equipped to make those specific decisions when they arise. I have heard people say, "If only the Bible would tell me "do this/don't do that..." For those who have asked that, I have great news. The book of Proverbs is a treasury of practical living that comes across in the simplest form. For my own purposes, I likie to call it "Wisdom for Dummies."

It is interesting to see how God's word guides us. The verse I used to begin this meditation says that His word is a lamp and a light. The direction is what is most important to me. The lamp is for the feet and the light for the path. God's revelation shines on the next step we are to take, and lights the path just enough to take that step.

On the highway, I like my high beams. I want to be able to see as far ahead in the darkness as I can. If it were possible, I would want a clear view for the next five miles ahead of me -- now that would be "high beams."

But God's intent is the "low" beam -- pointed at the path. He gives us our daily bread and calls on us to trust Him for the moment and not to worry about tomorrow.

The best advice I can give anyone for finding God's will and way is to look to the low beams and allow Him to reveal the path in His own time and purpose. There is a time for high beams, and God knows what it is. We do best when we let Him control the lights.

Could Jesus Be Your Travel Agent?

Let's suppose, just for a moment, that in addition to being King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Wonderful Counselor, Creator, and Savior, that Jesus had come to this world as a Travel Agent!

Now let us suppose that He offered us a nice Caribbean cruise for a modest price, and that the mini-cruise would last three days and three nights. We excitedly get to our departure point, and find out that the cruise will leave Friday night at sundown. Then, we are surprised to find that it will return on Sunday before sunrise.

I think we would all want our money back. Well, first of all, Jesus is all-trustworthy. He would never offer something He did not mean. My first suspicion would be that a self-appointed representative had misrepresented himself.

For at least a thousand years, they have done this. How does someone believe that Jesus, who said He would be in the grave three days and three nights, enter the tomb on Friday night and leave it before Sunday morning? I guess my main problem with this is that I am old enough to remember when they taught simple arithmetic in grammar school, and the story we have been fed does not fit the equation.

It is an easy fix. Matthew 28:1 tells us that the women went to the empty tomb early in the morning "after the sabbaths." No, your translation, none of them, use the plural there, but any first year Greek student can tell you that the word "sabbath" is used as a plural there. Simply, this week that many call "holy week" had an extra holiday in it, in much the same way that happens to us when July 4 falls on a weekday.

The whole "Friday" idea comes from a misunderstanding of why they had to take the bodies down from their crosses "before the sabbath." The sabbath mentioned there was obviously the Passover, which in God's timing was when He offered His Son as the once-for-all Passover Lamb. Sometimes, the Passover coincided with Saturday, but six times out of seven it did not.

On the week of Christ's crucifixion, it is easy to see that the Passover was on a Thursday. If Jesus was crucified on a Wednesday, His body would have been put in a tomb on Wednesday evening (Thursday morning to the Jews). The calendar would look something like this:

Nights in the tomb: Wednesday night, Thursday night, Friday night; days in the tomb were Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. He would haved left the tomb during the early evening hours after sunset on Saturday night. Three days and three nights.

This wouldn't be such an issue for me, except that Jesus, who meant what He said and said what He meant, specifically said "three days and three nights." One time, a very respected and famous Bible teacher tried to "explain" the dilemma to me using the IRS tax code. He noted that if a child were born on December 31, he could be claimed as a dependent for the entire year; if a child, sadly, died on January 1, he could still be claimed as a dependent for that entire year. So since Jesus was in the tomb part of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, the whole 24 hours of each counted.

It was a well-researched explanation, but let me tell you: If a travel agent tried that with anyone, he would be in court the next week with a stack of lawsuits facing him.

Yes, Jesus could be my travel agent; in fact, He already is. I have a wonderful tour booked, including all lodging, accommodations, and amenities. It will be an eternal trip, and there is still available space for anyone who wants to join me.

But these people who claim to "represent" Him, who can't do the math -- I will be avoiding their places of business. I don't do "Good Friday" because I don't think the Bible does "Good Friday." Today I will enjoy an amazingly ironic secular holiday from work; I will miss the mail run and the bank that are closed. But outside of that, it is just another day.

The Big One is coming Sunday.