Red Hats & A Red Hot Truck

On my day off this past week, I was out running some errands. Around lunchtime, I wanted to grab something to eat and—after considerable debate—decided to get something “healthy” for a change. My wife had been in Florida for several days, but before leaving town, she urged me to be kind to both my gastro-intestinal track and my arteries while she was away. (She knows quite well that—when she’s not around—I have a tendency to gravitate toward those eating establishments that are either heavy on cholesterol-laden cuisine and/ or they have a picture of a pig on their marquee.) Because I knew that very soon I again would be talking with her on the phone, I decided to impress her by choosing a place for lunch that didn’t even have a fryer on the premises.

I stopped in at one of Danville’s popular coffee and sandwich shops. The place had been highly recommended to Sandy and me. In fact, we recently dined there with some out-of-town friends and enjoyed our meal very much. So I knew this would be a good option for me and that with the lighter, healthier fare, Sandy would be quite pleased with my thoughtful culinary choice.

Once inside, I made my way to the counter and ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a Diet Coke, with macaroni salad on the side. (I know I should have opted for the fruit cup instead of the macaroni salad, but give me a break. You can’t give up everything all at once.) After placing my order, I sat down and waited for my meal. While sitting there and contemplating life in general, my eyes began to pan the room from wall to wall. All of a sudden it dawned on me that—while there were many patrons sitting at the various tables—I was the only man in the whole place! Every customer but me was a woman. The presence of numerous shopping bags further indicated that many of the ladies had just returned from a laborious shopping excursion from which they now rested as they verbally relived their experiences over quiche and coffee.

As my sandwich arrived, I continued pondering the fact that no other men were dining there. It had seemed like some guys were there the previous weekend when Sandy and I and our friends ate there. But, then again, maybe there weren’t. Perhaps this was really a girls’ hangout!

I was suddenly awakened from my reverie when there unexpectedly appeared at the doorway an ever growing stream of older ladies all decked out in vibrant red and purple. I couldn’t believe it. It was an invasion of the famous Red Hat Society! Have you ever been to the circus and seen a clown car? You know, where all these clowns just keep piling out of a tiny automobile. This was like that. (Caution: Please note that I am not comparing these women to clowns! Let me be clear about that! I was simply surprised at how many of them there were.) There was one, then two, then three…they just kept coming…four, then five, then six…with sequins, and glitter, and feathers, and brightly colored hats and scarves…seven, eight, nine…they just kept pouring in, armed with shopping bags, and converging on the takeout counter en masse. After a brief discussion of their options, they ordered coffee and snacks for the road. And, in short order (pun intended) the group was out the front door, to their cars, on their way to their next adventure.

As this scene unfolded, I began to lose all hope that anyone of the male persuasion would ever join me in this restaurant. If the Red Hat ladies were so prominent in this place, no self respecting truck driver or mechanic would ever dine here. I suddenly felt outnumbered. Where were all the men of Danville, I wondered. The only guys in the whole place were a couple of young men behind the counter and in the kitchen, and they were maintaining a low profile.

When I finished my sandwich, I slipped out the door and made a discreet exit to the parking lot. I was going to get in my car and quietly drive away.

Immediately upon stepping outside, however, I looked up and there was a pickup truck on fire just a few feet from me. The hood was open and the engine was ablaze. The driver had just pulled off the road, and was seeking to douse the flames with several water containers he happened to have on his truck. He was having little or no success, however, as the water seemed to be no match for the spreading fire.

Instinctively, I started to run over to my own car and see if had a blanket in the trunk that I could use to help him smother the flames. But, on second thought, that didn’t seem to be such a smart idea. So, I ran back into the restaurant I had just quietly exited, and looked to one of the guys behind the counter. “Do you have a fire extinguisher?” He quickly reached nearby and grabbed a conveniently-located cylinder right off the floor. Then, both of us ran out to the burning truck where its owner was clearly losing his battle with the blaze. The restaurant guy lifted the extinguisher tank high and, as the driver stepped aside, shot a powerful chemical blast under the hood of the truck. The extinguisher hissed loudly as it released its contents. The blast hit its target, and a large cloud of dense white smoke billowed upward and outward, enveloping the three of us. In an instant, it was all over. The fire was out. The white cloud had dissipated. The crisis had been averted. And, yes, although the truck was badly damaged, thankfully no one was hurt. And to think that those Red Hat ladies missed all the excitement!

Wow, what a dramatic ending to my otherwise calm and placid lunch! After hanging out in an all-female restaurant, the subsequent macho-man, testosterone-filled action sequence had somehow restored me. As I sped away from the scene in my Aston-Martin (uh, er, I mean my Scion tC)—with visions of James Bond and 24's Jack Bauer in my head—I was re-energized and ready for whatever the afternoon had in store.

"Now, Pastor Danny," you ask, "what does this story have to do with anything?" Nothing, really. I’ve searched high and low for some insightful spiritual parallel, but I haven’t found any as of yet. But I still wanted to tell the story. If, however, you find some great spiritual truth in anything I’ve written, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

By the way, despite anything written above that might indicate otherwise, please know that I’m sure I’ll be eating at the aforementioned coffee and sandwich shop again. The food and service are both great. But, in the future, so as to avoid feeling conspicuous, I definitely won’t dine there alone. I’ll only go if my wife is with me. And, I might even order quiche! But when the two of us do go, we’ll definitely make sure that neither of us wears purple or red.

Pastor Danny

Monday Night Pickin' and Grinnin'

Butch Cassada had told me that I should look for the fifth house on the left. But, honestly, in Monday night’s thick fog, I couldn’t see any houses at all! Fortunately, as I made my way along the dark road, my headlight beams at last revealed a mailbox that had the correct number on it. I slowly turned in and made my way down the gravel driveway until I found the sloping temporary grass "parking lot" filled with cars and trucks. I parked my car, got out, and proceeded to follow the lights and music emanating from the big freestanding building located behind the house. "This must be the place," I thought. When I opened the door, I stepped into a huge well-lit room filled with several men standing around, clustered together in various groups—some conversing with one another, some enjoying their cups of coffee, some hovering near the heater. In the rear of the building, almost unnoticed, a small group of bluegrass pickers—the "warm-up band"—played and harmonized together. And in another corner, a team of cooks was busy frying fish and preparing the rest of the food for the meal. The whole place was abuzz with excitement. It was the weekly Monday night men’s get-together at Ricci Stroud’s.

As I removed my coat and made my way into the room, I was warmly greeted with numerous “hellos” and handshakes. “Hey, Pastor, come on in!” First, Butch Cassada, and then, Archie Boswell took me around and introduced me to everyone in the place. I immediately recognized a number of other church members—Raymond Crane, Frank Mobley, Ray Dodson, Ronnie Plaster, Ed Turner, Bob Cross, Russell Franklin, and host Ricci himself. (I hope I didn’t leave anyone out!) But there also were several other men from the community that I hadn’t met before. All told, some forty to fifty men were in attendance.

After prayer, we all sat down to a delicious meal of fish, potatoes, slaw, beans and bread, followed by a potpourri of homemade desserts. (Don't tell my wife, but I had pecan pie AND banana pudding. Mmm. Mmm.) Over dinner, I met and got to talk baseball—one of my favorite subjects—with local resident and former major leaguer Gordon Windhorn, who for a time back in the 1950s was a reserve centerfielder with New York Yankees, backing up some other young guy by the name of Mickey Mantle. (Gee, I wonder whatever happened to him.) Gordon is a Christian, a member of North Main Baptist, and also a picker and singer like many of the other men there that night.

After the meal, the tables were put away, the chairs were rearranged, and the sound system was set up and plugged in. About a dozen guys gathered in the middle of the room, forming the band. The rest of us, encircling them, became the audience. The group of talented performers was composed of several guitars, a fiddle, an upright bass, a dobro, a banjo, and a harmonica. As the night progressed, they led us through a steady stream of old-time bluegrass and country gospel favorites, with the various participants taking turns offering up the lead vocals. Throughout the jam session, I heard songs I hadn’t heard in years—you’ve got to remember that I grew up in the “bluegrass state” of Kentucky—as well as some tunes I’d never even heard before.

It was a fun time to say the least. Not only good food and good music, but also good wholesome entertainment and fellowship, with a strong Christian flavor. That was especially remarkable in that this was not some official "church" event. It was simply a "guy" event.

Monday nights at Ricci Stroud’s is definitely the place to be. My first visit there certainly will not be my last. What began a few years ago as a small intimate weekly gathering involving only a handful of men has developed into a grand tradition drawing dozens. And, believe me, I’m all for any kind of positive activity that—either formally or informally—brings people together, offers them encouragement, helps them to develop and strengthen relationships, and—above all—lifts up Jesus. And that’s what Mondays at Ricci’s are all about.

Pickin’ and grinnin’ might not be your thing. And that’s okay. But whatever your interests may be, always look for opportunities—both inside and outside the church—to connect with others, to offer them encouragement, and to bear witness of the reality of Jesus Christ in your life. I guarantee that it will help to make the world a better place and you a better person.

Pastor Danny

The Chicken Man Heads North

Ever since I met him, he's been known affectionately as "the chicken man." No, I'm not talking about the late Col. Harlan Sanders, although I did grow up within miles of the Colonel's original Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant in Corbin, Kentucky. Rather, "the chicken man" of whom I'm speaking comes from a place much further south than the Bluegrass State.

I first met Jose Ramon during my initial trip to Cuba in 2002. Jose was a member of a Baptist church in Havana with which I was seeking to develop a mission partnership. After a hearty Sunday lunch at the home of the church's pastor, I was chauffeured over to Jose’s residence where I was to spend the remainder of the afternoon visiting with this big man with a big smile and--as I was to later find out--an even bigger heart. Like most Cubans, Jose lived in a very modest but tidy home, which he shared with his wife and his elderly mother. Although neither his wife or mother spoke English, Jose was quite fluent, and I enjoyed conversing with him.

Knowing that I would be preaching in two back-to-back worship services later that evening, I didn't anticipate another meal at Jose's house. But not too long into our conversation, Jose asked if I would like something to eat. Still quite full from the unexpectedly large lunch prepared by the pastor’s wife, I politely declined his invitation. After his repeated overtures, however, I finally relented and said "yes", not wanting to appear rude or unappreciative. Jose immediately got up and went into the kitchen, where he started frying some chicken. I was quite surprised, because meat of any kind is something of a delicacy in Cuba. Most Cubans rarely eat it, because they simply can’t afford it.

Just prior to preparing the chicken, Jose told me about a time when he was allowed to travel to Miami to go visit some relatives. While there, someone either prepared or bought his dinner, I don’t remember which. Either way, the main entrée was chicken. Following the meal, however, a Cuban that lived in the States--also a dinner guest--griped to Jose about the chintzy host serving only chicken rather than a more expensive meat. Jose was perplexed at why this person would be so ungrateful for his meal, looking upon chicken with such disdain. I assured Jose that in old Southern culture in the United States, church-going families often would have their biggest meals on Sundays, inviting the pastor over for lunch. Fried chicken was the main dish they would prepare for their honored guest. I told him that I loved chicken and that, as a pastor, I thought it was an honor to be served chicken. (Little did I realize what an honor it would soon become!)

When the meal was ready, Jose called me to the table. I noticed there were only two place settings. When I asked why, Jose said that his wife and I would eat now. He and his mother would eat later. He explained that his wife needed to leave for church earlier than he did--attending the first of the two evening worship services--while he stayed home with his mother. After the 6:00 PM service, his wife would return home to relieve him so he could come to the 8:00 PM service.

When I sat down to eat my chicken dinner--a costly meal for a Cuban family--it proved to be a profound spiritual experience for me. I was not at all hungry, but I so marveled at the sacrifice this meal represented that I knew I had to eat every last bite of it. I was determined to pick the bone clean, not leaving even the tiniest sliver of meat. Never before or since have I left a chicken bone so bare. And—although I’ll never know for sure this side of Heaven—I've always suspected that there was only enough chicken for two people that afternoon—Jose’s wife, who happened to be celebrating her birthday that very day, and yours truly, the guest of honor from America. When Jose and his mother ate later on that evening, it's very unlikely they had meat on their plates. My heart was so touched by this realization that I felt completely unworthy and humbled before God, to the point of tears. For me personally, it was a holy moment, very much like when the Lord Jesus Himself bowed down and washed His disciples’ dirty feet.

Just as Jesus’ action on that day long ago forever sanctified a towel and basin—we’ve just never been able to look at those two objects in quite the same way since then—Jose’s loving action toward me forever changed my outlook regarding a simple chicken dinner. As silly as it may sound, whenever I’m in a home and I’m served homemade fried chicken, I’m reminded of Jose’s generous sacrifice and how he so graciously embodied the love of God to me.

In the years since then, on subsequent trips to Cuba, I would always look forward to seeing Jose again, and visiting in his home. Between trips, he and I emailed each other back and forth many times. When I was in Cuba in 2005, Jose’s mother was very ill, and I had the opportunity to visit her in the hospital. She actually died before the week was out, and I personally saw how the grace of God sustained Jose in his grief.

About four years ago, Jose’s adult son—who had served as my driver during my first trip to the Cuba—was granted permission to leave the island and move to Canada, of all places. (Talk about a contrast in climates! Brrr!) This had to be something of a bittersweet experience for Jose. He was happy for his son, no doubt, but still sad at the same time. His own personal dream always had been to someday leave Cuba. With the passage of time, however, it seemed that his fading dream would never be realized. At least now his son would get to experience the opportunity that always had eluded him. But it was still very sad to see his only child move so far away, not knowing when he might ever see him again.

In light of all this, I must admit my surprise upon receiving a recent email from another Cuban friend telling me that Jose Ramon and his wife had moved to Canada. I couldn't believe it. Very few people who aspire to leave Cuba ever get to do so. And when I last saw Jose in Havana just four months ago, I had no idea this move was in the works. While I’m not sure how it all came about, I'm delighted that Jose’s family has been reunited once again. The only thing I regret is that I won't get to see my old friend on possible future trips to Cuba.

Perhaps the next time I'm in Havana, I'll just walk by Jose's old home, and reminisce about the first time I met him. Truly, whether or not I ever get to visit with him again in this life, I will forever remember "the chicken man” and the awe-inspiring example of servanthood, sacrifice and love he offered up to me on a platter on one hot and humid Havana afternoon. It was an unforgettable God moment that I'll always cherish.

Pastor Danny

It’s Never Too Late

Strangely, three unique news stories with similar themes all appeared in the media this week. The first story was about a letter mailed back in 1954 that finally reached its destination just days ago. The second story was about a lost wallet that made its way back to its rightful owner after 62 years. The third story was about a man who finally returned an overdue library book he had checked out back in 1960.

The letter mailed in 1954 apparently had been misplaced by the U.S. Postal Service for more than five decades. It was finally rediscovered and delivered without explanation to the intended address, although the addressee himself has yet to be located. (I suppose he failed to leave a forwarding address!) Unbelievably, it took this letter more than half a century to make the short trek between two nearby Western Pennsylvania towns. Talk about snail mail! Gee, I hope it didn’t contain an important message, like a draft notice or a wedding proposal!

The wallet had been lost by a wounded, hospitalized American soldier in France during World War II. It was found shortly thereafter by another G.I., who apparently was unable to locate the wallet’s owner. So he brought the wallet back to the States and wound up putting it away for safekeeping. It remained tucked away for six decades. When the old veteran died recently, his son found the wallet while digging into his father’s possessions. Using the Internet, the son, in Illinois, was able to finally track down the original owner of the wallet, who was still alive and residing in Missouri. When the surprised veteran received his long lost wallet, it still contained his old photos, French francs, and other personal items from the day it was lost in 1944.

Back in 1960, a Michigan ninth-grader checked out a book for a school assignment. He never returned it. He said that his mother misplaced the copy of “Prince of Egypt” when cleaning the house. Through the years, the family came across it periodically, only to repeatedly set it aside and forget about it. He found it once again last week, this time finally returning it to the library with a check for $171.32, which represented 47 years worth of late fees. Interestingly, while the book was part of a youthful fascination he had with Egypt that later led him to visit that country as an adult, the tardy library patron admitted that he never did finish reading the book!

What are we to make of all this? Perhaps these stories should serve to remind us that it’s never too late to right a wrong, to correct a mistake, or to finish a task.

Is there something you need to complete that continues to hang over your head? Is there an unresolved problem you need to fix, a longstanding issue you need to address, a lingering misunderstanding you need to clear up, or an old sin you need to confess?

There’s no better time than the present. A lot of water may have gone under the bridge, for sure. And, yes, it would have been much better if you had dealt with the matter earlier, in a more timely fashion. But for your own peace of mind, and for the sake of God’s kingdom, you may well find that it’s still needful (as well as beneficial) to deal with the matter even now.

There’s an old adage that says “The point of departure is the point of return.” In other words, at whatever point we got off course and departed from God’s will, that’s where we need to go back and make things right with God and whomever else may have been adversely affected by our actions.

Think about it. If the postal service can finally deliver a letter more than 50 years late, and if a library patron can finally return an overdue book after 47 years—both of which certainly involved a measure of embarrassment—then perhaps you and I could actually right some wrongs and/or complete some unfinished goals from our past. Truly, it would have been much easier after all those years for the postal employees simply to destroy the old letter or for the man with the forgotten book to just throw it away. But the easiest route isn’t always the best route. Doing the right thing can sometimes involve some personal pain. But it’s worth it to be right with God.

Perhaps these unusual news stories are some good food for thought for us as we begin this new year. As we move forward into 2007, let’s be open to revisiting some old items from our past that really need to be corrected or completed this year.

Pastor Danny

Short Sleeves in January

Well, after eleven winters in sunny Florida, Sandy and I move back north again, and what happens? The weather turns warm! After all the sweaters and coats we bought just for our return to the land of four seasons, we find ourselves having to quickly pull our Florida clothing back out of storage.

I have to tell you that—other than saving money on our utility bills—I’m really disappointed. (Kind of like when the year 2000 finally got here and there were none of those futuristic flying cars we had always envisioned!) I mean, after more than a decade in the Florida sun, I was really looking forward to the cold weather. When Sandy and I lived here before, I can remember having some real winters in Danville. One time we had 20 inches of snow on the ground, and we got our little son Jordan all bundled up in his big snowsuit—kind of like that kid in “A Christmas Story”—and took him out to play. Once outside, he tripped and fell headlong into the white stuff. I thought we’d never find him!

Anyway, where is all that cold weather? I thought that by this time—January—Sandy and I would be freezing to death. You know, hands shivering, teeth chattering, toes going numb, lips turning blue…all that good stuff. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since my teeth chattered! At this point, I’d even settle for just seeing my breath when I exhale. But, unfortunately, it’s been much too warm for that.

After the heavy frost we had back on the first Sunday of November—my first Sunday as your pastor—I really got my hopes up. I thought things were going to get cold and stay cold. I’m talking about the occasional ice, sleet, or snow…and, at a minimum, frost every morning. In fact, after that first Sunday—in which I ran late getting to church because of the frost—somebody felt sorry for Sandy and me and bought us some matching ice scrapers. You know, the really nice kind with the furry mitten attached to the handle. Ever since then, I’ve just been chomping at the bit to use mine. In fact, the first time we get a forecast for a real heavy frost, I’m going to intentionally leave my car outside of the garage overnight, just so I can experience the sensation of using a scraper again! The way things have been going, however, I wonder when that’s ever going to happen. Today (Saturday), I wore a short sleeve shirt all day. And I drove my car with the sunroof open. The sky was a beautiful blue, the sun was shining, and the temperature was all of 74—just 8 degrees less than Clermont, Florida, our former home. In other words, today was just a typical Florida winter day in Danville. All that was missing were the palm trees.

Truly, the weather has been strange lately…about as strange as my University of Kentucky Wildcats winning a football bowl game the other day. (Er…sorry, Clemson fans. I really didn’t mean to bring that up. )

What are we to make of all this unseasonable weather? Is there a lesson to be learned here?

Obviously, unseasonable weather calls for necessary adjustments in our lives. When the climate is not what we expect it to be, we have to shift gears. People have to rethink their wardrobes, their travel plans, and sometimes their entire schedules.

Such is life in general. So often in life we anticipate that things should go a certain way, and when they don’t, we tend to respond one of two ways—either we adjust and press on or we quit and fuss. Clearly, the former is more desirable (and beneficial) than the latter.

Long ago, the Apostle Paul advised his young protégé Timothy to always be faithful in preaching the Word, whether “in season or out of season.” In other words, “Timothy, whatever the prevailing atmospheric conditions, whatever the climate of receptivity for your message, whatever direction the winds of culture or public opinion may be blowing, you still have a job to do. Make the necessary adjustments and then carry on, rain or shine.”

Does life ever rain on your parade? Are you ever confronted with winds of opposition, or with unanticipated changes in climate that make your task harder? Do you allow these unplanned seasonal shifts to frustrate you and hold you back from fulfilling God’s calling in your life?

Listen, whatever the season, God knows what’s going on—as surely as He knows tomorrow’s weather forecast long before any meteorologist does. And God is not a fair-weather friend that will abandon you. He has promised that He will never leave you nor forsake you. So, don’t give up. Remain faithful to Him. And press on with what you know God has called you to do. At the same time, don’t be so rigid in your methodology or your approach that you can’t adjust and adapt when needed. Learn to be flexible. When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. Remember that sometimes God allows adversity in our lives to remind us to trust more in Him and less in our own plans. And that’s a healthy thing!

Think about that the next time rain starts to fall on your parade. It just might be that God is getting ready to grow something in your garden.

Pastor Danny

NOTE: Wouldn't you know it, by the time I finally got this blog posted the temperature had dropped and the high today was only in the 50s. Better pull the jackets back out. Looks like Old Man Winter may get here yet.

A Tale of Two Leaders

The final week of 2006 saw the passing of two prominent world figures—a pair of former leaders whose lives could not have been more different.

Gerald R. Ford, our 38th president, was suddenly thrust into the world spotlight in 1974 following the resignation of President Richard Nixon. An unassuming person of quiet faith and humility, President Ford helped to bind up our nation’s wounds following the tumultuous Watergate scandal. Respected and trusted by lawmakers of both parties, Jerry Ford seemed to have just the right temperament and character to lead us through those challenging days of transition and recovery. Even Ford’s successor in the White House—President Jimmy Carter, who defeated him in the 1976 general election—paid tribute to his predecessor in his inaugural address, thanking him for all he had done to heal our land. To this day, Gerald R. Ford is universally remembered as a good and decent man.

How very different was the life and political legacy of Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. For three horrific decades, he ruled his nation through intimidation, coercion and brutality. Those who dared to exhibit even a hint of opposition or criticism toward his evil regime were systematically and sadistically eliminated. Saddam’s cruel, iron-fisted reign of terror saw an estimated two million of his own countrymen go to their deaths. He was both feared and despised as a leader, a merciless and manipulative egomaniac with no regard whatsoever for human life. Even in recent days, as the end neared for Saddam, he remained unrepentant and defiant, spewing venom until his very last breath.

Ford and Hussein truly lived lives that were polar opposites. In death as well, they proved quite a study in contrasts.

President Ford’s quiet passing at the ripe old age of 93 was marked across America with flags flown at half staff, warm words of tribute and remembrance, a national day of mourning, and—in California, Washington D.C., and Michigan—public viewings and funeral services befitting a beloved national leader. On the other hand, the 69-year-old Saddam Hussein’s gruesome death by hanging—carried out by hooded executioners, in compliance with his conviction as a war criminal—was greeted in Iraq with cheers, celebratory gunfire, and dancing in the streets, followed by even more outbreaks of sectarian violence in his war-ravaged homeland.

One eventful week…two very different deaths…two very different men…two very different legacies.

One a healer. The other a butcher.
One a good man. The other an evil one.
One fondly remembered. The other universally hated.

These recent events serve to remind us that death is no respecter of persons. All of us ultimately must face it. And in facing death, all of us must meet our Maker for a final accounting of our lives.

According to those closest to him, Gerald R. Ford had an authentic faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Saddam Hussein, a Sunni Muslim, clearly did not. Today, Gerald R. Ford is with his Savior, because the Bible tells us that for the believer “to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” We’re certain, however, that Saddam Hussein has arrived at a far less pleasant destination.

But please know this. It’s not the evil that Saddam did that sent him to Hell, anymore than it’s the good that Gerald Ford did that sent him to Heaven. Actually, our eternal destiny is determined solely by our rejection or acceptance of Jesus Christ as Lord, and of the free gift of eternal life He purchased for us through His death on the cross. Don’t confuse the fruit with the root. The evil deeds of man are but a symptom of a deeper sickness…a rebellion against the authority of God in one’s life. And here’s something else. You don’t have to be a Hussein or a Hitler to go to Hell. You can be a seemingly good and decent guy who just does his own thing and never sees the need for God in his life. He just goes through life being a good neighbor, a good citizen, a good family man, a good Joe, but he never acknowledges his own sin, his own personal need for Christ, or the essential sacrifice that Jesus made on his behalf.

When your life is over and they write your obituary and have your funeral, people may say a lot of nice things about you. But the big question will be this: Where did you stand with God?

When Gerald R. Ford stepped into eternity just a few days ago, it ultimately didn’t matter one iota that he had been President of the United States and, thus, for a time, the most powerful man on earth. All that mattered at that point was that he knew Jesus as his own personal Lord and Savior. For, in the final analysis, all the power & prestige, fame & fortune, achievements & accomplishments the world has to offer can’t earn you a place in Heaven. Only Jesus can provide that. It’s too bad that Saddam Hussein never even came close to understanding that reality.

Pastor Danny