Boulevard Bolt

Last week I had my first experience with the Boulevard Bolt. This Nashville Thanksgiving Day tradition got its start in 1994, when a core group of folks from Immanuel Baptist Church, St. George's Episcopal Church, and The Temple Congregation Ohabai Sholom decided to collaborate to sponsor a race to raise money for Nashville's homeless community. This 5-mile race initially attracted 2,500 participants; this year 8,025 men, women, and children registered for the race - the largest number in the event's history. Through the years the Boulevard Bolt has donated over $1.2 million in grants to community agencies that assist the homeless, including Safe Haven Family Shelter, an organization my family has supported for many years.

As I worked at the registration table in Immanuel's Fellowship Hall four days last week, I had the opportunity to interact with an extraordinary assembly of volunteers from these three Belle Meade congregations. As I gave participants their race numbers, I learned that the Bolt has become a tradition for many families - an event they look forward to throughout the year. I registered several extended families, including one with 15 members. The "I came the longest distance to run" award goes to a young woman named Rachel, a Nashville native who now serves as a missionary in Guatemala.

On Thanksgiving morning, Paul, Chaney, and I reported for duty at the chip distribution tent at 5:30 a.m. As we pulled away from Belle Meade Boulevard several hours later, I marveled at the army of volunteers who had given of their time sacrificially to make this event possible. Without a doubt, the Bolt was the best part of my Thanksgiving weekend.

I confess that now I'm hooked. What an extraordinary event! I am grateful to the individuals from Immanuel, St. George's, and The Temple who took the initiative and chose to work together years ago to establish a race to help the homeless. Next year I look forward to volunteering to work the Boulevard Bolt once again - and this time I plan on walking it, too.

the Tambi heritage tour

Last Thursday afternoon I headed west - not very far though, just a two-hour drive to my birthplace: Jackson, Tennessee. My ultimate destination on Friday morning was Memphis, where I had arranged to spend some time gleaning wisdom from my friend Carol, who has been serving as the associate pastor of First Baptist Memphis for nine years. I planned to stay overnight in Jackson, so that I could visit with my son's lovely girlfriend at Union University and spend time with relatives who still call Jackson home.

While in Jackson, I embarked upon a brief, memory-laden tour of the city of my birth. I drove past our former homes on Grandview, Highland, and Hollywood. I cruised by the three elementary schools I attended: Andrew Jackson, Highland Park, Alexander. (Why I attended three schools in five years is another story.) I sought out the site of my birth, Jackson-Madison County General Hospital, as well as the old campus of Union University, where I spent the first months of my infancy living in Ellis Hall, the men's dorm where Mom and Dad served as dorm parents. I passed by my maternal grandparents' home on Skyline Drive, where for one stretch of time in the late 60s my family of five - with #6 on the way - lived in obviously cramped quarters with my grandparents and uncle. I returned to the former downtown location of First Baptist Church: the site of my parents' wedding, the church I attended for the first eleven years of my life; the place where I made a public confession of my faith in Jesus Christ and was baptized in the winter of 1974.

I was struck by the odd collection of memories that came flooding back during my far-too-brief heritage tour: hanging upside down from the branch of a dogwood tree in my grandparents' front yard; my New Year's Day stroll to a market with my best friend Jean to spend the silver dollar my great-grandmother gave me for Christmas on a "book" of Lifesavers; the soft bonnet hair dryer I was using as a kindergartner on the day when the earthquake shook my bedroom; my sister's ballerina necklace that I hurled onto a window ledge; the grilled cheese sandwiches my mother used to buy me on our post-kindergarten lunch dates at Woolworth's; the pleasurable walks with my Dad from his office on Union's campus to the public library.

Soren Kierkegaard observed, "Life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backwards." I have been doing a lot of looking backwards in the past few months, and the understanding I have gleaned propels me forward. I am grateful to God for my past and eagerly anticipating the future.

delicious autumn

A few days before my mother died, while I was seeking to pass the time while waiting and watching at my parents' house, I grew antsy. I felt the need to do something, to accomplish a task, even if it was insignificant. And so I began to sort through a wooden filing box that my mother kept in the kitchen near the phone. In this box I found a variety of items - an assortment of photos of her grandchildren, expired coupons, take out menus, recipes, my son's 7th grade awards day program, and a card from the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum.

The thing that caught my eye as I sorted through this random collection, though, was a page that my Mom had ripped from a magazine. The page featured the words of novelist George Eliot superimposed over a spectacular fall photo: "Delicious autumn. My very soul is wedded to it. And if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns." I immediately stopped my sorting and emailed this memorable quotation to my son, who - like his mother - prefers autumn over any other season.

Yesterday Chaney posted his newest creative project on his website - a short video that features an array of photographs that he had taken over the past few weeks in East Tennessee in an attempt to capture God's autumnal artistry. When I watched it, I smiled as George Eliot's words appeared on my MacBook, superimposed over my son's photographs of fall foliage. Delicious autumn, indeed.

Welsh melody

When I accompanied the Class of 2009 from First Baptist Nashville on their mission trip to Wales in July, our team visited the village of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch on the island of Anglesey. This memorable name means "St. Mary's Church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the Church of St. Tysilio of the red cave" and is officially the longest recognized place name in the United Kingdom. During our obligatory stop at James Pringle Weavers Visitor Centre, I recognized a tune being played by the harpist who was situated near the snack bar. This was a hymn tune, one that I knew I could find in The Baptist Hymnal, but for the life of me I couldn't recall the title of the hymn. On the drive back to our holiday homes in Pwhelli, the other sponsors and I repeatedly hummed the tune and tried to conjure up the words to the hymn, but only fragments came to mind.

This morning when I awoke, I realized that I was once again humming this tune. Why was it lodged in my mind, I wondered? Then I suddenly remembered: As Paul and I walked down the aisle to join Immanuel Baptist Church last Sunday, this was the very hymn that the congregation was singing. Hymn #497 in the 1991 edition of the The Baptist Hymnal is "The Master Hath Come"- Words: Sarah Doudney (1841-1926); Tune: ASH GROVE; Music: Welsh Melody.

I particularly love the second stanza of this hymn:

"The Master hath called us; the road may be dreary,

And dangers and sorrows are strewn on the track;

But God's Holy Spirit shall comfort the weary;

We follow the Savior and cannot turn back;

The Master hath called us: tho' doubt and temptation

May compass our journey, we cheerfully sing:

'Press onward, look upward,' thro' much tribulation;

The children of Zion must follow their King."

Pressing onward, looking upward, I follow my King.

my vocation

“A vocation found at the end of a long and twisting and surprising journey is no less a vocation than a vocation hoped for and dreamed of and lived for a lifetime.” Robert Benson in The Echo Within: Finding Your True Calling

On October 1, the Personnel/Search Committee of Immanuel Baptist Church in Nashville sent a letter to the congregation announcing that they were unanimously recommending me to serve as their Associate Pastor. I will preach next Sunday morning, October 11, and will share my faith story on Wednesday evening, October 14. The following Wednesday evening, members will vote on the recommendation to call me during the business meeting. My responsibilities will include providing leadership for young adults (with an emphasis on young families and their children), working closely with the Missions Committee to create opportunities for intergenerational ministry in the community, offering spiritual formation in small group settings, and participating in worship leadership and worship planning. Mine has indeed been a twisting and surprising journey, and I am inexpressibly grateful to God for providing me with this opportunity to use my gifts to build up the body of Christ at Immanuel Baptist Church. I look forward to sharing the details of my story with you face-to-face in the days to come. Many of you have been praying for me during the past year as I have sought to discern how God was leading me to serve Him in a new season of my life. God has very clearly led me down this path, and I deeply appreciate your intercessions on my behalf.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3:5-6

the art of perception

This month's issue of Smithsonian magazine features a fascinating article written by Neal Hirschfeld titled "Teaching Cops to See," which describes how art historian Amy Herman helps police officers refine their observational skills. In her course "The Art of Perception," Herman challenges officers to interpret the scenes depicted in various works of art without allowing them to read the associated labels. She also forbids them from using the words "obviously" or "clearly" as they describe what they see, since what one person thinks is obvious may not be clear to someone else. The goal of the course is to help officers fine-tune their attention to detail, a critical skill in the crime-prevention/solving business.

At one of her classes at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Herman showed a group of NYPD captains a painting by Caravaggio (see above). Noting the coins on the table and the men's gestures, the officers assumed that a crime had taken place and the guilty party was being fingered. After their discussion, Herman revealed the truth: the painting was titled The Calling of St. Matthew. The young man hunched over the coins is Matthew, the tax collector, and the finger-pointing man in the shadows is Jesus Christ: "As Jesus went on from there, He saw a man named Matthew sitting at the tax collector's booth. 'Follow me,' he told him, and Matthew got up and followed him" (Matthew 9:9).

Reflecting on what he had learned in Herman's class, one officer commented, "Amy taught us that to be successful, you have to think outside the box. Don't just look at a picture and see a picture. See what's happening."

After reading the article, I thought about my own powers of observation. How often do I allow preconceived ideas to influence how I read a given situation? What details am I overlooking? What context is missing? Where is God in the midst of the scene and how is He calling me to respond? It's time for me to learn to think outside the box.

patience

"Don't pray for patience," some folks warn, "or you'll get it!" Somehow I don't think that a prayer for patience is a trigger for God to orchestrate a difficult set of circumstances in order to allow us to get on-the-job experience in the field of patience development. Instead, I believe that when we pray for patience, the Holy Spirit convicts us of our pre-existing impatient tendencies, prompting us to examine ourselves to uncover the reasons why waiting gets us so riled up.

During the past two days, I have had ample opportunities to reflect on whether or not I am making patient progress. On Monday I sat for nearly three hours with my parents in an uncomfortable oncologist's office waiting to get a report on my mother's recent scans. On Tuesday I sat in a hospital room for six hours with a friend while her husband underwent surgery. In both cases, I had expected a lesser wait. But in both cases, I kept frustration (and worry) at bay by refocusing my attention. Where was God in the midst of these situations? What good could I find in these extended periods of waiting?

“Patience is not an additive we take to withstand the perils of life, but rather an opening up and breathing in trust as we hope that God is indeed with us as we wait,” Bill Kees wrote. Waiting is never easy, even when you're anticipating that something wonderful is about to happen, but God is indeed with us as we wait.

"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience" (Colossians 3:12).