There are times in life when the clouds over “Brandon World” part and the light of reality breaks through, even if for a moment.  These are times when, for whatever reason, I am quiet enough, still enough, or weak enough to experience God and His Word.  This is one of those times.

To Lead Like Thunder
I didn’t know until recently that Jesus called James and John the “Sons of Thunder.”  Apparently, these two brothers earned that name by being bold and head-strong, even to a fault.  They were movers and shakers, leaders among their peers, make-it-happen kind of guys.  We all know people like this, people who are really good at getting results but that are so goal-oriented that things like sensitivity, or fairness, or . . . oh, I don’t know . . . other people,  just seem to get in the way.

The Sons of Thunder were famous for tripping over their own goals.  There’s a great story in Matthew 20 where James and John use their mother to approach Jesus with a special request. In verse 21 she says, “Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom.”

Stop the truck!  What?  When I first read this, I thought,”That sounds just like a couple of God Squad wannabe’s.  Always trying to sit next to the most popular guy in school.”  I mean, really.  They can’t even ask for themselves?  They have to get their mother to do it?  And when the other disciples weren’t around?  How calculated!  Then I looked in the mirror. 

I hate to say it, but my reflection looks an awful lot like this story.  I too have been concerned with where I might sit in the grand scheme of things.  I too have become so goal-oritented and ambitious that I failed to see the big picture – a picture that included the feelings of those around me.  But I still can’t say that my actions have ever been purely selfish.  Nor should we assume this for James and John.  Who wouldn’t want to spend eternity next to Jesus?  These guys were being who God made them to be.  They were seeking their place.  And they felt they had found it next to Jesus. 

Unfortunately their actions, like my actions, sound an awful lot like thunder.  Loud, but that’s about it.

To Drink from the Cup
Don’t get me wrong.  To lead like thunder can be effective.  But sometimes it’s only in the lonely echoes of failure that the whisper of Truth can be heard.  This Truth is as humbling as it is powerful.  When it speaks of leadership, it makes no promises of success, or acceptance, or of thrones at the right hand of God.  Instead, it warns that to lead is to be misunderstood, distanced, or even despised.

What does Jesus say to James and John’s request?  “You don’t know what you are asking,” Jesus said to them (not to their mother). “Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?”

Can’t you just see James and John standing there like Forrest and Bubba in front of Lt. Dan?  They look at each other, then back at Jesus, blank stares and blind confidence, nodding ”Uh huh.” 

The scene had to be similarly amusing for Jesus at first.  But I can’t help but wonder if His face grew sad with the thought of what was to come for these Sons of Thunder.  I say this because as He was setting them straight on who makes the seating chart in Heaven, He also says to them, “You will indeed drink from my cup.”

Fourteen years after this story takes place, James becomes the first of the disciples to be martyred.  His brother John, while living longer, does so in exile on a remote island, a prison camp, where he sees how the world will end.  The true cup of leadership is often not at all what we envision.  It is more a responsibility than a privilege.  And its taste is often bitter at best.

It’s later in this story that we find one of the most profound statements of leadership ever recorded in history.  Speaking to the disciples of James and John’s request, Jesus says, (28)  “. . . the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

And so for modern-day Sons of Thunder, there is a profound lesson to be learned here:

Leadership is not about where you sit.  It’s about the cup you drink from.

Here’s a question for you. Which would you prefer? To be liked, or to be respected? Easy question? Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s walk through this.

To be liked . . .
You are popular, at least for a season. People smile and welcome you when you walk into a room. Life is a little easier. Expectations are a little lower. You are simply accepted. You receive Christmas cards whether you send them or not. You get invited to the cool kids’ parties. You’re good enough. You’re smart enough. And doggonnit, people like you! But you would give it all up for just a little respect.

To be respected . . .
People guard what they say around you. You rarely see the “real” side of people. You are held to a constantly higher and often unrealistic standard. You are from time to time misquoted, and your name is often used for the gain of those whom you do not necessarily endorse. You are targeted and maligned. You are worshiped and revered. Your are unnecessarily credited, wrongly accused. And through it all, all you really want is to be liked.

I challenge you to look at those around you, at home, at work, at church, on the news. To whom do you offer your allegiance? Who do you like? Who do you respect? We see evidence of the above so much, even on the news. Reagan is revered now as one of the greatest US Presidents of all time. But when he was in office, he suffered the same sneers and jeers as any modern-day political leader. Respect.

We see Brittany Spears leave rehab as she tries to pick up the pieces of a shattered psychological existence. Front page news for the girl we praised and lifted up as a pop icon just two years earlier. Then we flip the channel and shake our heads. That poor girl. What’s the weather tomorrow? Yep, Brittany. We liked her.

America is starving for respectful leaders. Our homes are starving for respectful fathers. Believers are starving for respectable examples. And I firmly believe that men in general are starving for respect. But we are too concerned with being liked.

Like vs. respect. I think I know which I prefer.

As my family and I were discussing whether or not we should move to the Sunday PM Worship service at our church, my nine-year-old daughter asked if she would be required to wear a dress?  (Currently, Sunday mornings are for dresses, while choir on Sunday night calls for more casual attire.)

My daughter’s delima (as it turns out) was rooted in her belief that the Bible explicitly commands us to dress our best when we go to church.  So I posed the following question to my wife . . .

Why are we to dress our best when we go to church?

Her reply . . .

“Our bodies are God’s temple.  We should treat them accordingly.  This also means dressing our best and being holy before God.”

To which I offered . . .

“But John the Baptist was holy, and he looked like crap.”

Her [final] response:

“Yes. But I’m not John the Baptist’s mother.”

Next Sunday, I guess we’re all wearing a dress to church.

I wrote the following post this Summer.  Why I never posted it, I’m not sure.   Must have been the heat.  It does things to me . . . 

From July 2007:

Remember Vacation Bible School?  Remember those hot summer days squirming in the pew sporting a Kool Aid mustache?  Remember counting light fixtures while the preacher droned out Bible stories and took up money?  (Yes, even then).  Ah, those were the days.  How much we learned!  The Pledge of Allegiance, The Christian Pledge, the Pledge to the Bible, the Pledge to Bear Bryant . . . ok, maybe that was just an Alabama thing. 

Even now, some 25 years later, I am still taking my children to Vacation Bible School.  And while the music is louder, the games are cooler, and most kids are walking around with iPods, some things have remained solidly the same.  The Bible is still “God’s Holy Word.”  Jesus is still offering everlasting life. And prayer changes things.  Which brings me to the real subject of this post, my daughter.   

At eight*, she is my oldest.  She accepted Christ at the early age of five, which was young I thought.  But she was precocious and clearly understood fully what she was doing.  Since then, she has epitomized child-like faith for my wife and me.  Her commitment to Jesus is pure and profound. She is an inspiration.

Today, she discretely pulled me aside and asked that I pray specifically for her younger (five year old) sister.  “Today,” she said, “is a very special day.”  Of course I pressed for further clarification (I am Baptist, after all and find it much easier to pray for people when I have ALL the juicy details).  She would not offer more, but just insisted that I pray for her sister.  Then, as a parting note, offered this one small clue.

“Our theme verse today is Romans 10:9.”  With that, she hurried to her class.

While you might not find the reference familiar, those of you who are believers will no doubt recognize the verse:

“That if you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.” Romans 10:9 (NIV)

It suddenly occurred to me that my daughter was praying for her sister’s salvation.  She was also enlisting me to do the same.  My eight year old daughter saw the spiritual potential in the message her sister would hear that day.  She also remembered her own experiences as a five year old.  Therefore, she invoked the most powerful tool any of us carry as a Christian, prayer.

I began praying for my children before they were born.  But I was not prepared emotionally for the reality that they would one day grow up to pray for one another.  I am confident God will answer my daughter’s prayers.  I am confident that in her own time, my youngest daughter will no doubt come to depend on God’s saving grace as much as the rest of us.  But I am humbled at the faithfulness of my child and her unconditional commitment to prayer for the salvation of her sister.

*McKenzie is now nine years old.  She is still strong in her faith, and she still prays for her sister.

** Photo by Jadie Thomas, Jadie Thomas Photography

By now you might have heard Toby Keith’s new single, “Love Me If You Can.”

I’m not sure anyone has ever written a song that so completely encapsulates who I am and what I would have wanted to say if I could write like that.  This is an incredible song and one that warrants a quick read, regardless of your musical tastes.

Love Me If You  Can (Wallin/Wiseman)
Toby Keith

Sometimes think that war is necessary
Every night I pray for peace on earth
I hand out my dollars to the homeless
But believe that every able soul should work

My father gave me my shotgun
That I’ll hand down, to my son
Try to teach him everything it means

I’m a man of my convictions
Call me wrong, call me right
But I bring my better angels to every fight
You may not like where I’m going
But you sure know where I stand
Hate me if you want to, love me if you can

I stand by my right to speak freely
But I worry about what kids learn on TV

And before all of the bedlam turn to angry words and hate
Sometimes we should just agree to disagree

And I believe that Jesus
Looks down here and sees us

And if you asked him he would say

I’m a man of my convictions
Call me wrong, call me right
But I bring my better angels to every fight
You may not like where I’m going
But you sure know where I stand
Hate me if you want to, love me if you can

Well said. 

Pardon the diversion from the Maxwell book. But I really wanted to share my new story with you first. I’ve included an excerpt below with a link to download the full story in PDF format.

Altar Ego, an excerpt
(Download the complete story)

“So you’re not going to tell her?” asked Bentley. Vernon was studying himself in the mirror. He pressed the top of his head from different angles, tilting his face from side to side.

“Bentley,” he began, “I’ve thought about it long and hard.” He looked away from the mirror and into the eyes of his co-conspirator. A thick index finger emphasized his point. “She’s stopped me before. But she won’t stop me this time.”

Bentley sighed. “What time does she leave?”

“First thing Friday morning,” said Vernon. “My appointment’s at ten, so I plan on getting her up early and out the door. The sooner she’s out of the way, the better.”

“How long will she be gone?”

“Till sometime on Tuesday, plenty of time.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want her to know?” Bentley pressed. “This is kind of a big step. Do you really think it’s necessary?”

Without answering, Reverend Vernon Vanderwalker returned his attention to the mirror. Not bad for 54. A little beefy around the edges. But that wasn’t what bothered him. His biggest problem, the proverbial “thorn in his side,” was the barren patch of wasteland where his hair used to live. Maybe it was because of age or stress. Maybe it was due to some tragic case of heredity. Either way, Vernon’s head was as slick as a baby’s butt. He thought of the Old Testament, when the sins of the fathers were visited upon the future generations. “What kind of mess did my Daddy get himself into?” he wondered.

The problem had begun innocently enough above his forehead with a mild receding hairline. But over the years, time revealed its dastardly plan as Vernon’s youth eventually eroded to the fuzz on his neck. The process left nothing behind but a badland of desolation that stretched from ear to shining ear, bordered only by a few ghostly threads that simply forgot to die.

“It’s necessary,” he declared.

For years, he had hidden the problem artificially. But he grew tired of the hair by day, gone by night routine. He longed to wash his hair, not dry clean it. He was convinced this was the answer. This was how it had to be. Maybe it was a big step. But it would be worth it, especially when his wife came home from her sister’s to find a fresh-headed hunk of burning love to meet her at the door.

“Sarah hates that wig,” Vernon admitted. “And I simply refuse to stand behind the pulpit while those lights make pretty little shapes on the ceiling from the reflections off my head.”

Bentley studied the brochure Vernon had given him. It was full of the clinic’s most recent “success” stories. Flipping it onto the couch, he pondered how best to address his concerns. Finally, he decided on a delicate, tactful approach.

“Vernon, all those guys look like Chia-Pets.”

“Chia what?” Vernon picked up the brochure searching for his answer.

“Chia-Pets. . . . you know those things you. . . well, you add the water and . . .” Bentley saw this was going nowhere. Perhaps it was best to just be supportive. “Oh, never mind. Tell you what. If this is important to you, it’s important to me. So, who’s lined up to preach for you on Sunday?”

Vernon peered over the top of his glasses. Bentley was at least 5 years his senior yet had enough hair to bust a ball cap. As a pastor, Vernon had learned to lean on the counsel of his Deacon Chairman. In the last ten years, the two had seen tremendous growth in the once-dying congregation. With membership at an all-time high, their small country church was now growing at an unprecedented rate. But more than that, Vernon knew Bentley was a straight shooter, a man he could trust.

“What do you mean ‘preach for me’?” Vernon questioned. “What can’t I preach for me?”

Bentley’s worst fears had just been confirmed. He loved his pastor but also felt the need to protect him. For all the wonderful gifts God had given the man, common sense was not among them. It stood to reason in Bentley’s mind that aerating and seeding one’s scalp might require a brief time of recuperation. This thought had clearly not occurred to the man who’s head was soon to become a moving sod farm.

“Now Brother Vernon, I know it’s been a long time since you’ve missed a Sunday at this church.”

“Going on five years now!” Vernon interrupted. “And that’s a streak I don’t intend to break! I don’t care what you say.” Vernon stomped to his desk and sank into the large leather chair. As Bentley stood from the couch, Vernon marveled at how the man could sit for any length of time and not get wrinkles in his pants.

“Preacher,” Bentley began. With the utterance of the word, Vernon felt sick. The last time Bentley Bunch began a sentence with “Preacher,” it was to announce that Burl Simpson’s Billie goat had eaten the blanket right off of a live baby Jesus in the middle of last year’s nativity. This was of course very frightening for Jesus’ mother, who was refilling a small butane heater near the stable. She screamed loud enough to wake half the church cemetery, which was unfortunate because the poor goat was nervous and instantly fell over dead. It was never clear, however, if this death was due to the shock of the scream or from choking on the blanket.

In her haste to save her child, the woman broke the butane pipe’s connection, allowing gas to spill into the air. Of course in all the commotion, no one managed to notice the growing stench of gas, nor did they worry what might happen if that gas came in contact with an errant ember from the nearby bond fire. When the smoke finally cleared, the stable was a pile of ash. Two of the wise men were missing eyebrows, and Burl Simpson was out ten bales of hay, three chickens, and one nervous goat. Whatever Bentley had to say now would no doubt ruin Vernon’s day.

“Preacher, did the doctor explain to you exactly what you might expect from this procedure?”

“Yes,” Vernon shot back. “More hair.”

“No, I mean in terms of recovery.”

Vernon considered this. He seemed to recall the mention of “some general discomfort” and perhaps the need to “take it easy for a few days.” But that was it. At least, this was all he could remember. Bentley retrieved his glasses from the thick brown pouch wedged in his shirt pocket. He put them on and held the brochure at arm’s length before reading aloud:

“Some patients will experience moderate to severe discomfort in the days immediately following this procedure. Scalp will be extremely tender, as well as red and swollen. Patients should plan on limited to no activity for no less than four days.”

Vernon did the math. Not good. In earlier years, he would have run his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“What am I going to do?” he wondered aloud. “If I can’t preach Sunday, my cover is blown.” Then after a short pause, “No pun intended.” Bentley smiled, but more out of courtesy than amusement. Vernon began to absently flip the onion-skinned corner of a King James with his thumb. Bentley walked to the window and watched a squirrel find a nut.

“Vernon, I just think you’re going to have to fess up on this one. It ain’t like we’ve got two of you.” Suddenly, the flipping fell silent.

“What did you say?” Vernon demanded.

Thinking that hair might not be the only thing his pastor had lost, Bentley repeated louder, “I said you’re gonna have to fess up.”

“No, no. Not that. The other thing.”

“I said we ain’t got two of you.” Bentley turned to face Vernon, who leaped to his feet and began rummaging through his top desk drawer.

“That’s it! Man alive, Bentley Bunch. You beat all! You know that? There are two of me!” Bentley had the sudden urge to pray for the mental health of his pastor. He watched in disbelief as Vernon ripped through books and folders searching for something that was apparently as valuable as the holy grail itself – and just as elusive. “Got it!” Vernon finally thrust a slip of paper above his head in triumph.

“Got what?” Bentley wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.

“Bentley, sit back down. There’s something I need to tell you.” After ten minutes of revelation, Bentley Bunch sat stunned.

“Wait just a minute. You’re telling me that you have a twin brother?”

Vernon nodded yes.

“And he lives not three hours from this church?”

Again, yes.

“And you two look just alike?”

“Well, hang on there.” Vernon felt compelled to clarify. “I wouldn’t say that. Virgil doesn’t exactly carry my . . . ” He worked to find the appropriate word. “Presence.”

“But he looks like you?”

“You could say that. Yes.”

“And he sounds like you?”

“When he tries, he can sound more like me than I can.”

“And he’s a preacher too?”

“Unless he’s been excommunicated.”

Bentley took a moment to digest this information. It was all so much so fast. Questions began to spill out of his mouth. “But how come we’ve never seen him? How come we didn’t even know he existed? You’ve been here ten years, and you’ve never mentioned a twin brother?”

Vernon knew this wouldn’t be easy to explain. There was no great reason why he never mentioned his brother. It just never came up.

“Virgil is . . . ” Again, Vernon thought carefully about how best to describe his twin. “Virgil is just different. He and I have never been what you might call close.”

Bentley asked the next obvious question. “So what makes you think he’ll even come, then?” At this, Vernon seemed to drift back to some distant memory.

“See, when God handed out self confidence, I’m afraid I got the lion’s share. Poor Virgil was always kind of like a stow-away on the USS Vernon. It’s been like that ever since we were kids. When I played ball, Virgil played ball. When I went to work at Lutrell Hardware, Virgil went to work at Lutrell Hardware. When I became a minister . . .”
Bentley finished the statement. “Virgil became a minister.”

“Exactly.” Vernon snapped his fingers.

“OK. So let’s say he’ll do it. Do you honestly believe he could pretend to be you on Sunday morning and just go back home without anyone knowing?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Think about it, Bentley. Sarah’s gone to her sister’s. The only time I have to be anywhere between Friday and Tuesday is at that pulpit Sunday morning, a good 20 feet from the first pew. If Virgil can still do ‘me’ like he used to, most folks will never suspect a thing.”

“I don’t know, Vernon. This all just sounds like a bad idea to me.” In reality, it was undoubtedly the dumbest idea Bentley had ever heard.

“Oh, hogwash, Bentley! It’ll work. I’ll write the sermon. Virgil will preach it. It’s fool proof.”

The phrase “famous last words” came to Bentley’s mind. But in the end, he agreed to be a part of the “fool proof” plan, if for no other reason than out of morbid curiosity.

For more, download the complete story . . .