If I read the Bible correctly, I should be dead.
Several times in the Bible especially in Exodus, the writer states: “For six days shall work be done, but the seventh day is a sabbath of solemn rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on the sabbath day shall be put to death.” (Exodus 31:15).
In my 71 years of living, I have worked on many sabbaths/Sundays.
When I started working for our church, I worked on Sundays. I was responsible for opening and closing the building. That included the impossible interior climate control of temperatures. I say impossible because every church member has their own personal body thermostat.
In April of 2024, our church started an intense renovation project.
This project also had a tough completion deadline—August 23. Meeting this goal would allow our preschool to open on time.
Despite multiple internal “landmines” during the renovation, the contractor met the goal. I’m pretty sure God and his angels were sweating with us in those hectic final days.
In prepping for a renovation project, there is a monster lurking inside worn down church buildings. I call this beast— the catacombs clutter monster. From the top floor to the bowels of the basement, churches are experts in hoarding clutter.
Every storage room, every closet, every empty corner, every vacant room, backstage area, and mechanical room has clutter.
Congregations hoard this clutter because deep inside our personal catacombs, we believe that something from 1957 might find its way into service again in 2017. Sadly, we are resistant to clearing out clutter.
However, if this renovation was going to work, we had to remove the clutter.
Sometimes with complete transparency clutter landed in a dumpster.
Sometimes, the clutter found a good home outside the church’s walls.
Sometimes, a clandestine plan was developed, and clutter vanished into Richmond’s sweltering summer air.
Based upon the number of discarded coffee makers we found throughout our building, I’m certain the manufacturers of coffee makers love adult Sunday school classes. I imagine the Smithsonian could dedicate an entire exhibit to these hospitality contraptions.
And sometimes, there were exceptions to heaving items. Sorry, but my sympathetic heart would not allow me to callously toss multiple portraits of Jesus into a dumpster.
Fear factored into that decision.
Pinging in my conscience, I could hear the quivering questioning voice of an elderly widowed matriarch: “Where is that portrait of Jesus that my long gone Jimmy and I donated to the church in 1959?”
While I respect my elders, under the wrong set of circumstances, sweet looking matriarchs can become quite vicious.
Yet, as an imperfect Christian, many times in my life, I have thrown Jesus away.
I’m certain heavenly angels have a well-documented file of me tossing Jesus.
However, I think I could counter those heavenly defections by reflecting on the moments when despite a high degree of difficulty—Jesus didn’t toss me.
On this sabbath thing and getting rest, the Mayberry likeness of my youth in Burlington, North Carolina is basically dead and buried.
If I want a biscuit on Sunday morning, I can drive to a fast food chain and buy one.
If my car needs a windshield wiper, I can drive to an auto supply store and purchase one.
If I wanted to, I can even buy a new car on Sunday.
You get the idea, as a society we have already tossed the Sabbath. Sunday as a day of rest has vanished. Truthfully, declines in church attendance across America acknowledge that we are gradually tossing out Jesus too.
On the afternoon of Sunday, October 20, we held our fall festival on the grounds of our church. Contrary to Exodus 31:15, staff members, congregational volunteers, the technician who set up three bouncy houses, and the firefighters from Station #8 worked this event.
Several hundred people came out for this free happening of grilled hot dogs, bouncy houses, face painting, the gaga pit, a raffle, trunk or treat, a scavenger hunt in the pumpkin patch, and a fire truck.
Parents with their children in tow wandered through the displays. We depleted our supply of hotdogs, and every kid left with enough candy to make local dentist dream deliriously of dollars signs in the dazzling October sun.
Out of the blue, a young mother walked up to me. She asked me this thoughtful question: “How many times do you think children should be able to collect candy related to Halloween?”
I loved her question.
My answer was once, only on Halloween night.
Surprisingly, she agreed with me.
We talked further.
She made it clear that her family has not fallen into commercialization of Halloween. In other words, the front yard of their home hasn’t become a shrine for all things Halloween.
Additionally, we both bemoaned how Thanksgiving is becoming lost between the retail push for Halloween and Christmas.
At 5 p.m. this event will end. We’ll pat ourselves on the back about the size of the crowd.
Kindhearted volunteers will cleanup.
At some point they will all be gone.
I can secure the building, and go home.
I worked another Sabbath, and I’m still alive.
I haven’t been put to death yet.
Why is that?
Maybe, the answer is in an excerpt of an article that I recently read written by David Brooks in the July 26 volume of the The Week. Mr. Brooks wrote about “The secrets of late bloomers.”
When he was a lot younger, Mr. Brooks shares a question he asked of two of his mentors, William F. Buckley and Milton Friedman.
Mr. Brooks asked Buckley and Friedman, “if they ever felt completion, if they ever had a sense that they’d done their work and now they had crossed the finish line and could relax.”
Brooks wrote that he felt like “neither man even understood my question. They were never at rest, pushing for what they saw as a better society all the days of their lives.”
I am no scholar on Buckley and Friedman, but I was taken by Mr. Brooks’ concluding paragraph—“I’ve noticed this pattern again and again: Slow at the start, late bloomers are still sprinting during that final lap—they do not slow down as age brings decay. They are seeking. They are striving. They are in it with all their heart.”
Sabbath or no sabbath, my old heart isn’t ready to quit.
And while the good Lord might take me out tomorrow, I don’t think he wants you, me, we, us to quit.
Bloom late, don’t quit.
God and Jesus still need our hearts.
might be baloney 