Author: Bill Pike

Scripture 2 Timothy, Chapter 2 verses 1-7:

You then, my child, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus; 2 and what you have heard from me through many witnesses entrust to faithful people who will be able to teach others as well. 3 Share in suffering like a good soldier of Christ Jesus. 4 No one serving in the army gets entangled in everyday affairs; the soldier’s aim is to please the enlisting officer. 5 And in the case of an athlete, no one is crowned without competing according to the rules. 6 It is the farmer who does the work who ought to have the first share of the crops. 7 Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in all things.

Thanks Judy for your kind words.

I appreciate Laura Candler-White, our church organist, and Daniel Parks, our music director for their participation in this service.

That thanks also includes our acolytes, those of you in this Sanctuary, and anyone watching on-line at home. Additionally, thanks to the Trinity staff, and our Senior Pastor, Brian Siegle, who is running the technology.

I also want to say safe travels to the Hall family. They are making their annual drive to Missouri to be with relatives during Thanksgiving.

I volunteered to be here this evening. Maybe this gives a little break to our pastors Brian, Daniel, and Judy as they head into Advent.

A couple of reminders for you.

I’m not a theologian. I’m no expert on the Bible.

Quite simply, I’m a rapidly aging, grumpy geezer.

And for the next couple of hours, maybe, just maybe I might say something that will resonate with you as we take a look at Timothy, and a few verses of scripture about teachers, soldiers, athletes, and farmers.

But, let’s start with a prayer, let us pray: Father of us all, over the next few minutes touch our hearts. In your name we pray, Amen.

From the 1973 edition of the New Oxford Annotated Bible the Revised Standard Version, here are a few bits of information about Timothy.

Timothy was the son of a Greek father and a Jewish mother who had become Christian.

Timothy’s mother and grandmother raised him as a Christian.

Paul was looking for a helper in his missionary work when he visited Timothy’s hometown, Lystra, in present day Turkey. Clearly, this Christian upbringing helped Paul in the recruitment of Timothy.

In this Second Letter to Timothy, a veteran missionary wants Timothy to understand that endurance is a key quality of a preacher.

Additionally, Timothy is encouraged to rekindle the gift of God within him. The veteran missionary reminds Timothy not to be ashamed of witnessing for the Lord.

There are some indications that Timothy was overawed by his surroundings and did not make his witness boldly.

And finally, Timothy was advised to take his share of suffering as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

I wonder what Timothy thought about this advice.

I wonder what you, me, we, us think about this advice.

We might not see ourselves as soldiers of Jesus Christ, but we are familiar with the words endurance, rekindle, ashamed, witness, and suffering.

Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not a bold witness for Jesus Christ.

It would be very uncharacteristic of me to walk up to a person or a group of people, and shout out:

Hey, you bunch of heathens, as a Christian, I’m here to tell you that you must quickly rekindle your endurance for following the teachings of Jesus Christ because if you don’t, there’s a whole heap of suffering headed your way.

And yet, I’m drawn to the seven verses in second Timothy chapter two because of these words— teacher, soldier, athlete, and farmer.

Like Timothy, our national holiday of Thanksgiving has become overawed by the commercial rise of Halloween and Christmas. But if you really think about Thanksgiving, farmers are the key. No farmers, no Thanksgiving.

What might we learn from farmers about endurance and suffering as they work through the challenges of a difficult growing season?

At some point over this Thanksgiving weekend, we will probably be drawn to the athletes who play college or professional football.

From this chapter of Timothy, verse five reminds us:
“And in the case of an athlete, no one is crowned without competing according to the rules.”

As fearsome as the football warriors might look on the field, their thinking can become internally fragile. In these frail, weak moments, these athletes can place themselves in unwise situations where they fail to compete by the rules of life or the rules of the game. In those circumstances, there is no crowning.

What might we learn from athletes who fail for not following the rules?

With regard to soldiers, I’m drawn to an intense scene from the movie Saving Private Ryan.

Captain John Miller, played by Tom Hanks, and his soldiers have been given orders to find Private James Frances Ryan. Private Ryan’s three brothers have already been killed in the war.

This mission is to find Private Ryan and send him back home.

After a fierce encounter with a German unit, Captain Miller faces an emotional and out of line pushback from one of his soldiers over this mission to find Private Ryan.

In this pushback, the personalities of his men erupt all around Captain Miller. The language is vile. Weapons are drawn and pointed. Threats are made. Captain Miller’s men plead with him to intervene to stop this unsafe chaos.

Finally, Captain Miller quietly asks one of his men, “What’s the pool up to on me now?”

Captain Miller’s men have been trying to determine his profession prior to joining the Army. The pool amount is up to $300.00.

With that distracting question, the tenseness of this moment is broken. Captain Miller reveals to his men that he was a high school English teacher and baseball coach in a small town in Pennsylvania.

What might we learn from soldiers who struggle to understand the reasoning behind their orders?

For a few minutes, let’s take a brief detour to watch a scene from the movie Mr. Holland’s Opus.

In this scene, two teachers, who are friends have a conversation about a student:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ad5pKiflwew

In this scene, Glenn’s fellow teacher Bill is looking for understanding.

He can’t understand why Glenn can’t teach his star wrestler, Lou Russ, to play a musical instrument.

I’m not sure about you, but for me, in that scene the path to understanding pivots off these words—“then you’re a lousy teacher.”

I wonder if anyone ever said to Jesus—“you’re a lousy teacher.”

At this very moment, when Jesus looks down upon us, I wonder how he might evaluate our current teaching skills. He might ask:

Bill, are you able to teach others about grace?
Bill, do you understand the endurance it takes for people to survive living in difficult environments?
Bill, do you understand their suffering?
Bill, when are you going to enter this game and compete?

Timothy is given a lot to think about in Chapter Two, but the last verse states:
“Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in all things.”

Isn’t that part of what we are all searching for in life— a bit of understanding?

In David Halberstam’s book October 1964, Mr. Halberstam takes a behind the scenes look at the New Yankees and the St. Louis Cardinals and the season that leads the teams into the World Series.

In the final seventh game of the series, the Cardinals win.

At the end of the game, the reporters want to understand why the Cardinal’s manager, Johnny Keane, left his starting, but worn out pitcher, Bob Gibson, in the game to finish the ninth inning.

Johnny Keane tells the reporters: “ I had a commitment to his heart.”

In the magazine The Week, I recently read about author, Sophie Kinsella. This 54 year old mother of five has terminal cancer.

“Every morning, her husband reads the papers and delivers a cup of tea along with a hopeful story about someone who’s beating the odds on a grim diagnosis. From this routine, Kinsella states, “ I really want to be someone else’s story of hope.”

“ A commitment to his heart and some else’s story of hope,” are powerful human reflections.

However, the question remains for me—am I a good soldier?

Am I a good soldier depends upon my heart.

Is my heart grounded in the teachings of Jesus?

Can my heart offer hope to the people who are lost and struggling to find their way in life?

From my non-theological brain, I sense any chance I have at understanding the pep talk that Timothy has been given lies in these familiar words from John 15 verse 12: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

In this very challenging and difficult world to be a good soldier, I must find the capacity to love the people I encounter on my walk through life.

This includes people who don’t look like me, act like me, or think like me.

And this requires me to love 365 days a year. I can’t opt out to love these people only during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

On the afternoon of Saturday, November 16, I was starting my second day in my annual battle with the leaves in our yard.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, came out into the backyard, and said to me, “If you are looking for something else to do, you could trim back the butterfly bush.”

I responded, “I’m not looking for something else to do.”

She laughed and said, “But, I know you are.”

Deep in his heart, Jesus has something for us to do.

He needs us to be graceful, strong soldiers, athletes, and farmers whose hearts can teach a world full of battered and weary people that hope can be found in love.

My clock is ticking. I turn 72 in June.

I’m overdue to be a good soldier.

How about you?

Benediction

As we prepare to head out of here this evening, if you have college students at home—enjoy the laundry.

If your in-laws are visiting your home—pray harder.

Whatever your plans are for tomorrow, I hope you and your family have a good, healthy, and safe Thanksgiving.

And don’t forget the pep talk for Timothy.

Somewhere in your life:

There was a patient teacher who never gave up on you.

The farmer you never met who harvested your food.

The athlete who played by the rules and was crowned.

A soldier who courageously sacrificed to preserve your freedom.

And most importantly, don’t forget Jesus.

He needs our hearts to find the beat just like Lou Russ did.

That beat is a heartbeat, a heartbeat committed to love one another beyond the walls of Trinity.

Now go in peace.

Author’s note: I had the privilege of speaking at the Thanksgiving Eve Service at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on the evening of Wednesday, November 27. I’ve included for you a link for the scene we used from the movie, Mr. Holland’s Opus. From the original movie, this scene is called Challenged. It features Bill and Glenn playing chess on Glenn’s porch. The clip is just under five minutes. If the technology fails, I hope you can find it on-line and view it. Happy Thanksgiving, be safe, love, Bill Pike

On the afternoon of Monday, November 4, I made sure that Trinity Hall was ready for the precinct volunteers.

At 4:30, they were coming to set up the hall the way it needed to be for election day.

I had six tables and twelve chairs out.

This would be the first presidential voting that had been held at our church since we became the precinct for the Rollingwood neighborhood in western Henrico County, Virginia.

On Tuesday morning, I had to have the building open by five. That gave the precinct volunteers an hour to make sure everything was ready for the voters at six to enter Trinity Hall to cast their votes.

I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking about what would happen if I overslept.

Just before five, I had the building open.

Since this was my voting precinct, I opened up my office. I checked emails, and shuffled through some papers.

A few minutes before six, I went back down to Trinity Hall. I walked outside and joined the line with other early voters.

It wasn’t long before I was checked in. I was directed to a voting booth.

I carefully marked my ballot. Next, I walked a few steps and inserted my ballot into the machine that recorded my vote.

Then I made the two block drive to our home.

With a temperature of 56 degrees, I decided it was a good morning to go for a run. I always jot down in my running journal the current weather conditions from the Richmond airport.

On most mornings, the visibility is ten miles. Today, the visibility was 0.25 miles. Fog covered the east end of the county.

A gray overcast ceiling hovered just above the tree tops in Rollingwood.

Back on Sunday morning, November 3, I went for a run. I was sluggish. It was like my legs and brain were out of sync. I wanted to turn back.

By body didn’t want to go. I kept trying to nudge it out of this resistance. Some of that reluctance might have been because the last day that I had gone for a run was on October 20.

But on this important Tuesday morning, my body was more cooperative. My route would be to run the 5K course that starts at our church. I ran the course in a reverse sequence.

It was a damp morning. The humidity reading was 97%. A calm wind allowed for a coat of stilled moisture on every surface.

A palette of autumnal colors from the tree leaves temporarily replaced the sun on this gray day.

I wondered how America would be on Wednesday morning. I hoped that we would not be dealing with post-election turmoil.

For a long, long, long, long time America has been struggling.

Without doubt, we are facing multiple challenges within our borders, and troubling challenges outside our borders too.

Regardless of those challenges, and regardless of who becomes our president, it is foolish the amount of money that has been spent on this election.

National Public Radio was one of multiple news outlets that reported these findings from Open Secrets, a group that tracks election spending.

For the 2024, federal election, Open Secrets estimates that nearly $16 billion was spent. Four years ago, the amount was $15 billion.

I’m sorry, but $16 billion spent on an election is wrong.

How can we fail to see this?

But, there is something worse than the $16 billion.

Through the manipulation of fear, misinformation, and complete neglect for the truth, the Grand Old Party’s presidential candidate has eroded the dignity and integrity for the office of president in our country.

Why can’t we see this?

I’m a flawed and imperfect human being.

America is a flawed and imperfect democracy.

Jon Meacham is a Pulitzer Prize winning author and historian. During a lecture at the College of William and Mary in April 2024, Meacham stated: “If democracy were easy, everybody would be doing it.” (W&M Alumni Magazine Fall 2024)

At this stage of my life as a rapidly aging and excessively grumpy old geezer, I think Mr. Meacham is correct—there is nothing easy about a democracy.

And yet, I also believe at this moment, the heart of the shortcomings of our democracy are captured in this quote from Helen Keller: “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”

I wonder if we are capable of regaining our vision to find and live the last six words from President Lincoln’s first inaugural address—“the better angels of our nature.”

With regard to our democracy and America, I pray our divided souls find “the better angels of our nature.”

RICHMOND TIMES-DISPATCH THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2024|A9

OPINIONS

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Tweaking accreditation won’t help students in need

I recently read in the Richmond Times-Dispatch Del. Mike Cherry’s Oct. 10 op-ed, “Why is school accountability so political?” This piece is about the new accreditation standards for our public schools in Virginia.

Accreditation standards have always been political. Truth be told, accreditation standards will most likely remain political unless we are willing to end our destructive legislative division.

When changes like this are made, I want to know if teachers, testing administrators, parents and students were asked to offer input. After all, they wrestle with accreditation every school year.
But what I really want to know is who is looking at the data that captures what life is like for an unsuccessful student in a nonaccredited school?

How different might that student’s academic performance look if this student had access to quality mental and physical health, non-substandard housing, family stability, proper nutrition, a school environment conducive to learning, and teachers who were respected and supported within the school system and the community.

Sure, every four years in Virginia a new governor and our political parties can continue to burn energy and time to change the accreditation standards to their liking. Unfortunately, tweaking accreditation standards is not going to solve the vicious generational cycles of community neglect.

We are overdue to confront and break those cycles. Failure to analyze and understand the needs of our students and their families in these difficult community environments guarantees less academic achievement.

I believe our Virginia legislators should take a field trip to the Virginia Museum of History & Culture. They should take in the exhibit about Booker T. Washington and Julius Rosenwald. Their unyielding teamwork allowed for the development of 4,978 schools across America. Virginia’s students, parents and teachers need that type of teamwork, not our current political bickering.

Bill Pike. Henrico.

Note from author: I was honored to have this letter published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch today Thursday, November 14, 2024.

I did not serve my country in military service.

Yet, for many years, I have developed a deep respect for our Veterans.

If I notice an older gentleman wearing a hat proclaiming their service in a branch of our military, I make a point of stopping to thank this man for his dedication.

In those brief seconds, the response is a humble smile and thank you.

I also note license plates that indicate a range of links to serving in the military. If I see Bronze Star or Purple Heart, I’m curious about the story behind this recognition.

With a Veteran, there is always a story. Quite often, the Veteran has little desire to share those stories.

My mother’s brother, Sam, was a tail gunner in World II. He was assigned to a bomber, the B-24. I was never allowed to ask Sam anything about his military time. I’ve read enough historical accounts about what those bombing missions were like to understand the reluctance to talk about those perilous flights over enemy territory.

This past year, I had the privilege to make a second visit to Pearl Harbor and the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific at the Punchbowl in Honolulu, Hawaii. Both places put into perspective, the horrors of war.

Additionally in May, my wife and I on our visit to New Orleans spent a day exploring and learning at the National World War II Museum. Every square inch of this museum was worthy of our time.

This quote from Private First Class Harry Parley, 116th Infantry Regiment, U. S. 29th Division caught my attention about D-Day and Omaha Beach: “As our boat touched sand and the ramp went down, I became a visitor to hell. I shut everything out and concentrated on following the men in front of me down the ramp and into the water.”

I can’t imagine the hell these young men experienced.

In July, I and three pals from college traveled to Oshkosh, Wisconsin for the Experimental Aircraft Association annual air show and convention.

If you like airplanes, this is where you want to be. If it has wings and an engine, chances are that plane will be at Oshkosh. Annually, the airfields host 600,000 visitors and10,000 airplanes.

Many organizations and private individuals have worked diligently to restore and maintain planes from the World War II era.

One morning at breakfast, my friend Dan Callow and I had the privilege of talking with two of the Veterans who were part of the crew for one of the two B-29 bombers at the show. You might recall that the B-29 was the plane used to drop the atomic bomb on Japan.

I could have stayed for hours and peppered those two Veterans about their experiences flying the B-29. Knowing they had a full day of activities ahead of them, we thanked them for their service, and wished them well.

As respectful and appreciative as I am of our Veterans, I know many of them face challenges in their current day to day living.

For example, “the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development(HUD) estimates that 40,056 Veterans are homeless on any given night. Only 7% of the general population can claim veteran status, but nearly 13% of the homeless adult population are veterans.” (National Coalition for Homeless Veterans)

Mental health is another concern for Veterans.

Consider this data from an article appearing in The Conversation on November 7, 2024: “America’s military veterans make up about 6% of the adult population, but account for about 20% of all suicides. That means that each day, about 18 Veterans will die by suicide. In the U.S., the overall rate of suicide has largely increased since the start of the millennium, but Veterans are disproportionately represented among this tragic trend.”

Homelessness and death by suicide lead me to this quote from James Bradley’s book Flyboys.

Veteran Rowdy Dow, who was a gunner in a torpedo bomber, told author Bradley the following: “If we had given in to our fears, we wouldn’t have won that war. There were no replacements out there. Our country was depending on us and we were all ready to die for our country. There was a job to do. We did it.”

I’m not sure about your feelings, but I feel we have an obligation to support and take care of our Veterans. They were willing to die for America. They did their jobs. Why can’t we be better in meeting their housing and mental health needs?

I’m one lucky man.

Because of the sacrifices of the women and men who have served our country, I’ve been able to freely travel to Honolulu, New Orleans, and Oshkosh.

I cherish those trips with family and friends.

But since returning from New Orleans, I periodically go back and look at photos I took while at the National World War II Museum.

Inscribed on a large cut piece of stone, I keep coming back to this quote from Dwight Eisenhower: “Humility must always be the portion of any man who receives acclaim earned in the blood of his followers and the sacrifices of his friends.”

On this Veterans Day, and those in the years ahead, I pray we will never forget the humble humility of the countless sacrifices made by our Veterans to preserve our freedoms.

Too frequently and foolishly, we take these sacrifices and our freedoms for granted.

You, me, we, us can’t disregard humility.

“Humility must always be” an essential “portion” of our character.

Leaders who lack humility are blind to the struggles of real life.

And one last gentle reminder—any day is a good day to stop and thank our Veterans.

At 2227 West Front Street, in Burlington, fur, feathers, and fins were scarce. In our household, when my sister and I were growing up, we had no long term pets.

That absence was a holdover from when our parents were growing up. For my mother, it was surviving a journey from Mississippi to North Carolina after her father deserted his wife and their three children.

My father’s family was a different type of survival. He was one of ten children whose parents miraculously made a living as tenant farmers in Alamance and Guilford counties.

I sense shelter, food, and clothing were the essentials that my grandparents held as a priority for their children, not kittens and puppies.

Yes, I do remember short timers on West Front Street. From the circus at the Greensboro Coliseum, my father purchased me a small turtle.

At some point, I had a chameleon. I kept him in a homemade terrarium in a shoebox. Once I pinched the tip of his tail with the top. My mother told me the tip would grow back. I think the chameleon died before the tip returned.

One spring, a handcrafted cage arrived in the backyard. A few days later, my sister was the proud owner of white rabbit.

Then there was a day when the bunny slipped out of the cage while being fed. In the uncertain chaos that followed, lots of coaxing took place to get the stubborn rabbit back into its home.

Neighbors around us had dogs. I remember Maverick, Brownie, and Penny.

A few times, I was the dog sitter for Brownie when our neighbors were out of town.

As it turns out, my sister and her husband who reside in Snow Camp are the animal lovers. My sister’s childhood love of horses continued. Over the years, she has owned and cared for several. Her knowledge and skills are impressive, and everyone of these beautiful horses has a story.

Chickens are a part of their farm landscape too. I’ve heard the stories about sly black snakes sleuthing for eggs, red tailed hawks skydiving on an unsuspecting hen, and the carnage left from a neighbor’s roaming dog who attacked when no one was at home.

My real introduction to pets came from my wife’s family. I still recall meeting their Cape Cod black lab, Joshua. What I took away from our first meeting was that Josh had more energy than anything powered by an Energizer battery. Josh exuded an exuberant excitement like greeting a long lost friend.

Also, in this household was a huge black and white cat named Kiwi. During Christmas visits, the bedroom where my wife and I slept had a trundle bed. Unknown to me that trundle bed was a favorite sleeping place for Kiwi. One night, I woke to hear what sounded like human footsteps trudging across the carpet. I looked down to see Kiwi walking toward the bedroom door.

Turns out my father-in-law had a soft heart for all creatures. There might have been one exception to that affection, a beagle named George.

At some point during George’s tenure with the family, he thought it would be a good idea to urinate on my father-in-law’s foot. Not long after that irrigation, George found a new home with the milkman.

When my wife and I started our family, we occasionally had conversations about pets. From my childhood experience, I politely held to no dogs and cats. Goldfish and a few hermit crabs mingled with our three children during their youth. When our children asked about having a cat or dog, my standard line to them was “when you’re 21, out on your own, you can have whatever pet you want.” To this date, none of them have any pets.

Now, I don’t want you to think I’m an anti-pet person. I appreciate the joy pets bring into families. But, I’ve also seen the wear and tear. Veterinarian bills, putting a beloved family friend down when the cherished pet becomes incapacitated, and the hopeless fear when a pet goes missing and never returns.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed hearing pet stories at the dinner table shared by friends and neighbors.

Our across the street neighbors, Barbara and David tell a good story about a former dog, Dwayne. Dwayne learned how to jump their backyard fence. He also knew how to navigate the city streets to where Barbara’s parents lived.

One day, Dwayne showed up at her parents house with two unopened packs of dinner rolls. Clever Dwayne figured out access to the dumpster at the A&P grocery store on the way.

Another neighbor tells the harrowing story of how a maintenance worker at the University of Richmond saved their cherish dog from drowning in the university’s lake. The dog had become entangled with a drain pipe.

Over the years, I’ve learned that pets are similar to humans. Sometimes, they just need a bit of attention.

Etched in my memory forever is a former neighbor’s yellow lab. On pretty fall afternoons, when I was in the heat of my annual battles with leaves, Zip would wander into our yard with his slobber covered tennis ball.

Zip wanted to play. He’d drop the ball at my feet. With my gloved hand, I’d pick it up and toss the worn ball a few yards away. Even though Zip was aging, he would scurry off and bring the ball back every time.

Despite pets never being a permanent part of my life, they offer something that has become a rarity in our often divided, impatient, and selfish world—loyalty.

That bond, that loyalty between a pet and its owner is “a sight to behold” as Gomer noted when admiring a car on the Andy Griffith Show.

From my no pets experience, I wonder if my take away is this—might our world improve if we could become more loyal to each other, especially on those days when everything goes wrong.

Author’s note: This piece was submitted to the essay contest for O. Henry magazine. I was notified today(11/6/24) that the piece didn’t make the cut. Internally, I knew these ramblings had no chance, but I enjoyed trying.

Let’s start with the confession. I have not read any of Doris Kearns Goodwin’s books.

But after attending the Weinstein-Rosenthal Forum on the evening of Monday, October 7 at the University of Richmond, before I croak I will read her books.

Author Goodwin’s four books about “her guys”—Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, and Lyndon Johnson have forever placed her as the extraordinary storyteller of the lives of these unique American presidents.

For over an hour, she handled every question from former University of Richmond president, Ed Ayers, who served as the moderator.

A fast talker, Mrs. Goodwin explained why her books have been so successful—she knows how to tell the stories that formed the lives of her subjects. She answered with transparency, grace, dignity, respect, humor, deep thought, and personal anecdotes about her focused research and writing on these presidents.

The Steven Spielberg movie, Lincoln, is based upon Goodwin’s book, The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln. She took the audience on a brief, but insightful walk into how the movie was developed from a behind the scenes perspective.

Throughout the interview, Mrs. Goodwin gave the audience lots to ponder. She easily transitioned on topics from the past to the present.

She cited examples of leadership from each president. And it was very clear that each man possessed a dogged determination and endurance to lead America.

Without any hesitation, Mrs. Goodwin said that “empathy and humility” are essential leadership traits that are sorely absent in many of America’s political candidates today.

And despite the internal and world challenges that America now faces, Mrs. Goodwin still has hope for our country.

Her hope is grounded in her study of our history.

She reminded the audience that America persevered through the challenges of the Civil War, the Great Depression, World War II, our struggles with racial injustices and the Vietnam War.

I agree with Mrs. Goodwin that we persevered. However in my 71 years of living, I have never been so concerned about the internal instability of our imperfect America.

In the movie, Lincoln, there is an intense scene where President Lincoln is working to secure two votes for the 13th Amendment to abolish slavery.

Around a table, emotionally charged statements and questions are rapidly fired at him from Preston Blair, James Ashley, and Montgomery Blair.

In the midst of this verbal fury, Mr. Lincoln slams his hand down on the table. For a few seconds, the room becomes quiet.

Then, Mr. Lincoln launches his own passionate points countering their objections.

Screenwriter, Tony Kushner’s words in that scene are compelling. I’m reminded of America’s current political situation, when Mr. Lincoln states: “See what is before you, see the here and now, that’s the hardest thing, the only thing that accounts.”

Our empathy and humility have been blindsided by our political division. I fear we are incapable of seeing what is currently before us. Our ailment, our nonstop political bickering, prevents us from seeing the urgency of our here and now.

Why is it so hard for us to see that these political liabilities can potentially lead to a complete downfall of America?

Is this what we want for our children and grandchildren?

Monday night, I could hear in Mrs. Goodwin’s voice that hope has not departed her soul.

With hurricanes pounding our shores, a perilous November election rapidly approaching, and troubling turmoil throughout the world, it would be easy to abandon hope and let doom and gloom sink our hearts.

Yet, my old heart hopes that we, Americans, will do the hardest thing— regain our sight with empathy and humility so that we can see the “here and now of what is before us.”

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.

The renovation project at our church started in April of 2024.

This was an early start designed to give the HVAC contractor an edge in the preliminary work for the complicated new system.

That jump start also included the abatement company. Their personnel would be tearing out cantankerous ceilings, floors, and properly following safety protocols for anything with the dreaded “a” word—asbestos.

A project with an extremely tight time line for a completion date needs every advantage related to how the clock ticks.

Despite a carefully designed plan by all participants, in an old building it is always the unexpected surprises that are found when the layers are peeled away.

Those unexpected surprises create heartburn. With this project, we had our share of days with high antacid intake.

At our home, I started a seemingly easy project—removing the paint on two exterior doors. Clearly, I guessed wrong on the degree of difficulty scale. Every swipe with the sander, and every rub with the chemical stripper revealed another coat of paint.

As of yesterday, the doors are finally bare enough for a coat of primer.

Back in the summer, my wife traveled to Peoria, Illinois. She spent a few days visiting with two dear friends from high school—Leslie and Sarah.

Knowing that I like to read, Leslie’s husband, Dave, sent back a book for me. If Dave knew that I read books at the pace of a slug, he might not have given the book to Betsy to bring back to Richmond.

For several weeks, I’ve been plodding through The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben. Mr. Wohlleben is a German forester. Let me tell you—he knows his trees.

Also, let me tell you, trees might look simple in our day to day viewing of them, but trees are complicated. Beyond their bark, limbs, and leaves, trees are as complex and nuanced as our human bodies. Their resilience to weather, animals, and invaders of all types is amazing.

Even though I dread my annual battle with the fallen leaves in our yard, I love the month of October. At some point in October, we start to notice the green of our tree leaves changing into dazzling colors.
Yellow, orange, red, and assorted shades of brown like cocoa powder always capture my attention. Cast against a crisp blue sky there is nothing like an October daydream.

I wonder if Jesus was captured by October?

In his world was the changing of the seasons as significant as they are for us in the middle Atlantic states?

I wonder if pumpkins grew in the farmland that Jesus and his disciples passed as their feet carried from town to town?

I wonder what he might think about Halloween?

This is the time of the year when the pace of the remaining days of the calendar move quicker.

In a blink, January 2025 will be here.

With all that is swirling around in our chaotic world, there are days I wonder if we will still be here for the start of a new year?

On the evening of Monday, October 7, my wife and I attended the Weinstein-Rosenthal Forum at the University of Richmond. The forum is a focus on faith, ethics, and global society. The guest was Doris Kearns Goodwin. Mrs. Godwin is a writer, and author of books about four unique American presidents: Abraham Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, and Lyndon Johnson.

In the course of answering questions, the moderator, former University of Richmond President, Ed Ayers, noted that Mrs. Goodwin still has hope in these turbulent times.

Mrs. Goodwin stated that her hope is found in our history. She noted that despite the difficulties America faced with the Civil War, the Great Depression, World War II, racial injustice, and the Vietnam War, we persevered.

It can be a challenge to peel back the layers of an old building, the internal workings of a tree, our history, and the pressure and stress of our day to day living.

Perhaps, the biggest challenge we face is peeling back the layers of our hearts.

For it is in our hearts where we wrestle with the layers of life.

We wrestle with everything in our hearts—good, bad, right, wrong, yes, no, family, friends, neighbors, and strangers.

Sometimes, it is our hearts that give us the resilience to persevere.

As we peel back the layers of our complicated hearts, my hope for you, me, we, us is that our hearts will help us to persevere with empathy and humility.

And I wonder during the course of a year, a month, a week, a day how often do I fail my heart when empathy and humility are absent in my living?

In those moments, I must nudge myself to remember the words from 1 Samuel 16:7. It’s not about peeling back the layers of my outward appearance. No, it’s all about what the Lord sees as he looks at my old heart.

At this stage of my life, I think I need to stop disappointing his heart.

Once a month, on a Wednesday morning, my car still smells like pizza.

That’s because on Sunday or Monday, I place an on-line order for pizzas.

Then on Tuesday afternoon, I drive over to Sparrow’s Pizza to pick them up. Sparrow’s Pizza is about the size of a matchbox.

Mr. Sparrow greets me as I walk in the door, and the pizzas are always ready. One of his friendly employees, usually a student from Virginia Commonwealth University, will carry the six boxes of pizza out to my car.

Once a month at WayGone Brewery, our church offers Pub Theology. The pizzas are a part of that gathering.

In 2016, we started this beyond the walls of the church offering at Ardent Craft Ales in Scotts Addition in Richmond.

At some point, COVID shut us down.

When COVID retreated, we brought Pub Theology back.

This time we met at Kindred Spirit Brewery in Goochland County. We met there for a year.

And when we learned that WayGone was going to open on Patterson Avenue in Henrico County, we reached out to the owners to see if they might be willing to let Pub Theology meet there. Fortunately for us, the owners were willing.

The idea for Pub Theology was stolen.

My family and I were in Snow Camp, North Carolina for Easter. We were staying at the home of my sister and her husband. On Friday and Saturday, we had been prepping for our traditional Pike family lunch gathering on Easter Sunday.

That Sunday morning, some of us were able to attend worship services at Haw River United Methodist Church.

In their packed sanctuary, the church’s minister welcomed everyone. She quickly talked about upcoming activities at the church. One program caught my ears. She invited the congregation to join her for Pints With The Pastor.

Pints With The Pastor took place at the Eddy Pub just across the Haw River from the church. The pastor billed the gathering as an opportunity to talk.

Intrigued, I brought the idea back to our church. Our senior pastor at the time, Larry Lenow, did his homework. He discovered that a pastor from the Midwest had authored a book, Pub Theology. The book was an accounting of conversations he had with people in assorted watering holes over the years.

When we launched Pub Theology at Ardent Craft Ales, our game plan was simple. Even today, we use the same template: the program is open to our congregation and anyone curious at the brewery, we offer pizza, ask for a five dollar donation toward offsetting the cost of the pizza, attendees are responsible for their beverage purchase, we eat and converse, and at the appropriate time, a staff member presents a topic for discussion.

In working with the brewery, they reserve us a meeting spot in the taproom. We always aim for Tuesday evenings. Tuesdays are usually a lighter day at craft breweries. Additionally, the brewery charges us no fee for the reserved space, and we promise not to strong-arm anyone about our church.

Because people have packed calendars, our attendance is a roller coaster. Some Tuesdays, we are below ten in attendance. Other times, we run out of pizza.

In our post-COVID revival of Pub Theology, our programs have been diverse. We’ve screened an episode of the Andy Griffith Show, discussed Bible verses with today’s headlines, pondered the lyrics of popular songs, discussed books, and interviewed special guests from our community.

Back on August 13, we had a special guest for our Community Conversation interview at Pub Theology. Our Bishop for the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church, Sue Haupert Johnson, joined us.

Over thirty people from our church attended. Bishop Sue was delightful. She even allowed me to buy her a beer. Who knows that might become a good working title for a country song— “Hey Preacher Let Me Buy You A Beer.”

One of the key pieces of our Pub Theology program has been the hospitality of the personnel at the brewery. No matter where we have met, the staff of each brewery has been outstanding. They have been accommodating and flexible.

And, I can say the same for our regulars who attend Pub Theology. If we’ve had some curious onlookers join us, our regulars have been quick to make them feel welcome.

I don’t know how much longer we will continue to offer Pub Theology.

And in truth, I’m not real clear on what keeps people coming back—maybe, its the scrumptious Sparrow’s pizza.

Perhaps, it is our program content. We work hard to present something different each month.

And yet, the more I ponder Pub Theology, I keep coming back to a couple of observations.

I sense people are drawn to the setting. At a craft brewery, they aren’t confined by the formality of church walls.

That informality allows our pub theologers to more deeply share in the conversations and discussions we have during the evening.

Ultimately, that sharing gives our hearts the opportunity to grow and learn.

And on those Wednesday mornings when the aroma of pizza lingers in my car, I travel back to Tuesday evening.

I think to myself— that was fun.

I probe further—why was it enjoyable?

Well, my takeaway is grounded in this: our shared fellowship, opens our hearts a bit, and when our hearts open, we learn about ourselves, but more importantly, our hearts learn from each other.

Those moments when our hearts share and learn are priceless in the chaos of today’s world.

I am no expert at running.

A long time ago, I subscribed to Runner’s World magazine. I never read the magazine in great detail. What I learned about running came from experiences and the wisdom of friends.

My friend, Bruce Bowen, a former successful Cross Country coach at Hermitage High School put together my training for the Richmond Marathon. It was a good plan. While I barely made it to the finish line, I would have never crossed that finish line without Bruce’s help.

I’m dreading the day when what’s left of my old body conveys to me, “Sorry, Bill, but the working parts of your body have decided that we can’t take you out for a run any more.”

When that day happens, my cherished early morning runs will end, and I expect I will cry.

Over the last few years, I’ve stopped running long distances. I keep enough of a base so that I could sign up and run a 5K, a mere 3.1 miles.

I look for 5Ks that support a good cause.

On the afternoon of Thursday, September 26, my Commander Supreme drove us out to the Hardywood Brewery in Goochland County. The Dominion Energy Charity Classic had a 6 p.m. start time.

With this 5K, individuals could sign up to run/walk for a favorite local nonprofit. I signed up to represent Home Again. I’m proud to say that Home Again finished third in the number of participants who signed up for the 5K. Home Again does good work in helping individuals overcome homelessness.

I rarely go for an afternoon run. I can only think of one other time when I ran in a 5K with a late afternoon start. But here I was in the starting area, awaiting instructions for the beginning of the race.

The Hardywood Brewery is a pretty site for the 5K. My architect friend, Rohn Price, and his team really did a nice job designing the facility and its grounds. The entire place is very user friendly.

I timed my entry into the start area so that I would not be waiting a long time for the beginning of the race. I was ready to go.

I had no concerns about what appeared to be a gently rolling course. No, my concern was the heavy air.

Just as the 5K was about to start, the dew point was 72 and the humidity 85%. That was some heavy, damp air for a run.

Right on time, we moved across the start line. The beginning is always sluggish as walkers and runners are maneuvering finding their space, stride, and pace.

Eventually, the course opens up, and I’m slogging along.

The course is a loop on the main road into the West Creek Business Park. Numerous Richmond based corporations have their headquarters on these pretty parcels of land. Well landscaped and maintained, the route has a natural flow to it.

With officers from the Goochland Sheriff’s department at key points on the route, participants don’t need to worry about a clueless driver intruding.

It doesn’t take long for my old body to respond to the heavy air. Within the first mile, I’m sweating. The further I go, the more I drip.

Some runners adjusted to this smothering air by doing a combination of running and walking. I’m managing my pace and trying not to let this wet blanket of air wear me down.

At the water stop, I do my usual routine: grab a cup, rinse out my dry mouth, and then I take a swallow of the water before tossing the cup into the trash can.

I keep pushing.

I pass the two mile sign.

It seems like I will never reach the three mile sign, but I do.

Seeing that sign, my old sack of bones silently cheers, and my legs push me up the hill toward the finish line.

After crossing the finish line, with hesitancy, I took the medal I was offered. All finishers received one.

I worked my way to a patio where the Commander was sitting at a table enjoying a glass of wine. I grabbed a cup and filled it up with water. She snapped a photo of me, and I sat down for a few minutes.

At the bottom of my bib number was a tear off strip. This strip entitled me to a free beer. So, I gingerly removed the strip and ordered a Farmhouse Pumpkin Ale.

Before leaving, we saw our church friend, Ashley Marshall. She talked about the challenges from the heavy water laden air too.

Then, the Commander and I started our walk back to the car.

There I covered my seat with a towel. Next, I peeled off my wet shirt and put on a dry one.

And, I thought to myself, “thanks old bones for getting me across the finish line.”

But, I also thought, thanks to Dominion Energy for putting together the 5K, and for the staff at Home Again, and all of their work with the homeless.

And I looked at me, and thought how lucky I am, we’re driving home to our house, and I’ve never been homeless.

Part II: More Water

Little did I know that another encounter with water would greet me on Friday morning at Trinity.

At 8:15, on Friday, September 27, I had to meet installers to finish window treatments for the nearly completed renovation project.

As I was walking down the brick sidewalk from the church office, I heard water, lots of water.

I looked to my right, and in the corner of the Bicentennial Garden, water was pouring out of a sprinkler system pipe.

I met the installers, got them into the building.

Then I hustled back to the gushing water. The water was a couple of inches deep in the rock boarder next to the foundation.

I learned a long time ago that water has a mind of its own. At this very moment, the water was gushing into two crawl space wells.

None of the shutoffs at the disconnected pipe were responding. I drenched myself thinking I could reconnect the pipe. I made a decision to shutdown the water from the street connection until I could get to the shutoff valve for the sprinkler system.

It took me a few tries, but I finally was able to shutdown the water. The flow at the dislodged pipe connection stopped.

With some help from Chris Howell, a project manager from Century Construction, I was redirected to a new interior water shutoff valve. We put this valve into the off position, and I went back to the street connection and turned the water back on.

The new turnoff valve worked. No water flowed out of the disconnected sprinkler system pipe.

Next, I made preparations to enter the crawl space via the Trinity Hall mechanical room. I needed to locate the shutoff valve for the sprinkler system.

I took our building caretaker, Ronnie Johnson, with me to be my contact person in case the monsters from the crawl space abducted me.

Armed with a flashlight and pliers, I took the step up into the crawl space.

Of course, as I was inside the crawl, Ronnie reminded me that years ago, a raccoon was found in there. That was just the encouragement I needed.

For a while, I could stand with a slight crouch. Gradually, I had to switch to a crawl.

Soon, I came across an area where the water had cut an interior gulley into the orange, red clay. This was beneath the plastic vapor barrier. I kept going, and I had to scrunch lower to crawl under pipes.

With the help of the flashlight, I located the valve. I could also see the water’s entry points. The force of the water had cut another ravine parallel to the foundation wall. I pushed the valve’s lever into the off position.

Then, I headed back to my entry point. By the time I reached Ronnie, I was covered in orange mud and grit.

Out of the crawl space, we walked back to the new shutoff valve, and turned it back to the on position, I could hear the pressure of the water return.

With that on, we rechecked the dislodged pipe in the Bicentennial Garden, and there was good news—no water was flowing. The shutoff valve held.

Not wanting to make another mess, I opted to walk home to change out of the muddy and wet clothes.

I was aggravated at the pipe that had mysteriously come lose. I’m certain the county was going to enjoy this water billing. No telling how many hours the water had gushed unencumbered.

My whining continued as I considered how my plans for today had been derailed by a disconnected sprinkler pipe.

As I restarted my day, I learned that my water encounter was nothing compared to Americans who had been in the direct path of Hurricane Helene.

My family sent me a photo of homes in the mountains of North Carolina. All that could be seen were the rooftops of these homes. Muddy orange water was seen in every direction around them.

No matter where Helene touched, the storm created problems. Unfortunately, the problems created by Helene will take a long, long time to correct.

In times like this, I ask myself how can America be better prepared to work through these natural disasters? No matter how accurate our weather forecasting, it is the aftermath of the storm that makes life very, very difficult.

We invest billions and billions in the space program, and just as ridiculous we spend billions, billions, and billions trying to elect people into office who truly aren’t qualified to hold office.
And consequently, we continue to struggle improving the basics of our infrastructure when natural disasters smack us.

Years ago, when a hurricane impacted our Richmond neighborhood, I stumbled upon this Bible verse from 1 Kings 18:44: “At the seventh time he said, ‘Look, a little cloud no bigger than a person’s hand is rising out of the sea.’ Then he said, ‘Go and say to Ahab, “Harness your chariot and go down before the rain stops you.”’

Way out in the ocean, Helene started as a little cloud. All the right atmospheric conditions conspired to build a catastrophic storm. Its winds, storm surge, and buckets of rain stopped the daily routines of people from every walk of life.

Now, some are dead, some missing, some traumatized from the experience, and some no matter the support given will never recover from this hurricane.

My heavy air slog on Thursday evening, and my soaking on Friday morning from the disconnected sprinkler pipe are nothing in comparison to the hurricane experiences from Helene.

In the days ahead of us, we must nudge our hearts to be a part of this long term recovery.

We can’t let our fellow Americans down.

In his book, October 1964, David Halberstam references former Negro League baseball star, Buck O’Neil. Halberstam writes about O’Neil’s code of life: “He believed that there was almost nothing in life that could not be solved by hard work.” (October 64 pages 147-148)

Our fellow Americans need the hard work of our hearts.

We need to be like that “little cloud rising out of the sea.”

Our collective hard work must rise together to make a difference in the lives of every person in every state that was impacted by Helene.

They need us.

Now.