Greetings, Brothers and Sisters.
The report below is intentionally dry so that you will have the bones in place for the stories of flesh and grace that will follow in the weeks and months to come, in God's gracious providence. As I will preach at Falls Presbyterian tomorrow, the theme for this season will be "Come Home"--the call of God to truly live within the blessed confines of His salvation by grace through faith in Christ.
On October 1st, I officially began my labors as an Evangelist with Falls Presbyterian Church in Menomonee Falls, WI. The installation service, featuring my friend, Pastor Matt Barker, and the two other pastors at Falls, Pastors Ben Snodgrass and Jonathan Falk, provided a stirring initiation into this new work. Below, I will present to you my initial approach to this work, things I have learned and done thus far, and ways in which you can pray.
First, over this first quarter (three months) of work that I do as part of a two-year calling, I have two focuses: Integration and Promotion.
Integration: I will work over these first several months to become integrated within both the church and the community. I will attend church events and engage in a lot of hospitality with my new friends at the church in order to know them--their passions, gifts, struggles, etc--in order to later engage them in outreach. I also will visit groups, individuals, and events within the community that will provide a foundation for the church's eventual engagement with the community. Specifics to follow in my report of current activities.
Promotion: There are two great advantages to a robust effort to promote the church--more people in the community will know of the church, and members of the church will have the opportunity to identify with the church and engage with others on a very simple level. Efforts at promotion will include both technological and personal components.
Second, I have hit the road with these focuses over my first week of work, and I would like to share with you cool opportunities that have already arises, as well as lessons that I have learned.
I visited our local Army recruiting station this past Wednesday and had a great conversation with several of the active duty soldiers there. Their unit has virtually no chaplain support, and they asked me to come introduce myself to the unit in the nearby Milwaukee suburbs later in the month.
Afterward, I visited our local American Legion post, where I met the group's commander and transferred my membership. We hit it off, and on Friday, I helped some members of the group--as well as some Boy Scouts and JV football players--unfurl a giant flag across the local high school football field before the Homecoming football game.
On Friday morning, I providentially encountered a retired soldier on the street and got his business card and will follow up with him. I also visited the Chamber of Commerce, where I met and got the business card of the local volunteer running the place and got lots of good resources and information on the community. I then visited the YMCA, where I met the coordinator of their veterans programs and got to know a number of the workers there.
With regard to promotion, I have taken over and updated our Facebook page (and will keep it regularly updated). I also hope to get both bumper magnets and invitation cards for the church in the next couple of weeks, so that our church will be splashed across dozens of bumpers, and so that every member will have the opportunity to hand cards out like candy to friends, co-workers, and strangers--and get more comfortable with regularly relating to folks on a spiritual level. As the Army would say, we will follow a crawl-walk-run pattern. Please pray for us in this crawl phase!
A few lessons I have learned:
I knew the culture here was far different than the East and West coasts, but I am noticing how those differences play out on the ground level.
On the coasts, you usually have to introduce the basic truths of the Bible to folks, while most folks are have attended and/or currently attend church here. They have a general comprehension of those truths, but need to have the significance and meaning poured into those truths for them.
People here worship the Packers. I love football and will cater to this love and use it for the Gospel.
Civic activism is huge here. No need for community organizers. Volunteering in local government, the school systems, and organizations like the Boys Scouts is rampant.
It is those civic activities where I will gain more traction in engagement than at local bars and pubs. This is a more family-oriented and house-centered culture than the DC area.
People tend to hibernate a bit during the winter (largely in their finished basements with accompanying wet bars), but tend to travel north to cottages with their families each weekend during the summer.
Milwaukee and its environments may be the most segregated area in the country. This is a shame, but also a wonderful opportunity to show how the Gospel speaks to and transcends every culture.
Some people in the "village" of 40,000 have heard of Falls Presbyterian--most have not. And when they think "Presbyterian" they think the large, unbelieving mainline Presbyterian churches in town.
Third, please pray for us in the following ways:
1) That I would be faithful in my own labors and witness to the Gospel as I further integrate into the church and the community.
2) That I will find opportunities to follow-up with the contacts already made, as well as establish new contacts in the community each successive week.
3) That my relationships with brothers and sisters in the church would blossom in God's grace and create a shona-ba-shona (Afghan for shoulder-to-shoulder) mentality would be inculcated.
4) That the profile of Falls Presbyterian and the Gospel she proclaims will both be held forth in the community and become better known.
5) That more and more opportunities to share the Gospel would be presented to our precious body of believers!
With Gratitude in Christ,
Stephen
23.6.15
Hand-Holding in the Hallowed Halls of Death
For more than a week now, I have enjoyed the severe privilege of visiting a soldier and his children in the hospital. Their wife and mother was asleep one door down from us, lost in a coma caused by some sort of bleeding on the brain.
Over the first couple of days of visiting with them, everything was spinning. The soldier was trying to figure how to take care of his kids' (ages 14 and 12) daily needs as well as budgeting--both long covered by his wife. He was surrounded by friends and family. On the third day I visited him, I got to see the kids as well, and play charades with them all.
Today, I took a fellow captain with me, who served in Iraq with this soldier. The captain had flown here for several weeks of duty from his home in Seattle, and was planning to do dinner with the soldier and his wife. She fell into her coma on the day that he arrived.
The captain brought a plaque with him for the soldier, commemorating his service in Iraq. When we arrived, the teary-eyed sister of the wife appeared, letting us know that they had received bad news. The wife had several more strokes and the doctors were in the process of telling our soldier that his wife would not wake up.
I put my arm around the sister and started praying with her and the captain. The soldier came in a moment later and joined us in prayer. He was glad to see his old friend from deployment and was honored by the plaque. They talked about those bygone days for a few moments, then the soldier invited us into his wife's hospital room. He brought the plaque in with him and put it by her bedside, saying that he could not have done it without her.
I listened as the soldier talked to his wife, knowing that the light is slowly fading from her eyes. I watched as her chest heaved up and down, knowing that it would not do so on its own. Again, I went before the Lord in prayer with these dear folks, asking for the same God of grace who had so lavishly gifted this family with life and love to care for this dear woman as she walked the valley of the shadow of death.
Before we left, I told the soldier that I knew he needed to adopt a deployment mentality right now for the sake of his family, but that one day, he would need to re-deploy (return). I believe he heard me.
He then left to pick up his kids from sports practice, like his wife would've done, and tell them that it is time to say goodbye.
Over the first couple of days of visiting with them, everything was spinning. The soldier was trying to figure how to take care of his kids' (ages 14 and 12) daily needs as well as budgeting--both long covered by his wife. He was surrounded by friends and family. On the third day I visited him, I got to see the kids as well, and play charades with them all.
Today, I took a fellow captain with me, who served in Iraq with this soldier. The captain had flown here for several weeks of duty from his home in Seattle, and was planning to do dinner with the soldier and his wife. She fell into her coma on the day that he arrived.
The captain brought a plaque with him for the soldier, commemorating his service in Iraq. When we arrived, the teary-eyed sister of the wife appeared, letting us know that they had received bad news. The wife had several more strokes and the doctors were in the process of telling our soldier that his wife would not wake up.
I put my arm around the sister and started praying with her and the captain. The soldier came in a moment later and joined us in prayer. He was glad to see his old friend from deployment and was honored by the plaque. They talked about those bygone days for a few moments, then the soldier invited us into his wife's hospital room. He brought the plaque in with him and put it by her bedside, saying that he could not have done it without her.
I listened as the soldier talked to his wife, knowing that the light is slowly fading from her eyes. I watched as her chest heaved up and down, knowing that it would not do so on its own. Again, I went before the Lord in prayer with these dear folks, asking for the same God of grace who had so lavishly gifted this family with life and love to care for this dear woman as she walked the valley of the shadow of death.
Before we left, I told the soldier that I knew he needed to adopt a deployment mentality right now for the sake of his family, but that one day, he would need to re-deploy (return). I believe he heard me.
He then left to pick up his kids from sports practice, like his wife would've done, and tell them that it is time to say goodbye.
19.6.15
Empty Gloves
I just came into possession of a pair of gloves. I already have about half a dozen pairs of gloves--and this pair I will never wear. They belonged to SPC Matthew Serpa.
A soldier directed me to a couple of large duffle bags a little while ago. They were the bags that Serpa sent home, but never picked up. As I thumbed through the uniforms and other miscellaneous supplies, I smelled the dirt and sweat. I went back to my soldier and tried to describe the smell--"Smell like deployment, sir?" That was exactly what it smelled like.
I didn't know what to take, but I wanted to take something. All of the uniforms were dirt and sweat-smudged and obviously not touched since we came back almost 18 months ago. It feels like an eternity.
I have no idea when Serpa last wore those gloves. Likely at some point during the deployment, when all seemed to be going well in that witty, introspective mind of his. They covered the same hands that ravenously tore apart pizza to satisfy a young man's appetite, and awkwardly offer gestures to accompany his halting speech.
What will I do with these empty gloves? I will remember the young soldier I shepherded for four years, who shook my hand when he first arrived at the unit, straight out of high school, and who engaged me in late-night conversations in the California desert. I will remember the young man who gave me a tour of his post in northern Afghanistan and shared a flight with me back to Dulles the night we returned home. I was the last person from our unit to see him home, as I watched him walk away to catch a taxi as my wife and mother ran to embrace me.
I will remember that most soldiers come back from war, but few come home. The hell that soldiers bear witness to on the surface of this world often does not compare to the hell they bear under the surface, in the world of their souls.
I will remember that one day, my gloves will sit empty as well. And the thought of my empty gloves does not leave me with an empty heart. My hands may perish from this earth, but the hands that hold me--the hands that snatch sinners from a literal hell, not merely a metaphorical one--will endure.
Praise be to God.
A soldier directed me to a couple of large duffle bags a little while ago. They were the bags that Serpa sent home, but never picked up. As I thumbed through the uniforms and other miscellaneous supplies, I smelled the dirt and sweat. I went back to my soldier and tried to describe the smell--"Smell like deployment, sir?" That was exactly what it smelled like.
I didn't know what to take, but I wanted to take something. All of the uniforms were dirt and sweat-smudged and obviously not touched since we came back almost 18 months ago. It feels like an eternity.
I have no idea when Serpa last wore those gloves. Likely at some point during the deployment, when all seemed to be going well in that witty, introspective mind of his. They covered the same hands that ravenously tore apart pizza to satisfy a young man's appetite, and awkwardly offer gestures to accompany his halting speech.
What will I do with these empty gloves? I will remember the young soldier I shepherded for four years, who shook my hand when he first arrived at the unit, straight out of high school, and who engaged me in late-night conversations in the California desert. I will remember the young man who gave me a tour of his post in northern Afghanistan and shared a flight with me back to Dulles the night we returned home. I was the last person from our unit to see him home, as I watched him walk away to catch a taxi as my wife and mother ran to embrace me.
I will remember that most soldiers come back from war, but few come home. The hell that soldiers bear witness to on the surface of this world often does not compare to the hell they bear under the surface, in the world of their souls.
I will remember that one day, my gloves will sit empty as well. And the thought of my empty gloves does not leave me with an empty heart. My hands may perish from this earth, but the hands that hold me--the hands that snatch sinners from a literal hell, not merely a metaphorical one--will endure.
Praise be to God.
17.6.15
Finally, The Phone Call That Never Came
It has been about five months since one of my soldiers, SPC Serpa, lost his life by his own hand. Five months since he wrote me on Facebook, saying he would like to talk and asking for my number. I gave him my number and told him I would love to talk. The call never came.
In the past few days, an unknown friend reached out of the darkness for me on Facebook. He told me that he was a friend of Matt Serpa, read my blog posts, and wanted to talk. As with Matt, I gave him my number and waited. This young man did indeed call.
We talked for the better part of an hour last night. He was Serpa's fraternity brother at Columbia, and has wrestled with the darkness that took his friend's life ever since his tragic passing. I think there were three primary things that were affecting him:
1) Regret. He said it wasn't so much a feeling of guilt that perplexed, but just the haunting "What if?" questions. What if he had been more attentive or proactive with regard to Serpa's psychological deterioration? What if he had picked up the phone a few more times toward the end? Perhaps all of this wouldn't have happened.
We spoke a bit about God's mysterious providence. I don't know why the Lord gave Serpa so few years, but I know that those were years we couldn't prolong or diminish--as much as we would like to take credit or blame. Also, considering the fact that God had appointed this lifespan for Serpa, we can certainly be thankful that we got to enjoy a piece of it, and perhaps add something to it.
2) Shallow Answers. The worst of these being "Remember the good times you had with him," or even "Remember him for who he was--before all this happened." But this young man could not find it within himself to euphemize death, as is so common in our culture. The fact is that this brokenness was a part of Serpa, and eventually led to his death.
There were several things we talked about concerning these shallow answers. First, we need to take death seriously. It is not something to be dismissed lightly--it is a horrendous rending of the fabric of God's beautiful creation. It screams with the blood of Abel (Gen. 4--whose name means "chaos," by the way) and evoked a heart-rending cry from the very Son of God (John 11). It deserves more than petty cliches and dismissal--it deserves an emphatic answer.
Second, we talked about the complexity of human nature. My new friend was right not to blot out Serpa's brokenness--it was as much a part of his (fallen) being as was his inherent dignity. To deny a part of Matt is to deny Matt entirely and reduce him to a cardboard cutout. We honor his memory by remembering the whole person.
Third, because humans are complex beings--both dignified and fallen--my new friend has to resist the temptation to react against the culture by only dwelling on Serpa's steady descent into death. Serpa was not just broken, but dignified--his unique, God-given personality and gifts were eventually wasted by him, but they should not be wasted by us. We must remember those precious things as God's gift to us and rejoice that we could offer him gifts in his brief life as well.
3) The Rock is Gone. This young collegiate greatly admired Serpa, who was a few years older. A lot of the fraternity brothers recognized that he had a real-world experience in his deployment that none of them had. In a sense, Serpa had grown to mythological proportions in this man's mind. He was a rock--a man of solid fiber who could withstand the worst of the world. And bit by bit, the rock crumbled to dust and blew away, leaving a gaping void in this young man's life.
Thus becomes every earthly idol--whether it be people, education, riches, pleasure, or family. They all eventually blow away in the present wasteland of worldly existence.
This young man has slowly been succumbing to the same darkness that entombed Serpa. I told him that death requires a fight, and the fight starts with serious wrestling and serious answers. Instead of simply giving way, he needs to DO something. He needs to go to church and hear what God has to say on the matter. He needs to find a rock that won't crumble.
God-willing, he will be visiting Redeemer PCA in New York City, which is right down the road from him.
I told him to save my number in his phone. I deployed with 152 soldiers, came home with 152 soldiers, and now have a hole in my deployment roster. He will fill that hole.
May the Lord bless and guide this journey of grief to the cross. And, brother, if you are reading this, the journey is just beginning. You didn't call me out of the darkness--the Lord was calling you.
In the past few days, an unknown friend reached out of the darkness for me on Facebook. He told me that he was a friend of Matt Serpa, read my blog posts, and wanted to talk. As with Matt, I gave him my number and waited. This young man did indeed call.
We talked for the better part of an hour last night. He was Serpa's fraternity brother at Columbia, and has wrestled with the darkness that took his friend's life ever since his tragic passing. I think there were three primary things that were affecting him:
1) Regret. He said it wasn't so much a feeling of guilt that perplexed, but just the haunting "What if?" questions. What if he had been more attentive or proactive with regard to Serpa's psychological deterioration? What if he had picked up the phone a few more times toward the end? Perhaps all of this wouldn't have happened.
We spoke a bit about God's mysterious providence. I don't know why the Lord gave Serpa so few years, but I know that those were years we couldn't prolong or diminish--as much as we would like to take credit or blame. Also, considering the fact that God had appointed this lifespan for Serpa, we can certainly be thankful that we got to enjoy a piece of it, and perhaps add something to it.
2) Shallow Answers. The worst of these being "Remember the good times you had with him," or even "Remember him for who he was--before all this happened." But this young man could not find it within himself to euphemize death, as is so common in our culture. The fact is that this brokenness was a part of Serpa, and eventually led to his death.
There were several things we talked about concerning these shallow answers. First, we need to take death seriously. It is not something to be dismissed lightly--it is a horrendous rending of the fabric of God's beautiful creation. It screams with the blood of Abel (Gen. 4--whose name means "chaos," by the way) and evoked a heart-rending cry from the very Son of God (John 11). It deserves more than petty cliches and dismissal--it deserves an emphatic answer.
Second, we talked about the complexity of human nature. My new friend was right not to blot out Serpa's brokenness--it was as much a part of his (fallen) being as was his inherent dignity. To deny a part of Matt is to deny Matt entirely and reduce him to a cardboard cutout. We honor his memory by remembering the whole person.
Third, because humans are complex beings--both dignified and fallen--my new friend has to resist the temptation to react against the culture by only dwelling on Serpa's steady descent into death. Serpa was not just broken, but dignified--his unique, God-given personality and gifts were eventually wasted by him, but they should not be wasted by us. We must remember those precious things as God's gift to us and rejoice that we could offer him gifts in his brief life as well.
3) The Rock is Gone. This young collegiate greatly admired Serpa, who was a few years older. A lot of the fraternity brothers recognized that he had a real-world experience in his deployment that none of them had. In a sense, Serpa had grown to mythological proportions in this man's mind. He was a rock--a man of solid fiber who could withstand the worst of the world. And bit by bit, the rock crumbled to dust and blew away, leaving a gaping void in this young man's life.
Thus becomes every earthly idol--whether it be people, education, riches, pleasure, or family. They all eventually blow away in the present wasteland of worldly existence.
This young man has slowly been succumbing to the same darkness that entombed Serpa. I told him that death requires a fight, and the fight starts with serious wrestling and serious answers. Instead of simply giving way, he needs to DO something. He needs to go to church and hear what God has to say on the matter. He needs to find a rock that won't crumble.
God-willing, he will be visiting Redeemer PCA in New York City, which is right down the road from him.
I told him to save my number in his phone. I deployed with 152 soldiers, came home with 152 soldiers, and now have a hole in my deployment roster. He will fill that hole.
May the Lord bless and guide this journey of grief to the cross. And, brother, if you are reading this, the journey is just beginning. You didn't call me out of the darkness--the Lord was calling you.
8.6.15
My Last Business Card
Last night, I handed my last Sterling Pres business card to my neighbor.
It was a surreal moment when I grabbed that card and realized that there were none behind it. I realized that with that card, I was symbolically giving away the last of my days with this precious church. I got those cards when I first came to Sterling. The title under my name was "Associate," because I was not yet a pastor at the church.
It seems increasingly likely that the next big transition is coming for the Roberts household. It feels a bit like being swept up in the gale of God's providence. One by one, various possibilities are falling away like dominoes, and we are left to tread into the unknown.
It was almost four years ago that the gale of God's providence surprisingly swept us into Sterling church. I had preached there for the better part of six months, but there was no way that a church of about two dozen would call a second pastor. Thankfully, the Lord provided them with a visionary senior pastor and a session and body eager to follow.
The band room has been replaced by the auditorium as our sanctuary, and the scattered instruments have given way to people gathered from all walks of life.
We may not have grown to 200 people, or planted a church or two, as I would have liked. Instead, we grew the old fashioned way--the best way--simply by the grace of God. Not just the church, but me as well.
While the church, like every other, has its share of struggles, it is markedly healthy--with an ever-deepening body of believers and a steady stream of visitors--both believers and unbelievers--who come through and find themselves drawn to God's Word and loved by His people. If once a year, we--like the politicians--had a "State of the Communion" speech, it would be glowing with grace.
Over the past several years, this church has been a constant in a life marked by a scary surgery, the birth of one child, the trauma of separation and deployment, the birth of another child, and financial uncertainty. Now the Lord, in His wise providence, seems to be removing that constant, and I believe we are ready.
Thank you, Lord, for a million gracious providences. They fell upon us like manna and fed our weary hearts, though we often weren't looking for them. Our faith is fed by Your faithfulness to us in Christ, and we are full. Onward and upward!
It was a surreal moment when I grabbed that card and realized that there were none behind it. I realized that with that card, I was symbolically giving away the last of my days with this precious church. I got those cards when I first came to Sterling. The title under my name was "Associate," because I was not yet a pastor at the church.
It seems increasingly likely that the next big transition is coming for the Roberts household. It feels a bit like being swept up in the gale of God's providence. One by one, various possibilities are falling away like dominoes, and we are left to tread into the unknown.
It was almost four years ago that the gale of God's providence surprisingly swept us into Sterling church. I had preached there for the better part of six months, but there was no way that a church of about two dozen would call a second pastor. Thankfully, the Lord provided them with a visionary senior pastor and a session and body eager to follow.
The band room has been replaced by the auditorium as our sanctuary, and the scattered instruments have given way to people gathered from all walks of life.
We may not have grown to 200 people, or planted a church or two, as I would have liked. Instead, we grew the old fashioned way--the best way--simply by the grace of God. Not just the church, but me as well.
While the church, like every other, has its share of struggles, it is markedly healthy--with an ever-deepening body of believers and a steady stream of visitors--both believers and unbelievers--who come through and find themselves drawn to God's Word and loved by His people. If once a year, we--like the politicians--had a "State of the Communion" speech, it would be glowing with grace.
Over the past several years, this church has been a constant in a life marked by a scary surgery, the birth of one child, the trauma of separation and deployment, the birth of another child, and financial uncertainty. Now the Lord, in His wise providence, seems to be removing that constant, and I believe we are ready.
Thank you, Lord, for a million gracious providences. They fell upon us like manna and fed our weary hearts, though we often weren't looking for them. Our faith is fed by Your faithfulness to us in Christ, and we are full. Onward and upward!
25.5.15
A Month Until My Pastoral Call Ends
Perhaps it is due to the nature of events recently, but I am feeling particularly nostalgic and sentimental.
In about a month, my first pastoral call will come to a close. Neither me nor the church wanted this call to end, but the Lord's providence is not dependent upon human wills. Since the Fall of 2011, I have served in a church that God has blessed to triple in size and radically transform. The growth and the transformation did not result in a continuing income, and my call is to be content with that outcome.
I am privileged and blessed to have enjoyed this experience. The senior pastor, a dear elder brother and friend, knew my precarious position as a Army Reserve chaplain and offered me an opportunity to serve and grow. Who knows where the Lord would have had me if not at Sterling? But in His sweet grace, He has given me years of preaching and teaching experience, years of being humbled and learning what it means to take His people into my heart.
For several long months, with new baby in tow, the Roberts household pondered what the Lord would have for us in the coming days. Some days have been bright with contentment and hope; others darkened by the poison of resentment and anxiety. But it is only within our power to label the days based on our petty feelings, not ordain the days or define their purpose. That power belongs to the Lord alone, and as His providence is always holy, wise, and powerful, it doesn't really matter what our feelings are. The weight of His heart, not our own, defines our lives.
Last night, we bought tickets to Vancouver for a portion of the summer to fill a pulpit for a friend who is traveling back home to Malawi to visit his family. An opportunity like this--to assist a friend, travel to and live in a very different location, and shepherd another grouping of God's flock--is only possible because I am soon to be "under-employed." Who would believe that such a circumstance would be a blessing? But that is what we must always learn anew.
Until we leave, the Army will be providing me with additional duties that will supplement our income and help steady some of the "lean" season in Vancouver. When I return, I may have a full-time teaching position waiting for me, alongside my regular chaplaincy duties. Speaking of which, I have grown increasingly attached to my new unit at Ft. Meade. The Gospel opportunities are endless. And I may be permitted to continue teaching "boot camp"--fitness classes that I have taught in NoVa for the past couple of months under the oversight of a fellow believer and former Army Ranger.
And I will continue to be able to serve the flock at Sterling--not regularly, mind you, but this will continue to be our particular corner of the Kingdom for a time. By God's grace, I continue to form more connections with the community here. I gave the benediction for a Memorial Day ceremony today, led by the local American Legion. I may have an opportunity to be their "chaplain" as well.
On a day like today, I realize that the old wounds still linger. Yesterday, I preached a church in a remote town in southern Maryland and had the opportunity to teach on the work of the Army chaplain. I soon as I started talking about Dave Lyon, my voice broke. It's pretty pitiful to hear me in such moments. I don't know how to cry. It sounds like somebody is choking on a turkey bone.
Today, on Memorial Day, I remember CPT David Lyon, United States Air Force, and SPC Matthew Serpa, United States Army. I remember the families they left behind, and the thousands of families who have an empty seat at the dinner table. That puts the present uncertainty in perspective.
Paraphrasing Calvin, it is a pitiable thing when one's obsession with life becomes more important than one's purpose in life. May I always remember that my purpose is bound to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who has enabled me to live for the glory of God and enjoy Him forever.
In about a month, my first pastoral call will come to a close. Neither me nor the church wanted this call to end, but the Lord's providence is not dependent upon human wills. Since the Fall of 2011, I have served in a church that God has blessed to triple in size and radically transform. The growth and the transformation did not result in a continuing income, and my call is to be content with that outcome.
I am privileged and blessed to have enjoyed this experience. The senior pastor, a dear elder brother and friend, knew my precarious position as a Army Reserve chaplain and offered me an opportunity to serve and grow. Who knows where the Lord would have had me if not at Sterling? But in His sweet grace, He has given me years of preaching and teaching experience, years of being humbled and learning what it means to take His people into my heart.
For several long months, with new baby in tow, the Roberts household pondered what the Lord would have for us in the coming days. Some days have been bright with contentment and hope; others darkened by the poison of resentment and anxiety. But it is only within our power to label the days based on our petty feelings, not ordain the days or define their purpose. That power belongs to the Lord alone, and as His providence is always holy, wise, and powerful, it doesn't really matter what our feelings are. The weight of His heart, not our own, defines our lives.
Last night, we bought tickets to Vancouver for a portion of the summer to fill a pulpit for a friend who is traveling back home to Malawi to visit his family. An opportunity like this--to assist a friend, travel to and live in a very different location, and shepherd another grouping of God's flock--is only possible because I am soon to be "under-employed." Who would believe that such a circumstance would be a blessing? But that is what we must always learn anew.
Until we leave, the Army will be providing me with additional duties that will supplement our income and help steady some of the "lean" season in Vancouver. When I return, I may have a full-time teaching position waiting for me, alongside my regular chaplaincy duties. Speaking of which, I have grown increasingly attached to my new unit at Ft. Meade. The Gospel opportunities are endless. And I may be permitted to continue teaching "boot camp"--fitness classes that I have taught in NoVa for the past couple of months under the oversight of a fellow believer and former Army Ranger.
And I will continue to be able to serve the flock at Sterling--not regularly, mind you, but this will continue to be our particular corner of the Kingdom for a time. By God's grace, I continue to form more connections with the community here. I gave the benediction for a Memorial Day ceremony today, led by the local American Legion. I may have an opportunity to be their "chaplain" as well.
On a day like today, I realize that the old wounds still linger. Yesterday, I preached a church in a remote town in southern Maryland and had the opportunity to teach on the work of the Army chaplain. I soon as I started talking about Dave Lyon, my voice broke. It's pretty pitiful to hear me in such moments. I don't know how to cry. It sounds like somebody is choking on a turkey bone.
Today, on Memorial Day, I remember CPT David Lyon, United States Air Force, and SPC Matthew Serpa, United States Army. I remember the families they left behind, and the thousands of families who have an empty seat at the dinner table. That puts the present uncertainty in perspective.
Paraphrasing Calvin, it is a pitiable thing when one's obsession with life becomes more important than one's purpose in life. May I always remember that my purpose is bound to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who has enabled me to live for the glory of God and enjoy Him forever.
10.5.15
Just Another Funeral?
While not nearly as frequent as a couple of years ago, I still venture out to conduct a funeral as the OIC (officer-in-charge) on occasion. Most of the time, I go with my old friend the MSG (Master Sergeant). MSG, a hard-of-hearing veteran NCO of over 30 years experience trained me for funerals years ago, and has been part of my team for probably half of the 250+ funerals I have done.
On Thursday, I traveled with the MSG to our second funeral of the week--several hours west in the mountains of West Virginia. We passed through old towns dating back to the 1700s, winding through verdant pastures and lush mountainsides in the process. When we arrived in our particular mountainside destination, we had to venture off the known map in order to find the cemetery.
In this remote location, we would be burying a World War Two veteran. Joining us on this mission were about eight American Legion vets, ranging from the sixties to eighties in terms of age (MSG will be there in a few years). Most of them date back to the Vietnam era. I was proud to serve alongside of them in conducting this funeral.
A few remarks were given of this deceased hero, and then we were given the reigns. MSG called every to stand for the presentation of military honors. The two of us, posted on either side of the coffin, turned in and slowly raised a salute to the flag. The firing team fired off three volleys, and TAPS sounded on the bugle. When the bugle stopped, MSG and I slowly lowered our salutes, grabbed the corners of the flag, raised it, and simultaneously side-stepped into the clearing between the coffin and attendees. We folded it lengthwise together, then I held it fast as he slowly folded it toward me. When he reached the stars of the flag, he held the folded portion open and I tucked in the remainder. He held it to his chest, straightened it, and handed it to me. He then saluted and walked off.
I rotated the flag in my hands so that the broad side was facing out, then turned toward the elderly widow. As I slowly walked toward her, the same thoughts crossed through my mind that come at every funeral: How long were they married? What is it like to lose your best friend after decades of life together? What were they like when they were young together? I reached her seat and got down into a semi-kneeling position so that I could look her in the eyes.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation of your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
I always emphasize certain portions of that script when I speak, and it never comes across as well-rehearsed. I always emphasize the "our" so that my own care and love in known, even in this informal script.
After I stopped speaking, I slowly rose to the feet, snapped to attention, and saluted--maintaining eye contact with her the entire time. I then did a right-face and walked away and joined MSG in walking back to our vehicle. As I peeled off the white gloves and removed my jacket and head gear, an older woman walked up to me and said "I know you do a lot of these, but it really seemed like you cared. Thank you."
"Ma'am," I responded, "I care about each and every one." She said, "I can tell," and walked off.
When I got home several hours later, I was greeted by a "Daddy!" and was able to scoop up my little boy. I love returning to him and our baby girl after a funeral. Life screams out against death. Some day, their mother and I will pass into glory. A few decades later, in God's grace, they will follow. And I hope and pray that they, with their parents, will be able to stare death in the eyes, much as I stared at that dear widow in the eyes--without fear and full of longing for the future world, where pain and death will be put under the feet of our Savior.
On Thursday, I traveled with the MSG to our second funeral of the week--several hours west in the mountains of West Virginia. We passed through old towns dating back to the 1700s, winding through verdant pastures and lush mountainsides in the process. When we arrived in our particular mountainside destination, we had to venture off the known map in order to find the cemetery.
In this remote location, we would be burying a World War Two veteran. Joining us on this mission were about eight American Legion vets, ranging from the sixties to eighties in terms of age (MSG will be there in a few years). Most of them date back to the Vietnam era. I was proud to serve alongside of them in conducting this funeral.
A few remarks were given of this deceased hero, and then we were given the reigns. MSG called every to stand for the presentation of military honors. The two of us, posted on either side of the coffin, turned in and slowly raised a salute to the flag. The firing team fired off three volleys, and TAPS sounded on the bugle. When the bugle stopped, MSG and I slowly lowered our salutes, grabbed the corners of the flag, raised it, and simultaneously side-stepped into the clearing between the coffin and attendees. We folded it lengthwise together, then I held it fast as he slowly folded it toward me. When he reached the stars of the flag, he held the folded portion open and I tucked in the remainder. He held it to his chest, straightened it, and handed it to me. He then saluted and walked off.
I rotated the flag in my hands so that the broad side was facing out, then turned toward the elderly widow. As I slowly walked toward her, the same thoughts crossed through my mind that come at every funeral: How long were they married? What is it like to lose your best friend after decades of life together? What were they like when they were young together? I reached her seat and got down into a semi-kneeling position so that I could look her in the eyes.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation of your loved one's honorable and faithful service."
I always emphasize certain portions of that script when I speak, and it never comes across as well-rehearsed. I always emphasize the "our" so that my own care and love in known, even in this informal script.
After I stopped speaking, I slowly rose to the feet, snapped to attention, and saluted--maintaining eye contact with her the entire time. I then did a right-face and walked away and joined MSG in walking back to our vehicle. As I peeled off the white gloves and removed my jacket and head gear, an older woman walked up to me and said "I know you do a lot of these, but it really seemed like you cared. Thank you."
"Ma'am," I responded, "I care about each and every one." She said, "I can tell," and walked off.
When I got home several hours later, I was greeted by a "Daddy!" and was able to scoop up my little boy. I love returning to him and our baby girl after a funeral. Life screams out against death. Some day, their mother and I will pass into glory. A few decades later, in God's grace, they will follow. And I hope and pray that they, with their parents, will be able to stare death in the eyes, much as I stared at that dear widow in the eyes--without fear and full of longing for the future world, where pain and death will be put under the feet of our Savior.
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