PK: What It Means to Be One

“He can’t have no fun!”  The bigger kid sneered as he looked around to the other boys for affirmation of his observation so eloquently stated.

“He can never do nothin’ fun, ‘cause he’s a preacher’s kid!” He continued, eliciting nods of agreement from the group.

“I can too, I can do anything I want!” I shot back, lying like a rug. 

I had to respond, even if it was a lie.  It’s the Law of the Playground.  The Elementary School Boys Code.  And while it was a lie—I couldn’t do anything I wanted to do—I could have fun.  I had fun all the time.  Just not doing whatever bad thing the bigger, bad kid wanted me to do.  Truth was, I didn’t even want to.  But at that moment, in that pressure cooker environment facing the gang mentality of some of the boys from Eugene Cole R-V elementary school, I really hated being a preacher’s kid—a PK.

I have been a PK for all but the first three years of my life.  (More on those first three years in a moment.)  During that time, I have heard it all—good and bad.  I have heard every preacher’s kid joke and told a few of my own; I’m pretty sure that I’ve been spanked twice as hard and twice as often as other boys simply because I was a preacher’s kid.  I’ve been held up as the “Why Can’t You Be Like Him” ideal to other kids because I was a preacher’s kid.  To be fair, I’ve also been held up as the “Whatever You Do, Don’t Be Like Him” model because I was a preacher’s kid.  I’ve had many moments when I was so very proud to be a preacher’s kid.  But those playground experiences can be especially tough on a 10-year old boy, and during those exchanges, it was the last thing I wanted to be. 

“Then why doncha do it!?”  The bigger kid taunted, elbowing the boys next to him, relying on the ages-proven concept of peer pressure.

And that’s when I saw my chance.  I pulled the hammer back and fired my best come-back at him, confident of a kill shot.  “’Cause you’re not my boss!”

A brief, rapid-fire exchange followed, wrapping up the entire affair in a matter of seconds.

“’Cause you’re chicken, ‘cause you’re a preacher’s kid!”

“Nuh-uhh, ‘cause you can’t make me!”

“Can’t make a monkey twice!”

“That’s so funny I forgot to laugh!”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t shut up I grow up and when I look at you I throw up!”

The recess bell rang.  Battle over.  Score one for the PK.

Being a preacher’s kid carried a sack full of responsibilities that I never asked for.  You have to be polite.  You have to be nice.  You can’t cuss.  You have to keep your clothes looking nice.  You have to set a good example for the other kids.  You have to go to church every time the doors open.  You can’t cheat.  You can’t---well now that I think about it, Mr. Eloquence from the playground was right.  You can’t have no fun. 

On the other hand, there is a priceless advantage to growing up in a spiritual environment and in church, being raised by loving Christian parents.  It is grounding.  It is a compass that stays with you through all the storms of your life and always points true, always to what is right. 

And there is an inherent and intangible coolness in the fact that your Pastor is also your father.  His stories seem funnier; the truths he speaks from the Bible seem truer; his altar calls—the invitation, even more earnest.  And no preacher I’ve ever heard could take an old "Knight’s Illustration" and make it more personal and relevant than my dad.   In short, he made being a PK more bearable—even for a boy constantly subjected to the Law of the Playground and the Elementary School Boys Code. 

Besides that, the alternative to not being a preacher’s kid in my family was unthinkable.  And that brings us back to that first three years of my life.  See, my father was an alcoholic.  I was too young to remember, but my older sisters remember all too well.  So does my mother. 

My father gave his heart and his life to Jesus and asked God to save him when I was three years old.  Within days, he had surrendered his life completely and answered God’s call to the ministry.  I have heard the stories from my sisters and my mother, about his life before that life-changing moment and since.  So let me think, I could’ve been “Red Wilson’s boy—you know Red, that ol’ drunk.”  Or I could be “R.V. Wilson’s boy—you know Brother Wilson, that preacher who tells such good stories over there at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church!”  Being a preacher’s kid doesn’t sound like a bad deal at all. 

I’d love to be able to tell that to the bigger kid from the playground today.  I think it might go something like this:

“Remember me?”

“Yeah, you’re that preacher’s kid who never could have no fun.”

“You were wrong.  Fact is I’ve never had so much fun, being Brother R.V. Wilson’s kid—growing up as a PK…And I wish I would’ve told you that back then.  But we were just kids.”

“You were.”

“You were another one.”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t shut up, I---“

Why Worship Arts?

“Worship ‘ARTS' Director?  Really?  What is that about?”

“Whatever happened to just having a Song Leader?”

“What does art have to do with leading music?”

In the last few years, the arts have been brought more to the forefront in churches of all denominations.  But what do we mean when we say “art?”  Are “worship arts” different from museum art or, say, ballet, or opera?  What is their place in worship?  And what are the arts?  In order to begin exploring this recent trend in worship, let’s start there.  What are the arts?

To get some idea of what people thought about “the arts,” I conducted a one-question survey in social media, namely Facebook.  Here are those results.

What comes to mind when you hear the term “the arts?”

 Boring

 Music, drama, and paintings

 …and crafts store

 Anything involving a stage and an audience

 Creative endeavors

 Buncha hippies…

 Music, paintings, sculptures, plays, movies that I generally don’t like

 First Night Springfield

 Snooty people

 Dickies and pipes

 Music, paintings, poetry, and theatre

 People above my pay grade mingling together

 Freedom

 Boring, opera (but “artistic”?  musical, drawings, painter, photography, etc.)

 Something people with money contribute to

 Ballet, music, paintings, acting

 Art Linkletter and Art Carney

 Culture, Music, Fine Art, Dance, Theater, Sculpting, Carving, Creative things being created by creative people who have been given gifts from the Father.

 Theater and music

 Theater mostly, music

 Music, writing, theater

 An extension of life.  What makes us appreciate life even more through visual art, musical art, theatrical art, etc.  It all gives us an opportunity to pause and gaze and think and appreciate life. 

Okay, so at the very least, you get a good glimpse into the dichotomy of my “friends” on Facebook.  Clever bunch. 

But, it seems that even the term itself is hard to nail down to just one definitive answer.  The closest Merriam-Webster can come to defining “the arts” is the singular, “art” (as painting, sculpture, or music) concerned primarily with the creation of beautiful objects —usually used in plural.  And also from Merriam-Webster, the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects; also: works so produced. 

City Church of Chattanooga, on their website describing their own Worship Arts, says, “Art is man’s activity that mirrors the creativity of God. Being created in his image (Gen.1:27), we are creative beings capable of displaying that creativity in many ways.” 

Combining Merriam-Webster's definition with that of City Church, we can actually begin to see a more clear directive concerning the arts in worship.  The conscious use of skill and creative imagination...to create art that is our way of attempting to mirror the creativity of God.

Theater, music, writing, painting, photography, dance, sculpting, these are all terms defining the creative arts.  But there are more.  Worship center decoration, brochure publishing, website design, video production.  All creative art forms that can be—and should be used in worship today.

So, perhaps the better question is, “Why not Worship Arts?”  Art is beauty.  Can we look at God’s creation and not see the beauty of His artwork?  My friend and fellow Worship Artist, Joshua Davis, in his blog *Why Are the Creative Arts Important in Churches says, “…as Christians, we must realize that God is an artist.  He was the first artist, as found in Genesis with creation.” 

I travel to Colorado 3 or 4 times a year to visit my daughter and grandson.  Often during these visits, we go up into the Rocky Mountains to stay at a cabin or visit a mountain town.  It is impossible for me to stand in a canyon there, gazing at the grandeur of the mountains, the tall pines and the Aspens, the rushing mountain streams, and not see the artwork of the Creator.  It is beauty and inspiration beyond words.

Clearly, The Artist values beauty.  He also desires our beauty and art in our praise and worship.  Even his very creation offers Him praise.  Psalm 19:1 says, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”

Davis goes on to say, “Not only is God an artist, He created us to be artists.  He has created us to be co-creators with Him.  He inspires us to inspire others…God has hard-wired us to be creative...If God created and gifted people to be artists, we need to praise Him through those gifts and talents.  This is why art is important in churches.”

My mother used to say to me when I was young---actually she still says it to me: “You have been given a gift with your music.  Make sure you use it to glorify God!”  But is my gift of art through music a better offering of praise than say, the team at church who decorate the worship center?  Of course not.  These are both examples of creative arts being offered as praise to the glory of God.  What matters is the heart of the giver; the praise offering behind the creative art.

Some have a gift of creative art in drama.  Some in painting.  Some are creative in the art of sculpting, or photography.  How great would it be to give these artists a platform for their art here in our church, to the praise of His glorious name?  But more than simply providing opportunity, how important is it that we incorporate all the creative arts?  I would offer that it is not just important.  It is incumbent upon us as the church to bring the creative arts into our worship.  

That is what “Worship Arts” means.  As Worship Arts Director, I hope to involve more people in worship through their own God-given gifts.  I believe it is important that we, as a church, embrace the arts and incorporate them into our worship. 

As Joshua Davis says in his blog, “As the church and the world evolve, the local church will have to start using the creative arts to reach the lost world where we live.  We will have to find creative ways to incorporate the arts into our worship services.”

As our own church stretches and reaches for the west-side of town, and strives to become more and more relevant to a changing world, let’s be in prayer now as to how God will lead us in this area of worship.

"Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things."  -- Philippians 4:8 (NIV) 

  

*Joshua Davis, “Why Are the Creative Arts Important in Churches”

http://joshuajwdavis.com/post/38275076574/why-are-the-creative-arts-important-in-churches

A Shepherd's Story

For the Christmas season, I am submitting a story I wrote several years ago.  It is a work of fiction, based on the story of the birth of Jesus given to us in the Gospels.  While it is fiction, it is historic fiction, and relative to the celebration of Christmas, and to our hope as believers.  It is my wish that you would enjoy this story of a shepherd, who witnessed the pivotal moments in the story of Jesus.

Night to Day/Day to Night

By Keith Wilson

Three days ago I stood on a hillside just outside the walls of Jerusalem and watched while midday turned to night.  On that day, for almost 3 full hours, the sun quite miraculously ceased to shine, covering the region with a blanket of darkness like doom itself.

As I stood on that hillside, which they call Golgotha, tears made stained paths through the dust that covered my face.  At that moment, I thought of another such miracle I had witnessed some thirty-three years earlier.  On that occasion, I had been standing on another hillside, near the foothills of Shefalah.  Then, I had seen the night become day.

My name is Jareth.  In those days, I was a boy of thirteen.  I was, as I am still, a shepherd; like my brothers, and my father, and his father before him.   On that night our flock was sharing grazing land with the flock of my father’s brother–as well as the flock belonging to a family from north of the old city of Hebron.  Together, our sum was twenty-two: myself and my five brothers, my father’s brother and his seven sons, and from the other family the father and his seven sons.

My father was no longer able to navigate the rocky hills because of his age and ill health.  So, the burden of responsibility for our own flock of dependent sheep rested on the shoulders of my eldest brother, Zeth.

How I loved my brothers–Zeth in particular, for it was he who taught me the writings of the Old Ones when my father was no longer able to speak clearly.  I would try with all that was within me to speak as Zeth spoke, to mimic his actions–event try to duplicate his manner of walking.  Zeth made light of my attempts to be like him, but I didn’t mind.

My father–and later, Zeth–had told me of the coming of the Anointed One...The Messiah.  The Gentiles called him “the Christ.”  However he was called prior to his coming, he was, we believed, to be the living Son of God.

As Jews, our family was but a few of our own who actually believed that the God of Abraham would deliver his son in the form of a man.  More than even that, we–again among the few of our faith–believed that the coming of the Messiah would occur within our lifetime!

That night, the air was very still.  The sky was clear of clouds and deeper blue than the Great Sea itself.  The stars shone in their fullness and the moon cast just enough light so that I could just make out the silhouettes of the resting flock.

Each of the tending families took watch over their respective flocks.  And at this time of night, each sent their two youngest.  While my brothers and older cousins rested in the hollows of the rock outcroppings, I and my uncle’s youngest son tended the sheep.

My biggest chore was staying awake during these hours.  Most of the sheep slept, nestled near the big overhanging rocks where the older ones were sleeping.  I succumbed to a yawn as I pulled the sheep’s wool tunic tighter around my neck against the night chill.

It was my cousin who saw it first.

“Jareth!” He called excitedly from his station farther down the hill.  “Do you see it?”

I tried to see where his silhouetted arm was pointing.  “What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice low so as not to awaken the older ones unnecessarily.

“There!” He shouted loudly now.  “There, to the east, look!”

I saw it now.

At first, I thought a star was surely descending upon us.  It was a bright white light, moving slowly toward us until it illuminated the hillside and a portion of the field below.  The sheep were startled and began to move about, huddling and bumping against one another.  The men were awake now, standing and staring at the light, which was growing closer now.

I felt as though I was paralyzed.  I wanted to yell–to scream, but no sound would come from my wide-opened mouth.  The men began shouting at each other from all directions.

“What is it?”
“I don’t know!”
“What can this mean?”
“Is this our death?”
“The sheep!  Quickly, gather your sheep!”

Then I heard Zeth’s voice above all others.  “All of you stand quiet!”   The authority in his voice calmed the others.

My eyes remained fixed on the bright light, which was now very near us, glowing a blue-white.

Suddenly, a form began to take shape in the center of the light.  It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!  It was wearing a long white gown that billowed in folds as if blown by some powerful wind as yet unfelt by us.

When the center of the light seemed to be just above our heads, a voice spoke.  The voice came from the gowned figure.  And I thought it was the most beautiful sound ever!

“Do not be afraid...I bring you good news!  News of great joy, which will be for all people!”

When the voice spoke, the fear subsided in us all.  Even the sheep were at ease now.  Again I heard Zeth’s voice, this time in an awe-inspired whisper.  “It is an angel of the Lord our God!”  He said, his voice trembling with excitement.

“Today, this day, in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you. . .He is Christ the Lord!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder, but could not turn my eyes from the angel in the light to see who it was.

“The old prophets were right, just as father said!”  I heard Zeth whisper into my ear.  I could hear the smile in his voice.

Again the angel spoke.  “This will be a sign to you: you will find the baby wrapped in bands of cloth, lying in a manger.”

When the angel had finished speaking, the night sky seemed to part like a great veil.  Slowly the darkness was replaced by a host of lights, similar to the messenger above us.  Angels!  Thousands and thousands of angels!  As far as the eyes could see, the angels appeared, their light shining as bright as noon-day!

I felt Zeth’s grip tighten on my shoulder.  “Jareth,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion.  “We are witnesses to the glory of the Lord!”

I drew in a long breath through my still-opened mouth as I gazed at this holy presentation.  With Zeth standing beside me, his strong hand on my shoulder, I tried again to speak but still no sound would leave my throat.

Suddenly, there was a great rushing sound.  A sound like a rapidly approaching rainstorm, but louder.  It was a sound like the longest pealing of thunder ever.  Then, a gust of wind struck us with enough force to put us all off balance!  The odd thing about that sudden burst of wind was that–it was warm.  Like the air that would come from the clay oven when my mother removed the baked bread.

I was finally able to move.  I turned to my brother.  I wanted to ask Zeth what it all meant.  But when I looked at his face, I saw tears.  Still looking at the miracle in the sky, his arms encircled me and drew me to his chest.  “My young brother,” he said in a barely audible voice, “We are standing in the presence of God!”

When I turned back to view this heavenly host, I heard them begin praising God.  Their song was beautiful!  I remember their words to this day.  “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace to men on whom his favor rests!”

More quickly than they had appeared, the host of angels left us and returned to the heavens.  The first messenger angel smiled upon us before joining the hosts in their retreat.

Zeth released me and walked three steps in front of me, now staring at the once again dark sky.  I stumbled over a rock as I moved up a step behind him.  I reached out and took hold of his tunic.  “Zeth, what does it mean?”

He looked down at me, then back to the sky, and once again back to my questioning eyes.

“What it means, young brother, is that we must go to Bethlehem, the town of David, to find the Messiah–the promised one!”

“Does God’s favor rest on us?” I asked, moving closer to Zeth, looking up at the sky again, as he was.

“Yes.  Yes, I feel it must be so!”  Zeth finally answered, “Else we would not have been witnesses to this thing!”

“The Messiah?  Resting in a feeding trough for cattle?”  The question came from the father of the other family.  “That hardly seems a fitting bed for the so-called ‘Living Son of God’!”

“Did you not witness the word of the Lord here, Na-mal?” Zeth asked the man.

“I’m not certain what I witnessed.”  The elder man answered, moving up the hillside toward us.  “It just does not seem possible, young one.”

Na-mal stood beside Zeth and looked down the hillside past the valley.  “What will you do, Zeth?”

“I and my eldest brothers will go to Bethlehem and find the baby.  We will leave Jareth here to tend our flock, along with my uncle and his sons.

When I heard this, I could not stop myself.  I lunged forward, grasping at Zeth’s arm.  “Zeth please!  I must be allowed to go with you!  I must see the one you and father have told me about!  Please, Zeth. . .I must see our Messiah!”

Zeth looked down at me.  He must have seen the longing in my eyes.  He leaned forward so that his eyes were level with mine, his hands on his knees.  “It will be a difficult journey, Jareth.”

“I am willing, Zeth–and strong enough!”

“As are we, cousin.”  My eldest cousin spoke.  “We will go as well.  Your young brother is right.  We must.”

My uncle took quick steps and joined us on the dark hillside.  “That is at it should be, Zeth.  I will stay, along with my youngest, to watch after our flocks.”  He placed his hand on Zeth’s shoulder.  “You must leave at the first sign of day. . .Or–I should say, the next sign of day, for we have just witnessed the first, have we not?”  He smiled and looked around at our group for affirmation.  His face once again took a serious tone.  “Come morning, I will send my youngest to inform your father as to what has happened here.”  He smiled again.  “He will be pleased, Zeth.”

Zeth smiled at me, and then my uncle.  “He will be praising God, and praying for our safety guidance, Uncle.”  He reached out and locked forearms with my uncle in a traditional handshake of brotherhood.

“Look!  There in the sky to the east!”  My brother Elam shouted.

All our heads whirled in unison, first in the direction of Elam’s voice and then to where he pointed.                               
There, low in the sky, was a star shining brighter than all the rest.  The star had many points of light radiating from its center.  The ray at the lowest point seemed to stretch to the earth itself.

“Is the star not in the direction of the town of David?”  Elam asked.

“It is indeed.”  My uncle answered.

“It is yet another sign from our Lord, for as Elam has noted, the star directs all who see it to the birthplace of the Messiah!”  Zeth said.

“I feel it is even more than that.” My uncle whispered.  “It is an indication of hope for mankind...it is an indication of a new beginning, as the angel said ‘for all people!’”

Our journey was three days and nights.  We arrived in Bethlehem two hours past the setting of the sun.  Zeth inquired of several innkeepers as to the whereabouts of the child.  None seemed to know.

The town of David was bulging with people of the region, there to enter their names on the census and to pay their taxes to the Roman government.  We struggled through the crowded streets to yet another inn.  Zeth motioned for the rest of us to wait outside as he entered.

I looked about, a bit frightened by the busyness of the crowds and the activity in the streets and alleyways, even at this late hour.  None of my family was accustomed to town life–least of all during the busiest time of the year.  I focused my attention on the front door of the inn.  After a few moments, Zeth came out.  He was smiling.

“That is why the child is in a manger!  There are simply no rooms available in the whole of Bethlehem!”

He huddled us closer to him as he would do the youngest sheep in the flock.  “This innkeeper had to turn away a man whose wife was very near her time!”  The excitement in his voice caused us all to share in his anticipation.

“What became of the couple?” Elam impatiently asked Zeth for all of us.

“The innkeeper, when he heard of the woman’s condition, showed them to his own stable, so they could at least stay warm.”

“Was the child born then?” One of my cousins asked.

“Yes, according to the innkeeper, the woman gave birth to the baby only a few nights later!”  Zeth answered, his eyes glowing.

“When, Zeth?  When did the woman deliver the child?”  Elam asked, moving closer within our circle outside the inn.

Zeth stood up straight and looked over our heads, as if he wanted to gain the attention of all in the streets so that they might hear what he had to say.  “The child was born four nights ago.  About five hours after the setting of the sun.”

Elam stepped forward and put his hand on Zeth’s chest.  I could see Elam’s eyes welling with tears.  “Zeth,” he said breathlessly, “that was the exact hour the angels visited us in the field!  We—we have been truly blessed by God to have been told of this wonderful news!”

“It is true, Elam.  We are blessed!”  Zeth put his hand on my head and smiled at me.  “Jareth, truly God’s favor does rest upon us!”  He gazed heavenward and began praising God loudly.  “All glory and praise be to God in the highest place, for we have found favor in his eyes!”

We all joined in praise for a time, oblivious to the looks from strangers in the streets.

My brother Zor-El spoke excitedly.  “We must go to this stable now and see this holy child in the manger!”

“Come, I will show the way.”  Zeth responded, breaking from our circle and stepping into the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the inn.

The stable was just behind the inn.  We could see the glow of a fire near the stable and several people standing near.

There were three men dressed differently than the rest.  They were attired as those from the east.

“Zeth, who are those men?” I asked my brother as we hurried toward the stable.

“They are Magi, brother.  Men of wisdom from far to the east.  They must have been foretold of the birth of the Messiah!”

Elam took hold of Zeth’s shoulder.  “We do not know the name of the child–nor his mother or father!”

“We will ask.”

We approached the people near the fire.  Zeth strode ahead and inquired of a man who was warming his hands over the inviting blaze.
“We come seeking the child–the Son of the Living God.”

“Who is it that who asks?”  The man questioned, looking carefully first at Zeth then the rest of our group nearby.

“We are shepherds from the hills of Judea to the south.  We were visited by an angel of our Lord and told of the birth of the Messiah.  It is he whom we seek.”

“Then you are welcome, brother.  I am sorry if I was rude...it is because of Herod Antipas.  He fears the birth of the holy one.  We do not know what he may do.”

“May we know the name of the child?” Zeth asked.

“He is called Jesus, as was ordained.”

“And the name of his mother and father?”

“His earthly father is Joseph, a carpenter from Nazareth.  He is of the line of David.  The child’s mother is called Mary.

“We must see them now, if we may.”

“You shall, brother.  Come, I will make your presence known to Joseph.”

We followed the man to the manger where the child rested.  He was a beautiful baby, completely at peace in his surroundings amid the straw and the people and the animals who shared the stable space.

Each of our group took our turn viewing the child.  This baby called Jesus—he smiled at me.  I know it to be true!  The Messiah smiled at me!

We were in awe.  For the second time within the space of just a few days, we were standing in the very presence of God!  I had been witness to the child who would change the course of history forever!

We stayed in Bethlehem that night and the next, camping alongside the others who had come to see the child. When we left the stable early of that morning, and said our goodbyes to Mary and Joseph and the Messiah–this child called Jesus, we could not contain our joy!  We told everyone we saw of the birth of the Messiah!  On the streets of Bethlehem we proclaimed it.  On the road south of town, we stopped travelers to tell them of the good news!

I have never known such joy as I felt during those days.  I could little understand then that I would one day experience heartache such as I have never known.

Now, some thirty-three years later, here I stand on this barren hill called Golgotha.  It was three days ago, right here on this place of misery, that I watched day turn to night.  Three days ago, in the midst of that darkness, I looked on with sorrow, and in horror, as Jesus was crucified.

Jesus.  The same Messiah I had seen as a newborn babe had been mercilessly nailed to a thick wooden cross and hung there for all to see.  I could scarcely believe what my eyes were seeing.  Nor did I wish to believe it.

In the third hour of the darkness, I heard Jesus cry out, but I could not understand what he said.  Then he cried out for the last time, and that cry I did understand.

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

I saw his broken body slump there on that vile wooden structure–that inhuman implement of death.  I knew Jesus was dead.

I wept so I could no longer see through the flood of tears.  My heart felt as though it was being torn from my chest.

“How could this be?” I thought aloud.  “The son of the Living God, the King of Kings, my Savior and Lord–the Messiah, left to die!”

Suddenly, the ground began to shake violently beneath my feet!  The earth was rumbling.  I saw great rocks breaking.  I cried aloud, “It is the Lord our God!  He himself feels the pain, for it is his son who has perished!”

I wandered among the circles of believers following his death on that cross.  Many talked of his returning–of his resurrection from death itself.  Some were afraid for their lives because of their beliefs.  Others, like me, could feel only the pain, and a great sense of loss.

Early this morning, just before the sun rose, I felt the earth move once again.  I was standing with a group of believers when this happened.  We were sharing stories of our various encounters with Jesus.  When the rumblings began, a young woman I do not know shouted loudly, “It is a sign!  The prophecies are being fulfilled!  He is no longer among the dead!”

I felt the hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristling.  Could this be true?  Could it be that the Son of God is returning from a thing as certain as death?

Within the hour, a man came running to our group.  He was breathless and wide-eyed. “Have you heard?” He asked, gasping for air.  “Have you heard the glorious news?”

“What news do you bring, sir?” I asked as we encircled the excited messenger.

“It is true!  It is just as was foretold!” He continued between breaths.

A man from among our group of believers stepped forward and grasped the messenger’s cloak.  “What is true?  Does our Lord live?”  He asked, his voice overflowing with anticipation.

“A woman, her name is Joanna, had gone with others to the tomb of our Lord!  They were bringing spices for the body.  But when they arrived, they were met by an angel of the Lord!”

When I heard of the angelic appearance, I stepped closer to the man.  “What had the angel to say to the women, brother?”

The messenger’s posture took on a change as he looked about our circle.  “The angel asked this question: ‘Why do you look for the living—among the dead?’”

“Then it is true?” Another asked.  “Our Lord has been resurrected?”

“It must be so!” The messenger replied.

“Then—he is risen from the dead?” A young boy asked, struggling to get closer in our circle.

I reached out and held the young boy’s face in my hands.  In his eyes, I saw myself as a young shepherd boy those thirty-three years ago.”

“It is as you said, young one.”  I said, looking into his innocent eyes.  “He has risen.  He has surely risen!”

Just then, I heard a voice calling my name.  I looked about the group to see who had spoken.  No one responded to my inquisitive glance, for they were all still trying to understand the messenger’s words.

“Jareth.”

This time I heard the voice clearly.  It was coming from within me!

“Jareth, do not be afraid.”   The voice said.  “Jareth, you have found favor in the eyes of God because of your faith.” 

It was then that I realized that what I was hearing was the voice of the Holy Spirit!   I felt peace such as I had never felt, and I could not help but smile.

“Sir?”  The young boy tugged at my tunic.  “Do you really believe?  Do you really believe his has risen?”

A tear fell from my face and splashed in the dust at my feet. “Oh yes, I believe it!  I know it in my heart!  Jesus has risen!”

What's in YOUR Offering?

A recent blog by Jon Acuff, titled *“The Worst Thing Ever Put in an Offering Basket”, reminded me of some stories from my own past.

Acuff’s piece mentioned an offering check that was written to a church, but before it was placed in the offering basket, the donor wrote “VOID” across the check face, then woite “Drums Way To Loud” above the signature line.  (Yes, ‘To’ was misused.)

The complaint itself may or may not have been valid, we don’t know.  To be sure, drums which are too loud is not uncommon in churches—it IS a percussion instrument, after all.  But the way the complaint was handled was clearly out of line with Christian principles on a few levels.

I play guitar.  I have played guitar in church since about 1970.  I was there in the early days of what we know now as “contemporary Christian music.”  And I’ve had my share of “complaints” from well-meaning saints as well as some just plain ol’ mean-spirited people.  Here are some examples.

Some of us in the youth group of a church put together a folk group with acoustic guitars and our youth leader set about seeing if we could get invited to churches to sing.  I remember at one church, as we got off the van, the representatives from the church saw our acoustic guitars and promptly told us we were welcome, but the guitars would have to stay on the bus. 

Another church saw our guitar cases and informed us that we could not play in the church “sanctuary.”  But, we could, if we insisted on using guitars, play in the church basement.  I’m assuming that decision was based on the well-known fact that Jesus doesn’t go to the church basement, and so there would be no offense.

Ten years later, touring with a professional Christian music group, I had a similar experience, this time with drums.  Our group was booked at a church in Waco, Texas.  We were set up, sound check done, ready to go for the worship service.  Then, the church elders saw the drums on stage.

The elders were beside themselves.  This was clearly something they were unprepared for.  The church pastor knew all about our group, our setup, and he was excited for us to be there.  The elders, not so much.  So, they “compromised.”  Without the pastor’s knowledge, they went into a classroom, got one of those giant blackboards on wheels, and brought it into the “sanctuary” and placed it between the drums and the altar.  This solution was apparently decided upon due to the fact that, with the blackboard in place, God couldn’t see the drums, and would therefore not be offended.

All of these protestations and “solutions”—all designed to “protect” the church, are really nothing more than some people interjecting their own personal likes (or rather, dislikes) into areas God himself has already ordained as acceptable forms of worship. 

What pleases God is worship from the heart.  If we, the church body, spend more time and effort concentrating on achieving that goal, and less on whether we sing Psalms, “choruses,” or hymns; whether we use organ only, piano only, or whether we have a full orchestra—including drums, then we will be about the business of seeking to truly worship God from the heart.

My father was a conservative, Southern Baptist preacher and pastor.  I will be forever grateful to him for not only allowing guitars in church, but for encouraging me to play and sing in church.  So much so that 9 days after receiving my first guitar I sang and played in church.  His thought was, if it glorifies God, why wouldn’t you use your talents in that way?

Think the drums are too loud?  Tell the Instrumental Director!  The story of the person using the withdrawal of their offering as a form of complaining shows exactly what their focus is on: themselves.  Is this what God desires?  What's in their heart?  

What's in your heart?  What's in YOUR offering?

“…Speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit.  Sing and make music from your heart to the Lord.”  Ephesians 5:19, NIV

*For the full story, see http://www.jonacuff.com/stuffchristianslike/2012/10/the-worst-thing-ever-put-in-an-offering-basket/

Special Guests from the South!

I am excited about the upcoming Lay Renewal Weekend  at Springfield Southern Baptist Church September 21-23!

I'm excited for a number of reasons.  First, Dr. David Crosby and the teaching he will bring.  Second, because I am privileged to lead worship for these events. Third, it's yet another exciting time in the ever-changing life of our church.

But there is another reason.  I am excited because I get to sing with two of my best friends in the world!

On Friday night, following the Fish Fry, we will have a very special worship service.  It is special because we will have visiting with us, to help lead in worship, two people whose hearts I know well.  And as God would have it, I was able to travel and sing with these two talented people in a music group called Sound of Joy in 1982-1983.

 In 2008, in Nashville, Tennessee, we met again at a reunion of that Christian music group.  We were thrilled to learn about where each of us was today, and that we could still carry a tune!

Since that weekend, the three of us have sung together at their home churches at First Baptist Church, Glen Allan, Mississippi, and at Meridian Baptist Church in Jackson, Tennessee.

Now, it is our turn to be blessed by the presence of these amazing Christian women!  I am so pleased to welcome Susan (Higdon) Hopper, acting Registrar of one of our SBC jewels, Union University, in Jackson, TN.  Susan is married to Don Hopper, an Optometrist in their hometown.

Susanne (Moore) McLendon is the wife of Jimmy McLendon, pastor of First Baptist Church in Glen Allan, MS, and Lighthouse, a mission of FBC Glen Allan, meeting in Greeneville, MS. 

I know you will be blessed by their voices and their personalities.  And for those of you who do not speak Southern, I will try to act as interpreter where needed.

We will be leading in worship Friday evening at 6:30, followed by Dr. Crosby's leading us in a time of reflection.

Among the songs you may hear Friday night:
Wonderful, Merciful Savior
Sweet Jesus
Spirit of the Living God
Breathe on Me
Glory (by Nicole Nordeman)
Be Thou Near to Me

Tell everyone you know about this weekend Lay Renewal event.  I hope to see you there!

Introduction

Hello!

My name is Keith Wilson.  I am the Worship Arts Director at Springfield Southern Baptist Church in Springfield, IL.

The short version of my bio is that I am saved from myself by Grace, and I am a grateful recipient of Mercy.

I am also a musician; a worship leader; and a choir director.

And I am honored to serve at this church and be able to share the journey with you.
 
This blog is designed to keep you informed on the arts at Springfield Southern Baptist Church.  Along the way, you're bound to hear my thoughts on the arts in ministry.  The importance of the arts in ministry is scripture-based and God-ordained.

I hope, through this site, to help guide you as we explore just what the Bible says about the arts and how it impacts us in our daily lives as we seek to honor God.  I hope to be able to relate to you the many facets of arts and the roles they play in ministry, and worship in particular.

I will also be sharing stories and life experiences that may brighten your day, encourage you, and perhaps even inspire you.  You may even laugh on occasion.

If I can do any of these things, then this site will have been a success.

And, if it does none of these things---well, we'll regroup and try again.

Welcome!

Keith Wilson
Worship Arts Director
Springfield Southern Baptist Church
225 N Grand Ave E
Springfield, IL 62702