Having listened to a few dozen folks take me to task because I said a third-party candidate won’t win the Presidential election come November, I thought I might elaborate a bit more on the subject since I still have a few inches of flesh that are unbruised.
If you want a third-party candidate to win, the first thing you must do is agree upon which one. Folks insist that a third candidate could beat both Clinton and Trump, but they each want us to rally around their guy. Unhappy conservative voters are tossing around a half-dozen names that they want us to vote for, but until they all unite behind one person, they’ll be screaming the same mantra every four years from now on — if we are still here and our country still stands. I start here because I see this as the largest hurdle to get over. Just between you and me, I don’t see it happening.
So, you aren’t going to vote for President? You can’t stomach either of the candidates, and your conscience won’t let you cast a ballot for either?
I didn’t know I needed a pastor to serve. I knew that I needed a pastor to serve me, and I was quite content to let that happen in as many ways as possible. But I didn’t realize that I needed a pastor to serve.
The pop of firecrackers and the explosion of light and color across the black sky mark the arrival of the fourth day of the month of July just as they have for past 239 years since John Hancock and his fellow rebels signed the Declaration of Independence. For me, the joy and glory that accompany this holiday are bit subdued this time around. The liberty that we celebrate has been redefined through the years, and its boundaries are significantly more confining than they were when I was a youth.
Every year, our church hosts a God and Country celebration just before the July 4th weekend. We invite and honor our public servants. This year, eighteen of them were kind enough to show up. There was a short piece that was read during this year’s program that I thought I’d share as part of a July 4th medley. This post celebrates the joy of family.
Little people spend their lives fighting other people. This kind lives and dies with their tombstones being the only noticeable change to the landscape.
I love life. I really like living. One of the main reasons is that, as a child, my parents helped me understand that a life devoted to God would not only give meaning to life, but would take me through some pretty cool experiences. As I look back at fifty years of memories, I’ve got to acknowledge that they were right.
The apostle Paul was certainly a colorful character. He didn’t hesitate to confront Peter or the Roman authorities when he thought they were wrong. By his own testimony, he traveled with caravans across desert places, encountering bandits and thieves along the way. Making tents with his hands made his living, yet when he visited the liberal free-thinking philosophers’ paradise on Mars Hill, he plunged right in the debate. And who could forget his voyage through the storm when he chided the seasoned sailors for not taking his advice, and then gave them instructions on how to save their lives?
It all started with those two in the picture. Some days I wanted to show them to the whole world. Other days… well, if you’re a parent, you understand. But every day I have loved them.
In my few decades on this Earth, I don’t recall a time when men were more determined to prove their collective stupidity. It’s as if every evening the world’s movers and shakers review that day’s events, and plot how they can come up with something even more ridiculous before sunrise. How else can you explain our new rule that children can choose whether they want to be a boy or a girl, that everybody has free access to everybody else’s bathroom, and that the NFL and PayPal can refuse to do business with people they disagree with, but people who live in North Carolina cannot? We are so full of ourselves that we can’t see how perfectly we are fulfilling