In Praise of a Poet

My grandfather, who recently went home to be with the Lord, was a poet, and even garnered some recognition for a few of his works. I suppose it is from him that I get my fondness for poetry. Not all poetry, mind you. I am not a fan of poems that require a college lit professor to interpret them. That may mean that any recommendations I make regarding poets is something like the opinions of a blind art critic.

Anyway, I remember when I was younger hearing my dad quote the poems of John Oxenham, specifically one called The Ways (see below). I recently downloaded to my Kindle, his book of poetry entitled Bees in Amber: A Little Book of Thoughtful Verse (1913). Oxenham is one of a couple of pen names used by William Arthur Dunkerley (1842-1941), a British journalist, novelist, and poet.

While a couple of his poems rub a bit against some of my theological leanings, for the most part I am blessed by his verse. I'm including a line or two here in hopes that you will pick up a copy of Bees in Amber for yourself.

Whirring Wheels

Lord, when on my bed I lie,

Sleepless, unto Thee I'll cry;

When my brain works overmuch,

Stay the wheels with Thy soft touch.

Just a quiet thought of Thee,

And of Thy sweet charity, --

Just a little prayer, and then

I will turn to sleep again.

God's Handwriting

He writes with characters too grand

For our short sight to understand;

We catch but broken strokes, and try

To fathom all the mystery

Of withered hopes, of death, of life,

The endless war, the useless strife, --

But there, with larger, clearer sight,

We shall see this -- His way was right.

Here is a portion of one entitled Darkness and Light

Spread the Light! Spread the Light!

Till earth's remotest bounds have heard

The glory of the Living Word;

Till those that see not have their sight;

Till all the fringes of the night

Are lifted, and the long-closed doors

Are wide for ever to the Light.

Spread--the--Light!

And finally, in honor of my dad, The Ways

To every man there openeth

A Way, and Ways, and a Way

And the High Soul climbs the High Way,

And the Low Soul gropes the Low,

And in between, on the misty flats,

The rest drift to and fro.

But to every man there openeth

A High Way, and a Low.

And every man decideth

The Way his soul shall go.

You can still find used copies of Bees in Amber for relatively cheap. My Kindle copy was only $2.99, but I can't loan it to you. Sorry.

So now this entry of my blog must come to a simple close,

And if you made it to this point, I hope you've liked the prose,

I'll never claim to be a Whitman -- Emerson, or the like,

But I can rhyme a word or two, like Mike, and Ike, and Hike.

(That one is mine - not Oxenham's)

Preaching

It is amazing how much can go through your mind while you are in the middle of preaching a sermon. Even though I am trying to focus on the people, while navigating through my manuscript (no emails, please, about the glory of extemporaneous preaching without notes), in the midst of all of that, I still find thoughts coming into my head. Tonight, as I was preaching through Nehemiah 6, the thought came to mind, “Man, I love this!” I realized again how much I truly love preaching. As I rode home from church, I thanked God for the privilege to preach.

When I was younger I resented all the people who told me I was going to be a preacher when I grew up. I had other aspirations, none of which included the ministry. Now, I can’t imagine doing anything else. When I am not preaching, I am thinking about the next time I will preach. I sermonize in my sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night with Sunday’s text on my mind, and get up to go write down the bones to an outline.

In Ephesians 3:7-8, the Apostle Paul said, “Whereof I was made a minister, according to the gift of the grace of God given unto me by the effectual working of his power. Unto me, who am less than the least of all saints, is this grace given, that I should preach among the Gentiles the unsearchable riches of Christ.” I recognize that my call to preach is a “gift of the grace of God”. I am the son of a preacher, and there are a long line of preachers in my family tree. That, however, was not the reason the Lord called me to preach. Nothing about me pre-qualified me to be a preacher. I get to preach because God showed me grace when He called me into His service.

I am no great preacher, but I preach a great gospel! There is nothing profound about the words of my preaching, but there is power in the Word I preach! Though relatively few will ever hear me preach, the One for whom I preach listens every time, and so long as He is glorified, I will be satisfied, and forever thankful that He chose me to be His herald.

What a privilege to go “stand and speak” on behalf of King Jesus.

...Time to study. Sunday's coming.

The Prophet's Grave

Vance Havner was a small, unimposing man. He spoke in a high, nasily tone, and a thick Southern accent that betrayed his upringing in Jugtown, NC. Despite his outward appearance, Havner was a modern prophet. His words were nails fastened by a master of the assembly (Eccl. 12:11). He had a way with words, and could turn a phrase in such a way that it was at once clever, and convicting. He had a dry humor that was disarming, and yet never glib. He stood and pointed out the hypocrisy and carnality of the modern church, and did not flinch in the face of those who found his bluntness offensive and old-fashioned. Men of his caliber and conviction are rare, and he is dearly missed. You can still find many of his books, and audio of his sermons can be found on the web.

If you are ever in Greensboro, NC, find Guilford College Road, and look for Guilford College. Just across from the school is a Quaker church with a cemetary behind it. Havner is buried toward the middle of the cemetary. Stop by and pay your respects to the prophet.

"Our Lord sent His disciples out as sheep among wolves; now the wolves are being invited into the sheepfold." V.H.

"The church is not a showboat; it's a lifeboat." V.H.

"[Too many] churches begin at 11 o'clock sharp, and end at 12 o'clock dull." V.H.

"We're not waiting for something; we are watching for Someone." V.H.