Sam Jones Pastor’s Blog

          I recently visited a local restaurant that specializes in hamburgers. I pretended to peruse the menu for healthy alternatives like salmon or salad, but my taste buds already knew how THAT internal debate would end.

          After delivering water and bread, the waitress asked for my order. Without hesitation, I ordered a medium burger with the works—topped with American cheese, sautéed mushrooms, and grilled bacon. A side of crisp fries completed the gourmand repast.

            Twenty minutes later my heart-attack-on-a-plate arrived. I poured ketchup on the meat and fries before slathering the bun with mayonnaise and mustard. I gripped the burger with two hands and anticipated the first bite with carnivoristic delight.

            My Food Conscience picked that inopportune moment to make an appearance. The imaginary figure nicknamed “Mac” plays the role of Jiminy Cricket to my Pinocchio—reminding me of dietary rights and wrongs. For older readers, Mac looks like a pint-sized Jack LaLanne in his peak years before he started hawking juicers.

            Grease dripped down my fingers as I brought the burger to my lips. “Ahem,” Mac interrupted. “Are you REALLY planning on eating a MEDIUM cooked hamburger? You remember all those articles about Mad Cow Disease, don’t you?”

            I attempted to ignore his words as I stared at the pink hamburger. “And another thing,” my Food Conscience continued. “You’re about to eat half a pound of red meat. Just how long do you suppose it will reside in your digestive tract?”

            “To make matters worse, you ordered a cheeseburger. You KNOW that you’re lactose intolerant. The processed cheese will keep us both up all night.”

             “And don’t even get me started on the three strips of bacon that came with the order. Meat-on-meat—what WILL they think of next? Do I need to remind you of your cholesterol numbers? You’re north of 200, big boy, and just courting an all-expense-paid-trip to the Coronary Intensive Care Unit.”

            He didn’t stop there. “I couldn’t help but notice the hamburger bun. White bread? What happened to your New Year’s resolution about multigrain?”

            I quickly changed the topic, pointing out that the meal came with healthy toppings like lettuce, tomatoes, and mushrooms. Lettuce certainly counted as a vegetable, but I’ve never been quite sure about tomatoes . . . fruit . . . vegetable . . . who knows? Mushrooms actually come from the fungus family, but I figured the FDA might include them somewhere among the vegetable group in the food pyramid.

            Mac snorted in disgust. “Great choices, friend. Did you know that salmonella bacteria are found more on leafy vegetables than in ground meat? No telling where that slab of Iceberg lettuce has been.”

          “Tomatoes are dandy—and they are considered to be a fruit and not a vegetable, genius! However, the ketchup covering your plate is actually tomato-colored sugar.”

           “Don’t try to kid me about the mushrooms. The cook wiped the dirt off those fungi before sautéing the toadstools in a pound of butter.”

            I pushed the mushrooms to the side of the plate and picked up a handful of fries. “Hellllooo!” Mac called. “Ever hear of high blood pressure? Those fries have enough grease and salt to dry up your blood. Dredge them through the ketchup, and you have a lethal combination of too much salt and sugar.”

            I pointed out that I had self-righteously ordered a diet drink rather than carbonated candy. My Food Conscience shook his head in disgust. “Here’s a rule of thumb,” he announced. “Never eat or drink anything that you cannot pronounce or grow. Can you say ‘potassium benzoate?’ When was the last time you picked some good old aspartame off a tree?”

            I sighed and contemplated all that food that was so bad for me. I started to take a sip of water when Mac asked, “And did you see the latest reports on water quality?”

            Enough was enough—I banished my Food Conscience back to wherever he lived when I was a teenager and could eat whatever I pleased. Alone again, I cleaned my plate without guilt or remorse. When no one looked, I sopped up the greasy remains with some white bread.

            I sat back in sated bliss, convinced that I could not eat another bite. Then the waitress walked over and asked, “Did you save room for something sweet?” After a moment’s hesitation, I decided that it would not hurt to at least look at the dessert menu.    

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

          Yogi Berra was one of baseball’s greatest players. Many fans rank him as the game’s best all-around catcher. Born in 1925 in Saint Louis, his parents named him Lawrence Peter Berra. Yogi later gained his famous nickname from a friend who claimed he resembled a Hindu shaman (a yogi). His entry into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1972 honored an exceptional career as a player and coach.

            Following naval military duty during World War II, the New York Yankees signed Berra in 1947. He eventually wore the famous pinstripes for nineteen years on the field and in the dugout. During his career, the Yankees appeared in fourteen World Series and won the title ten times. Berra played in fifteen All-Star games and won the league’s Most Valuable Player Award three times.

           After retiring as a player, Yogi first coached the Yankees’ cross-town rivals, the New York Mets. Then he returned to coach and later manage his beloved Yankees from 1976 to 1985. He finished his career as a coach with the Houston Astros in 1992.

            Berra dropped out of school in eighth grade and became infamous for murdering the Queen’s English. He possessed an uncanny knack for bending language pretzel-like into unrecognizable shapes. He has been widely quoted over the years, and “Yogiisms” have become part of our culture. Some of his more famous adages include:

            “It ain’t over till it’s over.” The original setting for the quote occurred during the 1973 National League race when the manager said: “You’re never out of it ‘til you’re out of it.” Berra has become so identified with this statement that he claims his tombstone epithet will read: “It’s over!”

            “It’s like déjà vu all over again.” Although Yogi wasn’t known for his foreign language skills, he confirmed that he uttered these words after watching back-to-back homeruns by Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.

            “We made too many wrong mistakes.” This insightful observation came after the Yankees lost the World Series in 1960. Wrong mistakes must be much worse than right ones.

            Other delightful Yogiisms include: “A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.” “Always go to other people’s funerals; otherwise they won’t come to yours.” “Half the lies they tell about me aren’t true.” “If you come to a fork in the road, take it.” “It gets late early out there.” “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” “The hotel towels were so thick that I could hardly close my suitcase.” “You better cut the pizza in four pieces because I’m not hungry enough to eat six.” “You can observe a lot by just watching.” And “You’ve got to be careful because if you don’t know where you’re going you might not get there.”

            Like Mark Twain, no doubt Berra has been credited for many things that he never said. When he tried to set the record straight, however, Yogi couldn’t resist yet another Yogiism. He protested straight-faced: “I never said half the things I said!”

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

            An old adage warns, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” A twenty-first century revision of the maxim might read, “Where there’s smoke, there’s tobacco.”

           Despite decades of warnings by the Surgeon General, an increasing number of young people are lighting up. A study by the Center for Disease Control revealed that almost 25% of high school students smoked the previous month. A similar survey indicated that 80% of adult smokers began the lethal habit in their teens.

            Many teenagers not only smoke cigarettes but also experiment with smokeless tobacco. Ironically, a number of youth pick up the practice while participating in athletics—an activity supposed to promote good health. I spoke to a doctor recently who had treated two area baseball players for precancerous lesions in their mouths. 

            During elementary school, my fellow classmates and I attended a mandatory assembly concerning the evils of smoking. The speaker showed two cross-sections of a cow’s lung. The organ from the first cow was pink and clean. The second lung, however, had been exposed to long-term cigarette smoke (to this day, I still imagine a heifer lighting up behind the barn!) The nicotine, tar, and other carcinogens had stained and corroded the lung tissue. I became a fanatical believer and never smoked a cigarette in my lifetime.                 

           My parents did not smoke cigarettes in our home; however, my father did smoke a pipe throughout my childhood and youth. I inhaled enough secondhand smoke to qualify as a chimney sweep. We all felt relieved when he finally quit.

            I must confess to experimenting with a few cigars during college. For the life of me, I don’t know why. Emulating a former president, however, I never inhaled. I tried chewing tobacco once and promised God to never do so again if allowed to survive. 

            Tobacco is extremely addictive, and people who want to quit really struggle to kick the habit. Mark Twain once said, “Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I’ve done it thousands of times!”

            Most children pick up the habit from someone else—usually their parents. A heartbreaking commercial from years ago featured a father confronting his son about smoking marijuana. “Who taught you to do this?” the father angrily demanded. Finally, the child screamed back, “You did!”

            The battle against tobacco needs to begin at home rather than the Surgeon General’s Office. If parents do not want their children to smoke, dip, or chew, then they need to abstain themselves. The majority of people who use tobacco learned from a respected adult.

            I recall a health class that one of my children took in middle school. Following the curriculum, the coach taught the students about the evils of tobacco. Unfortunately, the dip can in his back pocket made a much bigger impression than his warnings.

            During the past months, the debate on health care reform has dominated the media. President Obama spearheaded the national effort. Regardless of one’s political persuasion, I find it quite ironic that the president smokes cigarettes. (Rumors persist that he might have quit the nasty habit, but he’s make no public confirmation). If the president really wants to promote health care, then he could begin by setting a good example for the youth of our country.

Someone once shared with me this sage advice: “Never start something that you might have to quit.” When it comes to tobacco, this is wise counsel.

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

On July 4, 1776, our nation’s founders signed the Declaration of Independence. The Philadelphia document formalized the American rebellion against British rule. Today the United States of America observes its 234^th  birthday. Independence Day celebrates over two centuries of freedom with parades, flags, picnics, and fireworks.

Many will also attempt to sing our National Anthem. Every school child knows the story behind “The Star Spangled Banner.” Francis Scott Key was a gifted poet who found himself unexpectedly detained on a British frigate. He witnessed first hand the English attack of Fort McHenry in Baltimore, Maryland. After the night’s artillery bombardment, Key peered through the dawn’s early light to see the American flag still flying proudly.

Inspired by the sight, Key scribbled some notes on the back of an envelope. His musings evolved into a four stanza poem. On September 15, 1814, a Baltimore newspaper first published “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Ironically, Key suggested the poem be sung to a popular BRITISH tune entitled “To Anacreon in Heaven.” The melody was originally composed for a gentlemen’s music club in London. The song quickly became popular across America. However, Congress did not actually make “The Star Spangled Banner” our National Anthem until 1931.

Although our national anthem is inspiring, the tune is somewhat, uh, challenging to sing. Amateur and professional vocalists alike struggle to do the tune justice. In recent years, some have suggested changing the National Anthem to “America the Beautiful.”  It is a powerful hymn with moving imagery; AND it is much easier to sing!

Katherine Lee Bates wrote “America the Beautiful” in the nineteenth century. Dr. Bates, the daughter of a minister, became a professor of English Literature at Wellesley College. In 1893, she stopped in Chicago during a trip to Colorado Springs. Both the natural beauty of Colorado’s “fruited plains” and the “alabaster city” of the Chicago World Fair inspired her to write the well known hymn.

Regardless of one’s national origin, all of God’s people can sing some of the lines together:

“God shed his grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea.”“May God thy gold refine,
till all success be nobleness,
and every gain divine.”

On the Fourth of July, we pause to give thanks for the freedom we enjoy. Our liberty is a precious gift dearly obtained. The star spangled banner still waves over America the beautiful. May God continue to bless our nation—land that we love.

Happy Independence Day!

Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

            This week marks my tenth anniversary at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church. In June 2000, Bishop Lindsey Davis assigned me to serve as the senior minister of the congregation. I preached my first sermon in the sanctuary on the fourth Sunday of June.

            Clergy in the United Methodist Church serve as itinerant ministers. “Itinerant” literally means “to travel from place to place.” Ministers are appointed year-to-year by bishops who oversee geographical areas. This form of deploying pastors enjoys a long and rich history in our denomination.

            The appointive process has changed over the decades with the evolving needs of church and culture. At one point, ministers never stayed over one year at a particular church or circuit. During my childhood, the maximum time increased to four years. Today there is a growing recognition of the value of long-term pastorates.

            Despite the changes, however, all ordained elders in the United Methodist Church are still itinerant ministers who promise to go where we’re sent. At our ordination, we are asked: “Do you offer yourself without reservation to be appointed and to serve as the appointive authority may determine?” And we’re supposed to answer “Yes” with a straight face.

            In many ways, it is like signing a blank check with the currency of your life . . . and your family’s lives. Elders place themselves under a bishop’s authority to serve anywhere within the bounds of an annual conference. This is a sacred and scary proposition. There is an implicit belief that God works in, through, and sometimes despite the appointive system.

           I once heard a minister say: “It is the worst system in the world—except for all of the rest of them!” Most Methodist clergy would say, “Amen!”

           Please understand that I am not complaining. I think the strengths of our appointive process far outweigh the weaknesses. Overall, I have seen God’s hand at work through the itinerant ministry. I have been sent to five appointments, and each has been a blessing in its own way. Although I will say the greatest blessing at one church came the day I left!

            When we moved to Cartersville, my children were in fifth and first grades. Today my daughter is a rising junior at Emory University and my son is entering eleventh grade at Cartersville High School. My wife just completed a decade of service in the Cartersville City School System teaching third grade. Ten years ago I was a spry forty-two year old—ten years later I’m a not-so-spry fifty-two year old.

            My tenure at Sam Jones has encompassed ten years of weddings, funerals, baptisms, confirmations, Easters, and Christmases. The decade has included three capital stewardship campaigns, two major building projects, and additional property acquisition. One hundred and twenty months of sermons, Bible studies, devotions, and articles have filled the years.

            I cannot begin to express how richly God has blessed me during the past ten years. I am doubly blessed: I am blessed to be a part of this congregation and community—AND I know it.

            Ever a paragon of etiquette and couth, I looked up the appropriate gift for a tenth anniversary. The traditional gifts are tin or aluminum, and the contemporary alternative is diamond. After racking my brain, I finally decided to give a gift of paper instead. This newspaper article has been ten years in the making.

Thank you—and thank God—for such a grace-filled decade.   

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

      The Biblical writers wrestled with a challenging task.  How does one describe the indescribable and define the indefinable?  In what ways can we communicate the eternal and infinite nature of God in a human world of time and space?  However, the Scriptures describe the Lord as a covenant making God who chooses to enter into relationship with humanity. The divine nature is revealed as God forms covenants with Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the Jewish people. 

      God goes by a variety of names in the Hebrew Scriptures, including Yahweh, Adonai, and El Shaddai.  Ultimately, the Lord is beyond all human vocabulary.  When Moses asked God’s name, the Lord replied, “I am who I am.”  Therefore, the Scriptural authors oftentimes used the language of poetry in attempts to describe aspects of God’s nature.  They spoke in similes and metaphors.  So we have those wonderful statements of faith:  God is a rock . . . fortress . . . defender . . . shepherd . . . foundation . . . and so much more.

      In the New Testament church, the disciples slowly came to a Trinitarian understanding of God.  They affirmed the Jewish belief in one God, but the early church experienced the Lord as three different persons:  Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  God is Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer.  God is above us, with us, and in us.

      Every name and description tells us something about the Lord.  Each of us as unique individuals finds that some titles are more meaningful than others. Through the years, however, there has been one title that has been of special importance to Christians, cutting across gender, racial, cultural, and theological lines.  When Jesus was asked by the disciples how they should pray, he taught his followers to pray, “Our Father.”

      Jewish rabbis had addressed God in this fashion prior to Jesus’ time.  They would sometimes begin their prayers to God the Father of all. In the original Aramaic language that Jesus spoke with his disciples, however, the word he used was “Abba.”  This is a title for God found nowhere else in Jewish literature. 

      “Abba” is more familiar than the English word “father.”  Instead, it was the way a young child would address an earthly parent. In English, we would literally translate the word as “Daddy.”  This title was important not only to Jesus and the Twelve but also to the early church. 

      Thirty years later when Paul wrote his letter to the Romans in Greek, he still preserved the original Aramaic word in Romans 8:  “. . . because those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God.  For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of sonship.  And by him we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’  The spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.  Now if we are children, then we are heirs–heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ . . . .” 

      Jesus chose to describe his relationship to God as a son to his father.  And Christ invites his followers into this same relationship.  We are brothers and sisters to Jesus, sons and daughters of God.  In Christ’s name, we dare to come before the Lord God in prayer and call him “Daddy.”

      On Father’s Day, we honor our earthly parents; but we also recognize that at their very best, fathers give us a glimpse of our heavenly Father’s love for us.

      Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

            Traditionally, the month of June is associated with weddings. Approximately 2.4 million weddings are performed annually in the United States. Summer’s first month is the most popular time to get married, followed by August, September, October, and May. Almost 11% of all weddings occur in June. January is the least popular month to walk the aisle at 4.7%. Despite the romantic influence of Valentine’s Day, February is second lowest month at a meager 7.4%.

            Couples are waiting longer to get married. The mean age for first-time brides is 25 years and for grooms 27.5 years. The average American engagement is sixteen months. Most brides spend seven to twelve months planning their nuptials while grooms use the same amount of time learning to say, “Yes, dear!”

            Despite an increasingly secular society, 80% of traditional weddings are performed in churches or synagogues. An average wedding party contains twelve members. Six out of ten ceremonies include a flower girl that precedes the bride down the aisle. A slightly smaller percentage will use a ring bearer.

            (If I may share some unsolicited advice, I have seldom witnessed little boys follow a wedding director’s guidance. They will stall in the aisle, burst into tears, run to their mother, swing the pillow, fall asleep, or all of the above! IF a couple insists on using a ring bearer, then do NOT allow them to carry the real rings under any circumstance.)

            Couples and their parents will spend approximately $22,000 on a traditional American wedding. However, the amount can go a decimal point in either direction. According to the Associate of Bridal Consultants, wedding costs by category include: reception (28.3%), consultant (15%), rings (11.5%), photography/video (6.6%), music (5.2%), flowers (4.6%), rehearsal dinner (4.2%), invitations (2.8%), bridal veil (1.6%), and clergy gratuities (1.2%). As an ordained minister, I will not comment on being valued at one-fourth the amount of floral arrangements.

            Ninety-nine out of one hundred couples who have a traditional wedding will also take a honeymoon. The average trip is seven days long and costs $4,000. A little over half of all couples will travel to a foreign locale. The Caribbean is the most popular destination (34%),  followed by Hawaii, the Bahamas, and Jamaica. A week later newlyweds return home to a life of marital bliss.

            Or not. Flip a coin—your chance of making the right call is 50/50—about the same odds that a marriage will survive in our society. In the United States, almost half of all marriages end in divorce. The percentage is much higher for teenage and second marriages. No one can predict which couples will survive. Even marriages seemingly made in heaven don’t always last on earth.

          The real work begins AFTER a couple says “I do.” To borrow a phrase from the Peace Corps, “It’s the toughest job you’ll ever love.” Couples choose on a daily basis whether they will reaffirm their vows to “love, honor, and cherish” one another. Weddings are a day, but marriages are a life-time. Maybe we need to spend more time, energy, and emotion on the latter rather than the former.

Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

            Vacation Bible School season has arrived in our area churches. Although such a season is not marked on any liturgical calendar, the annual observance is sacred in the southern church year. A summer would not be complete without the holy week of bedlam and chaos in local congregations.

            I grew up attending Vacation Bible School at my home church. Each summer featured a different theme. Maps, pictures, and posters decorated the cinderblock walls of the Sunday School rooms. Flimsy, 33 rpm records with the week’s featured songs accompanied the curriculum. Filmstrips were high tech back then. The multi-media presentations consisted of felt boards and punch out figures. For years, I thought all the disciples were six inches tall with Velcro strips on their backs.

            Recreation was the high point of the day. The older youth led the playtime. This meant the teenage boys flirted with their female counterparts while we ran wild. The more organized leaders would toss us a kick ball before standing aside.

            Refreshments customarily meant juice along with cream filled cookies. Whenever I read about Jesus feeding the five thousand with loaves and fishes, I always assumed the writers meant to say Kool-Aide and Oreos.

            I do recall one year when our class took an imaginary plane trip to the Holy Land. The teachers served us unleavened bread, shriveled dates, and unsweetened grape juice. They assured us this was authentic food from the Holy Land. We assured them that the land flowing with milk and honey was not all it was cracked up to be.

            We also enjoyed the arts and crafts time. Today many congregations order craft kits with their Vacation Bible School materials. We self-righteously rejected such Philistine ways. Markers, construction paper, glitter, balsa wood, and modeling clay were the art stuff of real VBS veterans.

           Oh, and the things we could do with a few Popsicle sticks and some paste glue! Everyone knew Noah constructed the ark with only these materials on hand. Given enough time and craft sticks, an average kindergarten Vacation Bible School class could construct a flight-ready space shuttle.

            We enjoyed singing, too. Ask young children if they can sing, and they will look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Of course they can sing! Ask the same group thirty years later, and the majority will respond in the negative. We enthusiastically sang the songs of faith. Our Top Ten list included “This is My Father’s World,” “Jesus Loves the Little Children,” “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” and “The B-I-B-L-E.”  Our all time, number one favorite was “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.”

            I hope every child in our community has the opportunity to attend a Vacation Bible School or two this summer. The experience will transform their lives, and the memories will last a lifetime. Give this generation a foundation of faith along with some juice, cookies, and Popsicle sticks, and they will change our world forever!

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville, Georgia. www.samjonesumc.org

            Tommy is a friend of mine who grew up on a small farm near Calhoun, Georgia. His father was a good man, but Jay was more than a bit particular and peculiar when it came to gates and fences. Whenever they drove through the fields, it was Tommy’s job to jump out of the truck, open the gate, and close it again. Those who have ever been around farms know the importance of closing gates behind them.

            Jay also believed in strong fences. Tommy recalled countless days sweating in the scorching heat or shivering in the frigid cold while they strung barbwire. The posts had to be firmly planted and perfectly level. Then they stretched the fence piano wire tight.

           Whenever Tommy would complain about the laborious attention to detail, his father would say, “Some day you’ll be glad that you did such a good job.” His son filed these comments under the heading of “Stupid Things My Father Said to Me!”

            Until one day . . . .

            Tommy was taking a shortcut through a pasture. His father had forgotten to share with his son some critical information: Jay had moved THE BULL to a new field that morning—the same field that Tommy was now crossing! The bull was one ton of bad attitude on the hoof. The bovine possessed sweeping horns and sharp hooves; and he greatly resented anyone trespassing on HIS territory.

            About halfway across the field, Tommy felt the ground begin trembling beneath his feet. He glanced over his shoulder and saw THE BULL charging towards him at a full gallop. Now Tommy possessed a six foot body compressed into a five foot five inch frame. To say the least, he had never been fleet of foot—at least up to that point in his life. However, apparently he had never had the proper motivation before! After one look, Tommy began running for his life like an Olympic sprinter. He reached the fence a few feet in front of the bull and miraculously levitated over the barbed wire.

            As he gasped for breath on the far side of safety, he stared at the huge bull on the other side. Then he looked at the fence with its firmly planted poles and tightly stretched wire. He finally understood his father’s words, and he WAS glad that he had done such a good job on the fence. Of course, he never told his father so!

            Fences and gates can appear to be restrictive. They place boundaries on our freedom. However, these protective barriers serve two important functions: they keep the bad stuff out and the good stuff in. At crisis moments in life, we recognize the value of a strongly built fence and securely latched gate.

            Oftentimes, people view the Bible as a collection of “Thou shalt nots!” Certainly God’s Word warns against the dangers of sinful words and deeds. The Scriptures post “No Trespassing” signs at the boundaries of human behavior. We ignore the warnings at our own peril.

            The Law functions like guardrails on a high mountain road. One might argue that the rails restrain one’s freedom from tumbling down the mountainside; but is that a bad thing? God erects fences and gates in our lives for our protection.

             1 Peter 5:8 warns: “Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” Evil stalks our lives in this fallen world. However, God’s Word is our fence and gate—Scriptural boundaries offer protection against the evil forces that seek to harm us.

            No bull.

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org

            The last day of school possesses a magic all its own. Students stare at the clock as it slowly tick-tocks a countdown to summer vacation. When the final bell rings, excited cheers fill the classrooms and halls—and that’s just the teachers and administrators. Children sing an ancient refrain, “School’s out, school’s out, teachers let the monkeys out!”

            During childhood, I loved the last days of school. They included all of the best elements of education without the needless distractions of books, tests, or learning. We spent the final week preparing the rooms for summer break.

            The teachers appointed various boys in the classroom to carry heavy stacks of textbooks to the stuffy storage room. I still associate the smell of dust with higher learning. We considered the manual labor to be a badge of honor and entitlement. The savvier among us could stretch the five minute task to a quarter hour of roaming the halls. Four roundtrips consumed an entire class period.

            Meanwhile, the girls washed the chalkboards and stripped the bulletin boards. The more trusted among us went outside to clean the erasers unsupervised. We banged the felt pads against the building before scrubbing them on a wire box. Clouds of chalk dust filled the air and coated our lungs. No doubt a future Surgeon General will determine that chalk dust caused many of the problems plaguing my generation.

            The more idealistic educators—who still believed that students should learn something during the final week of school—gave handouts to their classes. However, most of the work felt like play. The assignments included clever word problems, numerical riddles, crossword puzzles, and intricate mazes.     

            We also played games indoors and out. Inside entertainment included Seven Up, Spelling Bees, Hangman, and Around the World. Outside activities featured softball, kickball, freeze tag, and the ever popular game of chase. We reveled in the minimal amount of adult supervision provided by the teachers and coaches.

            The cafeteria closed early for its annual cleaning and degreasing, so the school provided grab-bag lunches with mysterious contents. Typical fare included a sandwich, chips, cookie, and apple. In the days before any awareness of peanut allergies, we often ate blended peanut butter and honey sandwiches—an abomination of the traditional peanut butter and jelly classic.

            When the last bell of the last class of the last day sounded, we erupted from our classrooms like escaping prisoners of war. Whoops of joy resounded in the hallways with obsolete notebooks abandoned in our wake. Bursting through the exits, we exalted in our newfound freedom. No more pencils, no more books, and no more teachers’ dirty looks!

            An endless summer stretched before us, bright with promise like the June sun. Who knew what new adventures awaited us? Anything and everything seemed possible.

            On my best days, I like to imagine that the final day of my life will feel like the last day of school.

            Dr. Bill Burch is the senior minister at Sam Jones Memorial United Methodist Church in downtown Cartersville. www.samjonesumc.org