The masses followed a contingent of four hundred priests – a relatively small contingent considering the crowd that dwarfed them. The cloud of dust announced their advancement long before they reached the top of the mountain. Once they had summited that barrier between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jezreel Valley, they found waiting for them one rather frightening man. He was a noticeably lean man, covered in hair, who wore an unfashionable garment of camel skin adorned by a leather belt around his middle. His eyes snapped with a holy fire that had not been seen for quite some time. Every soul in the crowd knew who this strange man was, although most, if not all, had never seen him. He was the most wanted criminal in Israel; in fact, he was the most wanted man in that area of the world. Not one bordering country had been spared the inquisition of King Ahab in his frenzied hunt for the prophet who had locked down the weather forecast.

Perhaps curiosity had brought this crowd. Perhaps fear. Perhaps boredom: there wasn’t much to do since it had stopped raining. In any case they were there to watch the showdown. The prophet Elijah lifted his voice so that it carried across that hillside. Every soul must hear his great question, because every soul must choose his side. “How long halt ye between two opinions? if the Lord be God, follow him: but if Baal, then follow him.”

“And the people answered him not a word” (I Kings 18:21).

In the millennia since the showdown between Elijah and the prophets of Baal, the human condition has changed little. We still suffer at the hands of the silent majority. It is this great segment of our society that believes they are the truly decent and noble. They are people of dignity and class who stand above “dirty politics.” Mud-slinging is for the deceitful members of society. No, these proud people are not judgmental. They view moral matters with dispassion. Passion should be reserved only for times when a pig skin is in play. They are the majority of America.

These people composed the majority of the world in 1936 when the Nuremberg laws were passed making it illegal for a Gentile to fall in love with a Jew. When Germany declared that a Jewish man could not work with white women who were under the age of forty due to his obviously unbridled lust, this majority was silent. It was a German affair. Let them handle it.

When the calendar turned to November 9, 1938, and the fateful Kristallnacht – the Night of Broken Glass – was etched in to our history books, this world majority was silent as synagogues were burnt and over ninety Jews were beaten to death. It was a German problem. Let them deal with it.

In 1945, the first Allied soldiers walked into how the Germans dealt with their “problem.” The soldiers who entered the Dachau concentration camp began to vomit merely at the sight of the prisoners in the camp. Even after weeks and years spent in the safety of their homes, these soldiers would wake up in terror of their memories. They brought out the first pictures of what we as a world allowed in silence.

When the survivors crawled their way out of the hell of Germany, they begged for a place to go. A safe place. A place where they could try to remember what is was like to be human. In the classic response of mankind, the majority was once again silent. It was a Jewish problem. Let them figure it out.

We look back – or at least we should – with disgust at a world that lacked the courage to act. The world was silent, and oftentimes silence is not golden. It is just yellow.

Today we face a new holocaust; a holocaust that dwarfs the one instigated by Hitler. Since 1973, fifty-three million babies have been sucked in pieces from their mother’s womb. The majority is divided between those who think it is morally wrong, those who would not do it themselves but who also do not wish to judge those who chose to murder their baby, and those who don’t really want to talk about it because it makes them uncomfortable. And this majority maintains status quo. They are silent.

Speaking out, going to marches, attending fundraisers, showing up at hearings – that’s not for them. They are noble and decent people who really do not want to argue this point. This is a political issue. Let the politicians fight it out. How can we smugly criticize those people who did nothing to save the Jewish people? How can we in horror ask – “How could you let this happen? Why didn’t you do anything?” – when we are every bit as guilty as they?

I went to the Yad Veshem Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem in 1996. I felt a growing uneasiness as I walked deeper into the dark recesses of that solemn building. Heaviness began to pull on my heart as I viewed the photographs of the beginnings of genocide. I moved rather steadily through the museum until I reached one photograph that had been blown up to over seven feet. I was transfixed. In it was a group of Jews with their hands up, walking down a road. Later, I would notice that a woman at the front of the group had her face turned and that the guards on the side of the rode who stood with pointed guns were laughing. However, at that first view of the iconic photograph, all that I saw was a little boy. He wore shorts and a little jacket and what looked like a golfer’s hat. His hands were raised above his head. His eyes – his beautiful little eyes – were filled with terror. His fear was palatable.

I stood against a black-painted wall opposite the picture and wept. As the tears coursed down my cheeks I could not seem to pull my eyes away from his. The picture seared into my mind. I so wanted to step into the picture and take that child into my arms and remove him from harm and then return to the picture and finish the mocking Nazi soldiers. I wanted to be an equalizer. From that day on, I made a promise with myself to never turn my eyes from pictures of the holocaust. I would look at them so as not to devalue those in the picture who had suffered and died.

As much as I have dreamed of it, I cannot save that child. There is nothing I can do. But I can fight for millions of children who are every bit as terrified as that little Jewish boy. How many of us have ever looked into their eyes? That is no longer a hypothetical question. Ultrasound – the window to the womb – allows us to look into the faces of these babies who are slated for extermination. Will we turn our eyes away? Will our discomfort cause us to recoil from knowing the truth of what happens in the modern-day death camps? Do we have the courage to speak for those who have no voice? Do we have even the audacity to show up and simply be counted with those who oppose the slaughter of our future?

Or will we remain just another member of the silent majority?

So here I am after 40 years of proclaiming the Word of God. I guess these days come if you live long enough and stay at it. The staying at it has been by the grace of God, and because of the support of the most wonderful wife a man could ever have. She has been a partner in service since the day that she became my wife. I think it will be a revealing day when I stand before the Lord, and it becomes known that every blessing my ministry ever experienced was on account of her, and not me. She is, without a doubt, the most remarkable Christian I have ever known, and my best friend. Next to my salvation, the best decision I ever made was asking her to marry me.

I also have been blessed with wonderful children. The 6 of them have been my hardest workers and my most loyal supporters since they were just little tikes. They have worked long and hard and without complaint. They have worked bus routes and afternoon Sunday Schools when other people were home enjoying a nice rest after a hot Sunday meal. They never thought it was their right to sow wild oats, or to run with the wrong crowd. They dated right, and they married mates who have so blessed our family. And all along the journey from childhood to adulthood, we had much fun together. To Jason, Dixie, Tara, Georgia, Nathan, and Jonathan: Thanks for all of your investment into my ministry and my life. Thanks for having a heart for the Lord, and for being so willing to overlook my flaws as a father. You six are my dearest friends on earth, and I am blessed to be your dad.

My parents, James and Margaret Herring, were the ones who first saw potential in me when everyone else must have thought that either I got my wires crossed, or that God had made a mistake in calling me to preach. They remained my most loyal “fans” until the day that God called them home to glory. Their love for me was a motivating factor in my ministry. I never wanted to disappoint them, and I still don’t. Sometimes I get such an ache to see them again, and one day I will. Until that day arrives, I want to stay faithful in His service.

And what about those who mentored me? Where would I be without Ed and Judy Bruce, Cecil and Kitty Hodges, Ray and Brenda Turner, Harry and Carole Lassley, and Don and Lydia Balls? These people taught me…molded me…trained me…loved me. I owe them a great debt of gratitude, as I do to all of the many friends who have encouraged me, sharpened me, and strengthened me along this journey. We are, after all is said and done, made up of little bits and pieces of the people who influence our lives. I have been blessed to be surrounded by so many good and godly people who have helped keep me between the ditches.

March 21st. It was the last night of an “Andrew Revival” that Carl Hatch was preaching at my home church (Bible Baptist Church) in Savannah. God had been dealing with my heart about surrendering to preach His Word, and that night I finally surrendered my will to His will. I stepped into the aisle and headed to the altar. My youth pastor, Ray Turner, met me at the altar and opened his Bible to Joshua 1:8-9. That scripture has encouraged me many times over the past 40 years, and I have shared it with every young man who has surrendered to preach under my ministry.

I did not know, that night, the great blessings that the next 40 years would hold for me. Everything in life has its ups and downs, and the ministry is no different. Yes, there have been trials, but the trials have been so few in comparison with the blessings. Through it all, God has been God. He has shown me that He is there in every moment of my life. No matter how dark the valley. No matter how deep the pain. He has always been with me.

It has been a learning experience for me. I am amused by preachers who like to pound their chest and proudly proclaim: “I haven’t changed a bit in the 30+ years I’ve been preaching!” That really is a sad commentary on their lack of growth. The very nature of growth demands change in who we are and how we relate to others. I hope that after 40 years of ministry I have changed for the better. I hope that I am quicker to forgive. I hope that I have learned to look beyond a person’s flaws, and appreciate their worth. I hope that I have learned to love deeper, to cherish friendships, and to appreciate the smallest of blessings. How wasted would my life be if I was the same person as the boy who walked that aisle 40 years ago! I thank the Lord for His work in me.

Lastly, I am grateful for the people that God has allowed me to minister to over the years. You have loved my children as though they were your own, and you have allowed us to be a part of your life. Susie and I have been blessed beyond measure to have friends all over this nation, and from sea to shining sea. Thanks for the memories! If I have had just a small bit part in helping to encourage you along your journey, or in drawing you closer to the Lord, I feel it has been worth it all.

“And I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who hath enabled me, for that he counted me faithful, putting me into the ministry;” 1Timothy 1:12

Have you noticed how vulgar and profane we have become as a society of enlightened people? It seems that the more “civilized” a nation becomes, the more uncivilized its language becomes. People do not feel the slightest hesitation in using the most perverse language in public. Children hear it from their coaches, it is flaunted as being funny on television shows, and parents use it to express emphasis in their conversations at home. People even wear it on their t-shirts. To be such an educated lot, we sure sound ignorant at times.

When I was a boy growing up in Savannah, Georgia, my family would take trips to visit some kinfolk who lived on a farm near Norway, South Carolina. My Mom was from a little South Carolina town called Tarboro, and we had relatives throughout the low country. I knew exactly what it meant when we kids were told we were going to “the country”. I always relished the opportunity to immerse myself in farm life, even though I grew up directly across from a small farm in Georgia. The farm in Carolina was so big that I felt like I was the first explorer to discover some of the “nooks and crannies” of that vast real estate. Even now, it is a place that I retreat to in my mind and find peaceful memories of days gone by.

It was rustic living at its best. With no indoor plumbing, the path from the back door led to the outhouse. I won’t discuss my impressions of that place, the potential for splinters, nor the fear that racked a young boy’s heart during late night visits to “the men’s room”. I still remember my first bath on that farm. It took place on the back porch in a #5 galvanized washtub. I felt like an exhibitionist even though there were no neighbors within ten miles, and Mom kept assuring me that no one was watching. It was the fastest bath of my life.

When water was needed it either came from the hand pump, or it was drawn from the well. I remember peering over the edge of that well and thinking that it led to the center of the earth. We thrilled at being able to drop the bucket into that well and pull up a bucket-full of cool water to quench our thirst. We were told to make sure that we didn’t drop any objects into that well, or it could pollute the drinking water.

I have often thought about that well, and the lessons it taught me about life. The tongue really is nothing more than a bucket that draws from our inner reservoir and brings it to the surface for all to hear. You won’t draw clear water from a polluted well. You can wash your mouth out with soap, but that won’t clean your heart. That really is the teaching of James 3:11: “Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter?” The problem is not superficial, and has to be traced back to its source.

It is not so much that we have a mouth problem as it is that we have a heart problem. Our words are just an indication of what is deep within our heart. There are many people who do not use obscene language, and yet their words indicate a polluted heart. Critical words come from a critical heart. Judgmental words come from a judgmental heart. Words of self-righteousness come from a heart that is a reservoir of self-righteousness. A slanderous tongue is serving up the content of a slanderous heart.

When Mom would take us to the doctor, he would take an oversized popsicle-stick, called a tongue suppressor, and press our tongue down so that he could examine our mouth. I was told that the general health of a person could be determined by examining their mouth. The same is true spiritually. We are deceiving ourselves if we think we can have an undisciplined mouth, and yet our overall spiritual being is in good health. No wonder David prayed: “Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O LORD, my strength, and my redeemer.” (Psalm 19:14). My mouth and my heart…they are connected by my words.

Maybe we should start listening to ourselves. Your words will tell you the condition of your heart, and will let you catch a glimpse of the real you. “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart bringeth forth that which is evil: for of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaketh.” Luke 6:45

I was enthralled with his legendary bear hunting skills, and how he fought the “Injuns” while serving under General Andrew Jackson. While “Old Hickory” was elected President, Crockett himself enjoyed a career in politics, even serving in the United States Congress. He was so popular, that there was talk of him becoming President once Jackson left office. But when Jackson decided to renege on his promises to the Indians, Davy openly stood in opposition to him, and that spelled the end of his political career. He put on his buckskins, and eventually headed for Texas.

This Tuesday, March 6, it will be the anniversary of the fall of the Alamo. In 1836, just outside of what is today the city of San Antonio, 186 brave men made a garrison of the little mission known locally as San Antonio de Valero. Numbered with those men fighting for Texas independence, were Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel William Travis. They were all men who believed in liberty and independence, and were willing to give their lives to secure it. What would happen there in that obscure little mission would become the symbolic focal point in the War for Texas Independence.

For 13 long days, the Mexican Army, under the leadership of General Santa Anna, laid siege to the Alamo. Travis sent out word requesting immediate reinforcements, but it soon became apparent that none would arrive. Santa Anna made it known that he would give no quarter, and the men of the Alamo made it known that they wanted none. It would be a fight to the death. Legend has it that Colonel Travis took his sword and drew a line in the sand. Any man who wanted to leave could cross over and do so before it was too late.

But these were men who were not familiar with the luxuries of life. Most of them had built their own homes by hand, and hunted for the meat to put on their tables. The fields that they planted in the spring were cultivated by the strength of their backs and the sweat of their brows. They cut the trees, cleared the land, and made fields in the middle of dense forests. These were free men, and they weren’t about to yield their hands to shackles, or their hearts to surrender. Davy Crocket’s motto was “Be sure you’re right, and then go ahead.” He, like the brave men who fought beside him, knew that fighting for freedom was the right thing to do and there was no turning back.

And so they died that March day in 1836, and in doing so they signed their names in blood to the sacred roll of those who gave their all for freedom. It wasn’t long before “Remember the Alamo!” became the rallying cry that led Sam Houston and the Texans to their independence.

It would do us well today to “Remember the Alamo”. In a day when being self-serving and superficial makes one a celebrity, it is hard for shallow minds to comprehend men who felt so deeply about their principles that they would be willing to die for them. It is even harder to understand men who would die to secure the liberty of someone else. Yet these were the men who blazed this nation out of an untamed wilderness, and purchased the liberty that we enjoy today.

It was John Quincy Adams who said “Posterity – you will never know how much it has cost my generation to preserve your freedom. I hope you will make good use of it.” On Tuesday I will remember the Alamo, and will thank God for those who hallowed its ground with their sacrifice. And I will be grateful for the teacher who introduced me to books, and in doing so taught me that time travel is possible to those who read.

April 19, 1995, began like any other day in the Heartland of America. People grabbed a quick breakfast, kissed their loved ones goodbye, and headed for work. Throughout the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City, office meetings were in session, and people busied themselves as they began to tackle the duties of the day. On the second floor children laughed and played in the daycare.

At 9:02 that morning, the normalness of that day would be shattered by a blast that destroyed one-third of the Murrah Building, claimed 168 lives, including 19 children under the age of 6, injured more than 680 people, destroyed or damaged 324 buildings within a sixteen-block radius, and destroyed or burned 86 cars. The blast was heard 55 miles away. It was the most destructive act of terrorism on American soil prior to the September 11, 2001 attacks.

As I looked at twisted metal, concrete rubble, empty shoes, tattered briefcases, abandoned day planners, and lonely stuffed animals, I became deeply disturbed that a human heart could hold such hatred so as to do such a thing. The media screens took us back to the shock and carnage, and I wept as I heard mothers screaming for their children, hoping that somehow, from that scene of death and destruction, their child would appear. Lives were cut short, bodies were broken, hearts were shattered, families were scarred, and a city was shaken….all because two men embraced hate.

Yet there is more to be seen in this place than just the tragic evidence that two men were emissaries of hate. Literally swarming that scene of death, the people of Oklahoma City would not let hate have the final word, or leave the last impression. They came running down the streets with blankets to wrap the wounded. They made tourniquets out of their shirts to stop the bleeding. They used their trucks as ambulances to transport the injured. They risked their own lives to save the lives of others. They held strangers in their arms, and through love they took back the ground that hate had conquered.

Priscilla Salyers was working on the fifth floor of the Murrah building on the morning of the 19th. When the blast occurred she fell into the basement. She was buried beneath mounds of debris, and she had no idea if she would ever see her family again. After 4 ½ hours of being buried alive, she says, “Suddenly, someone took my hand. Words cannot begin to express the comfort and peace I felt with this human touch.”

That human touch is what is needed today. Yes, we should look to God, but He is looking at us. We are the ambassadors of His love. It is so often with our hands that He chooses to touch, and with our arms that He chooses to embrace. We can play it safe and avoid the smoldering, suffering world around us, but there are people buried under all of that hate. What they wait for, and what they desperately need, is the human touch.

Let’s be clear. I am adamantly opposed to Planned Parenthood. I am not opposed to Susan G Komen for the Cure. As a parent of a child who was lost to brain cancer, I am very much in favor of any kind of cancer research for a cure. I would gladly donate money to any organization that was dedicated to finding a cure for childhood brain cancer. And although my family has not been touched personally by breast cancer, I can empathize with the families of those who have been lost, those who are fighting, and the survivors of a disease that affects one out of every eight women in the United States.

We should appreciate the passion felt by those who have faced the crucible of cancer. But we should not allow our passion to blind us to common sense and ethics. It’s not the cause, it’s not the race for the cure, and it’s not the thousands who are affected by cancer that we oppose. It’s the systematic and wholesale destruction of unborn children that we are pledged to fighting against.

Over sixty years after the fall of Nazi Germany, the holocaust remains a very sensitive subject and rightfully so. When Prince Harry wore a Nazi uniform and swastika armband to a costume party, he was blasted by the media and ordered by his father to visit Auschwitz and watch Schindler’s List. Not even six decades could erase the guilt by association no matter how ‘innocent’ or ignorant, rather, the motive might have been. For some reason freedom loving people are offended by something associated with genocide and ethnic cleansing. We don’t have a “que sera” attitude towards the mass murder of millions. And this is what makes Komen’s alliance with Planned Parenthood all the more bewildering.

The ends do not justify the means, especially when the means involves murder. Just because Planned Parenthood offers breast exams and screening for cancer does not mean that we can overlook the sordid legacy of the number one provider of abortions in the world. Why would an organization dedicated to fighting the number one enemy of women’s health support an organization that devastates women physically, emotionally, and spiritually?

The philosophy of Nazi eugenics and Planned Parenthood come from the same poisonous root. And the logic to justify their barbaric practice is exactly the same.

1. The Jew is unwanted.
2. The Jew is not fully human.
3. It is perfectly legal to get rid of the Jew.
4. Thus, it is moral to kill the Jew.

1. The unborn child is not wanted.
2. The unborn child is not fully human.
3. It is perfectly legal to get rid of the unborn child.
4. Thus, it is moral to kill the unborn child.

Get enough people to support it, and it will become acceptable. Get popular organizations and celebrities to endorse and fund it, and it is now respectable. No wonder Planned Parenthood and its support base pulled out all the stops to regain their funding from Komen. Planned Parenthood is like the witches house in the tale of Hansel and Gretel. It’s all gingerbread and sugar coating on the outside, but death lurks within. Komen is the pink icing on the house of cake that has been beset by scandal and illegalities in recent years. Add to this the threat of defunding from the federal government, and Planned Parenthood could lose the façade that it has so carefully crafted over the years to lure young women in.

While promoting women’s health and breast cancer screening, Komen is assisting Planned Parenthood in their deception of the American public. It’s time to come out from among them and be separate. Susan G. Komen has taken a ‘neutral’ position for now, claiming that Planned Parenthood can reapply for funding next year and submit to the application process in which they might be denied or accepted. This has only postponed the issue for another day. While I understand their attempt to diffuse controversy and criticism, my hope and prayer for Komen is that they will recognize Planned Parenthood as the ‘swastika armband’, and cut ties with the perpetrators of America’s greatest holocaust. Komen is a great organization with a proud history. It is unbecoming for them to provide the sheep’s clothing for the number one predator of our children and future generations.

Komen, don’t be the wool for the wolf.

It is hard to believe that the 10th anniversary of what is perhaps the most infamous day in American history is upon us. It was a day that will forever be etched in the memories of those of us who were witness to its tragic events. It was a day of death…a day of darkness. It was a day that we should never forget. Nor should we forget the lessons that arose from the smoldering ashes of the twin towers, the Pentagon, and the wreckage of United Flight 93 in that Pennsylvania field.

We certainly learned who our enemies are. We were attacked by people who are so demented as to make a religion out of hate. It was not the first time that they attacked us, nor will it be the last. They were behind the 1993 attack on the World Trade Center that killed 6, and injured at least 1,040 more, and they orchestrated the October 12, 2000 attack on the USS Cole, killing 17 of America’s finest. All the while we have been assured by our government that this is really a religion of peace. They ask us to ignore the facts and deny the truth.

What should concern us are people who are living today as though they are trapped in a 7th century time-warp. That primitive mentality has set them at odds with every society in the world that does not embrace their fanaticism. Their answer to this cultural conflict is to kill those who disagree, even if it means killing themselves in the process. The tribal disposition that labels someone an infidel and seeks their death, just because they do not believe alike, has no place in a civilized world desperately needing peace.

We also learned that day who our real heroes were. In a nation that had been so enamored with celebrities and superstar athletes, we found our heroes – not on the red carpet of high society, but on the asphalt and concrete of everyday life. In our greatest hour of tragedy, it was the “Grunt” who came to our rescue. It was the blue-collar worker—the policeman, the fireman, the city worker, and those of the EMS. It was the “Everyday Joe and the Everyday Jane”, who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time, that waded into the ash and rubble and proved that heroes live among us.

It is fitting that we take time to remember the brave firemen who were going up in the towers when everyone else was trying to get out, and the frightened people they were trying to rescue. September 11 should always be a day of remembrance. On Sunday, September 11, at 11 AM, please join the South Valley Baptist Church in honoring the memory of those lost on that day, and recognizing those public servants who are present. May we never forget!

Rats! Another flight delay! Oh well, if you fly much these days you are aware that delayed departures (and arrivals) have become the norm rather than the exception. With airline tickets going up, and airline service becoming less dependable, airports are often host to disappointed and angry people who want to vent their frustration out on someone….anyone. If people had head-gaskets like cars do – I am certain that repair shops could make a fortune off passengers at almost every major airport in America. Flying the friendly skies isn’t as friendly as it used to be….and the peanuts they gave me were stale…..all 12 of them.

Having been through this before, I have learned that going with the flow is the best way to deal with these types of unexpected delays in life. If God is in control of my life – none of these events catches Him off-guard. I am reminded of what Curtis Hutson used to say: “Has it ever occurred to you that nothing ever occurs to God?!” I am glad that I can cast all of my care on Him, because I know that he cares for me (1 Peter 5:7). With my departure from snow-covered Denver delayed from 8:40 until 10:15, I had almost 4 hours to burn. After eating a snack while reading the sports section, I decided that I would walk for an hour to get a little exercise in while waiting.

I hopped the tram-car to Concourse B to get a change of scenery. I noticed a shoe-shine stand that was closing up shop, and one glance at my Joseph Seibels made me wish I had gotten there earlier. They needed a shine big-time! I glanced at the young Hispanic guy who was sweeping up, and asked him if he was done for the night. He told me that he had time for one more shine, and so I climbed up and he got to work on my faded browns.

As we began to talk, it became very evident to me that this was one of those moments that may not have been found in my month-at-a-glance, but God had it all planned out. It was what I call a “Divine Appointment”, and I was suddenly thankful for my delayed flight and the opportunity if afforded me to be an ambassador of my Heavenly Fathers love. His name was Alex, and during our conversation I found out that he had accepted Christ as his Savior when he was a boy in central America, but he hade wandered from the Lord and had long been out of fellowship with Him. We talked about priorities, and how he needed to find a Bible-preaching church where he could begin to grow in his relationship with Christ again. I stressed the importance of having a church family that would encourage him in his walk with God. He agreed to get grounded in a good church, and we promised to stay in touch with each other. When we parted we both knew that God had caused our paths to cross.

The reason God sent Philip to the desert was because he had a divine appointment with an Ethiopian eunuch that needed someone who could share the truth of God’s Word with him. God still needs some witnesses today who, like Philip, can be trusted to share His love with those He brings us in contact with. If you start recognizing these appointments it will change the way you look at life. That family with the broken down car on the side of the road – maybe it’s not a coincidence that you happened to pass by just as their car overheated. The guy who thought you were the one that ordered Direct TV – maybe he didn’t have the wrong address after all. Maybe God sent you an appointment because He trusted you to show His love to someone He loves very much.

One of the things that I like about our calendar system is that every 24 hours we get a brand new day that affords us the opportunity of a fresh start. Here we are at the start of a New Year. 2010 is forever gone with all of its failures and successes. When the Apostle Paul told the church at Philippi that he was “forgetting those things that are behind” (Philippians 3:13), he was not just referring to the bad times. People who live in the past tend to lose focus on the purpose that God has for them today.

I like to think of 2011 as a stack of 365 sheets of clean, crisp, unused paper that waits on the pen of the author to write a story that will reach the hearts of its readers. Or maybe it is a white canvas that awaits the brush of the painter to transform it into a mountain scene that will inspire awe in those who view it. This New Year has no failures, no disappointments, no great successes, but it has the potential for all of the above.

There are some things that come our way that we have no control over whatsoever. Sometimes life doesn’t fit into our month-at-a-glance plans. Have you ever been traveling on a road that is taking you exactly where you have planned on going, and all of a sudden you find yourself faced with a detour? The detour takes you down roads that were not in your plans. Life is like that sometimes. We find ourselves traveling roads we never intended to travel and facing situations that we never dreamed we would.

How we face the difficulties and challenges that come our way in 2011, and whether we get back on track after the detour, will depend a great deal on what kind of spirit we have. Our spirit evidences itself in our attitude. The Bible speaks of a contrite spirit, a right spirit, a broken spirit, a wounded spirit, a faithful spirit, a hasty spirit, an overwhelmed spirit, a failing spirit, a haughty spirit, a humble spirit, and many more. One thing is for sure, we will not accomplish much for the Lord in 2011 if we try to operate with a spirit that is displeasing to Him. We may survive but we will not thrive.

That brings me to the reason for this article: Daniel. God has burned his example into my heart in these first few days of this New Year. Here was a young man that was listed among Israel’s finest. He was intellectually brilliant, and would be considered “at the top of his class” in every aspect. He had everything to live for – his future was before him! Then came Babylon. Talk about a detour! His plans were trashed, he was taken from his home and carried into a strange land to become the servant of a strange king who worshiped strange gods. As a slave in the service of the palace, he was surgically castrated so as to allow him to work around the women without fear of improper advances.

What had he done to deserve this? If there ever was a young man in the Bible who had a right to be bitter at the turn of life, it would be Daniel. Others would have pointed fingers at everyone around them – maybe even at God – but not Daniel. I stand in awe every time I read that Daniel had an “excellent spirit” (Daniel 5:12, 6:3). When he was promoted to a position of power, he could have had his revenge on anyone who had wronged him. A pound of flesh and a pint of blood was his for the asking, but his life was lived for the glory of God.

I must admit that I have not always had an excellent spirit when dealing with those who have wronged me, or when dealing with situations in life that did not go as I hoped they would. I am not a big fan of detours. Sometimes I am content to “just get through it”, but God wants so much more than just my survival. He wants me to face the challenges in a manner that will glorify Him. My hearts desire is that God will give me the grace in 2011 to have what Daniel had – an excellent spirit in all that I do.

I straddled the Harley, pressed the starter switch, and the big Road King let out a low growl like a grizzly being stirred from a deep sleep. Ah yeah, this was gonna be fun! As I headed for the breakfast buffet at J.B.’s, where I was to rendezvous with Mike and Don, I noticed a squadron of ducks crossing overhead in the early morning sky. Off in the direction of the Boise airport, I watched as the first of the early flights arched its way across the sky on its journey east. Suddenly my mind was drawn earthward by the smell of the mint fields I was passing as the aroma filled my helmet.

After throwing down some eggs and bacon and sausage and hashbrowns…..and pancakes….me and my buddies headed out. A few miles on the freeway and we exited toward the mountains and the jaw-dropping beauty that would engulf us every mile of our journey. Our first stop was Idaho City, which was founded in 1862 during the Boise Basin gold rush. At one time it was the largest city in the Northwest, but now the population is around 458. You can feel the history as you walk down the streets that remain very much unchanged from gold rush days. After fueling the bikes, we headed out on the asphalt road that snaked its way over the mountain summits and across the scenic valleys that lay between us and our destination town of Stanley.

It was one postcard view after another. We leaned our bikes into curves that hugged the contours of the mountains we were crossing, and yet couldn’t help but notice an eagle soaring overhead. At Lowman we passed the hot springs that steamed the air as they gurgled from deep within the lava rock below. Earlier I had noticed a trio of coyotes mouse-hunting in a field – oblivious to us as we roared past. The river was always nearby, and was a welcomed companion to us as it displayed its frequent mood swings throughout our trip. One moment it was foaming with rage at the boulders that dared to stand in its way, the next it seemed at absolute peace as it meandered on its way – not a care in the world. There is a music to a mountain river that all the orchestra’s of the world could not produce. You should leave the deafening noises of the concrete jungle every once-in-awhile, and go listen to the concert of the mountain stream. It is a sound that goes deeper than the ear.

As we headed for Stanley, we passed through sheer rock walls that stood like mythic sentinels guarding the passageway into some land that time had forgotten. Right when I felt we were someplace that no one had ever been before, we would come upon a little settlement right out in the middle of who-knows-where. It made me wonder about the history of those who first settled that village, and who it was that decided “This is the place that we will call home.” In one lonely valley I noticed a single stone chimney that stood as a monument to those brave souls who sought to exact a living out of the rugged and untamed land. How I wished that chimney could talk and tell me of those days gone by, and of the family who once gathered around its fireplace in the bitter cold of the winter.

Near Elk Meadow I noticed a large tent city that seemed dwarfed by a backdrop of mountains. It was the temporary home of the firefighters who had come to save those mountains from the ravaging effects of the wild fires that had been ignited by lightning. It housed the unsung heroes that sometimes are the only line of defense between our homes and destruction. I said a prayer for their safety as I looked out in admiration at the simple canvas metropolis that they had erected.

Just a few more miles and we arrived in Stanley. I stood for a moment in stunned silence and gazed at the majesty that is called the Sawtooth Mountains. The jagged peaks seemed to impale the vivid blue sky. Below, the ever present Ponderosa Pines pointed heavenward as if to testify “God made this! It is all His doing, and to Him be glory for ever!” I was reminded that God does not sign His paintings. We must accept Him to be the Artist by faith. “For the earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof.” (1 Corinthians 10:26)

After a cheeseburger in the log cabin restaurant, we pointed our Harley’s homeward, and were treated with even more amazing beauty as we took the Garden Valley way home. You probably won’t understand this if you’ve never experienced it, but there is something that calms my soul when I ride a motorcycle. There is a freedom that can’t be felt inside a car. When you are on a bike, you not just looking at the scenery, you’re in it. That night as I thought back on the ride, I thanked God for the wonderful day, and the friends who made it possible.