The Road Goes Ever On

The Road goes ever on and on,
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
~Tolkien 

Dear Reader, I launched this blog five years ago last month. When I started The Life of Things, Rachel and I had four of our five kids. I was a carpenter by day and student of theology by night.

I needed a place to share my love for the Bible and my love for reading. At the time, I didn’t say things that way. I talked about ‘The Great Books’, Western Civ., and the ‘Western Canon’. I was a carpenter who caught the learning bug, and I wanted to share things with the world.

I finished studying for a theological degree and started blogging about Christianity and Culture. I wanted to see how Christians could benefit themselves and their surrounding culture by reading their Bibles with more knowledge and the great literature of the west with more heart.

I’m thankful I’ve never lacked for good friends willing to talk with me about these things: Ole’ Abe, Adam, Joshua, Nathan J., Chris, Thomas, and Nathan F, and Matt Bulman, who has worked the angles here on this blog.

Following my ordination in 2017, I wanted to write for new reasons. I wanted The Life of Things to feature a conversation, a picture of the many sides of evangelicalism making its way through the sea of discipleship and culture. At the same time, I wanted to write more about my own life. I still plan to continue the project that I and others started at The Life of Things, but I wanted to share another project that I’ve been working on. 

A few months ago (sorry for hiatus), I began working on another blog to be able to write from my perspective as a husband, father, and pastor. Dear reader, would you mind checking out my new site, bdlocklear.com? Take a moment to subscribe, there won’t be any cross posting from this site. To give you a feel for what I aim to do on this new blog, I’ve copied the following from my ‘About’ page below:

I’m an assistant pastor at Grace Bible Church in Winston Salem, NC. I’ve been married for fourteen years and I have five children. My writing here reflects my calling as a husband, father, and pastor.

As with my marriage and parenting, my pastoral work came with a learning curve. I initially understood pastoral work to look something like the life of a monk- hidden away for the labors of reading, writing, and preaching. I wasn’t prepared for the need to become a generalist, a practitioner of the everyday. Greek grammar and old books (as important as they are) need to be coupled with small talk, prayer, and life together with the congregation.

Pastors are more like shepherds than church CEOs. This blog reflects my effort to be an observer- to ask how we’re handling ordinary life and finding ourselves being formed into the people God intends us to be. Many of us complain today that our mental lives are distracted and shapeless. I’m writing here to pause, to observe, and to pay attention to how we’re making our way through the Babylon that is our American culture.

I’m learning that the pastoral calling is often a haphazard and messy process. Eugene Peterson once shared an anecdote about William Faulkner in his memoir, The Pastor:

William Faulkner was once asked how he went about writing a book. His answer: “It’s like building a chicken coop in a high wind. You grab any board or shingle flying by or loose on the ground and nail it down fast.

Like becoming a pastor.

Hope to see you there. The peace of the Lord,

Bobby Locklear

Lewis on Growing Up

[I]f we are to use the words childish or infantile as terms of disapproval, we must make sure that they refer only to those characteristics of childhood which we become better and happier by outgrowing; not to those which every sane man would keep if he could and which some are fortunate for keeping.

On the bodily level this is sufficiently obvious. We are glad to have outgrown the muscular weakness of childhood; but we envy those who retain its energy, its well-thatched scalp, its easily won sleeps, and its power of rapid recuperation. But surely the same is true on another level? The sooner we cease to be as fickle, as boastful, as jealous, as cruel, as ignorant, and as easily frightened as most children are, the better for us and for our neighbours.

But who in his senses would not keep, if he could, that tireless curiosity, that intensity of imagination, that facility of suspending disbelief, that unspoiled appetite, that readiness to wonder, to pity, and to admire? The process of growing up is to be valued for what we gain, not for what we lose. Not to acquire a taste for the realistic is childish in the bad sense; to have lost the taste for marvels and adventures is no more a matter for congratulation than losing our teeth, our hair, our palate, and finally, our hopes. Why do we hear so much about the defects of immaturity and so little about those of senility?

C.S. Lewis, An Experiment in Criticism

A Nation of Orthorexics

Michael Pollan says there is a paradox in the American diet. We’re “a notably unhealthy population preoccupied with nutrition and diet and the idea of eating healthy.” He calls us a nation of orthorexics, meaning we have an unhealthy obsession with healthy eating. Pollan suspects that there is “an inverse correlation between the amount of time people spend worrying about nutrition and their overall health and happiness.”

His solution isn’t to eat twinkies and be merry. Humans have lived well on an astonishing variety of diets, from vegan to straight up carnivore. Following this, Pollan argues for a common-sense approach to eating: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.

For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, for it is made holy by the word of God and prayer.

~ 1 Timothy 4:4 ESV

Love Thy Neighbor

Jack stopped me while I was mowing to introduce himself and talk to me about the property line. I didn’t have the land surveyed before we moved in and he no longer remembered precisely where the line fell. The border might not be exactly where he stopped mowing. It could be up the bank or in the ditch but if I wanted to put up a fence, I should probably get it surveyed beforehand. It turned out that neither of us cared where the line was and neither wanted a fence. He continued to mow down the bank and I picked it up at the ditch.

Once or twice in our lives, if we are lucky, we meet someone who is meant to be a genuine, hundred percent friend. On a summer day in 2017 my youngest son Jacob found one of his. While we chatted, he snuck around behind Jack, tapped him on the leg and then jumped to hide behind the bushes. Jacob instinctively knew this stranger would appreciate his brand of humor.

What in the world makes a man in his mid-eighties and a four-year-old who aren’t related and not much alike want to be friends? The endless energy of Jacob propelled him towards activities like repeatedly ringing their doorbell and then hiding. Not really the kind of hobby that should endear him to a man 82 years his senior.  And you wouldn’t think that a high energy, ready to rumble boy would hang out long enough to build deep friendship while watering tomatoes. Soon all of Jack’s friends knew about his friend Jacob and everyone Jacob knew had heard about Jack and Shirley. He called Shirley “Jack’s mom”. A few who knew Jacob were confused when told Jack had broken his hip because they had assumed the two were the same age.

Our last conversation before Jack broke his hip was a few feet away. For the last time he interrupted my mowing to let me know how much he and Shirley appreciated and valued my boys, and how much they enjoyed Jacobs daily visits. Visits that wouldn’t have started if a fence had divided our yards. In the time between those conversations he had stopped me many times, always to talk about my sons and always especially Jacob.

“Love Thy neighbor” doesn’t need explanation in the south. We all know the story, know Jesus said it and who he directed it to. Its an innocuous, uncontroversial statement that everybody agrees with until we sit down to define love and discuss who is my neighbor. Humanity hasn’t really learned all that much in two thousand years after all. We’ve placed so many caveats in the conversation that we still haven’t learned that the second greatest commandment when practiced is less demand and more gift. We look around to find a neighbor to love when sometimes that neighbor is right next door.

Career and yard work fill up almost all space and the little time remaining is spent trying to recover for the next project. If the hamster wheel slows down enough to see the world waiting as life rips by going nowhere, I may realize a neighbor needs love and wish there were more time. But friendship and love are only for those who get off the treadmill and throw their arms around another.

An 86-year-old man and a four-year-old boy have limited adventures. But for three years, adventures they had. With all their differences one commonality was a contentment found in needling the other. I fussed at Jacob for squirting an elderly man with a water hose until I found out that not only had Jack not shown anger, he had participated. What started with worrying about this precocious, ferocious boy harassing the neighbors ended with all seven members of the two families listening as Shirley recited “The night before Christmas” late last December. Friendship all around, love for neighbor all around, peace on earth, goodwill toward and between man. All because a little boy found a couple he would care about, and an old man decided to love young fire.

Friendship didn’t cure pandemics, end racism, or pay off the national debt. But an old hand and a preschool hand reached across a vague property line and made two families into one. Three boys, a mom and dad, and a man and his wife.

We are convinced that Jack swung by to say goodbye last week on his way to heaven. He looked in on his three young friends to offer his regret on not being able to discuss the completed treehouse together or catch any more episodes of SpongeBob. He is done for now answering Levi’s questions, teasing Nolan, and picking with Jacob.

He looked in the master bedroom to tell Jacobs parents for the last time how much he valued their sons and what it meant to him when they visited, especially Jacob. Then he took the outstretched hand of a patiently waiting Jesus and was gone. But across the ditch and up the bank we hold hands and wait for a day when differences and death don’t divide and love is all that remains.

Good fences don’t make good neighbors, love does.

M.B.