I choose Jesus. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted him more than I do now as I watch this country make decisions that make no sense. The horrific death of George Floyd incited behaviors that make me question how the moral chasm in this country has gotten so deep, that make me wonder what happened to church-going families who, no matter their socio-economic status, valued life and the rule of law and order. How do people who scream “injustice” see no injustice in their own destructive rebellion? When did politicians become so single-minded in their pursuit to retain their positions that they cower to disorder and disregard for what has made America the most powerful, most blessed country in the world?

Jesus, fill these peoples’ hearts. Turn them back to you.

When I was pregnant, in my mid-twenties, and watching a ballgame at Main Street Park, I politely asked a young, black girl to watch her language, since several young children were playing within hearing distance of her foul mouth. When she flipped open her pocket knife and called me a slew of white-trash names, I chose to leave the park. I hadn’t taken 30 steps when I heard her behind me, turned and saw that she was running after me. Fortunately, I was near my car and was able to get inside and lock the door. I was terrified. This made no sense. What had happened to this young gal to cause such hate?

I had grown up in this town and was friends with the few blacks with whom I attended school. Dave was a professional baseball player, and we had black player friends who frequented our home on multiple occasions. We hung together. We took care of one another. Some had been raised in the ghetto but made determined choices to overcome.

Today, I dream of revival in those cities where blacks are not given a fair chance. And they aren’t. I cannot imagine what it must be like to fear being pulled over by a policeman because of the color of my skin. Or having my children receive a sub-par education because they live on the wrong side of the tracks. Or living in poverty so that drug-sales become my livelihood.

I pray for a day when potential athletes and musicians and artists and entrepreneurs (no matter what color) develop their talents and become a blessing to others. I want young girls to understand their value to God, to know that they don’t need men who promise their loyalty but run for the hills when the pregnancy test comes back positive. I want young men to see the potential that God has put inside them and know that their strengths can be used for good and not gang-warfare.

I want blacks to stop killing each other while decrying “Black Lives Matter.” Of course they matter! So do Jews’ lives. And Chinese lives. And Hispanic lives. And Muslim lives. God made us all in His image. Each of those ethnicities has been persecuted, yet they don’t spend weekends killing their own. I want Reverend Sharpton to not only speak at funerals when the cameras are rolling, but I want him to start a revival on the South side of Chicago where 80 people were shot over the Fourth of July weekend.

Tell those poor souls about Jesus, Mr. Sharpton. He is the answer, the beginning of the heart-change they need so desperately. Their riotous lootings are not.

The revered leader, Martin Luther King, once said, “Riots are socially destructive and self-defeating. I am convinced that non-violence is the most potent weapon available to oppressed people in their struggle for freedom and justice. Violence will only create more social problems than it will solve.”

There are hundreds of God-fearing, brilliant black leaders who are speaking out against violence. Why is it that many refuse to listen?

Jesus, fill their hearts. Turn them back to you. Oh, dear Readers, let that be our prayer.

“Then saith one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon’s son, which should betray him, Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor? This he said, not that he cared for the poor; but because he was a thief, and had the bag, and bare what was put therein.”

John 12:4-6

When I was a kid, I used to wear a mask. It was a Superman mask. Superman was my favorite hero. When I was seven, I read so many Superman comic books that I really thought I was Superman.

I made a Superman suit. I had a Superman t-shirt, a red bath towel for a cape, and a pair of red Underoos that I wore outside my pants. I completed my costume with a plastic Superman mask from an old Halloween costume. The mask had jet black wavy hair with a j-curl that went down in the middle of the forehead. Without the mask, I was just James. I was a mild-mannered, nerdy little kid. But when I put on my Superman mask, I thought I was the Man of Steel.

One morning, I was sitting in the kitchen eating Fruity Pebbles out of a plastic butter bowl. I was wearing my Superman outfit. I lifted the mask to get a bite of cereal and put it back down to chew. In my mind, Superman was having breakfast.

While I was eating, I was also reading a Superman comic book. I don’t know if it was the comic book, the sugary Fruity Pebbles, or a combination of both, but I got all excited and believed that I was Superman. I took off running through the house. I was faster than a speeding vacuum cleaner. More powerful than the dog. Able to leap coffee tables in a single bound. Look! Up on the kitchen counter. It’s a toaster. It’s a microwave. No. It’s a kid in a mask who thinks he is Superman!

I went running through the house. As I jumped over the table in the living room, I knocked off a lamp. It fell off the table and shattered to pieces.

Momma had told me a hundred times not to run in the house. So, the consequence was a spanking. Momma was about to spank me when I said, “Wait.” I took off my Superman mask, bent over, and said, “Okay, now.” I needed to take off the mask because Superman never got a whipping. You must think like a seven-year-old kid to understand this, but when I put on that mask, I was Superman.

Sadly, many grown intelligent adults do the same thing. They wear a mask. The Bible tells us about a man named Judas. He was one of the disciples of Jesus. But he wore a mask. His mask concealed the truth. His mask hid his true identity.

The point is: It is better to live naked in truth than clothed in fantasy.

What sort of mask of untruth are you wearing?

What are you hiding behind your mask?

James Collins is the pastor of First Southern Baptist Church. Follow him on Twitter @collins_point, Facebook James Collins “The Point Is,” or at the website thepointis.net.

Happy Fourth of July! Today, I sit on my deck, recovering from the Covid-19 virus, grateful that I live in a small town in the Midwest where friends and neighbors have gone out of their way to bring food and run errands. One lake neighbor dropped off chocolates and Twizzlers and flowers on our steps while another, on his drive from Kansas City to Tulsa, stopped to shop for items we needed, including a miracle-find of Clorox Wipes. Pam, my Utah friend, called her homeopathic guru and over-nighted me herbs and vitamins. Cards have arrived, and daily, friends and family members text, asking about my improvement. Many have phoned Dave, my husband, when it was difficult for me to maintain any breath control to speak.

I can’t say enough about Dave. He has been a saint. I was quarantined to the basement for 14 days. Dave made sure I had a thermometer and an oxygen reader, and even though I had no taste buds, I never was without a plate of fruit (a wonderful, stocked refrigerator treat from our Stilwell friends). When I progressed to being able to walk up the stairs and sit on the deck, he stayed a step behind me to steady my walk, brought me blankets and disinfected the area.

All of those were wonderful blessings, but what has touched me the most has been the out-pouring of prayers. Oh, how I relied on those prayers! When I would cough so hard I thought my lungs would explode, when I would chill and sweat and be incapable of taking a deep breath, when every bone ached, when I was so unsteady I could barely make it to the bathroom, I remembered the prayer-warriors who were lifting me up.

And so, today I sit on my deck, taking time to thank a mighty God who, it seems, is not calling me Home quite yet. He is calming my normally-frantic brain and causing me to concentrate on the beauty of life. I am blessed to watch as three fishermen, unaware they are in my eyesight through our deck rails, patiently row around our dock, casting their lines in various directions, enjoying the moment, even though no fish are biting. Two squirrels, playing “tag” for the past hour, have found my peanut feeder and leave not a shell for their friends. Birds, hidden in the cascade of overgrown tree limbs, noisily chatter while a butterfly comes near enough for me to touch it. A sweet visit.

But then 14 geese, determined to visit every morning and leave their “mess” on our newly-concreted sidewalk, show up to eat the grass seed we planted a few weeks ago. Dave makes the walk to our dock, waving frantically to run them off. With their ruffled feathers, they honk and jump into the lake, but it is only a matter of time before they return. Life, as we all know, is not perfect. But a small town in the Midwest comes close.

In a few days, the lake will be a place of celebration as jet-skis and boats and campers come for a day of recreation and entertainment. Fireworks will be shot from docks, music will blare, and we all will be reminded of those whose sacrifice proved just how “unfree” freedom really is. This year, we small-towners have much to be thankful for. Here, we don’t have to worry that our shopping areas will be taken over by misdirected rioters who set up camp and intimidate gutless, city officials into acquiescing to their desires. Here, parents of toddlers playing in the front yard or youngsters watching television don’t have to guard against flying bullets. Here, store owners don’t need to plywood the windows on their stores or protect against thieves helping themselves to whatever loot they can carry away. Here, the American flag is revered, not burned.

Let us count our blessings, and even though there always are reminders (like unwanted geese) that small-town life might not be perfect, I imagine that most of us wouldn’t live anywhere else.

“For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.” Ephesians 2:10

The brilliant philosopher, Rodney Dangerfield, once said, “I get no respect.” As a father, I appreciate that statement. There are times when I get no respect. For example, for Mother’s Day, the kids went all out. Momma got breakfast in bed, a spa treatment, lunch at a fancy restaurant, jewelry, flowers, a magnificent steak dinner, followed by coffee and dessert. For Father’s Day, I got a coupon for a half-price kid’s meal and a pair of socks.

So, my family was shocked when on Monday I announced that it isn’t Father’s “Day,” it’s Father’s “Week.” I said, “All week long we are going to celebrate Dad.” My announcement was met with audible sighs and rolling eyes. One of my precious children said, “Whatever!”

What is Father’s Week? It is a week where I get the TV remote – I choose what shows we watch. For Father’s Week, we are watching John Wayne movies and bad TV preachers. I like John Wayne, well, because he’s John Wayne. I like bad TV preachers because I like to make fun of them. One guy, who claimed to have the power to heal all manner of sickness, was wearing a cheap toupee. If that guy could heal, don’t you think he should be able to heal himself up some hair? But I digress…

Father’s Week means that I get to take undisturbed naps in the middle of the day. I get ice cream and cookies with every meal. I get to sit on the porch and read a book while the family mows the grass. I get unlimited refills on my glass of iced tea. I get the first fruits (that’s biblical) of all junk food that comes into the house. I get waited on hand and foot.

So far, none of my children are on board with Father’s Week. Oddly enough, my wife isn’t either. Maybe I have the wrong idea about my role versus their roles.

Similarly, Christians often get the wrong idea about their role versus God’s role. Sometimes we think God is sitting in heaven, waiting to meet our needs. God is indeed a loving Father who provides for us, but He doesn’t exist to serve us.

The truth is that we exist for God. He created us and has equipped us to serve Him. The Bible says that we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which He prepared beforehand so we would do them. Everything about us was designed by God to equip us for the work He preordained long before our birth.

The point is: God uniquely created you, and He has provided you with everything you need to serve and glorify Him. All you must do is step out in obedience and fully rely on His grace and power.

Are you serving your Heavenly Father like you should? Get busy serving Him.

Oh, and Happy Father’s Week.

I must go now. The kids have stolen the TV remote again…

James Collins is the pastor of First Southern Baptist Church. Follow him on Twitter @collins_point, Facebook James Collins “The Point Is,” or at the website thepointis.net.

Due to the county health order dated June 24, First Southern Baptist Church will have Drive-In Church this Sunday, June 28, and next Sunday, July 5. People can safely social distance by staying in their car and listening to the service on 88.7 FM.

He’s something, isn’t he? He and his friends hang out on the pier where my stepdaughter Nanette lives in California. Last December, Dave and I were there, and on our early-morning walk, “Birdy” perched harmlessly along the rail. Other pelicans—not as large or arrogant—occupied space nearby, but my eyes were drawn only to this stately creature, wings outstretched, as if showing off his finest Yoga move.

On our return, Dave was several steps ahead of me, fascinated with the local fishermen’s catches. I lingered to watch an elderly woman, encircled by Birdy’s friends congregated at her feet, begging for their morning ration of bread crumbs.

Birdy, not one to lower himself to mere croutons, sat, loftily looking down at the feeding frenzy below. I was drawn to him, enticed by his self-importance. That’s when I shot this picture…and that’s when the unexpected became…well, in my case, the expected.

I turned my attention to where Dave had sauntered, just in time to get hit upside my head with what felt like a bowling ball, causing me to stagger enough that some passersby caught me before I rammed into the rail. Suddenly I was getting more attention than Bird-Feeder-Woman. “Wow! He hit you really hard.” “Are you all right? I’ve never seen anything like that, and I come here every day.”

(Like I said, “expected.”)

Apparently, Birdy had attempted to take flight, but his body acted more like a 747 than a normal, 12-pound pelican. Or he was punishing me for taking my eyes off of him. All I know is, my “harmless” bird-buddy was anything but. My head was proof.

Have you ever been stunned when something you considered harmless, wasn’t? It could be as simple as a bad shrimp or leaving your purse in a shopping cart or an impromptu bet gone bad. Or maybe it was something more. A life-long friendship turned sour. A brotherly investment in which you ended up holding the empty bag. A one-time, sneak-peek at a porn sight that betrayed your spouse’s trust. The list is endless. I’m betting we all have a Birdy story.

Adam and Eve sure did. Enticed by the “harmless” serpent, they tasted the forbidden fruit, and sin entered the world.

Samson sure did. One “harmless” look at Delilah caused him his ultimate blindness and death.

King David sure did. His “harmless” lust for Bathsheba turned to immense grief for him and his family.

Your Birdy won’t by my Birdy, but we deceive ourselves when we foolishly fail to recognize the warning signs. Birdy’s wings were not a harmless Yoga move. They were a “Get out of my way, Dummy! I’m getting ready to take flight” move.

Jesus warned us to beware of what we treat as “harmless”: sin and evil. He said: “Watch out! Be on guard” (Luke 12:15). Had I applied that with Birdy, I would have saved myself one gigantic headache…which, yes, I realize, is better than an eternal one.

“A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows, is God in his holy habitation.” Psalm 68:5

While cleaning up the other day, I discovered a box of photos. Among the photos, I found one of me at seventeen taken at my high school prom. Certainly, I was the definition of “cool,” wearing my gray tuxedo and tennis shoes; sporting a mullet that would have made Billy Ray Cyrus jealous. It is not unusual to find an old photograph, but this one stood out. It was old, faded, and crumpled. I looked on the back where “Love James,” was written. This photo had once belonged to Luke.

My father left the night I was conceived. When I was born, “Unknown” was typed on my birth certificate where my father’s name should have been. My grandfather stepped in and helped to raise me. But after my grandmother died, some government bureaucrat decided that my grandfather was incapable of raising me on his own. So, I went into the foster care system.

Someone once said, “You don’t miss something you never had.” That’s a lie. An unloved child will spend his or her life trying to fill that ache inside with the wrong things. The rise in poverty, crime, dropouts, teen pregnancy, addictions, and suicide can be traced in a large part to fatherless kids. I desperately missed having a father until Luke came into my life.

Luke was one of my high school teachers. Luke and his wife, Joan, had no children of their own. They took me in, and Luke became like a father to me.

I went to college, enlisted in the army, and eventually married and started a family. Because of the busyness of life, I didn’t call or visit Luke very often. When I finally got around to making time for him, he was already dying from cancer. During one of our last visits, I noticed his wallet was open on a table beside his hospital bed. My crumpled photograph was visible above his driver’s license. Luke had carried it for over twenty-five years.

As I looked at the photograph, I felt love for the man, who, without my knowledge, spent years loving me. I imagine him showing the picture to his friends and saying, “This is my son. He’s in the army.” Or “This is my son. He just finished his doctorate.” Or “This is my son. I am so proud of the man that he has become.” Luke loved me even when I was too busy to love him.

Webster’s dictionary states that a “father” is “a man who has begotten a child.” In other words, he is the sperm donor – Mr. “Unknown” on my birth certificate. Webster’s also defines “to father” as “to accept responsibility for.” Thank God, for men like Luke, who accept responsibility for children, and love the fatherless.

The point is: Any man can father a child, but it takes a real man to be a dad. If you had a dad who loved you, take the time to let him know how much you love him. It would mean more than a necktie this Father’s Day.

If you never had a dad, remember that God is a Father to the fatherless. Luke’s crumpled photo reminded me of another Father’s love. A Father, who is always there. A Father, who is watching your life as it unfolds on this planet. A Father, who loves you.

Give your life to Him and celebrate “Father’s Day” every day, forevermore.

James Collins is a pastor, writer, and columnist. Follow him on Twitter @collins_point, Facebook James Collins “The Point Is,” or at the website thepointis.net.

A visiting pastor attended a men’s breakfast in the middle of a rural farming area. The group had asked an older farmer, decked out in bib overalls, to say grace for the morning breakfast.

 “Lord, I hate buttermilk,” the farmer began. The visiting pastor opened one eye to glance at the farmer and wonder where this was going. The farmer loudly proclaimed, “Lord, I hate lard.” Now the pastor was growing concerned. Without missing a beat, the farmer continued, “And Lord, you know I don’t much care for raw white flour.” The pastor once again opened an

eye to glance around the room and saw that he wasn’t the only one to feel uncomfortable.

 Then the farmer added, “But Lord, when you mix them all together and bake them, I do love warm fresh biscuits. So, Lord, when things come up that we don’t like, when life gets hard, when we don’t understand what you’re saying to us, help us to just relax and wait until you are done mixing. It will probably be even better than biscuits. Amen.”

I have to wonder if God isn’t doing a little blending in America. A country that started off so strong has taken a turn that (hopefully) is teaching us much, mainly that God remains in charge. He is fully capable of making warm, fresh biscuits out of some pretty unpalatable ingredients, and yes, some of us require a little more kneading than others.) So, if we agree that this blending is our answer, then 2 Chronicles 7:14 KJV gives us instructions on our goal: If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear.

To do that, we need to make Ps. 139:23-24 our daily/hourly prayer. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my concerns. See if there is any offensive way in me; lead me in the way everlasting.

Examining our own hearts is pointless, no doubt because we will find a way to justify our evil actions/attitudes. After all, we haven’t killed anyone. We didn’t loot those stores or throw iced water at the police officers. We merely sat in our comfy living rooms and watched on television as the wickedness of someone else’s heart played out. But that’s not what God calls us to do. He wants us to lay our ugly hearts at His throne and ask Him to reveal any wickedness in us (even though it is so much more our nature to find the wickedness in others).

Get that? Any wickedness. Any times when we have remained silent and not spoken out against bigotry and violence. Any times we have secretly celebrated payback between our race and theirs. Any times we have allowed others’ prejudiced behavior to affect ours. Any times we have not asked God to help us examine our hearts, to call our wickedness into account and to change our ways.

Last night I watched Just Mercy, the true story of Harvard law school graduate Bryan Stevenson’s defense of wrongly condemned Walter McMillian who was sentenced to die for the murder of an 18-year-old girl. Stevenson quickly learned that in the South, he, a black man, was himself a target, simply because of the color of his skin.

Refusing to return hate for hate, he founded the Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery, Alabama. He and his staff have won reversals or release from prison for over 135 wrongly condemned death row prisoners and won relief for hundreds of others wrongly convicted or unfairly sentenced. Black and white. Blending at its finest.

If God is stirring something in your heart like He is mine, then we need to agree to be part of the blending process. Granted, we’ve come a long way, but until we determine what we can do to make a difference, we will have a long way to go.

The Bottom Line by Jimmy Tucker

To believers, God is more than a Sunday. He’s more than someplace to go once a week. “For in Him we live and move and exist” (Acts 17:28 NLT). That means He is everything. As long as we’re alive, He’ll be everything to us. E v e r y t h i n g.

God knows everything about us. “O Lord, You have examined my heart and know everything about me. You know when I sit down or stand up. You know my thoughts even when I’m far away. You see me when I travel and when I rest at home. You know everything I do. You know what I am going to say even before I say it, Lord. You go before me and follow me. You place Your hand of blessing on my head” (Psalm 139:1-5 NLT).

God is more than just someone to date on Sunday. Like marriage, He invites us to a lifetime commitment with Him as one. Before a bride and groom exchange wedding vows, they have to fall in love first. Likewise, we have to fall in love and make a covenant with God before we can become one with Him.

Almighty God created us. We’re God’s masterpiece, an original unique design, and we owe our very lives to Him. “You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Thank You for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous — how well I know it” (Psalm 139:13,14 NLT). His awesome creativity makes Him more than just a day in the week.

God tenderly cares for us. I Peter 5:7 AMP clearly states, “Casting the whole of your care [all your anxieties, all your worries, all your concerns, once and for all] on Him, for He cares for you affectionately and cares about you watchfully.” God is plainly telling us not to worry about anything. A n y t h i n g.

Have you ever gone out to eat with a friend, thinking you were going “Dutch treat” and then have your buddy pay for your meal? At the end of dinner when the waitress drops off the tickets, you hear something like this from your friend as he grabs your ticket: “Hey, I‘ve got this — don‘t worry about it. I just want to bless you.” That’s exactly what God is saying to us in I Peter 5:7. But, when we’re stubborn, proud, independent, and refuse to relinquish our worries, we’re cheating ourselves out of peace of mind and a blessing. It takes more than a once-a-week appointment with God to please Him and grow in faith. We should want to enjoy ALL the benefits of a relationship with our awesome problem-solving God.

This is certainly not a complete listing of why God is more than just a Sunday…but it’s a start. Maybe it’ll give us something to think about next time we head off to church.

The Bottom Line: Some people want Jesus as their Savior from hell, but not as their Lord and Master on earth. If you believe just going to church on Sunday is enough, think again.

Pastor Jimmy Tucker

Diamond Community Church

“Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.” Acts 4:12

Our church garage sale is this weekend. It has become a tradition. Along with the annual garage sale tradition, I have a tradition of digging through all the items and buying back all my stuff that my wife donated. Yesterday, as I was gathering up my stuff, I heard someone yell, “Hey Curtis! Can you give me a hand?” Since I was the only one in the room, I turned to see a man standing in the doorway. He looked right at me and said, “Do you mind helping me unload these donations for the sale, Curtis?” My name is not Curtis. But I’m not great at remembering people’s names either, so I just ignored the fact that he called me by the wrong name.

I put down my collection of David Hasslehoff vinyl albums and walked over to the entryway. He gave me a warm greeting, “Hi Curtis. It’s nice to see you again.” As I helped him unload his donations, he said, “How’s Anita?” My wife’s name is Amanda. I said, “She’s doing great.” He then went on to “Pam” my daughter Abby. He was on a roll.

When we finished unloading his truck, he said, “I will be at the garage sale this Saturday. If I don’t see you then, I will see you Sunday at church. I love to hear you preach, Curtis.” I didn’t have the heart to correct him when he called me Curtis. So, I just said that it was great to see him too and thanked him for the donations.” Since I played along, it will be extremely awkward to tell him I’m not in fact Curtis the next time we talk. But that’s okay. I will be Curtis from now on. I will play this to the grave if need be.

The truth is I am just as guilty of forgetting people’s names. There are about a dozen people at church that I greet with a “Hey…you” because I’ve forgotten their names and it is way too late in the relationship to ask them. However, since I am a Baptist, everyone is “brother” or “sister.” No more mistaken identities.

We are all guilty of forgetting someone’s name. But there is one name that you had better get right. It breaks my heart that our society has done everything that it can to remove His name. His name upsets people. Our society is tolerant of religion, but it is not tolerant of His name. Today, you can’t pray in His name at a high school football game. You can’t say His name in government offices. You can’t preach His name in public places. The only time you hear His name in society is when it is being used as a cussword. But, despite all the hatred of His name, you had better get it right.

The point is: The Bible teaches that there is only one name that brings salvation. His name is greater than Gandhi. His name is mightier than Mohammad. His name is better than Buddha. His name is more exciting than Elvis. His name is more overwhelming than Oprah. His name can save you today, if you call out to Him in faith.

Don’t mistake His identity. Get His name right.

Call out to Jesus and He will save your soul.

James Collins is the senior pastor of Fort Scott’s First Southern Baptist Church. Follow him on Twitter @collins_point, Facebook James Collins “The Point Is,” or from the website thepointis.net.

Some of my Florida friends—along with hundreds of others– recently were participating in an online prayer call with the leaders of their home church. To their horror, mid-prayer, pornographic images began flashing across their screens, bringing an abrupt halt to the virtual meeting. After a day of investigating, a 26-year old son of one of the participants was found responsible.

When the story was shared with me, my first response was how mortified his poor mother must be. The church leaders also recognized that, but more importantly, they saw a young man who desperately needs Jesus. They are praying for opportunities to disciple him.

Last week I wrote about the radical protestors who were looting and creating havoc in American cities, following the death of George Floyd. I said their destructive actions would do nothing to prevent racism, and that innocent business owners were being irreparably harmed/killed by the thugs’ actions.

Following that article, a visiting Steamboat Springs, Colorado, friend and business owner shared about the peaceful protest in his community–about 30 people standing on the lawn of the courthouse. And then Antifa showed up, attempting to incite a rebellion. The peaceful protestors would have none of it and sent the rebels on their unmerry way. I found myself cheering that the rebel group had their “Come to Jesus” moment, although I’m not sure they did.

But as I learned of the pornographic Bible study interruption, I began to compare the response the church leaders had to the guilty man versus my response to the protestors. I thought about how embarrassed the parents of the radicals had to be when they went to the jailhouse to bail out their sons/daughters. Putting myself in their shoes, I knew that if those were my children…well, let’s just say they would beg to stay in jail instead of going home with me.

It was an Aha! moment when I realized that, like the church leaders, I had missed the first response God wanted me to have towards the thugs: prayer that they find Jesus. Granted, that does not mean there should not be consequences, but before the porn story, I had ruled out nothing as deserved punishment: tazing; being sprayed by a firehose or tear-gassed at close range; forcing them to make restitution to the shop owners or police department (even if meant working for the rest of their lives); or coming home with me.

After all, these insurgents had chosen to act out with no regard for the innocent people involved. Just like the pornographer. Yet the church had chosen to pray for him, realizing that he is one of God’s children and God wants, more than anything, for all of us to come to know him. 1 Tim. 2:4 tells us so: (God)… wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth.

I would love to think that there will be stories of redemption from these vindictive protestors, that they will understand how loved they are by their Creator who sent His son to pay the price for their sinful behavior, that in the future they will take a stand to prevent others from acting as they did. I know that’s what God wants. I also know that He wants me to pray for that to happen.

Apparently, I’m needing a “Come to Jesus” moment myself.

“And he answering said, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.”

Luke 10:27

A certain white woman went down from Fort Scott, Kansas to Joplin, Missouri, and ran over a nail which punctured her tire and left her stranded by the side of the road. After raising the hood of her car and tying a scarf to her radio antenna, she locked the door handles and sat in the car, praying for the Lord to send help.

By chance, there came a limousine that way with a bumper sticker that read, “Smile, God Loves You!” When the white occupants saw the stranded woman, they passed by in the far lane-without smiling.

And likewise, there came a sports car with a bumper sticker saying, “Honk If You Love Jesus!” The white man who was driving passed by in the far lane without honking and without using his cell phone to call the Highway Patrol about the woman’s dilemma.

But a certain black working man, as he traveled to his job, came to the spot where the woman was, and, when he saw her raised hood, scarf, and flat tire, he had compassion on her. He stopped his old beat-up pickup-which had no bumper sticker-and crossed the highway and offered to change the flat.

The white woman was anxious at the stranger’s presence, but she rolled her window down just a crack and gave him the key to the trunk. The black man took out the spare tire, jacked up the car, removed the flat, and replaced it with the spare. When he finished, the woman tried to pay him. He refused the money, saying, “If my wife were stranded on the highway with a flat tire, I’d want some Good Samaritan to stop and help her out.” The man nodded his head and returned to his bumper sticker-less truck. As he drove away, he smiled and waved at the woman.

Which of these three was neighbor unto her who had a flat tire?

The senseless murder of George Floyd has brought the issue of race relations back into the national spotlight. Let’s be clear, every person of good conscience should be angered over Floyd’s death. So too, should every person of good conscience be angered over the violence, rioting, and loss of lives that have plagued our nation since Floyd’s homicide. How does creating more victims help those who have been victimized?

Perhaps it is time for Americans of all skin colors to remember that the Lord Jesus Christ died for the world and whosoever – whatever their race – believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. Red, brown, yellow, black, and white, ALL are precious in His sight.

The point is: Jesus said to love our neighbors as ourselves. When He said that, a self-righteous man asked, “Who is my neighbor?” To answer his question, Jesus told a story about a Samaritan who helped a Jew. Then He asked, “Who was the man’s neighbor?” The self-righteous man answered, “He that showed mercy on him.”

Why don’t we all go and do likewise?

James Collins is the senior pastor of Fort Scott’s First Southern Baptist Church. Follow him on Twitter @collins_point, Facebook James Collins “The Point Is,” or from the website thepointis.net.