Roman Numeral I
Short sermons, long golf drives, and whatsoever living.
Rarely is there a Sunday when I’m in church that I don’t think about the one I grew up in. This morning it happened when the praise team sang the hymn Softly and Tenderly.
During hymns, my mind often wanders back to that building, to those pews and those people, over to the piano where my mom played and the pulpit where my dad preached. My brother and I were usually sitting in the back.
It wasn’t uncommon for my brother Marcus on a Sunday night to ask Dad to keep his sermon short and sweet. He never would have wasted that request on a Sunday morning. There was no chance of abbreviation when Dad was fresh and armed with a “sugar stick.” That’s what he called his best sermons, the ones measured by the congregation’s response: the amens offered, the aisle walkers, the comments afterward.
But on a Sunday night, Dad was tired from preaching that morning, teaching Sunday School, and whatever else the day had held. So a short and sweet request just might be received a little more favorably.
And on a summer Sunday night, getting out of the service in an hour or less meant there was still time for nine more holes of golf before dark. That’s where Marcus spent most of his free time as a teenager, and his solid game and long drive reflected it.
Dad liked that Marcus played golf, and a membership at our small town course wasn’t too hard for us to swing, pardon the pun. He always knew where Marcus was, and he knew most of the men he was playing with. He trusted they would watch out for him and that he would learn a lot more than just golf out on that course.
Out there, Marcus learned about business, how to carry on a conversation, when to listen and when to speak, how to read a room (or a fairway), and how to lose and win with a little bit of grace.
The golf course owner allowed Marcus to put a Coke machine on the back porch of the clubhouse. He kept it stocked and used the money to buy sandwiches and drinks. That arrangement started the day my dad showed up at the course and found Marcus riding in a cart, eating from the clubhouse. He knew Marcus didn’t have money for that. A few questions later, he had his answer. Marcus had been gambling and winning on the course.
The Coke machine money was supposed to put a stop to that.
I’m pretty sure it didn’t.
Back to the Sunday night sermon.
Eventually, Marcus’s spoken request for short and sweet was simplified into a signal. He would hold up his hand, index finger and thumb just barely apart, bring it to his lips, and make a little kissing motion.
Dad would step to the pulpit, look out, see the signal, and smile. No one could make my dad smile or laugh like Marcus. He thought he was hilarious and he was.
On some Sunday nights, Dad would announce, unprompted, that the sermon would be short, usually admitting something had cut into his preparation. Those were the nights he planned to “just go verse by verse.”
And I always knew we were in trouble.
Because “short” meant extemporaneous. And ad-libbing meant more words, not fewer.
Sunday mornings were more predictable. The stereotypical three points and a poem. But Sunday night, without preparation, we were settling in.
The three points also turned into something else, my dad’s habit of numbering everything. Not 1, 2, 3. Always Roman numerals.
If he had something important to tell me, he would actually say the words, “Roman numeral I…” followed by the instruction. Then, “Roman numeral II…” and so on. Nothing after a Roman numeral was optional. It wasn’t advice. It was to be, amen, done.
At the end, he’d say, “Acknowledge.”
And I had to say it back. “Acknowledge.”
It was our verbal contract. If I said acknowledge, it meant I had heard him and intended to do it. There were times we got to that part and I realized I hadn’t been listening at all. I had to admit it, and he’d start again.
Roman numeral I.
I shared this with Leslie a few years ago, and she now sends some of her text messages with Roman numeral organization, which I love. It’s actually a very effective way to organize messages and makes responding much easier.
I fully intended this to be a very short entry today, which is why I started with the short and sweet story. But I am my dad’s daughter, and more words were used than intended.
What I really wanted to share is a verse I’ve been thinking about this week.
Philippians 4:8: “Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
There are some great words in this verse: true, honest, pure, lovely. But the word that has been on repeat in my head is whatsoever.
I pulled out one of my dad’s concordances and learned that the Greek root word for whatsoever points to something like “all things that are” or “as many things as.”
It’s not restrictive. It’s expansive.
Selective, yes. Intentional, absolutely. But there is plenty to think about. Plenty to do. Plenty to experience. Plenty to enjoy.
I suppose a short and sweet summary would be:
I. Identify what is good and beautiful.
II. Fill your life with as much of it as you can.
III. Live abundantly.
Acknowledge?
May whatsoever you think on and do this week be beautiful,
Martha
This week’s poem is one of my favorite hymns.
Blessed Assurance
Fanny Crosby
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
This is my story, this is my song,
praising my Savior all the day long;
this is my story, this is my song,
praising my Savior all the day long.
Acknowledge 😄💜
Acknowledge. ❤️🙂