"I don't get it," he said. The five year-old peered through strands of brown hair as he looked up at me. His nose was wrinkled and the look in his eyes revealed the confusion in my mind. "If it's the day Jesus died, why do they call it Good Friday?"
It was an understandable question. People with greater intellects that your average five year-old have struggled with the idea. If you saw The Passion of the Christ you saw a toned-down version of what really happened on that Friday. How could something that horrific and brutal be construed as "good" when it clearly looked the opposite?
The idea of good and bad is usually a pretty elementary concept. A five-year old can usually tell you if they have been good. My three year-old daughter always makes sure that I know as soon as I get home that she has indeed been a good girl. I'm not sure she'd tell me if she was bad, but I'm fairly sure she would know. But as simple as it should be to tell good from bad, sometimes we have trouble discerning the difference. Society doesn't help things. Remember around twenty years ago when "bad" was slang for "good"? When someone told me I was a "bad dancer" I had to stop and wonder if that was an insult or not. (It usually was. Check that. It always was!) Of course anymore if someone uses the word "bad" to mean "good, he's likely to be seen as being as "hip" as if he'd just uttered the word "groovy."
Many have claimed that nothing is all good or all bad but merely somewhere between the two extremes. When agnostic-turned-theologian C. S. Lewis was considering the idea of God, he had to deal with the idea of "good." It was easy to come up with something which was pure evil -- like a criminal taking a machette and hacking off the arm of a child. But what Lewis discovered was that he could not be able to recognize evil if he had no idea of what "good" is. He said that he would not be able to recognize a crooked line if he had no idea what a straight line looked like. So the presence of evil is in itself a testament to the existence of good.
But why "Good" Friday? Because as gruesome as the crucifixion was, it was necessary. Without the perfect sacrifice of Jesus, the punishment for our sins would still be ours to bear. That means there's no way we end up in heaven because we can't pay our bill. The other obvious good from Good Friday is that without the crucifixion there could be no resurrection. And without the resurrection, as Paul put it, eat, drink and be merry because life has no meaning.
But with the cross, we have had the way cleared to be welcomed into God's family forever -- if we accept Him on His terms. And with the cross, we have the resurrection so that we know that Jesus was and is Who He said He was, and we have the guarantee that death is not the end for us.
It's amazing that God used something so horrible to do something so good. There are times when I stop and wonder why God lets so much evil exist on this earth. Then I remember that if God only allowed "good" then I'd be history in a heartbeat. But beyond that, God can use the bad that happens and turn it to good. He did it for Joseph when he was sold into slavery, but God was simply moving him to Egypt where he'd soon be an important leader. God has accomplished good with some of the darkest days of my life. I still don't know all the good that God was able to do because my son died. But I've seen the shadows of a few of the good things, and I know there were more.
"Bad" does not rule the day when God can make it for our good. Especially when a day so dark that it featured earthquakes and a pitch-black afternoon could actually be so incredible as to be remembered as Good Friday.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
The Betrayer at the Table
They had been together for three years. They didn't all share the same background, but they had shared an exhilarating, confusing and bonding experience. They had become brothers. Sure there were the family spats, but they each looked to their Teacher to hold everything together. The group was nothing without Him. As the twelve gathered together for a private celebration, there was a sense of foreboding. They knew it was an important night to their Teacher, and the events of the past few days had their minds reeling. They gathered around the table and as the meal was being served, suddenly there was their Master wearing a towel around his waist, holding a basin of water, waiting to do what servants weren't even expected to do -- wash their feet.
There was hardly time to recover from this demonstration of servanthood before He dropped the bombshell. They had heard a lot over the past few days, but they were not prepared to hear this: one of them was a traitor. The shock was palpable in the room. But the responses came quickly.
"Is it I, Lord?"
"Is it I?"
"Certainly it can't be me, can it?"
We're not told how many of them asked the question outloud, but we do know that one of them didn't need to ask. He already knew. He had already negotiated the price.
The others surely must have been shooting glances at one another suspiciously. How could one of the family betray their Master? It was a toss-up deciding whether it was worse that He would be betrayed or that the betrayer was reclining there at the table with them. It cut each of them to the quick. Peter, ever the showman, would eventually claim that no matter what happened, he would give his life for the Master. But the Master knew better and told him so.
It is interesting that no one seemed to suspect Judas. The gospels make it clear that Jesus pointed him out, but the eleven misunderstood. Perhaps they weren't ready or willing to believe that any of their group could ever do such a thing. How could a betrayer be at the table?
The passages which relate the events of that night are both beautiful and startling. Chapters 13 through 17 of John paint an incredible portrait that even daVinci's artistry could never touch. Yet still we are missing some images. What did Judas do when Jesus knelt before him to wash his feet? What ran through his mind when Jesus announced that one of them would betray Him? What did Judas do after he left the upper room? Why was Judas even considering such a thing?
The eleven were not phased by Judas' departure from the room. They continued to use their peripheral vision overtime, trying to figure out who the betrayer was. Surely they were scouring their memory banks, trying to figure out who could have shown a hint of being untrustworthy in the past. Yet the obvious answer escaped them until they saw Judas Iscariot leading a detachment of temple guards toward Gethsemene and giving Jesus a kiss of greeting on His cheek.
We hate traitors. There was no more disgraceful name during the American Revolutionary War than that of Benedict Arnold. Today, Arnold is probably the second-best-known betrayer in history, with the Roman, Brutus, giving him a good run for the money. A traitor is especially hated because he has received trust only to use that trust against his former friend. It's really two horrible acts in one. And we find this despicable.
Yet at the same time, we also sit at a table with a betrayer. Our best intentions and extra effort to live a Christian life are confounded by a traitor. It's frustrating. We end up saying, like Paul, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." Someone keeps betraying our attempts at living a holy life, and he sits at the table with us. And too often we stupidly overlook the obvious answer, just as the eleven overlooked Judas Iscariot. The betrayer at the table can be seen if we would only gaze in the mirror.
I've made the point numerous times that the love of self is the biggest obstacle to our love of God. We try to keep control over our lives instead of submitting to the One who loved us enough to take our penalty for our own sins. Selfishness tells us to keep that dusty Bible on the table and not to pick it up. Selfishness pushes us to watch television instead of spending time with loved ones. Selfishness reminds us that we have no spare time for prayer, even when it's not true. Selfishness puffs us up, telling us that what we think is the most important piece of information the media can ever hope to report. Selfishness prods us to be sure to keep at least a piece of our life out of God's hands (after all, I'm the only one who knows what I want.)
Yet so often I seem to miss the sheer fact that the betrayer at my table is indeed, me. So why do I continue to allow myself to foul up my relationship with my Creator? Why do I look suspiciously at others, even when I know where the betrayer sits? Why am I still so in love with my own voice and my own opinion that I react out of self-defense when I am persecuted instead of consoling myself in Him? Why do I let myself repeatedly do what I hate and avoid what I want to do when the power to obey is within me in the Person of the Holy Spirit? Why do I look to blame everyone but the betrayer at my table?
Good question.
There was hardly time to recover from this demonstration of servanthood before He dropped the bombshell. They had heard a lot over the past few days, but they were not prepared to hear this: one of them was a traitor. The shock was palpable in the room. But the responses came quickly.
"Is it I, Lord?"
"Is it I?"
"Certainly it can't be me, can it?"
We're not told how many of them asked the question outloud, but we do know that one of them didn't need to ask. He already knew. He had already negotiated the price.
The others surely must have been shooting glances at one another suspiciously. How could one of the family betray their Master? It was a toss-up deciding whether it was worse that He would be betrayed or that the betrayer was reclining there at the table with them. It cut each of them to the quick. Peter, ever the showman, would eventually claim that no matter what happened, he would give his life for the Master. But the Master knew better and told him so.
It is interesting that no one seemed to suspect Judas. The gospels make it clear that Jesus pointed him out, but the eleven misunderstood. Perhaps they weren't ready or willing to believe that any of their group could ever do such a thing. How could a betrayer be at the table?
The passages which relate the events of that night are both beautiful and startling. Chapters 13 through 17 of John paint an incredible portrait that even daVinci's artistry could never touch. Yet still we are missing some images. What did Judas do when Jesus knelt before him to wash his feet? What ran through his mind when Jesus announced that one of them would betray Him? What did Judas do after he left the upper room? Why was Judas even considering such a thing?
The eleven were not phased by Judas' departure from the room. They continued to use their peripheral vision overtime, trying to figure out who the betrayer was. Surely they were scouring their memory banks, trying to figure out who could have shown a hint of being untrustworthy in the past. Yet the obvious answer escaped them until they saw Judas Iscariot leading a detachment of temple guards toward Gethsemene and giving Jesus a kiss of greeting on His cheek.
We hate traitors. There was no more disgraceful name during the American Revolutionary War than that of Benedict Arnold. Today, Arnold is probably the second-best-known betrayer in history, with the Roman, Brutus, giving him a good run for the money. A traitor is especially hated because he has received trust only to use that trust against his former friend. It's really two horrible acts in one. And we find this despicable.
Yet at the same time, we also sit at a table with a betrayer. Our best intentions and extra effort to live a Christian life are confounded by a traitor. It's frustrating. We end up saying, like Paul, "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." Someone keeps betraying our attempts at living a holy life, and he sits at the table with us. And too often we stupidly overlook the obvious answer, just as the eleven overlooked Judas Iscariot. The betrayer at the table can be seen if we would only gaze in the mirror.
I've made the point numerous times that the love of self is the biggest obstacle to our love of God. We try to keep control over our lives instead of submitting to the One who loved us enough to take our penalty for our own sins. Selfishness tells us to keep that dusty Bible on the table and not to pick it up. Selfishness pushes us to watch television instead of spending time with loved ones. Selfishness reminds us that we have no spare time for prayer, even when it's not true. Selfishness puffs us up, telling us that what we think is the most important piece of information the media can ever hope to report. Selfishness prods us to be sure to keep at least a piece of our life out of God's hands (after all, I'm the only one who knows what I want.)
Yet so often I seem to miss the sheer fact that the betrayer at my table is indeed, me. So why do I continue to allow myself to foul up my relationship with my Creator? Why do I look suspiciously at others, even when I know where the betrayer sits? Why am I still so in love with my own voice and my own opinion that I react out of self-defense when I am persecuted instead of consoling myself in Him? Why do I let myself repeatedly do what I hate and avoid what I want to do when the power to obey is within me in the Person of the Holy Spirit? Why do I look to blame everyone but the betrayer at my table?
Good question.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Walking Through the Graveyard
I found myself in my old hometown yesterday. I don't get there much anymore and usually when I get there I'm in too big of a hurry to look around. But yesterday I had a little time and an urge to look around. Eventually I found myself in the cemetery of this town of a thousand residents. I remember walking around there as a kid, sometimes as part of a geneology project and other times just looking around. Yesterday though, became a kind of walk through my childhood. I visited the graves of many people whom I may or may not see in heaven, but I remember them in life. I saw the grave of my elementary and middle school principal. Across the path was my grandfather's burial site and the grave of my aunt who died at the age of five months.
As I walked, I became aware of so many people who had passed to the back burner of my mind. The guy who ran the meat packing store. The lady who worked at the bank. My uncle's dad. One of my good friends from elementary school. A lady who used to drive my bus. Plenty of other relatives, including some I never really met.
As I walked, I realized there was one grave I'd never visited but had to be out there somewhere. She was my first "girlfriend." (We were in kindergarten -- how "in love" could we be?) We were good friends all through school. I had a crush on her on and off for years. She was a big encouragement to me, helping me to develop some confidence. During our senior year, we each took short trips to visit some colleges. I went with three other guys and we had fun over the next three days, seeing four different campuses in addition to downtown Indianapolis at night. She started off for a campus visit with a friend in a VW beetle about the color of a yellow tennis ball. The two of them drove about 30 minutes to the Interstate, then as they tried to merge into traffic an 18-wheeler all but crushed the beetle. My friend was taken to the hospital in a coma.
I visited her in the hospital many times. We were encouraged to talk to her, as the nurses kept saying that she heard what we said. When I went off to college about nine months later, she was still on my mind but I stopped visiting. I felt like my presence was causing her mother so much pain, hearing about the things her daughter should be doing. I kept praying.
She finally died in 2001, shortly after the Twin Towers fell. She had been in a coma for 22 years. Her parents had cared for her the entire time. She had spent some time in various hospitals but eventually was brought home where she was cared for by her loving parents year after year. When I saw her again in the casket, I would have never recognized her. She looked nothing like her old pictures.
While pacing around the cemetery yesterday, I finally found her grave. There was a beautiful stone with her senior picture etched into it. On the reverse was a beautiful quote from St. Francis. Then I looked to the right and saw another stone with the same last name. It was for her parents. Her father was still alive, but I had forgotten that her mother has passed away almost a year later. She had given so much of her life to care for her daughter that her health was horrible and her heart was broken. As I looked at the stones together I thought to myself, "This is the way we were taught to live." We're called not to live selfishly, but to live to love God completely and to love others as ourselves. My friend's mother had not wasted her life caring for 22 years for a daughter in a coma. She had followed scriptural instructions of caring for her daughter.
I often wonder what my friend was going through in those 22 years. Would she have preferred death? Should it matter if she did? Is it God's decision to take life or ours? I pray that God was able to do some incredible things for her during that time. I am positive he did not desert her.
A friend asked me about the Terri Schiavo case. He wanted to know why people wanted her to be starved to death, or why they wanted her dead, period. My best guess is that we see ourselves in the face of the less fortunate. In our limited understanding, all we see is a body driven by very little mind. We see that someone like Terri is not in control of anything; she is at the mercy of others. When many people see themselves in that situation, their reaction is fear. They fear living in a debilitated state. They fear not having control. They fear it so much that death seems preferable. And what an interesting choice that becomes for the non-believer. They would rather take the uncertainty of death over the observed certainty of living a life out of their control. Isn't that an amazing statement about the incredibly strong drive of self? But if a decision to remove a feeding tube becomes a personal fight to be able to retain control of one's life, it ceases to be about life itself. . . only about self.
I don't pretend to know everyone's motivations for their opinions. I only present what I've seen in observing some people. My conclusions aren't meant to broad-brush, but to help me understand this whole case better. I certainly feel for my friend's mother and father. At the same time I also have great admiration for them. I also greatly admire Henri Nouwen, who gave up his university teaching position to care for people who couldn't care for themselves. Yet I also understand the pull of selfishness, in not wanting to give our lives to serve others. Still I know what the Bible tells us to do for other people and I know how dangerous selfish desires can be to my relationship with my Creator and Savior.
God has allowed this stuff to perkolate in my mind since I first drove into the graveyard yesterday. And I think I am even more grateful for the gift of life, yet more aware that my life is not my own. I have been bought with a price. My undying praise and thanks to the One who bought me, and thanks as well for continuing to shape me into His image.
As I walked, I became aware of so many people who had passed to the back burner of my mind. The guy who ran the meat packing store. The lady who worked at the bank. My uncle's dad. One of my good friends from elementary school. A lady who used to drive my bus. Plenty of other relatives, including some I never really met.
As I walked, I realized there was one grave I'd never visited but had to be out there somewhere. She was my first "girlfriend." (We were in kindergarten -- how "in love" could we be?) We were good friends all through school. I had a crush on her on and off for years. She was a big encouragement to me, helping me to develop some confidence. During our senior year, we each took short trips to visit some colleges. I went with three other guys and we had fun over the next three days, seeing four different campuses in addition to downtown Indianapolis at night. She started off for a campus visit with a friend in a VW beetle about the color of a yellow tennis ball. The two of them drove about 30 minutes to the Interstate, then as they tried to merge into traffic an 18-wheeler all but crushed the beetle. My friend was taken to the hospital in a coma.
I visited her in the hospital many times. We were encouraged to talk to her, as the nurses kept saying that she heard what we said. When I went off to college about nine months later, she was still on my mind but I stopped visiting. I felt like my presence was causing her mother so much pain, hearing about the things her daughter should be doing. I kept praying.
She finally died in 2001, shortly after the Twin Towers fell. She had been in a coma for 22 years. Her parents had cared for her the entire time. She had spent some time in various hospitals but eventually was brought home where she was cared for by her loving parents year after year. When I saw her again in the casket, I would have never recognized her. She looked nothing like her old pictures.
While pacing around the cemetery yesterday, I finally found her grave. There was a beautiful stone with her senior picture etched into it. On the reverse was a beautiful quote from St. Francis. Then I looked to the right and saw another stone with the same last name. It was for her parents. Her father was still alive, but I had forgotten that her mother has passed away almost a year later. She had given so much of her life to care for her daughter that her health was horrible and her heart was broken. As I looked at the stones together I thought to myself, "This is the way we were taught to live." We're called not to live selfishly, but to live to love God completely and to love others as ourselves. My friend's mother had not wasted her life caring for 22 years for a daughter in a coma. She had followed scriptural instructions of caring for her daughter.
I often wonder what my friend was going through in those 22 years. Would she have preferred death? Should it matter if she did? Is it God's decision to take life or ours? I pray that God was able to do some incredible things for her during that time. I am positive he did not desert her.
A friend asked me about the Terri Schiavo case. He wanted to know why people wanted her to be starved to death, or why they wanted her dead, period. My best guess is that we see ourselves in the face of the less fortunate. In our limited understanding, all we see is a body driven by very little mind. We see that someone like Terri is not in control of anything; she is at the mercy of others. When many people see themselves in that situation, their reaction is fear. They fear living in a debilitated state. They fear not having control. They fear it so much that death seems preferable. And what an interesting choice that becomes for the non-believer. They would rather take the uncertainty of death over the observed certainty of living a life out of their control. Isn't that an amazing statement about the incredibly strong drive of self? But if a decision to remove a feeding tube becomes a personal fight to be able to retain control of one's life, it ceases to be about life itself. . . only about self.
I don't pretend to know everyone's motivations for their opinions. I only present what I've seen in observing some people. My conclusions aren't meant to broad-brush, but to help me understand this whole case better. I certainly feel for my friend's mother and father. At the same time I also have great admiration for them. I also greatly admire Henri Nouwen, who gave up his university teaching position to care for people who couldn't care for themselves. Yet I also understand the pull of selfishness, in not wanting to give our lives to serve others. Still I know what the Bible tells us to do for other people and I know how dangerous selfish desires can be to my relationship with my Creator and Savior.
God has allowed this stuff to perkolate in my mind since I first drove into the graveyard yesterday. And I think I am even more grateful for the gift of life, yet more aware that my life is not my own. I have been bought with a price. My undying praise and thanks to the One who bought me, and thanks as well for continuing to shape me into His image.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Of Dogma and Spiritual Birthdays
My spiritual birthday is this week. I think it would have been yesterday. Monday of Holy Week. I've explained a little about the celebrations of Holy Week when I was growing up in this post. But it was more than just the Love Feast on Thursday. During the week we also had special services most evenings. Always we had something happening on Monday and Tuesday nights. It was at one of those services that I stepped forward to publically acknowledge Christ as my Savior. We had a special evangelist in town for that week. I don't have a clue who he was. I can't even remember how old I was -- probably ten or eleven. But I had decided that the next opportunity I had to step forward, I would do it. During that service I sat in the choir loft and awaited my opportunity. Then when an invitation was made, I stepped out from the loft still wearing the goofy looking white robe from the children's choir performance.
There was no life-altering feeling I got afterward. Many people came up to congratulate me, but I am not sure I got the significance even then. I was just doing what I was supposed to do, after all. In one sense, we were all expected to respond to an altar call. But in another sense, I knew that Christ was calling me. That was part of my confusion about all the congratulations; after all I was just being obedient.
I saw an interview with Cal Ripken, Jr., the former Baltimore Oriole shortstop who set the major league record for consecutive games played. Although he understood that breaking that record was important, Ripken said that he didn't think it was as big a deal as everyone made it out to be, after all he was only showing up for work -- just doing what he was supposed to do. I had a lot of those same emotions. I hadn't had a hit-rock-bottom moment, I just knew that He wanted me. So I obeyed. But the fact that it was during Holy Week made it that much sweeter. I was experiencing spiritual rebirth while the church was celebrating the sacrifice which made it all possible. Just another reason why Holy Week stands out to me.
It's funny, but my Holy Week those thirty plus years ago didn't seem to be a lot like Jesus' last week in Jerusalem. Looking back on those Scriptures, during much of that week Jesus spent a lot of time in confrontation with the religious leaders of the day. Sure there were many times when He and a crowd of followers had a fantastic time of teaching, but we saw a different side of our Lord when He came up against those who had so corrupted the Mosaic Law. The righteous anger burned in His eyes as He took some cords, made them into a whip and started cleaning house -- His Father's house! There's something about seeing people take truth and twist it that is very frustrating. And multiply the frustration by 40 when those truth twisters are the religious. In Jesus' case it was the religious leaders. But we see the religious truth twisters today also.
Over at Walking Circumspectly, Kristen has shared part of her experience with a cult. Certainly there are many groups who claim to have the truth, but have twisted and trimmed their Scriptures to the point where only a shadow of truth remains, stuffed with legalistic and manipulative lies. Reasoning with such people is highly frustrating because they are not interested in what a passage teaches; they are only interested in how they can use that passage to fit their preconceived notions.
I've been debating with an individual over the past week who claims to know the truth, but his idea of what Scripture teaches doesn't square with exegetical interpretation -- that is the meaning taken from the text. He has his own ideas about Jews and Gentiles, about spirit and body, about divisions and unity. Yet if I show him carefully from multiple places in Scripture where his ideas contradict clear biblical teaching, he asserts that I am simply repeating "the dogma of man" instead of truth. No matter that Paul says clearly that he is mistaken, it's the dogma of man. It makes no difference that Peter makes his intentions clear, it's the dogma of man. And in truth, it gets frustrating because it appears to me that he is doing exactly what he is accusing me of doing! Yet all I can do is continue to provide the evidence and watch him try to find an excuse for denying it. And it's more frustrating yet since I believe this man is likely a sincere believer, but he has some strange ideas.
I can only imagine how Jesus must have felt when the Pharisees came up trying to ask Him a trick question, knowing that they really didn't want the answer, they wanted a reason to get rid of the One whose presence threatened their comfy power structure. I couldn't blame Jesus if it mentioned somewhere in Matthew 22 that He was banging His head against the wall of the temple! It's tough to explain truth to someone who is convinced that God is on their side, despite all evidence to the contrary.
But my little debates are just peanuts. I can deal with the frustrations. And all the research and debate only makes me sharper. But I think of all the times over the past thirty or so years since my spiritual birthday. There have been times when I have been stupidly ignorant. Ignorant because I didn't know, and stupid because I didn't bother to check it out. But gradually my dogma gave way to truth. And it continues to this day. I told my small group tonight that my picture of God will be different in ten years because I will understand more about Him. I don't know what areas God will reveal Himself to me, but I know it will happen. Perhaps it would be better described as God leading me to where He has already been revealed, but you know what I mean. I cannot be content with where I am in my spiritual journey. Just as I cannot stay 39 forever, neither can I remain stagnant in my relationship with my Savior. And that could be the most important lesson I've learned since that first birthday.
There was no life-altering feeling I got afterward. Many people came up to congratulate me, but I am not sure I got the significance even then. I was just doing what I was supposed to do, after all. In one sense, we were all expected to respond to an altar call. But in another sense, I knew that Christ was calling me. That was part of my confusion about all the congratulations; after all I was just being obedient.
I saw an interview with Cal Ripken, Jr., the former Baltimore Oriole shortstop who set the major league record for consecutive games played. Although he understood that breaking that record was important, Ripken said that he didn't think it was as big a deal as everyone made it out to be, after all he was only showing up for work -- just doing what he was supposed to do. I had a lot of those same emotions. I hadn't had a hit-rock-bottom moment, I just knew that He wanted me. So I obeyed. But the fact that it was during Holy Week made it that much sweeter. I was experiencing spiritual rebirth while the church was celebrating the sacrifice which made it all possible. Just another reason why Holy Week stands out to me.
It's funny, but my Holy Week those thirty plus years ago didn't seem to be a lot like Jesus' last week in Jerusalem. Looking back on those Scriptures, during much of that week Jesus spent a lot of time in confrontation with the religious leaders of the day. Sure there were many times when He and a crowd of followers had a fantastic time of teaching, but we saw a different side of our Lord when He came up against those who had so corrupted the Mosaic Law. The righteous anger burned in His eyes as He took some cords, made them into a whip and started cleaning house -- His Father's house! There's something about seeing people take truth and twist it that is very frustrating. And multiply the frustration by 40 when those truth twisters are the religious. In Jesus' case it was the religious leaders. But we see the religious truth twisters today also.
Over at Walking Circumspectly, Kristen has shared part of her experience with a cult. Certainly there are many groups who claim to have the truth, but have twisted and trimmed their Scriptures to the point where only a shadow of truth remains, stuffed with legalistic and manipulative lies. Reasoning with such people is highly frustrating because they are not interested in what a passage teaches; they are only interested in how they can use that passage to fit their preconceived notions.
I've been debating with an individual over the past week who claims to know the truth, but his idea of what Scripture teaches doesn't square with exegetical interpretation -- that is the meaning taken from the text. He has his own ideas about Jews and Gentiles, about spirit and body, about divisions and unity. Yet if I show him carefully from multiple places in Scripture where his ideas contradict clear biblical teaching, he asserts that I am simply repeating "the dogma of man" instead of truth. No matter that Paul says clearly that he is mistaken, it's the dogma of man. It makes no difference that Peter makes his intentions clear, it's the dogma of man. And in truth, it gets frustrating because it appears to me that he is doing exactly what he is accusing me of doing! Yet all I can do is continue to provide the evidence and watch him try to find an excuse for denying it. And it's more frustrating yet since I believe this man is likely a sincere believer, but he has some strange ideas.
I can only imagine how Jesus must have felt when the Pharisees came up trying to ask Him a trick question, knowing that they really didn't want the answer, they wanted a reason to get rid of the One whose presence threatened their comfy power structure. I couldn't blame Jesus if it mentioned somewhere in Matthew 22 that He was banging His head against the wall of the temple! It's tough to explain truth to someone who is convinced that God is on their side, despite all evidence to the contrary.
But my little debates are just peanuts. I can deal with the frustrations. And all the research and debate only makes me sharper. But I think of all the times over the past thirty or so years since my spiritual birthday. There have been times when I have been stupidly ignorant. Ignorant because I didn't know, and stupid because I didn't bother to check it out. But gradually my dogma gave way to truth. And it continues to this day. I told my small group tonight that my picture of God will be different in ten years because I will understand more about Him. I don't know what areas God will reveal Himself to me, but I know it will happen. Perhaps it would be better described as God leading me to where He has already been revealed, but you know what I mean. I cannot be content with where I am in my spiritual journey. Just as I cannot stay 39 forever, neither can I remain stagnant in my relationship with my Savior. And that could be the most important lesson I've learned since that first birthday.
Monday, March 21, 2005
The Enthusiasm
There's nothing like a new hobby that really is fun and exciting. I've had many in my life -- some of which are still passions, while others faded away. As a kid, I had a huge black superball. Actually it wasn't a superball because it was some sort of tough black rubber which was slightly smaller than a baseball. But had a great bounce. In the summer when I had a chance, I would play my own baseball games. With a mitt on one hand and the ball in the other, I played out games featuring real major leaguers, a few of my friends and any other names which came to mind. I'd often do play-by-play, although quietly so that anybody happening by wouldn't hear me.
My house had a large brick section at the front. There were no windows in the brick; just a sidewalk which ran almost next to the wall. The game was simple. To pitch, I would throw the ball hitting the sidewalk first, then caroming off the brick back toward me. If I caught it in the air, it was an out. If it came off the wall as a grounder, then I had to field the ball like an infielder and throw it off the wall on the fly and catch it for the out at first base. Runs were only scored when I couldn't catch something or if I couldn't hit the sidewalk on the pitch.
I must have played that game for at least half my waking sunny-day hours for three or four summers. Then something must have happened. Maybe the ball got lost. (There was no replacing that black super ball.) Or maybe it was the added responsibilities of my life -- more baseball, more chores, more helping at the family store. Maybe my voice was worn out from so much play-by-play. Whatever it was, my enthusiasm for the game just wasn't there anymore. I'd love to have that enthusiasm back. Shoot, I'd love to have that black super ball back.
I often wonder about the people who spread their cloaks and palm branches before Jesus that Sunday. Why were they so happy? What were they expecting from Him? Were they just waiting for Jesus to begin the long-awaited uprising to drive the Romans from the land of Israel? Were they celebrating the arrival of a new king? A prophet? A celebrity? Were they simply caught up in excitement and joined in? I wish I knew. I wonder what happened to those people. Did the same people who shouted "Hosanna!" also shout "Crucify!"?
I've always been fascinated by Acts 14. The people of Lystra had received Paul and Barnabas with great pomp and circumstance. After Paul had healed a man who had been crippled since birth, the Lystrans try to worship the two evangelists as Greek gods. The text says that even after explaining everything to the people, many still wanted to sacrifice to them. Paul and Barnabas were stars! But then some of Paul and Barnabas' enemies showed up and whipped up the crowds to the point where they got a hold of Paul and stoned him, drug him out of the city and left him for dead! We're not told exactly how long a span of time it was between worshipping and stoning, but the text seems to imply that it wasn't very long at all. The people who had to be held back from worshipping Paul and Barnabas had in short order became those who tried to kill them. Why? Were they too easily led? Were they disappointed by Paul and Barnabas' refusal to be worshipped? How can a person go from wanting to worship to wanting to kill in such a short period of time?
There are times when we move from one extreme to the other as well. We can flow through the process of infatuation with another person until it finally dies out. We can rush headlong into a hobby for a while until we get burned out. It can happen spiritually too. Our desire for prayer and closeness with God can move from hot and heavy to "when I get around to it." The Bible, which once called to us, begging to be read, can turn into a silent, dusty decorative item on the bedside table. Our enthusiasm can wane. Our relationship with our Creator can grow cold.
In my imagination, I can see the face of Jesus looking out at the crowd of people calling for Barabbas instead of for Him. And I see Him recognize a face; the face of a man with hatred etched in the wrinkles of his skin. But Jesus remembers him from another day. On that day, he wore a smile and threw down his cloak for His donkey to walk across. And a tear runs down Jesus' cheek. The same kind of tear which ran down His cheek on that Sunday as He was reminded of the rejection of His own people. And He looks at the man who is shouting "Crucify Him!" Then suddenly the man sees he has been recognized and he runs back to his home. There he sits, wondering why the enthusiasm he had felt for this arriving prophet had faded and been replaced by hatred.
My house had a large brick section at the front. There were no windows in the brick; just a sidewalk which ran almost next to the wall. The game was simple. To pitch, I would throw the ball hitting the sidewalk first, then caroming off the brick back toward me. If I caught it in the air, it was an out. If it came off the wall as a grounder, then I had to field the ball like an infielder and throw it off the wall on the fly and catch it for the out at first base. Runs were only scored when I couldn't catch something or if I couldn't hit the sidewalk on the pitch.
I must have played that game for at least half my waking sunny-day hours for three or four summers. Then something must have happened. Maybe the ball got lost. (There was no replacing that black super ball.) Or maybe it was the added responsibilities of my life -- more baseball, more chores, more helping at the family store. Maybe my voice was worn out from so much play-by-play. Whatever it was, my enthusiasm for the game just wasn't there anymore. I'd love to have that enthusiasm back. Shoot, I'd love to have that black super ball back.
I often wonder about the people who spread their cloaks and palm branches before Jesus that Sunday. Why were they so happy? What were they expecting from Him? Were they just waiting for Jesus to begin the long-awaited uprising to drive the Romans from the land of Israel? Were they celebrating the arrival of a new king? A prophet? A celebrity? Were they simply caught up in excitement and joined in? I wish I knew. I wonder what happened to those people. Did the same people who shouted "Hosanna!" also shout "Crucify!"?
I've always been fascinated by Acts 14. The people of Lystra had received Paul and Barnabas with great pomp and circumstance. After Paul had healed a man who had been crippled since birth, the Lystrans try to worship the two evangelists as Greek gods. The text says that even after explaining everything to the people, many still wanted to sacrifice to them. Paul and Barnabas were stars! But then some of Paul and Barnabas' enemies showed up and whipped up the crowds to the point where they got a hold of Paul and stoned him, drug him out of the city and left him for dead! We're not told exactly how long a span of time it was between worshipping and stoning, but the text seems to imply that it wasn't very long at all. The people who had to be held back from worshipping Paul and Barnabas had in short order became those who tried to kill them. Why? Were they too easily led? Were they disappointed by Paul and Barnabas' refusal to be worshipped? How can a person go from wanting to worship to wanting to kill in such a short period of time?
There are times when we move from one extreme to the other as well. We can flow through the process of infatuation with another person until it finally dies out. We can rush headlong into a hobby for a while until we get burned out. It can happen spiritually too. Our desire for prayer and closeness with God can move from hot and heavy to "when I get around to it." The Bible, which once called to us, begging to be read, can turn into a silent, dusty decorative item on the bedside table. Our enthusiasm can wane. Our relationship with our Creator can grow cold.
In my imagination, I can see the face of Jesus looking out at the crowd of people calling for Barabbas instead of for Him. And I see Him recognize a face; the face of a man with hatred etched in the wrinkles of his skin. But Jesus remembers him from another day. On that day, he wore a smile and threw down his cloak for His donkey to walk across. And a tear runs down Jesus' cheek. The same kind of tear which ran down His cheek on that Sunday as He was reminded of the rejection of His own people. And He looks at the man who is shouting "Crucify Him!" Then suddenly the man sees he has been recognized and he runs back to his home. There he sits, wondering why the enthusiasm he had felt for this arriving prophet had faded and been replaced by hatred.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
I Love Holy Week
Tomorrow it begins in earnest. It truly is my favorite time on the Christian calendar. Sure, Christmas is nice. All Saints Day is interesting. Pentecost is wonderful. But this is Holy Week. This is the time when we especially celebrate the event which all of history hinges upon. To paraphrase Paul, if there is no resurrection you might as well chuck it all out the window. And this week gives us the reason (or maybe excuse) to dig back into the final week of Jesus' earthly walk and absorb more of the meaning of what exactly happened in Jerusalem way back then.
I know that not everybody feels that way. I have debated numerous times the reason for celebrating holidays in spite of their often pagan origins. Some Christians will not even use the word "Easter" because of the pagan roots of the word. I understand why some feel that way, but I think they miss out on the experience if they lapse into a legalistic way of looking at the holiday. God has always been One to look upon the heart. And I know in my heart that when I use the word "Easter" I am not giving any sort of honor to some ancient false goddess. It's the same as a garden variety pagan giving Christmas gifts. Certainly they don't mean to honor Christ, now do they? Holy Week is important because I am honoring the sacrifice to end all sacrifices made on my behalf and the conquering of death so that I can inherit eternal life. It seems like that's worth celebrating, don't you think?
Maybe Holy Week means so much to me because of my upbringing. I was raised in the Church of the Brethren -- Dunkers as we had once been called. One of the distinctives of the Brethren was the Love Feast on Maunday Thursday. As a child, we would go to the basement of the church for a special meal. Ladies sat on one side of the room, men on the other. The meal was always the same -- pot-roasted beef cooked tender, with a side dish of "sop." Sop was bread soaked in the beef broth. I loved that beef. I could have eaten pound after pound of it. The sop I didn't care for. It was good if you like wet bread, but I prefer my bread dry. Picky eater, I know.
We would also wash the feet of the person sitting beside us. A basin of water started at one end along with a towel which tied around the waist. Slowly, the tub would be passed down the length of the tables. I would have my feet washed by the man on one side. Then it was my turn to wash the feet of the man on my other side. Often after a man's feet were washed, he would stand and give a holy kiss to the man who did the washing. I was always a little too squeamish to try the holy kiss, so I settled for a handshake. Later in my life, women that I dated would also try to get out of giving me a kiss by shaking my hand. Perhaps things were just coming around full circle!
The final part of the Love Feast was Holy Communion. We usually only celebrated Communion twice a year at our church; once on an autumn Sunday, the other time at the Love Feast. On the table, covered by a cloth were the elements. There was a small cup of grape juice for each chair at the table and long strips of unleavened bread. When time came to break bread, I took one end of the strip while the person across the table from me took the other. When instructed to, we broke the bread between us and we each ate the part we held. I even loved the taste of the bread. It was like that portion of 1 Corinthians about not gorging ourselves celebrating the Lord's Supper was written by Paul especially for me!
But the beauty of the services from Palm Sunday through Easter Sunday have always been a highlight for me. I'm sure that those memories will crowd their way into my posts over this next week. But it's not just the memories. It's the realization of what I will inherit only because of what happened that week. I love Holy Week.
I know that not everybody feels that way. I have debated numerous times the reason for celebrating holidays in spite of their often pagan origins. Some Christians will not even use the word "Easter" because of the pagan roots of the word. I understand why some feel that way, but I think they miss out on the experience if they lapse into a legalistic way of looking at the holiday. God has always been One to look upon the heart. And I know in my heart that when I use the word "Easter" I am not giving any sort of honor to some ancient false goddess. It's the same as a garden variety pagan giving Christmas gifts. Certainly they don't mean to honor Christ, now do they? Holy Week is important because I am honoring the sacrifice to end all sacrifices made on my behalf and the conquering of death so that I can inherit eternal life. It seems like that's worth celebrating, don't you think?
Maybe Holy Week means so much to me because of my upbringing. I was raised in the Church of the Brethren -- Dunkers as we had once been called. One of the distinctives of the Brethren was the Love Feast on Maunday Thursday. As a child, we would go to the basement of the church for a special meal. Ladies sat on one side of the room, men on the other. The meal was always the same -- pot-roasted beef cooked tender, with a side dish of "sop." Sop was bread soaked in the beef broth. I loved that beef. I could have eaten pound after pound of it. The sop I didn't care for. It was good if you like wet bread, but I prefer my bread dry. Picky eater, I know.
We would also wash the feet of the person sitting beside us. A basin of water started at one end along with a towel which tied around the waist. Slowly, the tub would be passed down the length of the tables. I would have my feet washed by the man on one side. Then it was my turn to wash the feet of the man on my other side. Often after a man's feet were washed, he would stand and give a holy kiss to the man who did the washing. I was always a little too squeamish to try the holy kiss, so I settled for a handshake. Later in my life, women that I dated would also try to get out of giving me a kiss by shaking my hand. Perhaps things were just coming around full circle!
The final part of the Love Feast was Holy Communion. We usually only celebrated Communion twice a year at our church; once on an autumn Sunday, the other time at the Love Feast. On the table, covered by a cloth were the elements. There was a small cup of grape juice for each chair at the table and long strips of unleavened bread. When time came to break bread, I took one end of the strip while the person across the table from me took the other. When instructed to, we broke the bread between us and we each ate the part we held. I even loved the taste of the bread. It was like that portion of 1 Corinthians about not gorging ourselves celebrating the Lord's Supper was written by Paul especially for me!
But the beauty of the services from Palm Sunday through Easter Sunday have always been a highlight for me. I'm sure that those memories will crowd their way into my posts over this next week. But it's not just the memories. It's the realization of what I will inherit only because of what happened that week. I love Holy Week.
Friday, March 18, 2005
The Comfort of a Christian Nation
I've always wondered what it would be like to be a Christian in a culture where most others are not only non-Christian, but anti-Christian. Granted, I have been to places where if I had decided to pull out a bullhorn and start reading Galatians aloud I would have been beaten to a bloody pulp. But that's not exactly what I'm talking about. What would it be like to have been a First Century Christian at a time when the Romans would use our brothers and sisters as Purina Lion Chow? For that matter, what is it like for Christians in China or Syria or Sudan? Would I have the strength to stand for Christ boldly, or would I make it a point to find my prayer closet and stay there for a few years? Would I share with someone who asked me about Jesus if I knew it was against the law?
In America, we've really never had to deal with anything like that as Christians. Sure we've had times when Christians had to stand up to other Christians and confront them on issues like slavery and civil rights, but we've never faced real Christian persecution. Now I've heard people moan and wail about things like the Ten Commandments monument in Alabama and Christmas decorations being moved off public property, but that's not persecution. If you want to hear about persecution, talk to a foreign missionary. They can tell you some stories that will at once inspire you and break your heart. In America, we don't know what persecution is.
Some would say that's because we live in a Christian nation. Others will tell you that this used to be a Christian nation, but now it is a secular nation. Still others say that while we claim to be a Christian nation, we are truly not -- kind of a stealth secular society. But among many, there is a big push to make the United States a Christian country once again, if we're not already. Or something like that.
I found this article about the recent Reclaiming America For Christ conference. Now I have the utmost respect for many of the things D. James Kennedy has done. I especially appreciate his work in the field of evangelism. One of my college roommates went through Evangelism Explosion training, so I've seen a bit of how God has used his talents for the good of His people. And I've watched his television show and seen him standing in his pulpit which has to be about 76 stories off the ground. I swear, the ushers at Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church must issue binoculars to worshippers so they can see where Dr. Kennedy is standing. To me, it is similar to what it would look like if someone built a giant lectern at the edge of Pride Rock from The Lion King.
But anyway, I truly applaud James Kennedy for his service to the Kingdom, but I wonder if this emphasis on making America a Christian nation again is really the best use of his talents. Is it critical that America be a Christian nation? Now naturally I want all Americans (and all non-Americans) to be Christians. But is it a matter of life or death? Let me explain.
In this country we have it pretty easy as Christians. And I'm glad I don't have to fear being imprisoned for preaching in church on Sunday or to worry that my congregation will not be allowed to attend worship services by governmental order. But how healthy are we when we get too comfortable?
I've seen surveys where anywhere from 75-95% of Americans claim to be Christians. Yet surveys also show that well over half don't understand simple Christian doctrines such as salvation through grace or the deity of Christ. Many never even share the Gospel or even attend corporate worship. What kind of faith is that? Is that the faith to which Christ called us? There are a whole lot of people walking around with those rectangular stick-on name tags which say, "Hello! I'm ___A____CHRISTIAN_____." It's still fashionable in most circles to wear the name Christian, after all it makes you look like a good, honest person, right? Yet behind these name tags are people who claim Christ when it's convenient, but otherwise try to get my on the bare minimum of anything faith-related. An occasional emergency room prayer. Listening to the Christmas story in December. Wearing a cross necklace when it matches the outfit. These folks have fooled themselves into thinking they are truly Christians when they don't even consider putting Jesus first in their lives. What a danger a self-deluded nominal Christian can be -- to herself and to others.
Now let's take all those people and send them to China. (Not literally, but figuratively. I don't have that kind of credit limit!) What happens to the nominal Christian when there are earthly consequences to being a believer? Almost every one will turn away. If it is not comfortable to be a Christian, these people won't bother to claim Christ. Is this an improvement? Well, they won't be fooling themselves any longer. Will they be any farther out of the Kingdom? I would seriously doubt it.
Jesus told us that we would face persecution. Jesus told us that we are blessed when we are persecuted for His name's sake. Jesus even implied that there must be something wrong if we are not being persecuted. If the Gospel truly is an offense, then shouldn't we offend people by our beliefs? I'm not talking about pulling out the bullhorn. I mean we should not only know what Christ taught, but be able to live it out. Shouldn't it be a warning flare to Christians and to churches if we realize we have become comfortable?
Anything with perceived value is worth effort. If I had given up the first two times blogger lost this post for me, then my words wouldn't have meant too much in the first place. Yet I tried again. We have such a craving for comfort in this country that many will never make a commitment if it requires sacrifice. Christianity requires that we sacrifice our will for God's will.
Persecution can really be seen as a gift from God. We are as silver being refined when we go through the fire. If we refuse the fire, how can we call the Refiner our Lord? The Christians of Sudan, Sierra Leone, China, Iran and countless places around the globe understand that we are strengthened through adversity and persecution. Too many American Christians become caught up in desiring the comfortable life that we miss out on being conformed to the image of Christ Jesus through the bad times.
Our concern as Christians should not be the number of Christians in government. I am glad there are believers in positions of authority because they can push for things which are best for everybody -- morally, enviromentally and legally. However the government is not effective in evangelism. In Constantine's day, the government produced many nominal Christians. Why would we expect a different result today? Nominal Christians aren't Christians at all. What we want is for people to come to Christ, fully aware that God changes lives and usually not by making lives more comfortable. Our goal then is not for a Christian nation, but a nation (or indeed a world) full of Christians. Still we know that will not happen. But like our Father, we pray that one more would turn to Him, not to be comfortable, but to be comforted. Not to be our own, but to be His.
In America, we've really never had to deal with anything like that as Christians. Sure we've had times when Christians had to stand up to other Christians and confront them on issues like slavery and civil rights, but we've never faced real Christian persecution. Now I've heard people moan and wail about things like the Ten Commandments monument in Alabama and Christmas decorations being moved off public property, but that's not persecution. If you want to hear about persecution, talk to a foreign missionary. They can tell you some stories that will at once inspire you and break your heart. In America, we don't know what persecution is.
Some would say that's because we live in a Christian nation. Others will tell you that this used to be a Christian nation, but now it is a secular nation. Still others say that while we claim to be a Christian nation, we are truly not -- kind of a stealth secular society. But among many, there is a big push to make the United States a Christian country once again, if we're not already. Or something like that.
I found this article about the recent Reclaiming America For Christ conference. Now I have the utmost respect for many of the things D. James Kennedy has done. I especially appreciate his work in the field of evangelism. One of my college roommates went through Evangelism Explosion training, so I've seen a bit of how God has used his talents for the good of His people. And I've watched his television show and seen him standing in his pulpit which has to be about 76 stories off the ground. I swear, the ushers at Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church must issue binoculars to worshippers so they can see where Dr. Kennedy is standing. To me, it is similar to what it would look like if someone built a giant lectern at the edge of Pride Rock from The Lion King.
But anyway, I truly applaud James Kennedy for his service to the Kingdom, but I wonder if this emphasis on making America a Christian nation again is really the best use of his talents. Is it critical that America be a Christian nation? Now naturally I want all Americans (and all non-Americans) to be Christians. But is it a matter of life or death? Let me explain.
In this country we have it pretty easy as Christians. And I'm glad I don't have to fear being imprisoned for preaching in church on Sunday or to worry that my congregation will not be allowed to attend worship services by governmental order. But how healthy are we when we get too comfortable?
I've seen surveys where anywhere from 75-95% of Americans claim to be Christians. Yet surveys also show that well over half don't understand simple Christian doctrines such as salvation through grace or the deity of Christ. Many never even share the Gospel or even attend corporate worship. What kind of faith is that? Is that the faith to which Christ called us? There are a whole lot of people walking around with those rectangular stick-on name tags which say, "Hello! I'm ___A____CHRISTIAN_____." It's still fashionable in most circles to wear the name Christian, after all it makes you look like a good, honest person, right? Yet behind these name tags are people who claim Christ when it's convenient, but otherwise try to get my on the bare minimum of anything faith-related. An occasional emergency room prayer. Listening to the Christmas story in December. Wearing a cross necklace when it matches the outfit. These folks have fooled themselves into thinking they are truly Christians when they don't even consider putting Jesus first in their lives. What a danger a self-deluded nominal Christian can be -- to herself and to others.
Now let's take all those people and send them to China. (Not literally, but figuratively. I don't have that kind of credit limit!) What happens to the nominal Christian when there are earthly consequences to being a believer? Almost every one will turn away. If it is not comfortable to be a Christian, these people won't bother to claim Christ. Is this an improvement? Well, they won't be fooling themselves any longer. Will they be any farther out of the Kingdom? I would seriously doubt it.
Jesus told us that we would face persecution. Jesus told us that we are blessed when we are persecuted for His name's sake. Jesus even implied that there must be something wrong if we are not being persecuted. If the Gospel truly is an offense, then shouldn't we offend people by our beliefs? I'm not talking about pulling out the bullhorn. I mean we should not only know what Christ taught, but be able to live it out. Shouldn't it be a warning flare to Christians and to churches if we realize we have become comfortable?
Anything with perceived value is worth effort. If I had given up the first two times blogger lost this post for me, then my words wouldn't have meant too much in the first place. Yet I tried again. We have such a craving for comfort in this country that many will never make a commitment if it requires sacrifice. Christianity requires that we sacrifice our will for God's will.
Persecution can really be seen as a gift from God. We are as silver being refined when we go through the fire. If we refuse the fire, how can we call the Refiner our Lord? The Christians of Sudan, Sierra Leone, China, Iran and countless places around the globe understand that we are strengthened through adversity and persecution. Too many American Christians become caught up in desiring the comfortable life that we miss out on being conformed to the image of Christ Jesus through the bad times.
Our concern as Christians should not be the number of Christians in government. I am glad there are believers in positions of authority because they can push for things which are best for everybody -- morally, enviromentally and legally. However the government is not effective in evangelism. In Constantine's day, the government produced many nominal Christians. Why would we expect a different result today? Nominal Christians aren't Christians at all. What we want is for people to come to Christ, fully aware that God changes lives and usually not by making lives more comfortable. Our goal then is not for a Christian nation, but a nation (or indeed a world) full of Christians. Still we know that will not happen. But like our Father, we pray that one more would turn to Him, not to be comfortable, but to be comforted. Not to be our own, but to be His.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
"I'd like to thank the little people..."
Last night I caught part of the TV Land Awards on television. If you are unfamiliar with this award show, it is to honor the actors, directors and so forth whose work we see in reruns up and down the TV remote. This is usually a pretty good show in some respects. I only got to see a little bit of it last night, but I did get to see a reunion of the old Bob Newhart Show (the one where he plays a psychologist), C. H. I. P. S. co-stars Erik Estrada and Larry Wilcox as well as Alan Young, who played Wilbur Post on Mr. Ed. Alan appeared with a horse, although I doubt it was the "real" Mr. Ed. Still it was entertaining while I watched. But I must admit that it was entertaining in the same way a high school class reunion is entertaining: I often found myself just wanting to see how these people looked after all these years.
What makes this award show so different is that usually the stars aren't as pretentious as the folks you see gripping trophies at the Emmys or the Oscars. In fact, it appears many are just thankful for a little attention. One of the honorees was veteran character actor Charles Lane who is now 100 years old. You probably don't know the name, but if you've spent any time watching 1960s sitcom reruns, you've seen his work. He could be best remembered in "I Love Lucy" as the "other" expectant father sitting at the hospital while Ricky Ricardo was nervously awaiting the birth of Little Ricky. Lane is the man whom Ricky asked, "Is this your first baby?" Lane answered in an annoyed, gruff voice, "It's my last." Last night, with that scene fifty years in the past, Charles Lane blew out a birthday candle and spoke into a microphone to any casting people watching, "If you're interested, I'm still available!"
But let's face it, the major award shows are all about stars and fashion. There are pre-shows to discuss what everyone will wear and post-shows to gossip about how badly some people were dressed. The awards themselves seem to be an almost an afterthought -- except to the people who were nomiated. But again, the awards game is so political that one has to be part of the in-crowd to even be noticed. I heard a comedian one time as he imagined the Grammy for Best Album going to a no-name band who could be at the ceremony because their van broke down and their manager could get out of a shift at the video store to make it!
Perhaps the most enduring image of the award show is of the acceptance speech. A few are truly touching. Most are truly boring. And a few are truly annoying. Who could forget Sally Field walking on stage to accept an award, exclaiming, "You like me, you really like me!"? But the stereotypical speech is probably one which grew out of urban legend or misunderstanding. However, maybe there was a winner who stood up and said, "I want to thank all the little people who made this possible." Of course the meaning was that they were "little" people compared to the "big" star. That sort of ego display doesn't stir my emotions as much as it stirs my stomach.
So why do we have award shows? I would guess that originally the cause was fairly noble; perhaps something like honoring great performances or amazing achievements. Today it's not as much an affirmation of a job well done as it is a cultural rite of celebrity worship. I'm sure there are people who can't be a part of the in-crowd who could really use the encouragement. But the "little" people will have to be happy with a brief, condecending mention in the big star's acceptance speech.
As a "little" person here on earth, I'm glad the big star is God. There is no condescension from Him -- there is love. Unending love. He gives the encouragement and affirmation I need. He isn't nice to my face only to insult my clothing behind my back. He doesn't look at me as a little person, but as His child, adopted into His family. His ways are not to ignore me, but to use me. If I'm still on this planet at age 100, I want my response to God to be the same then as it is now: "If You need me Lord, I'm still available!"
What makes this award show so different is that usually the stars aren't as pretentious as the folks you see gripping trophies at the Emmys or the Oscars. In fact, it appears many are just thankful for a little attention. One of the honorees was veteran character actor Charles Lane who is now 100 years old. You probably don't know the name, but if you've spent any time watching 1960s sitcom reruns, you've seen his work. He could be best remembered in "I Love Lucy" as the "other" expectant father sitting at the hospital while Ricky Ricardo was nervously awaiting the birth of Little Ricky. Lane is the man whom Ricky asked, "Is this your first baby?" Lane answered in an annoyed, gruff voice, "It's my last." Last night, with that scene fifty years in the past, Charles Lane blew out a birthday candle and spoke into a microphone to any casting people watching, "If you're interested, I'm still available!"
But let's face it, the major award shows are all about stars and fashion. There are pre-shows to discuss what everyone will wear and post-shows to gossip about how badly some people were dressed. The awards themselves seem to be an almost an afterthought -- except to the people who were nomiated. But again, the awards game is so political that one has to be part of the in-crowd to even be noticed. I heard a comedian one time as he imagined the Grammy for Best Album going to a no-name band who could be at the ceremony because their van broke down and their manager could get out of a shift at the video store to make it!
Perhaps the most enduring image of the award show is of the acceptance speech. A few are truly touching. Most are truly boring. And a few are truly annoying. Who could forget Sally Field walking on stage to accept an award, exclaiming, "You like me, you really like me!"? But the stereotypical speech is probably one which grew out of urban legend or misunderstanding. However, maybe there was a winner who stood up and said, "I want to thank all the little people who made this possible." Of course the meaning was that they were "little" people compared to the "big" star. That sort of ego display doesn't stir my emotions as much as it stirs my stomach.
So why do we have award shows? I would guess that originally the cause was fairly noble; perhaps something like honoring great performances or amazing achievements. Today it's not as much an affirmation of a job well done as it is a cultural rite of celebrity worship. I'm sure there are people who can't be a part of the in-crowd who could really use the encouragement. But the "little" people will have to be happy with a brief, condecending mention in the big star's acceptance speech.
As a "little" person here on earth, I'm glad the big star is God. There is no condescension from Him -- there is love. Unending love. He gives the encouragement and affirmation I need. He isn't nice to my face only to insult my clothing behind my back. He doesn't look at me as a little person, but as His child, adopted into His family. His ways are not to ignore me, but to use me. If I'm still on this planet at age 100, I want my response to God to be the same then as it is now: "If You need me Lord, I'm still available!"
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Remembering Wild Oats Not Sown
A friend of mine was in the airport in Kansas City last weekend when he noticed a group of college-aged young adults who were waiting to board charter flights to spend spring break in Cancun and Acapulco. Apparently they were getting warmed up for the activities of the next week or so as many were already noticeably intoxicated at 7:00 in the A. M. And there was the young woman who dressed in such a way that little of her skin remained unseen while awaiting boarding. It seems like of the three major activities of a collegiate spring break -- drinking, being promiscuous and getting a tan -- only one remained unexplored. My friend had an odd observation about the whole experience. He said, "I never went anywhere on spring break in either high school or college, yet I don't feel like I missed anything, and even after seeing [this scene] at the airport, I still haven't changed my mind."
Immedately my mind went into flashback mode. Nobody went anywhere on spring break in high school unless you were with your parents. But in college, juniors and seniors planned for spring break in Florida. First of all, it was usually only upperclassmen who had saved up enough cash to make a trip like this, and second it was usually only upperclassmen who knew the best places to go. Or at least that's what they said. I heard more than a few stories of eight guys crashing in a teeny room with two single beds and a television padlocked and chained to the wall. My own roommate made a trip for spring break one year. He had a gorgeous girlfriend, so he supposedly went to get a tan and drink. I'm sure he did a lot of that. But he didn't share a whole lot of stories about Florida when he came back. I've always wondered if the abundance of peer pressure and beer pressure was too much for him.
Secretly I wanted to go with him back then. At least I thought maybe I'd like to go. Or maybe I just wanted one of those "sowing my wild oats" experiences. The alcohol wasn't a temptation. I never liked beer and only rarely was there anything alcoholic in college I even tried. I had always been a picky eater. Turns out I'm a picky drinker too! So potential drunkenness wasn't an issue with me. Getting a tan sounded nice, and I couldn't remember reading, "Thou shalt not darken the skin of thy body with sunshine," so that wasn't a real issue either. Two down, one to go.
That left promiscuity. And in truth, that really wasn't an issue for me anyway. I've already described one occasion when I showed off my lack of appeal to the co-eds. After my high school sweetheart dumped me a few weeks after she arrived on a college campus, my confidence was pretty well shot. I was overweight and usually pretty shy around women, having been through some humiliating experiences just trying to find a date for a concert. Casual sex wasn't an option simply because women found me either unattractive or too shy to worry about. So in the end the decision not to go was an easy one. If I wanted a tan, I could do it a lot cheaper in Indiana than Florida. Plus I would have to deal with rejection and drunks.
Since that spring, there have been times in my life when I wished I would have gone on that spring break. My imagination conveniently lacks much of the common sense thinking which helped make my decision back then. And in those fantasies I was free to reject the beer, but the ladies wouldn't reject me. After all, wouldn't that have been a once-in-a-lifetime experience? A rite of passage into manhood? The part about it being a selfish, indulgent sin-fest could easily be swept under the rug.
Thankfully those times don't come around anymore, and like my friend I can look back and say that I really didn't miss much. But I can go a little beyond that. I can look at those times and see Divine protection in all of that mess.
As I mentioned earlier, I never liked beer. At a college with a party reputation I tended to stick out a bit, but I never minded that much. Having no taste for alcohol kept me out of a lot of situations where I could have really gotten myself into trouble. I was never worried about a DWI citation. I wasn't worried about spending the night with my head in a toilet (except for when the dorm cafeteria served burritos). Now I had an appetite for sex like most college students, but with a "raised-in-the-church" kind of guilt about it. But since the college girls had no sexual appetite for me, I was spared all kinds of emotional and possibly physical damage. I didn't have to worry about drunk driving or unplanned pregnancies. Now 23 years ago I never would have thought to thank God for being visually unpleasant to females, but I've got to admit now that given my state of mind as a college student, I would never have had the willpower to say no. And had something happened in school, I would not have been available to the one to come who would love me for who I am. I have my wife today due in part to not being corrupted by the peer pressure and beer pressure of college.
I usually think of God protecting me by means of giving me inner strength or by placing some sort of shield around me. But it just may be that God does his best protecting in ways that we would never expect and often would never appreciate. It's yet another reason why God's will is best and my will is usually found wallowing in my selfishness. I thank God that even though I wanted to sow some wild oats years ago, today I am not plagued by the weeds of a life lived to glorify the idol of self.
Immedately my mind went into flashback mode. Nobody went anywhere on spring break in high school unless you were with your parents. But in college, juniors and seniors planned for spring break in Florida. First of all, it was usually only upperclassmen who had saved up enough cash to make a trip like this, and second it was usually only upperclassmen who knew the best places to go. Or at least that's what they said. I heard more than a few stories of eight guys crashing in a teeny room with two single beds and a television padlocked and chained to the wall. My own roommate made a trip for spring break one year. He had a gorgeous girlfriend, so he supposedly went to get a tan and drink. I'm sure he did a lot of that. But he didn't share a whole lot of stories about Florida when he came back. I've always wondered if the abundance of peer pressure and beer pressure was too much for him.
Secretly I wanted to go with him back then. At least I thought maybe I'd like to go. Or maybe I just wanted one of those "sowing my wild oats" experiences. The alcohol wasn't a temptation. I never liked beer and only rarely was there anything alcoholic in college I even tried. I had always been a picky eater. Turns out I'm a picky drinker too! So potential drunkenness wasn't an issue with me. Getting a tan sounded nice, and I couldn't remember reading, "Thou shalt not darken the skin of thy body with sunshine," so that wasn't a real issue either. Two down, one to go.
That left promiscuity. And in truth, that really wasn't an issue for me anyway. I've already described one occasion when I showed off my lack of appeal to the co-eds. After my high school sweetheart dumped me a few weeks after she arrived on a college campus, my confidence was pretty well shot. I was overweight and usually pretty shy around women, having been through some humiliating experiences just trying to find a date for a concert. Casual sex wasn't an option simply because women found me either unattractive or too shy to worry about. So in the end the decision not to go was an easy one. If I wanted a tan, I could do it a lot cheaper in Indiana than Florida. Plus I would have to deal with rejection and drunks.
Since that spring, there have been times in my life when I wished I would have gone on that spring break. My imagination conveniently lacks much of the common sense thinking which helped make my decision back then. And in those fantasies I was free to reject the beer, but the ladies wouldn't reject me. After all, wouldn't that have been a once-in-a-lifetime experience? A rite of passage into manhood? The part about it being a selfish, indulgent sin-fest could easily be swept under the rug.
Thankfully those times don't come around anymore, and like my friend I can look back and say that I really didn't miss much. But I can go a little beyond that. I can look at those times and see Divine protection in all of that mess.
As I mentioned earlier, I never liked beer. At a college with a party reputation I tended to stick out a bit, but I never minded that much. Having no taste for alcohol kept me out of a lot of situations where I could have really gotten myself into trouble. I was never worried about a DWI citation. I wasn't worried about spending the night with my head in a toilet (except for when the dorm cafeteria served burritos). Now I had an appetite for sex like most college students, but with a "raised-in-the-church" kind of guilt about it. But since the college girls had no sexual appetite for me, I was spared all kinds of emotional and possibly physical damage. I didn't have to worry about drunk driving or unplanned pregnancies. Now 23 years ago I never would have thought to thank God for being visually unpleasant to females, but I've got to admit now that given my state of mind as a college student, I would never have had the willpower to say no. And had something happened in school, I would not have been available to the one to come who would love me for who I am. I have my wife today due in part to not being corrupted by the peer pressure and beer pressure of college.
I usually think of God protecting me by means of giving me inner strength or by placing some sort of shield around me. But it just may be that God does his best protecting in ways that we would never expect and often would never appreciate. It's yet another reason why God's will is best and my will is usually found wallowing in my selfishness. I thank God that even though I wanted to sow some wild oats years ago, today I am not plagued by the weeds of a life lived to glorify the idol of self.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Good Reading
I realized that I get so much stimulating reading by surfing various blogs, but I rarely pass it along to the three or four readers of this blog. So until I get my thoughts finalized, here are a few places to get your mind a square meal.
At Allthings2all, the Science and Christianity Showcase is posted. Lots of great thinking there. Also see some of the related stuff Kevin has written on the subject over at Short Attention Span.
Tom at Brain Twitch has posted an idea similar to something I have been working out mentally, but he stated it better than I was even envisioning. He sees the pastor as the leader of an expedition.
Amy at Poor Mouth writes about A Thing of Beauty -- "how beautiful" and "seductive" have become almost synonymous.
Kristen writes about that beautiful, mysterious relationship called marriage at Walking Circumspectly.
Wilsonian at biscotti brain discovers the Gospel According to Kramer.
At The View, Teresa writes about the woman in Atlanta who talked a killer into surrender and about the people God brings into our lives.
And at the Thinklings, Jared posts about visiting a church. You'll read more about this from me in the near future, I'm sure.
Enjoy.
At Allthings2all, the Science and Christianity Showcase is posted. Lots of great thinking there. Also see some of the related stuff Kevin has written on the subject over at Short Attention Span.
Tom at Brain Twitch has posted an idea similar to something I have been working out mentally, but he stated it better than I was even envisioning. He sees the pastor as the leader of an expedition.
Amy at Poor Mouth writes about A Thing of Beauty -- "how beautiful" and "seductive" have become almost synonymous.
Kristen writes about that beautiful, mysterious relationship called marriage at Walking Circumspectly.
Wilsonian at biscotti brain discovers the Gospel According to Kramer.
At The View, Teresa writes about the woman in Atlanta who talked a killer into surrender and about the people God brings into our lives.
And at the Thinklings, Jared posts about visiting a church. You'll read more about this from me in the near future, I'm sure.
Enjoy.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
C'mon, everybody! Sing along!
It's been over twenty years, but I still remember that night. I had stopped by to see a friend of mine at work. She worked at the front desk of a dorm, so mainly it was a time to sit and talk. It was the mid-80s and the radio was blaring out the incipid hit from Kool & the Gang, "Joanna." Being a star radio DJ (or as much of a star as I could be playing top 40 music on AM radio in the 80s), I noticed the song but tried to ignore it. Suddenly my friend turned to me and said, "I can't understand why they wrote a song about Edna!"
The look on my face must have been something to behold -- one eyebrow raised, eyes darting around the room trying to find another radio playing a different song, mind racing every which way trying to think of ANY song referring to a girl named Edna. My friend must have realized that I was confused. To clarify, she said, "THAT song!" Pointing to the radio speaker, she began to sing, "Oh, Edna, I love you. . . " By that point I was unable to even blink.
"Uh, Tina," I finally began to speak very slowly, "That song is called, 'Joanna' not Edna."
"Oh," came the embarassed reply.
I never let her forget it. But to be honest, things like that happen to everyone. You think you know the words, and you've sung along with the song for months or even years only to find out that you've been singing the wrong words the whole time.
I remember taking a request at the radio station one night. It was a man wanting to dedicate a song for his lady friend. He wanted to ask for the Kool & the Gang song (them again?), "Cherish," featuring the lyrics, "Cherish the love we had. . . " but apparently he had been confused by something because he was convinced the song was called, "Chariots of Love." I did my best not to laugh, but in my mind I could hear the guy singing in his girlfriend's ear, "Chariots of love we had. . ."
There are plenty of other examples. You can feel free to add yours to the comments section. Maybe you were the one singing "Fire and Rain" with James Taylor, only you were warbling, "Obscene Fire and Obscene Rain." Or perhaps it was a good friend of yours who belted out "Ain't no woman like the one-eyed Gott!" Or maybe still you crooned Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze" with the fellas at work, except you were the one yelling, "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy," instead of "Kiss the sky."
Let's face it, many times it's the singer's fault. It took my the better part of 20 years to figure out what Elton John was singing during "Crocodile Rock." And John Fogerty from Creedence Clearwater Revival even has fun with the popular misconception of the lyrics for "Bad Moon Rising." I heard him sing it wrong on purpose at a concert, "Hey the bathroom on the right," instead of "the bad moon on the rise." I've got to admire a rock star with self-depreciating humor. Even the late Kurt Cobain of Nirvana was lampooned by Weird Al Yankovic playing off the fact that no one could understand the lyrics of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
But you know, it's not just song lyrics that we mishear, think we know, then make fools of ourselves by singing them at the tops of our collective lungs. The same thing happens to us when we aren't really paying attention to God. We loudly sing what we thought we heard, or worse yet, what someone told us once but we never checked to see if it was true. Then sometimes we find out that what we had been singing the wrong words.
I've talked to people who were unafraid to sing out that God is an old man with a beard, yet when you check the lyrics in the Bible you find that God has no physical body, and even though He's been around forever, He never gets old. I've heard people belting out the tune that Jesus never claimed to be God, yet when I check the lyrics in the Gospels (especially John) those folks have the same command of facts as the man who called me at the radio station asking me to play Lionel Richie's "Say You'll Save Me" ("Say You, Say Me")
Why do these things happen? Often it's because we respect the person who first taught us the "faulty lyrics." Sometimes it's because we can't bear to think that we were wrong. Occasionally we refuse to consider facts because it could undermine the rest of our belief system. Usually though it's because we're too lazy to behave like Bereans. You remember the Bereans? They are the ones who got a hold of Paul's letters, but didn't take his word for it. They went back to the Scriptures to check out what Paul wrote. Sure they respected Paul, but they didn't want to be caught singing the wrong lyrics.
Laziness is inborn in most of us. I know it is readily available in my life. But Christian and non-Christian alike try to take the easy way out instead of facing a few hard facts. Like the fact that Jesus is who He said He was. And that the Bible is actually true. And that the truths of the Bible can be proven, if you're willing to work to figure it all out. But that four-letter word, work, keeps many away. And another four-letter word, fear, stops another large percentage. I hold in the highest esteem those people who are willing to look at the facts with an open mind, even if it means that something that they had sung over and over again could be wrong. And in Christians, this is a quality which is not only appreciated by God, but also expected.
You must be unafraid to examine what you believe and test it to determine whether you've been singing the right lyrics or if you've spent 28 years singing, "Welcome to the Hotel, can't afford ya'." I'm glad I'm singing the right words, and that I can stand for the truth of what I believe. The only way I can do that is by checking what I sing in the light of truth. I invite you to do the same. And if you find some lyrics that I have wrong, let me know and we'll check the sheet music together.
The look on my face must have been something to behold -- one eyebrow raised, eyes darting around the room trying to find another radio playing a different song, mind racing every which way trying to think of ANY song referring to a girl named Edna. My friend must have realized that I was confused. To clarify, she said, "THAT song!" Pointing to the radio speaker, she began to sing, "Oh, Edna, I love you. . . " By that point I was unable to even blink.
"Uh, Tina," I finally began to speak very slowly, "That song is called, 'Joanna' not Edna."
"Oh," came the embarassed reply.
I never let her forget it. But to be honest, things like that happen to everyone. You think you know the words, and you've sung along with the song for months or even years only to find out that you've been singing the wrong words the whole time.
I remember taking a request at the radio station one night. It was a man wanting to dedicate a song for his lady friend. He wanted to ask for the Kool & the Gang song (them again?), "Cherish," featuring the lyrics, "Cherish the love we had. . . " but apparently he had been confused by something because he was convinced the song was called, "Chariots of Love." I did my best not to laugh, but in my mind I could hear the guy singing in his girlfriend's ear, "Chariots of love we had. . ."
There are plenty of other examples. You can feel free to add yours to the comments section. Maybe you were the one singing "Fire and Rain" with James Taylor, only you were warbling, "Obscene Fire and Obscene Rain." Or perhaps it was a good friend of yours who belted out "Ain't no woman like the one-eyed Gott!" Or maybe still you crooned Jimi Hendrix's "Purple Haze" with the fellas at work, except you were the one yelling, "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy," instead of "Kiss the sky."
Let's face it, many times it's the singer's fault. It took my the better part of 20 years to figure out what Elton John was singing during "Crocodile Rock." And John Fogerty from Creedence Clearwater Revival even has fun with the popular misconception of the lyrics for "Bad Moon Rising." I heard him sing it wrong on purpose at a concert, "Hey the bathroom on the right," instead of "the bad moon on the rise." I've got to admire a rock star with self-depreciating humor. Even the late Kurt Cobain of Nirvana was lampooned by Weird Al Yankovic playing off the fact that no one could understand the lyrics of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
But you know, it's not just song lyrics that we mishear, think we know, then make fools of ourselves by singing them at the tops of our collective lungs. The same thing happens to us when we aren't really paying attention to God. We loudly sing what we thought we heard, or worse yet, what someone told us once but we never checked to see if it was true. Then sometimes we find out that what we had been singing the wrong words.
I've talked to people who were unafraid to sing out that God is an old man with a beard, yet when you check the lyrics in the Bible you find that God has no physical body, and even though He's been around forever, He never gets old. I've heard people belting out the tune that Jesus never claimed to be God, yet when I check the lyrics in the Gospels (especially John) those folks have the same command of facts as the man who called me at the radio station asking me to play Lionel Richie's "Say You'll Save Me" ("Say You, Say Me")
Why do these things happen? Often it's because we respect the person who first taught us the "faulty lyrics." Sometimes it's because we can't bear to think that we were wrong. Occasionally we refuse to consider facts because it could undermine the rest of our belief system. Usually though it's because we're too lazy to behave like Bereans. You remember the Bereans? They are the ones who got a hold of Paul's letters, but didn't take his word for it. They went back to the Scriptures to check out what Paul wrote. Sure they respected Paul, but they didn't want to be caught singing the wrong lyrics.
Laziness is inborn in most of us. I know it is readily available in my life. But Christian and non-Christian alike try to take the easy way out instead of facing a few hard facts. Like the fact that Jesus is who He said He was. And that the Bible is actually true. And that the truths of the Bible can be proven, if you're willing to work to figure it all out. But that four-letter word, work, keeps many away. And another four-letter word, fear, stops another large percentage. I hold in the highest esteem those people who are willing to look at the facts with an open mind, even if it means that something that they had sung over and over again could be wrong. And in Christians, this is a quality which is not only appreciated by God, but also expected.
You must be unafraid to examine what you believe and test it to determine whether you've been singing the right lyrics or if you've spent 28 years singing, "Welcome to the Hotel, can't afford ya'." I'm glad I'm singing the right words, and that I can stand for the truth of what I believe. The only way I can do that is by checking what I sing in the light of truth. I invite you to do the same. And if you find some lyrics that I have wrong, let me know and we'll check the sheet music together.
Friday, March 11, 2005
100 things I am not
I've noticed some bloggers who make a list to help the readers get be more familiar with whoever is posting. Many of these are lists of 100 things about the blogger. Well, it's a cute idea and everything, but I'm not big on being like everybody else. So with that in mind I give you 100 things that I am not.
1. I am not a spring chicken anymore.
2. I am not someone who has to comb his hair every morning. (Bald has it's advantages.)
3. I am not ashamed to call myself a Christian.
4. I am not satisfied with my prayer life.
5. I am not one who keeps a clean desk.
6. I am not one who keeps a clean office.
7. I am not a good example of neatness for my children.
8. I am not one to back down from a good debate.
9. I am not a person who likes a daily routine.
10. I am not an afficianado of classical music.
11. I am not a Calvinist.
12. I am not a true Arminian either.
13. I am not attractive to women.
14. I am not attracted to other women aside from my wife.
15. I am not writing #14 because I'm afraid my wife will read this.
16. I am not a morning person.
17. I am not a sharp dresser.
18. I am not a fan of network television.
19. I am not "high church".
20. I am not as free of pride as I wish to be.
21. I am not a computer expert by any means.
22. I am not impressed by fame.
23. I am not impressed by materialism.
24. I am not immune to materialism.
25. I am not fond of asparagas.
26. I am not sure how to spell asparagas.
27. I am not worthy of what Christ has given me.
28. I am not saved by my works.
29. I am not the most important person in my life. (Although I forget that sometimes.)
30. I am not wearing shoes.
31. I am not comfortable living in a city.
32. I am not especially comfortable living in a town of any size.
33. I am not a good enough worker.
34. I am not even halfway done with this list.
35. I am not into poetry.
36. I am not a musician. (Although I love music.)
37. I am not using all the talents God has given me. (Although the blog helps.)
38. I am not someone who can spend a lot of time talking about guns.
39. I am not without my faults.
40. I am not giving up anything for Lent.
41. I am not ready for Sunday's worship service.
42. I am not getting any more ready by typing this list.
43. I am not a Rush Limbaugh fan.
44. I am not a Michael Moore fan.
45. I am not a person who wants to be pigeonholed by politics.
46. I am not allergic to any medication.
47. I am not familiar with most top 40 artists today.
48. I am not easily stumped on music trivia (provided it doesn't cover the last 10 years.)
49. I am not offended by profanity except when it comes from a Christian.
50. I am not a reader of much fiction.
51. I am not sure why you've read this far.
52. I am not looking for fame by blogging.
53. I am not writing as much for the reader as I am for myself. (At least at this point.)
54. I am not sure about a proper end-times theology.
55. I am not a fan of the Left Behind series.
56. I am not comfortable going a week without being in a worship service.
57. I am not as mature in my faith as I think I should be.
58. I am not happy with the way the church is stereotyped by many people.
59. I am not suffering for my faith the way I could be.
60. I am not as understanding of a husband as I should be.
61. I am not kidding.
62. I am not overcome by worry. (Although I do have a long to-do list.)
63. I am not afraid of death. (Although I'd really enjoy sticking around this earth for a while.)
64. I am not planning on ever retiring.
65. I am not planning on joining the circus.
66. I am not doing enough planning for my future.
67. I am not any happier than when I am with my wife and children.
68. I am not opposed to being alone for a while each day.
69. I am not from a large family.
70. I am not as important as I think I am.
71. I am not getting to bed as early as I should.
72. I am not a fan of televised golf.
73. I am not normally a viewer of tennis on TV. (But when I was a kid, I sure was.)
74. I am not happy that we as Christians get too comfortable in our faith.
75. I am not happy when I get stuck in my own comfort zone.
76. I am not happy waching people simply go through the motions of worship.
77. I am not an American first. (I am a Christian first.)
78. I am not sure what my kids will be like in another 15 years.
79. I am not pleasing God with all that I do.
80. I am not reaching out to people as I want to.
81. I am not as caring to people whom I don't know. (And I hate that about myself.)
82. I am not the example for people to follow.
83. I am not comfortable asking for prayers for myself.
84. I am not consistent in the way I treat people.
85. I am not sounding very Christian, based on the last few items.
86. I am not the same person I was in college. (Thank God for that!)
87. I am not good at using my time wisely.
88. I am not too embarassed to buy feminine hygiene products for my wife at Wal-Mart.
89. I am not expecting most Americans to come to Jesus. (Although I'd love to be wrong.)
90. I am not funny. (My wife keeps telling me that.)
91. I am not the right weight for my height.
92. I am not the righ height for my weight either. (I should be 12 feet, 4 inches!)
93. I am not a bad guy.
94. I am not perfect (by any means.)
95. I am not going to proofread this list because I'm sick of it already.
96. I am not my own -- I've been bought with a price.
97. I am not as big of a fan of Christmas as I am of Easter.
98. I am not worth much of anything without my wife.
99. I am not a full-time pastor, even though I put in full-time hours.
100. I am not the smartest or the most talented, but I thank God for what He has given me.
Oh, and one other thing: I AM glad I've reached #100. Hope you are too.
1. I am not a spring chicken anymore.
2. I am not someone who has to comb his hair every morning. (Bald has it's advantages.)
3. I am not ashamed to call myself a Christian.
4. I am not satisfied with my prayer life.
5. I am not one who keeps a clean desk.
6. I am not one who keeps a clean office.
7. I am not a good example of neatness for my children.
8. I am not one to back down from a good debate.
9. I am not a person who likes a daily routine.
10. I am not an afficianado of classical music.
11. I am not a Calvinist.
12. I am not a true Arminian either.
13. I am not attractive to women.
14. I am not attracted to other women aside from my wife.
15. I am not writing #14 because I'm afraid my wife will read this.
16. I am not a morning person.
17. I am not a sharp dresser.
18. I am not a fan of network television.
19. I am not "high church".
20. I am not as free of pride as I wish to be.
21. I am not a computer expert by any means.
22. I am not impressed by fame.
23. I am not impressed by materialism.
24. I am not immune to materialism.
25. I am not fond of asparagas.
26. I am not sure how to spell asparagas.
27. I am not worthy of what Christ has given me.
28. I am not saved by my works.
29. I am not the most important person in my life. (Although I forget that sometimes.)
30. I am not wearing shoes.
31. I am not comfortable living in a city.
32. I am not especially comfortable living in a town of any size.
33. I am not a good enough worker.
34. I am not even halfway done with this list.
35. I am not into poetry.
36. I am not a musician. (Although I love music.)
37. I am not using all the talents God has given me. (Although the blog helps.)
38. I am not someone who can spend a lot of time talking about guns.
39. I am not without my faults.
40. I am not giving up anything for Lent.
41. I am not ready for Sunday's worship service.
42. I am not getting any more ready by typing this list.
43. I am not a Rush Limbaugh fan.
44. I am not a Michael Moore fan.
45. I am not a person who wants to be pigeonholed by politics.
46. I am not allergic to any medication.
47. I am not familiar with most top 40 artists today.
48. I am not easily stumped on music trivia (provided it doesn't cover the last 10 years.)
49. I am not offended by profanity except when it comes from a Christian.
50. I am not a reader of much fiction.
51. I am not sure why you've read this far.
52. I am not looking for fame by blogging.
53. I am not writing as much for the reader as I am for myself. (At least at this point.)
54. I am not sure about a proper end-times theology.
55. I am not a fan of the Left Behind series.
56. I am not comfortable going a week without being in a worship service.
57. I am not as mature in my faith as I think I should be.
58. I am not happy with the way the church is stereotyped by many people.
59. I am not suffering for my faith the way I could be.
60. I am not as understanding of a husband as I should be.
61. I am not kidding.
62. I am not overcome by worry. (Although I do have a long to-do list.)
63. I am not afraid of death. (Although I'd really enjoy sticking around this earth for a while.)
64. I am not planning on ever retiring.
65. I am not planning on joining the circus.
66. I am not doing enough planning for my future.
67. I am not any happier than when I am with my wife and children.
68. I am not opposed to being alone for a while each day.
69. I am not from a large family.
70. I am not as important as I think I am.
71. I am not getting to bed as early as I should.
72. I am not a fan of televised golf.
73. I am not normally a viewer of tennis on TV. (But when I was a kid, I sure was.)
74. I am not happy that we as Christians get too comfortable in our faith.
75. I am not happy when I get stuck in my own comfort zone.
76. I am not happy waching people simply go through the motions of worship.
77. I am not an American first. (I am a Christian first.)
78. I am not sure what my kids will be like in another 15 years.
79. I am not pleasing God with all that I do.
80. I am not reaching out to people as I want to.
81. I am not as caring to people whom I don't know. (And I hate that about myself.)
82. I am not the example for people to follow.
83. I am not comfortable asking for prayers for myself.
84. I am not consistent in the way I treat people.
85. I am not sounding very Christian, based on the last few items.
86. I am not the same person I was in college. (Thank God for that!)
87. I am not good at using my time wisely.
88. I am not too embarassed to buy feminine hygiene products for my wife at Wal-Mart.
89. I am not expecting most Americans to come to Jesus. (Although I'd love to be wrong.)
90. I am not funny. (My wife keeps telling me that.)
91. I am not the right weight for my height.
92. I am not the righ height for my weight either. (I should be 12 feet, 4 inches!)
93. I am not a bad guy.
94. I am not perfect (by any means.)
95. I am not going to proofread this list because I'm sick of it already.
96. I am not my own -- I've been bought with a price.
97. I am not as big of a fan of Christmas as I am of Easter.
98. I am not worth much of anything without my wife.
99. I am not a full-time pastor, even though I put in full-time hours.
100. I am not the smartest or the most talented, but I thank God for what He has given me.
Oh, and one other thing: I AM glad I've reached #100. Hope you are too.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Finding God in Sports Illustrated
Sometimes I have to work at it to find God in a particular situation. This blog gives many examples of how my mind will occasionally race around in different directions before I relate an event to my heavenly Father. So when I encounter Him clearly someplace where I don't expect, it takes me off-guard. But then again, He's been taking me off-guard for 43 years now.
Today, the new issue of Sports Illustrated arrived in the mail. Our subscription just began around Christmas sometime. I believe my wife got it free in one of those website deals where we get a few months subscription in exchange for approximately one ka-jillion pop-up ads. She got it for my boys, who at ages 11 and 13 can devour sports information faster than I can plow through a plate of Little Debbie snack cakes.
So while leafing through the magazine today, I noticed a quick answer sidebar with three baseball players who are playing for New York teams for the first time this season. The three were asked things like their favorite New York landmark and things they put on hot dogs. Then the last question was "What is the one thing every New Yorker needs?" Carlos Beltran, the newest outfielder for the Mets answered, "Christ in their hearts." After I picked the magazine up off the floor, I checked it again. Yup. That's what it said.
I leafed on to the college basketball spread. One of the featured articles was on Kansas University player Wayne Simien whose life was changed by Jesus Christ about 18 months ago. Simien spoke for 28 minutes to a basketball crowd on Senior Night, telling them that he wished they would "have the same love and relationship with Jesus Christ as I do." Wow. I managed to hold on to the magazine this time.
Then I skimmed the cover story about an writer's experiences with baseball's Toronto Blue Jays to find a description of a chapel service led by minor league outfielder Gabe Gross. The football star-turned baseball prospect gave a small sermon, "I know if I put my trust in God, that's really what matters most." I still held the issue in my hands, but I was really beginning to wonder. That's when I turned back toward the front of the magazine to see a picture of three elderly men on the golf course wearing nothing but hats and shoes. Yeah, a golf course at a nudist camp. Thankfully the private parts were covered, but the bellies on these guys should be kept private also. I closed the magazine knowing that Satan was still active and ugly in this world.
But I opened it up again to see the Letters to the Editor. This issue is a special issue. In college we used to call this issue the "Please Cancel My Subscription" Issue. You see, it's the issue with all the reaction letters to the editor about the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.
We got our copy of the Swimsuit Issue the day my wife went away for a three day shopping trip. I had no idea we were supposed to get one. I looked at it briefly, then filed it away to teasingly show my wife how generous she had been to me. Truthfully though, seeing scantily-clad women half my age isn't nearly as much fun as it used to be. The magazine went in the trash.
You'd think that most people with an interest in sports in general and sports magazines in particular would realize that for at least twenty years Sports Illustrated puts out one issue which shows women in skimpy bathing suits. Yet every year there are always angry letters in which an apparently startled reader cannot understand why there are nearly naked women pictured where articles about baseball players should be. This year was no exception. A few people got what they didn't expect from a sports magazine. And they were mad.
God doesn't always give us what we expect. Or what we want. I think of Paul praying three times for God to take away his thorn in the flesh but God telling him "My grace is sufficient." I remember Job asking, almost demanding a private audience with God for a good explanation about all his recent problems. Job got his audience, but not his explanation. I am reminded of Abraham pleading with God to save the city of Sodom, but that didn't happen either. Scripture doesn't tell us if Paul, Job or Abraham were upset with God for doing what they didn't expect, but I know human nature. We don't like it when it's Thy will be done instead of My will be done.
So what do we do about it? We learn to trust God. We begin to understand that we're not smart enough to know what is best for us. And even when we're taken by surprise by seeing God where we don't expect or when we don't get what we expect from Him, we know that He is in charge, that He is faithful, that He loves us with an undying love. What a great realization.
And even though I don't know everything in God's will, I'm pretty sure He'd appreciate it if those old guys on the golf course would put on some clothes. I know the neighbors would.
Today, the new issue of Sports Illustrated arrived in the mail. Our subscription just began around Christmas sometime. I believe my wife got it free in one of those website deals where we get a few months subscription in exchange for approximately one ka-jillion pop-up ads. She got it for my boys, who at ages 11 and 13 can devour sports information faster than I can plow through a plate of Little Debbie snack cakes.
So while leafing through the magazine today, I noticed a quick answer sidebar with three baseball players who are playing for New York teams for the first time this season. The three were asked things like their favorite New York landmark and things they put on hot dogs. Then the last question was "What is the one thing every New Yorker needs?" Carlos Beltran, the newest outfielder for the Mets answered, "Christ in their hearts." After I picked the magazine up off the floor, I checked it again. Yup. That's what it said.
I leafed on to the college basketball spread. One of the featured articles was on Kansas University player Wayne Simien whose life was changed by Jesus Christ about 18 months ago. Simien spoke for 28 minutes to a basketball crowd on Senior Night, telling them that he wished they would "have the same love and relationship with Jesus Christ as I do." Wow. I managed to hold on to the magazine this time.
Then I skimmed the cover story about an writer's experiences with baseball's Toronto Blue Jays to find a description of a chapel service led by minor league outfielder Gabe Gross. The football star-turned baseball prospect gave a small sermon, "I know if I put my trust in God, that's really what matters most." I still held the issue in my hands, but I was really beginning to wonder. That's when I turned back toward the front of the magazine to see a picture of three elderly men on the golf course wearing nothing but hats and shoes. Yeah, a golf course at a nudist camp. Thankfully the private parts were covered, but the bellies on these guys should be kept private also. I closed the magazine knowing that Satan was still active and ugly in this world.
But I opened it up again to see the Letters to the Editor. This issue is a special issue. In college we used to call this issue the "Please Cancel My Subscription" Issue. You see, it's the issue with all the reaction letters to the editor about the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue.
We got our copy of the Swimsuit Issue the day my wife went away for a three day shopping trip. I had no idea we were supposed to get one. I looked at it briefly, then filed it away to teasingly show my wife how generous she had been to me. Truthfully though, seeing scantily-clad women half my age isn't nearly as much fun as it used to be. The magazine went in the trash.
You'd think that most people with an interest in sports in general and sports magazines in particular would realize that for at least twenty years Sports Illustrated puts out one issue which shows women in skimpy bathing suits. Yet every year there are always angry letters in which an apparently startled reader cannot understand why there are nearly naked women pictured where articles about baseball players should be. This year was no exception. A few people got what they didn't expect from a sports magazine. And they were mad.
God doesn't always give us what we expect. Or what we want. I think of Paul praying three times for God to take away his thorn in the flesh but God telling him "My grace is sufficient." I remember Job asking, almost demanding a private audience with God for a good explanation about all his recent problems. Job got his audience, but not his explanation. I am reminded of Abraham pleading with God to save the city of Sodom, but that didn't happen either. Scripture doesn't tell us if Paul, Job or Abraham were upset with God for doing what they didn't expect, but I know human nature. We don't like it when it's Thy will be done instead of My will be done.
So what do we do about it? We learn to trust God. We begin to understand that we're not smart enough to know what is best for us. And even when we're taken by surprise by seeing God where we don't expect or when we don't get what we expect from Him, we know that He is in charge, that He is faithful, that He loves us with an undying love. What a great realization.
And even though I don't know everything in God's will, I'm pretty sure He'd appreciate it if those old guys on the golf course would put on some clothes. I know the neighbors would.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
The Mailbox
Today I finally finished putting up a new mailbox in front of the house. It was a necessity. We live in rural America on a country road. The mailboxes out here sit on 4 inch by 4 inch posts, about 4 feet off the ground right at the edge of the road, which makes them vulnerable to the dreaded Great American Snowplow. Mine was living on borrowed time since the first incident two years ago. The plow driver had even come back to help me remount the box on the cracked post and platform. But the healing process wasn't complete. About a month ago, a wave of snow, salt, sand and sleet off the V-shaped steel hit the box with a vengeance and broke it off the post. I managed to get it reattached, but last weekend a plow hit it full bore and knocked it off for good. Yesterday I was doing my best E. R. doctor impression, trying to get the container patched up and serviceable for another month or two. But I had to stop C. P. R. The patient was a goner. So today, the new receptacle was installed. Now I'm ready to receive snail mail again.
In my life, I've had all kinds of mailboxes. I've had the little cubbyhole post office box, the indoor apartment house box, the outdoor apartment house box, the mailbox sitting in a long row with a bunch of other people's mailboxes. . . they all do the same job. They collect the messages people, credit card companies and politicians want to send you. Now, of course, the important stuff comes in the email box, which is a new way of accomplishing the same thing.
In the Peanuts comic strip, Charles Schultz often drew the tragic hero, Charlie Brown, sitting at the base of his mailbox waiting for a valentine. The mailbox seemed to mock him at times as his heart seemed as empty as the box. Just one valentine. That's all he wanted. Especially if it was from the object of his affection -- the little red-haired girl.
Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting outside that empty mailbox, waiting for a letter; wondering why I've been ignored by my heavenly Father. My prayers seem to bounce off the clouds, or as one saint once put it, "The heavens seem as brass," with the prayers reflecting off the burnished surface. I think everybody goes through periods like this from time to time. Dry periods. Yet even when it seems the mailbox is empty, I still have a storehouse full. Sixty-six letters to be exact, bound together in one Holy Bible. And I still have the memories of the way God has brought me along and directed my path when I would let Him. And I still have the assurance of my adoption into His family, not to mention the true peace which He has given me. And if I stop to think about it, I have His presence in my life as well. The trouble is, it's easy to forget that when we get wrapped up in our feelings of rejection and isoloation.
Some Christians continue to seek new revelation. They ask God for a sign or a special "word" just for them. I don't understand why they want more than what we have already been given. Even in the driest of days when my mailbox is full of dust and cobwebs, I know that God has communicated His love for me through Jesus and made sure that the Bible was preserved so that I could read the special revelation of salvation which He gives me, but which I do not deserve. Plus He has given me an invitation to drop by anytime to talk. Even if it doesn't feel like He's there -- He's there. Feelings aren't good indicators of truth anyway.
Even if a snowplow takes out my new mailbox, God's delivery has already been made. Now it's up to me to use what he's given me, and to keep seeking His guidance.
In my life, I've had all kinds of mailboxes. I've had the little cubbyhole post office box, the indoor apartment house box, the outdoor apartment house box, the mailbox sitting in a long row with a bunch of other people's mailboxes. . . they all do the same job. They collect the messages people, credit card companies and politicians want to send you. Now, of course, the important stuff comes in the email box, which is a new way of accomplishing the same thing.
In the Peanuts comic strip, Charles Schultz often drew the tragic hero, Charlie Brown, sitting at the base of his mailbox waiting for a valentine. The mailbox seemed to mock him at times as his heart seemed as empty as the box. Just one valentine. That's all he wanted. Especially if it was from the object of his affection -- the little red-haired girl.
Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting outside that empty mailbox, waiting for a letter; wondering why I've been ignored by my heavenly Father. My prayers seem to bounce off the clouds, or as one saint once put it, "The heavens seem as brass," with the prayers reflecting off the burnished surface. I think everybody goes through periods like this from time to time. Dry periods. Yet even when it seems the mailbox is empty, I still have a storehouse full. Sixty-six letters to be exact, bound together in one Holy Bible. And I still have the memories of the way God has brought me along and directed my path when I would let Him. And I still have the assurance of my adoption into His family, not to mention the true peace which He has given me. And if I stop to think about it, I have His presence in my life as well. The trouble is, it's easy to forget that when we get wrapped up in our feelings of rejection and isoloation.
Some Christians continue to seek new revelation. They ask God for a sign or a special "word" just for them. I don't understand why they want more than what we have already been given. Even in the driest of days when my mailbox is full of dust and cobwebs, I know that God has communicated His love for me through Jesus and made sure that the Bible was preserved so that I could read the special revelation of salvation which He gives me, but which I do not deserve. Plus He has given me an invitation to drop by anytime to talk. Even if it doesn't feel like He's there -- He's there. Feelings aren't good indicators of truth anyway.
Even if a snowplow takes out my new mailbox, God's delivery has already been made. Now it's up to me to use what he's given me, and to keep seeking His guidance.
The Dog Ate My Blog
I don't know how it happened, but it did. The dog ate it.
OK, maybe it wasn't the dog. The Internet ate it. Something happened and the last third of my post called, Peace was lost forever in the recesses of Al Gore's invention.
But fear not, those of you whom I left hanging. I have finally finished the post. It may not be as eloquent as the original version, but it still captures the same meaning. So click here or just scroll down the page to see the revised version. Just ignore the dog saliva and teeth marks.
OK, maybe it wasn't the dog. The Internet ate it. Something happened and the last third of my post called, Peace was lost forever in the recesses of Al Gore's invention.
But fear not, those of you whom I left hanging. I have finally finished the post. It may not be as eloquent as the original version, but it still captures the same meaning. So click here or just scroll down the page to see the revised version. Just ignore the dog saliva and teeth marks.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Peace
I'm a big fan of IndyCar racing. I have been since I was a young kid listening to the broadcast of the Indianapolis 500 on the radio. Since gaining Internet access back in the 90s, I've been able to root and commiserate with other Indycar junkies. I spent enough time doing it, they put me in charge of a discussion board. And for my fellow fans and I, yesterday was a holiday -- the first race of the season. But we had a problem in the house. Yesterday was also my son's birthday party with the family. And yes, both the race and the party started at the same time. So I taped the race to watch later, but still kept an eye on things so I knew what was happening. I even got to watch the last few exciting laps. But I missed a lot of things that I'll have to watch the tape to catch. We IndyCar junkies hate to miss anything.
In any case, I was explaining to a fellow fan why I wasn't sure what happened during the race. I pointed out that it's tough to pay close attention with a house full of relatives, but I'd watch the tape later. He told me, "I hope you enjoy watching the race in peace."
I told him that I would have my 3 year-old around all day and that "peace is a relative term when there's a 3 year-old in the house!" Not that my daughter isn't wonderful, it's just that she craves constant activity and attention. One man's peace is quiet and undisturbed. This man's peace is, "Honey, could you move the My Little Pony playset out of the way of the TV?" But the whole conversation got me thinking about peace. In a manner of speaking, peace really is a relative term.
Of course there is the major meaning of peace -- an absence of war or hostility. That is the cry of the anti-war protester. Peace symbols like the two-fingered "V" sign and the circular symbol are commonplace. The 60s and 70s shaped our minds with the stereotypical hippie calling for peace. But peace isn't just for hippies. I don't think anybody really wants war. Maybe the occasional Patton, but aside from those types war is not popular in its own right. We love peace. It's always much easier to go through life without worry of another country attacking or of any hostilities which would lead to fighting. Even on the individual level there are a few people who go around looking for a fight, but usually we seek to live in peace with our fellow man. The argument over war or peace is usually what justifies us leaving the way of peace. And that's a separate issue.
Aside from the "absence of war" definition, peace is also thought of in terms of inner peace. Being at peace with yourself is seen as essential. Cut down on stress, keep the heart healthy; it's good for you! There are various ways to accomplish it. Some use relaxation techniques like visualization or meditation. Emptying the mind is looked on favorably. Yoga is a way to peace, to the mind of many of its practicioners.
I think you get a sense of peace in sleep. I remember in my younger days when I found out just how peaceful my sleep really was. My roommate and I would play racquetball just before noon every weekday -- him after work, me right after sleep and before work. Usually that meant I awoke around ten, put on whatever clothes I found and made the short trip to the YMCA, signed in and had my pulse and blood pressure taken. The attendant would always double-check my pulse because it was usually way below the normal 72-76 -- often in the low 40s. I sometimes wondered if I was still alive and healthy enough for 90 minutes of hard exercise. But I realized just how much my body needed the peace of a restful sleep.
But Jesus talked about a different kind of peace. You see, peace with other people and inner peace are all well and good, but that's the peace available from the world. As He was preparing His disciples for His death, Jesus told them, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives." So what exactly is the peace that Jesus called "my" peace? Quite simply, peace with God.
If you've been in a friendship where one of you has done something which hurts the other, you know that something gets in the way of that relationship. It's like having an elephant in the room that neither of you will acknowledge -- that is until one side finally asks for forgiveness. Then and only then will the elephant be sent packing. And then the conflict between the two people is gone. The same thing is true in our relationship with God. If you have never asked for true forgiveness from God, then there is a pachyderm problem. With that large trunked animal in the way, you cannot have peace with God. The world says you can have inner peace and outer peace and that should be good enough. But it's not. You don't have the peace which Jesus gives. And Jesus is the only One who gives it.
True peace is not relative. True peace is not achieved through relaxation or non-violence oaths. True peace is peace with God, available only through accepting God's forgiveness through Jesus Christ.
I still have problems keeping the peace with other people. I don't always have inner peace. But I am ever so thankful for real peace and the True peacegiver.
In any case, I was explaining to a fellow fan why I wasn't sure what happened during the race. I pointed out that it's tough to pay close attention with a house full of relatives, but I'd watch the tape later. He told me, "I hope you enjoy watching the race in peace."
I told him that I would have my 3 year-old around all day and that "peace is a relative term when there's a 3 year-old in the house!" Not that my daughter isn't wonderful, it's just that she craves constant activity and attention. One man's peace is quiet and undisturbed. This man's peace is, "Honey, could you move the My Little Pony playset out of the way of the TV?" But the whole conversation got me thinking about peace. In a manner of speaking, peace really is a relative term.
Of course there is the major meaning of peace -- an absence of war or hostility. That is the cry of the anti-war protester. Peace symbols like the two-fingered "V" sign and the circular symbol are commonplace. The 60s and 70s shaped our minds with the stereotypical hippie calling for peace. But peace isn't just for hippies. I don't think anybody really wants war. Maybe the occasional Patton, but aside from those types war is not popular in its own right. We love peace. It's always much easier to go through life without worry of another country attacking or of any hostilities which would lead to fighting. Even on the individual level there are a few people who go around looking for a fight, but usually we seek to live in peace with our fellow man. The argument over war or peace is usually what justifies us leaving the way of peace. And that's a separate issue.
Aside from the "absence of war" definition, peace is also thought of in terms of inner peace. Being at peace with yourself is seen as essential. Cut down on stress, keep the heart healthy; it's good for you! There are various ways to accomplish it. Some use relaxation techniques like visualization or meditation. Emptying the mind is looked on favorably. Yoga is a way to peace, to the mind of many of its practicioners.
I think you get a sense of peace in sleep. I remember in my younger days when I found out just how peaceful my sleep really was. My roommate and I would play racquetball just before noon every weekday -- him after work, me right after sleep and before work. Usually that meant I awoke around ten, put on whatever clothes I found and made the short trip to the YMCA, signed in and had my pulse and blood pressure taken. The attendant would always double-check my pulse because it was usually way below the normal 72-76 -- often in the low 40s. I sometimes wondered if I was still alive and healthy enough for 90 minutes of hard exercise. But I realized just how much my body needed the peace of a restful sleep.
But Jesus talked about a different kind of peace. You see, peace with other people and inner peace are all well and good, but that's the peace available from the world. As He was preparing His disciples for His death, Jesus told them, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives." So what exactly is the peace that Jesus called "my" peace? Quite simply, peace with God.
If you've been in a friendship where one of you has done something which hurts the other, you know that something gets in the way of that relationship. It's like having an elephant in the room that neither of you will acknowledge -- that is until one side finally asks for forgiveness. Then and only then will the elephant be sent packing. And then the conflict between the two people is gone. The same thing is true in our relationship with God. If you have never asked for true forgiveness from God, then there is a pachyderm problem. With that large trunked animal in the way, you cannot have peace with God. The world says you can have inner peace and outer peace and that should be good enough. But it's not. You don't have the peace which Jesus gives. And Jesus is the only One who gives it.
True peace is not relative. True peace is not achieved through relaxation or non-violence oaths. True peace is peace with God, available only through accepting God's forgiveness through Jesus Christ.
I still have problems keeping the peace with other people. I don't always have inner peace. But I am ever so thankful for real peace and the True peacegiver.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Closer Than We May Think
I saw the picture and paused. It looked out of place. Page two of the local newspaper is not where you expect to see the picture of a pretty 18 year-old girl. Page two is for the obituaries. Sadly, the picture was not out of place.
I read through the words, trying to make sense of things. I see young folks like this in the obituaries once in a while. Usually it's from a tragic traffic accident or a long battle with disease. Last month a young woman was gunned down by her deranged father. But this obituary had no corresponding news item -- not even in this small town newspaper. So I continued to read. Family members were listed, including a couple of names I recognized. Funeral arrangements, memorials, the name of a local church she attended. . . it all seemed so wrong. What happened? I re-read from the beginning. Then I noticed that according to the obituary, she died "at her home." There was nothing about a long illness or any further information. Knowing funeral directors and obituary writers, I knew what this probably meant. Suicide.
I realized that I couldn't be sure, but it didn't stop my mind from wandering. What was this girl of eighteen living through which she thought could only be solved by ending her life? A boyfriend leaving? Pregnancy? Abuse? Shattered dreams? What could have been so horrific to make her think this was her only way out?
I will fully admit that I don't understand teenage girls. I didn't understand them when I was a teenage boy, and the fuller knowledge hasn't come just yet. I do realize that problems in the mind of a teenage girl are often magnified to an incredible degree by worrying about other people and their reactions. I know that priorities are different. I know that there is pain and angst, even among the happier teens. And I wonder what kind of private torture is going on in the hearts of people I think I know.
When Jesus spoke of "the least of these" in Matthew 25, he used the examples of the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick and the imprisoned. These were the people who were in need and were so often turned away, like the robbed and beaten traveller who was ignored by even the "religious" until finally being rescued by the Good Samaritan. But when I hear the words "the least of these" two images flash in my mind.
One image comes from my time as a young adult working for college credit at a television station. This was an independent station at the time, with no network programming to fill air time in the less favorable time slots. Often in the late evening, the channel would show long form public service announcements and video from charitable organizations. It seemed that much of the video at that time focused upon the terrible famine in Africa, back in the days of the "We Are the World" and "Do They Know It's Christmas" charity records. And the video from these programs featured the same type of scene almost every time. The workers at the station had a simple name for these programs -- "Flies on Babies" because that's mostly what you noticed while watching. Over and over again, you saw small, malnourished babies with large eyes and many flies crawling around their lips, nose and ears. The viewer instinctively brushed his face, shooing these imagined insects. I am reminded of those fly-plagued infants when I think of "the least of these."
The other image comes from the time I have spent in neo-natal intensive care units (NICUs). Three of my four children have spent time in an NICU. One of them never made it home. Perhaps that's why this image seems so fresh in my mind; a small human form weighing less than two pounds, attached by wires to countless machines with blinking lights and beeping alarms. The chest labors to move up and down. The arms and legs are spread apart so that the caregivers can check the infant's bodily functions. The fingers are incredibly tiny. The entire baby looks so fragile. These miniature children also flash to my mind when I hear the phrase "the least of these."
But I flash back again to the picture of that 18 year-old girl who must have felt so lost that she saw no other answer in this world. It seems that her picture belongs among "the least of these" as well. Couldn't Jesus have easily included, "For I felt hopeless, and you gave me hope?" And if a teenage girl with at least some background in a church could feel so hopeless, then I pray that God would show the least of these to me before all hope is lost.
As Christians, we often drop the ball in caring for the hungry and thirsty, for the needy and the sick, and especially those in prison. However, even in principle, we know that the church must be doing what she can, corporately and individually to help these people. But there are also needs where we may not think to look. In "good" families. Behind the faces of smiling people. Maybe, just maybe, there are needs we can meet by responding in love to the leading of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps "the least of these" is closer than we may think.
I read through the words, trying to make sense of things. I see young folks like this in the obituaries once in a while. Usually it's from a tragic traffic accident or a long battle with disease. Last month a young woman was gunned down by her deranged father. But this obituary had no corresponding news item -- not even in this small town newspaper. So I continued to read. Family members were listed, including a couple of names I recognized. Funeral arrangements, memorials, the name of a local church she attended. . . it all seemed so wrong. What happened? I re-read from the beginning. Then I noticed that according to the obituary, she died "at her home." There was nothing about a long illness or any further information. Knowing funeral directors and obituary writers, I knew what this probably meant. Suicide.
I realized that I couldn't be sure, but it didn't stop my mind from wandering. What was this girl of eighteen living through which she thought could only be solved by ending her life? A boyfriend leaving? Pregnancy? Abuse? Shattered dreams? What could have been so horrific to make her think this was her only way out?
I will fully admit that I don't understand teenage girls. I didn't understand them when I was a teenage boy, and the fuller knowledge hasn't come just yet. I do realize that problems in the mind of a teenage girl are often magnified to an incredible degree by worrying about other people and their reactions. I know that priorities are different. I know that there is pain and angst, even among the happier teens. And I wonder what kind of private torture is going on in the hearts of people I think I know.
When Jesus spoke of "the least of these" in Matthew 25, he used the examples of the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick and the imprisoned. These were the people who were in need and were so often turned away, like the robbed and beaten traveller who was ignored by even the "religious" until finally being rescued by the Good Samaritan. But when I hear the words "the least of these" two images flash in my mind.
One image comes from my time as a young adult working for college credit at a television station. This was an independent station at the time, with no network programming to fill air time in the less favorable time slots. Often in the late evening, the channel would show long form public service announcements and video from charitable organizations. It seemed that much of the video at that time focused upon the terrible famine in Africa, back in the days of the "We Are the World" and "Do They Know It's Christmas" charity records. And the video from these programs featured the same type of scene almost every time. The workers at the station had a simple name for these programs -- "Flies on Babies" because that's mostly what you noticed while watching. Over and over again, you saw small, malnourished babies with large eyes and many flies crawling around their lips, nose and ears. The viewer instinctively brushed his face, shooing these imagined insects. I am reminded of those fly-plagued infants when I think of "the least of these."
The other image comes from the time I have spent in neo-natal intensive care units (NICUs). Three of my four children have spent time in an NICU. One of them never made it home. Perhaps that's why this image seems so fresh in my mind; a small human form weighing less than two pounds, attached by wires to countless machines with blinking lights and beeping alarms. The chest labors to move up and down. The arms and legs are spread apart so that the caregivers can check the infant's bodily functions. The fingers are incredibly tiny. The entire baby looks so fragile. These miniature children also flash to my mind when I hear the phrase "the least of these."
But I flash back again to the picture of that 18 year-old girl who must have felt so lost that she saw no other answer in this world. It seems that her picture belongs among "the least of these" as well. Couldn't Jesus have easily included, "For I felt hopeless, and you gave me hope?" And if a teenage girl with at least some background in a church could feel so hopeless, then I pray that God would show the least of these to me before all hope is lost.
As Christians, we often drop the ball in caring for the hungry and thirsty, for the needy and the sick, and especially those in prison. However, even in principle, we know that the church must be doing what she can, corporately and individually to help these people. But there are also needs where we may not think to look. In "good" families. Behind the faces of smiling people. Maybe, just maybe, there are needs we can meet by responding in love to the leading of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps "the least of these" is closer than we may think.
Concert Debrief
It was a late night last night. Actually my nights are usually pretty late anyway, but this time it was away-from-home late! I took my wife and 13 year-old son to see Steven Curtis Chapman in concert, and made it home around 11:30. That's too late for a school night! Oh, but what a night.
I got there after a long, somewhat emotional day, half uncertain if I was ready for the concert. I probably wasn't. God, of course in His wisdom, used that.
A little background - Steven Curtis Chapman has been my son's favorite Christian singer since he was aware of Christian music (most of his life). He had seen most of the rest of his favorites over the past few years, but finally Chapman came to town. Casting Crowns and Chris Tomlin were also on the bill. Whenever we go to a show, my boys always want to know which act will be playing first, second, etc. Ol' Dad, the seasoned concert veteran of over 200 shows, is quick to chime in his expertise. So I did. "This is easy to figure out, son. Chris Tomlin is mostly a worship-type artist, so he'll go first. Then Casting Crowns will do their popular stuff, then after a short break we'll finally see Steven Curtis."
We made it in to our seats just as the lights were coming down. I look up and see a short blonde guy with a guitar strolling out on stage -- yeah, Chapman came out first to do a short song as a prayer for the evening. Then he introduced Casting Crowns! Talk about making the old man look foolish! Chapman and his band even set up on a corner of the stage to play a hits medley during the set change! So much for not seeing the big name until the second half! I've got to admit, it takes a bit of humility to do that kind of stuff.
Anyway, I'm in my seat for Casting Crowns and God did something -- opened my ears or my eyes or cleared my head or maybe just ripped my heart open, I don't know. But He really allowed me to experience the music, especially the lyrics, as communication and not simply songs on the radio. It sure didn't hurt that Casting Crowns sing songs with such powerful lyrics. They sang about the weakness of the church to reach out, about chasing after materialism, about failing to pray, about being pulled in different directions, and about God's love for an insignificant man such as I. I really don't like crying at concerts, but it seemed as if there was always a tear on my cheek. My heart was ripped open and I was prepared to worship, to sing and to have a little fun.
Afterward, the cold air outside brought a bracing dose of reality. And while exiting the parking lot onto a divided avenue, I looked up just in time to see a car run right into the back of another car who appeared to be stopped in the street. I was in a line of traffic so I couldn't stop. Of course there were policemen everywhere directing traffic, so I figured that was taken care of. And I saw one of the drivers get out of her car, so it must not have been too serious. But between the chill of the night and the sight and sound of two vehicles colliding, I was back to reality pretty quickly.
But the Spirit of God is still here. I thank Him for His continued presence and for the reminder that He will still rip hearts open to clear the way to come inside.
I got there after a long, somewhat emotional day, half uncertain if I was ready for the concert. I probably wasn't. God, of course in His wisdom, used that.
A little background - Steven Curtis Chapman has been my son's favorite Christian singer since he was aware of Christian music (most of his life). He had seen most of the rest of his favorites over the past few years, but finally Chapman came to town. Casting Crowns and Chris Tomlin were also on the bill. Whenever we go to a show, my boys always want to know which act will be playing first, second, etc. Ol' Dad, the seasoned concert veteran of over 200 shows, is quick to chime in his expertise. So I did. "This is easy to figure out, son. Chris Tomlin is mostly a worship-type artist, so he'll go first. Then Casting Crowns will do their popular stuff, then after a short break we'll finally see Steven Curtis."
We made it in to our seats just as the lights were coming down. I look up and see a short blonde guy with a guitar strolling out on stage -- yeah, Chapman came out first to do a short song as a prayer for the evening. Then he introduced Casting Crowns! Talk about making the old man look foolish! Chapman and his band even set up on a corner of the stage to play a hits medley during the set change! So much for not seeing the big name until the second half! I've got to admit, it takes a bit of humility to do that kind of stuff.
Anyway, I'm in my seat for Casting Crowns and God did something -- opened my ears or my eyes or cleared my head or maybe just ripped my heart open, I don't know. But He really allowed me to experience the music, especially the lyrics, as communication and not simply songs on the radio. It sure didn't hurt that Casting Crowns sing songs with such powerful lyrics. They sang about the weakness of the church to reach out, about chasing after materialism, about failing to pray, about being pulled in different directions, and about God's love for an insignificant man such as I. I really don't like crying at concerts, but it seemed as if there was always a tear on my cheek. My heart was ripped open and I was prepared to worship, to sing and to have a little fun.
Afterward, the cold air outside brought a bracing dose of reality. And while exiting the parking lot onto a divided avenue, I looked up just in time to see a car run right into the back of another car who appeared to be stopped in the street. I was in a line of traffic so I couldn't stop. Of course there were policemen everywhere directing traffic, so I figured that was taken care of. And I saw one of the drivers get out of her car, so it must not have been too serious. But between the chill of the night and the sight and sound of two vehicles colliding, I was back to reality pretty quickly.
But the Spirit of God is still here. I thank Him for His continued presence and for the reminder that He will still rip hearts open to clear the way to come inside.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
A Bit Lost Watching the Action
When I was in college my roommates and I just had to invest in cable TV for the house. We did this for a number of reasons which can be summed up in ten letters: HBO, MTV, ESPN. It was the early 80s when the face of television no longer looked like Walter Cronkhite or Ed Sullivan, and more resembled Bill Murray and Duran Duran. I'm not sure that was an even trade. But regardless, we had to have it. Uncut movies all day. Music videos all day. And (Oh, thank you dear Lord) sports all day! For four mostly-free-from-parental-influence college guys, this was the life -- rental house with a pool in the backyard, plenty of room for up to 80 or 90 guests, neighbors who didn't complain about the noise, and CABLE TV!
It was a heady time for yours truly and my cohorts. But after being spoiled by the television choices these days, it's strange to realize that when we turned on ESPN in 1983, it didn't look much like it does now. There were no major league baseball games; the networks had the broadcast rights to those. Ditto with NBA, NFL, and countless other "important" sports that we actually wanted to watch. So we had to watch whatever incredible sporting events ESPN could find to air. One of those gems was Australian Rules Football.
We watched in amazement, trying to figure out what the rules were. The officials behind the goals looked like they were overdressed, even for a royal wedding. The players would run for a while, then bounce the ball off the ground once only to run some more. They kicked the ball and passed it to each other by holding the ball with one hand and hitting it with their other fist. We were mesmerized and mystified. What in the world was going on? And how could the score be 95-71? We learned a scant few of the rules and a little of the scoring system after about a month of watching the broadcasts. Mostly we liked mimicking the Aussie accents of the announcers. After all, we still were a little bit lost watching the action.
Somewhere in the midst of that stadium, there was a game being played complete with specific rules, a detailed scoring system and even a crowd of fans who knew infinitely more about the game than me. There are times when I feel that way about life in general. Things happen. Stimuli cause responses. Yet some people make evil decisions which don't seem to hold any consequences while another person does the right thing only to be hurt. And I sit on the sidelines trying to figure out what is going on and where I can find out more about the game being played out in front of me.
Job was another one of us who looked upon the conditions of the world (and of his life) and couldn't figure out why a good and loving God would let things happen as they do. Job knew he was a pretty decent guy, yet in a 24-hour span he had lost his riches, his family, and was stuck with three friends who only accused him of being responsible for all of it. Philip Yancey writes in Rumors of Another World,
It seems almost that God isn't there at all, instead treating the world as the deists claim -- winding up creation like a clock, then setting it down to watch it wind down. Yet the Bible tells us this isn't the case. The existance of Jesus Christ Himself proves that this isn't true. So why isn't God active in everyone's life every day? Well for starters, sometimes we don't ask. And the non-Christians in fact tell Him to get lost. And for some reason God honors our choice to reject Him. Yancey puts it like this:
How strange that God listens to the free-will choice of rejection from those He has created. Unfortunately those who send God packing never seem to realize what a loving God they are giving up. God is not a God who controls us beyond our will. He does not compel us to be with Him, to listen to Him or even to acknowledge Him. And the consequences are not always visible in this world. If I were God, I would be tempted to shoot a lightning bolt near the kid who mouths off to his parents. I might shake the earth a bit under the feet of the pervert planning to abduct some child. And an Osama bin Laden wouldn't be causing anyone any troubles right about now. But God does things differently. In our pride, our instinct is to say that we are right and God is wrong. Stupid pride. Stupid us.
Although I don't always understand and I can't always explain the rules to another person seated beside me, I trust the One who created the "game" of life as well as the stadium we "play" it in. When I feel like Job waiting for an explanation from God or like a viewer trying to make sense out of a foreign game, I have to stop and remember that my understanding is not necessary. But my faith is.
It was a heady time for yours truly and my cohorts. But after being spoiled by the television choices these days, it's strange to realize that when we turned on ESPN in 1983, it didn't look much like it does now. There were no major league baseball games; the networks had the broadcast rights to those. Ditto with NBA, NFL, and countless other "important" sports that we actually wanted to watch. So we had to watch whatever incredible sporting events ESPN could find to air. One of those gems was Australian Rules Football.
We watched in amazement, trying to figure out what the rules were. The officials behind the goals looked like they were overdressed, even for a royal wedding. The players would run for a while, then bounce the ball off the ground once only to run some more. They kicked the ball and passed it to each other by holding the ball with one hand and hitting it with their other fist. We were mesmerized and mystified. What in the world was going on? And how could the score be 95-71? We learned a scant few of the rules and a little of the scoring system after about a month of watching the broadcasts. Mostly we liked mimicking the Aussie accents of the announcers. After all, we still were a little bit lost watching the action.
Somewhere in the midst of that stadium, there was a game being played complete with specific rules, a detailed scoring system and even a crowd of fans who knew infinitely more about the game than me. There are times when I feel that way about life in general. Things happen. Stimuli cause responses. Yet some people make evil decisions which don't seem to hold any consequences while another person does the right thing only to be hurt. And I sit on the sidelines trying to figure out what is going on and where I can find out more about the game being played out in front of me.
Job was another one of us who looked upon the conditions of the world (and of his life) and couldn't figure out why a good and loving God would let things happen as they do. Job knew he was a pretty decent guy, yet in a 24-hour span he had lost his riches, his family, and was stuck with three friends who only accused him of being responsible for all of it. Philip Yancey writes in Rumors of Another World,
"Sometimes I rail against the mysteries and sometimes I accept them. As a starting point, I take for granted that a creature's proper response to God is humility. Accepting creatureliness may require that I, like Job, bow before a master plan that makes no apparent sense.
It seems almost that God isn't there at all, instead treating the world as the deists claim -- winding up creation like a clock, then setting it down to watch it wind down. Yet the Bible tells us this isn't the case. The existance of Jesus Christ Himself proves that this isn't true. So why isn't God active in everyone's life every day? Well for starters, sometimes we don't ask. And the non-Christians in fact tell Him to get lost. And for some reason God honors our choice to reject Him. Yancey puts it like this:
Ashtonishly, the Creator seldom imposes himself on his creatures. It requires attention and effort on our part to "remember your Creator," because the Creator slips quietly backstage. God does not force his presence on us. When lesser gods attract, God withdraws, honoring our fatal freedom to ignore him.
How strange that God listens to the free-will choice of rejection from those He has created. Unfortunately those who send God packing never seem to realize what a loving God they are giving up. God is not a God who controls us beyond our will. He does not compel us to be with Him, to listen to Him or even to acknowledge Him. And the consequences are not always visible in this world. If I were God, I would be tempted to shoot a lightning bolt near the kid who mouths off to his parents. I might shake the earth a bit under the feet of the pervert planning to abduct some child. And an Osama bin Laden wouldn't be causing anyone any troubles right about now. But God does things differently. In our pride, our instinct is to say that we are right and God is wrong. Stupid pride. Stupid us.
Although I don't always understand and I can't always explain the rules to another person seated beside me, I trust the One who created the "game" of life as well as the stadium we "play" it in. When I feel like Job waiting for an explanation from God or like a viewer trying to make sense out of a foreign game, I have to stop and remember that my understanding is not necessary. But my faith is.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Awakened by Sirens
I was awakened this morning by the sound of passing sirens. I realize that some may laugh, jaded by the experience of sirens passing every few minutes, but around here it's a rare occurrence. I live in a rural area, off the state highways. My road is actually a "main county road" -- which means that many people use it as a way to get to town. At harvest time, most every tractor and hopper wagon within twenty miles passes by the homestead on the way to the grain elevator in town, towing bushels and bushels of corn, wheat and soybeans. I haven't always lived in the sticks, but it's where I like best. Lots of natural beauty and lots of peace and quiet (except for the aforementioned harvest time). But that peace and quiet was shattered this morning.
Whenever we hear sirens there is a natural curiosity as to where the vehicles are headed. It's always best if the sound continues after it passes so we know it's not our house on fire! This morning we craned our necks to see down the road about a mile to the scene of an accident. The snow of yesterday had been compressed and polished to slippery ice on the roadway and two vehicles found that out the hard way. I saw the ambulance drive off, but I don't know if anyone was hurt badly. But I naturally began to wonder about all those times when my family, friends, or even I went through that intersection without incident. The folks in those two cars had probably crossed that junction countless times also. But this time. . .
Are we truly just one freak happening away from our lives being changed forever? Or even one heartbeat away from our lives being over? There's always that possibility. Preachers for years have used that "threat" as an impetus to get people thinking about salvation. Jonathan Edwards used to get people worked up into a lather of fear and trepidation while preaching sermons like "Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God," where he drew the picture of a fuming Almighty holding people over the fire and brimstone of hell with every right to chuck them to their everlasting punishment. Is fear a proper motivator to get a person to consider Jesus Christ? Is it ethical to "scare someone into the Kingdom?"
I don't like to use that tactic at all. To me, one should come to Christ because she wants to, not simply out of fear of being punished. That said, I personally know people who told me that the whole reason they called on Jesus to save them is because they were scared of going to hell if they didn't make that decision. Would any of these individuals have become Christian if someone or something hadn't frightened them to death? I suppose there's no earthly way of telling. And I'd sure hate to be the one who missed the chance to bring them to Christ just because I didn't want to do it that way. Perhaps it is the only way to reach some people.
Yet at the same time, someone being pushed into the Kingdom by fear isn't always the most motivated to discipleship. Sincerity is not often the companion of panic. And for a faith which tells us to "pick up our cross and follow," those making a quick and hasty decision have a lot of maturing to do to understand what Christ is calling us to.
Still on the other hand (this may be the third or fourth hand by now), it is a very real possibility that we may not make it until tomorrow. When I posted yesterday about how suddenly a heart could go on "vacation", I had no idea just how literally true those words would soon be. This morning a lady I know was being taken to the doctor for a follow-up appointment. She has been through a couple of surgeries, but was making real progress. Then as she walked in the doctor's office less than two hours ago, her heart stopped. She's gone. It's not as horrible since she knew Christ (and certainly knows Him even better now!), but the lesson remains -- life is temporary. There is a reason we aren't supposed to put off this decision. After all, to paraphrase an old Steven Wright joke, you don't know when you're going to die unless your birth certificate comes with an expiration date.
I love this line from a song by Todd Agnew: "If you tarry 'till you're better, you will never come at all." Because I have seen this phenomenon of "waiting until I'm better" played out in the lives of folks who never came at all, this especially hits home. Maybe, sometimes, it takes being awakened by sirens to rouse a heart before it stops. But if you come to escape the fire, realize that there's a whole lot more going on in Christ, and don't be afraid to take this journey of walking in His footsteps through earthly life and into life everlasting. It's more than you could ever dream.
Whenever we hear sirens there is a natural curiosity as to where the vehicles are headed. It's always best if the sound continues after it passes so we know it's not our house on fire! This morning we craned our necks to see down the road about a mile to the scene of an accident. The snow of yesterday had been compressed and polished to slippery ice on the roadway and two vehicles found that out the hard way. I saw the ambulance drive off, but I don't know if anyone was hurt badly. But I naturally began to wonder about all those times when my family, friends, or even I went through that intersection without incident. The folks in those two cars had probably crossed that junction countless times also. But this time. . .
Are we truly just one freak happening away from our lives being changed forever? Or even one heartbeat away from our lives being over? There's always that possibility. Preachers for years have used that "threat" as an impetus to get people thinking about salvation. Jonathan Edwards used to get people worked up into a lather of fear and trepidation while preaching sermons like "Sinners in the Hand of an Angry God," where he drew the picture of a fuming Almighty holding people over the fire and brimstone of hell with every right to chuck them to their everlasting punishment. Is fear a proper motivator to get a person to consider Jesus Christ? Is it ethical to "scare someone into the Kingdom?"
I don't like to use that tactic at all. To me, one should come to Christ because she wants to, not simply out of fear of being punished. That said, I personally know people who told me that the whole reason they called on Jesus to save them is because they were scared of going to hell if they didn't make that decision. Would any of these individuals have become Christian if someone or something hadn't frightened them to death? I suppose there's no earthly way of telling. And I'd sure hate to be the one who missed the chance to bring them to Christ just because I didn't want to do it that way. Perhaps it is the only way to reach some people.
Yet at the same time, someone being pushed into the Kingdom by fear isn't always the most motivated to discipleship. Sincerity is not often the companion of panic. And for a faith which tells us to "pick up our cross and follow," those making a quick and hasty decision have a lot of maturing to do to understand what Christ is calling us to.
Still on the other hand (this may be the third or fourth hand by now), it is a very real possibility that we may not make it until tomorrow. When I posted yesterday about how suddenly a heart could go on "vacation", I had no idea just how literally true those words would soon be. This morning a lady I know was being taken to the doctor for a follow-up appointment. She has been through a couple of surgeries, but was making real progress. Then as she walked in the doctor's office less than two hours ago, her heart stopped. She's gone. It's not as horrible since she knew Christ (and certainly knows Him even better now!), but the lesson remains -- life is temporary. There is a reason we aren't supposed to put off this decision. After all, to paraphrase an old Steven Wright joke, you don't know when you're going to die unless your birth certificate comes with an expiration date.
I love this line from a song by Todd Agnew: "If you tarry 'till you're better, you will never come at all." Because I have seen this phenomenon of "waiting until I'm better" played out in the lives of folks who never came at all, this especially hits home. Maybe, sometimes, it takes being awakened by sirens to rouse a heart before it stops. But if you come to escape the fire, realize that there's a whole lot more going on in Christ, and don't be afraid to take this journey of walking in His footsteps through earthly life and into life everlasting. It's more than you could ever dream.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
In like a lion. . .
So who was it that made up these cute little weather predictions? No, not the guy at the Weather Channel. Somebody must've had some real imagination. You know, the folks who decided you could tell when winter would end by watching a groundhog on February 2nd. And shouldn't it be the other way around? If he sees his shadow, shouldn't that be telling us spring is coming instead of vice versa? Sun should equal warmer, right?
And is this from the same mind who tells us that we can predict the weather for March 31st by taking the opposite of March 1st? You've heard the saying, "March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb." And if that one doesn't work, there's always, "March comes in like a lamb and out like a lion." I think that the inventor of this poem is banking on human memory which can't usually retrieve meteorological information from thirty days previous. If nothing else, this post will record the official animal of the day here at my house. It's a lion. Oh boy, is it ever a lion! Currently 24 degrees. Winds 15-25 with blowing snow reducing visibility to under a quarter mile. I stepped out of my truck for 30 seconds to pick up the kids at school. When I stepped inside I was covered in flakes -- and it wasn't dandruff! I'm already planning my picnic at the swimming hole for the 31st!
We don't know much about the future. The Bible tells us how it finally ends, but the language is so symbolic it's hard to tell if it is describing a future war or the fall of Jerusalem in A. D. 70. And frankly I'm not up for a discussion of who's right in that whole argument. But I cringe when I see some folks with a Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other trying to match things up. I trust Him. I'm ready for Him. And I'll continue to work for Him until the end (of the world or my life, whichever comes first). I'm not too concerned about what happens in the meantime. Although there are certain aspects of the future I wonder about.
My wife and I will sometimes stare at our three children, wondering what they will be like as adults. My thirteen year-old is too much like me, and frankly I'm hoping he'll improve on his old man. My soon-to-be eleven year-old has so much going on in that head of his that anything could happen. And then there's the three year-old girl who I can't get a handle on, period. I'd love to know how these three will turn out by the time they're 45. But then again, I'm still wondering what I'll be like at 45 -- and I only have a year and a half to wait!
In a world where we try to keep everything under our control, the future is mostly out of our reach. We can prepare. We can hope. We can aim toward a goal, but there are no guarantees. We are reminded in the Bible that if we were truthful we would say things like, "If it is the Lord's will that I am still around tomorrow, I'll stop by to visit you." After all, who knows when the ticker will try to take a vacation? And it's that uncertainty which gives us a little fear about the future. We hope for the best, but can we really be sure?
Some people take it to the next stage and worry about the future. Jesus scoffed at people who think that way. "Who among you can add one more hour to your life by worrying about things?" Yeah, it's ridiculous. It's a matter of not trusting God for the big picture. We worry about not having things ready for the birthday party, or finding a pair of jeans that doesn't make us look fat. How trivial is all that? I'll admit that my big worries are what will happen with my kids, the safety of my wife on the roads in this lion-like day, bringing glory to my Creator, and all the earthly things I cannot control. But I am glad I have no worries about what happens to me when my ticker takes a vacation.
It's not that I never have doubts. I think everyone struggles with some doubt about things we are told in the Bible. We don't understand. We question. We think we deserve answers. But somehow God doesn't think we need all that. Job kept asking for his audience with the Almighty. He was sure he needed to find out why God had allowed so much evil to happen in his life. He knew that God owed him an explanation. God disagreed. God told Job, in what could have been a good Jack Nicholson impression, "You can't handle the truth! Just trust me."
I'm sure if I knew that sometime tomorrow my pants would fall down then I would walk around everywhere with a belt, suspenders, and at least one hand on my waistband. After all, I want to be in control, especially if there's a risk that I'm going to look foolish. Yet how foolish would I look with so many pants-holding devices being employed at one time? Seems like I look foolish either way. Does the fact that we don't know help us from acting stupider than we already do?
Outside my window, the snow has let up a little. I can see, maybe, a half-mile. The lion may be nodding off to sleep. I hope he doesn't awaken again. But I'm sure he will. I just don't know when. I am eternally grateful that I am not alone in the bad times or the good times, for I know God is with me. Even though I get no better of an explanation than Job received, I know Who holds tomorrow. And I know Who will see me through, no matter the weather.
And is this from the same mind who tells us that we can predict the weather for March 31st by taking the opposite of March 1st? You've heard the saying, "March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb." And if that one doesn't work, there's always, "March comes in like a lamb and out like a lion." I think that the inventor of this poem is banking on human memory which can't usually retrieve meteorological information from thirty days previous. If nothing else, this post will record the official animal of the day here at my house. It's a lion. Oh boy, is it ever a lion! Currently 24 degrees. Winds 15-25 with blowing snow reducing visibility to under a quarter mile. I stepped out of my truck for 30 seconds to pick up the kids at school. When I stepped inside I was covered in flakes -- and it wasn't dandruff! I'm already planning my picnic at the swimming hole for the 31st!
We don't know much about the future. The Bible tells us how it finally ends, but the language is so symbolic it's hard to tell if it is describing a future war or the fall of Jerusalem in A. D. 70. And frankly I'm not up for a discussion of who's right in that whole argument. But I cringe when I see some folks with a Bible in one hand and a newspaper in the other trying to match things up. I trust Him. I'm ready for Him. And I'll continue to work for Him until the end (of the world or my life, whichever comes first). I'm not too concerned about what happens in the meantime. Although there are certain aspects of the future I wonder about.
My wife and I will sometimes stare at our three children, wondering what they will be like as adults. My thirteen year-old is too much like me, and frankly I'm hoping he'll improve on his old man. My soon-to-be eleven year-old has so much going on in that head of his that anything could happen. And then there's the three year-old girl who I can't get a handle on, period. I'd love to know how these three will turn out by the time they're 45. But then again, I'm still wondering what I'll be like at 45 -- and I only have a year and a half to wait!
In a world where we try to keep everything under our control, the future is mostly out of our reach. We can prepare. We can hope. We can aim toward a goal, but there are no guarantees. We are reminded in the Bible that if we were truthful we would say things like, "If it is the Lord's will that I am still around tomorrow, I'll stop by to visit you." After all, who knows when the ticker will try to take a vacation? And it's that uncertainty which gives us a little fear about the future. We hope for the best, but can we really be sure?
Some people take it to the next stage and worry about the future. Jesus scoffed at people who think that way. "Who among you can add one more hour to your life by worrying about things?" Yeah, it's ridiculous. It's a matter of not trusting God for the big picture. We worry about not having things ready for the birthday party, or finding a pair of jeans that doesn't make us look fat. How trivial is all that? I'll admit that my big worries are what will happen with my kids, the safety of my wife on the roads in this lion-like day, bringing glory to my Creator, and all the earthly things I cannot control. But I am glad I have no worries about what happens to me when my ticker takes a vacation.
It's not that I never have doubts. I think everyone struggles with some doubt about things we are told in the Bible. We don't understand. We question. We think we deserve answers. But somehow God doesn't think we need all that. Job kept asking for his audience with the Almighty. He was sure he needed to find out why God had allowed so much evil to happen in his life. He knew that God owed him an explanation. God disagreed. God told Job, in what could have been a good Jack Nicholson impression, "You can't handle the truth! Just trust me."
I'm sure if I knew that sometime tomorrow my pants would fall down then I would walk around everywhere with a belt, suspenders, and at least one hand on my waistband. After all, I want to be in control, especially if there's a risk that I'm going to look foolish. Yet how foolish would I look with so many pants-holding devices being employed at one time? Seems like I look foolish either way. Does the fact that we don't know help us from acting stupider than we already do?
Outside my window, the snow has let up a little. I can see, maybe, a half-mile. The lion may be nodding off to sleep. I hope he doesn't awaken again. But I'm sure he will. I just don't know when. I am eternally grateful that I am not alone in the bad times or the good times, for I know God is with me. Even though I get no better of an explanation than Job received, I know Who holds tomorrow. And I know Who will see me through, no matter the weather.
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