Thrown Off My Christmas Kilter.

What a strange story I'm celebrating today! There were shepherds living out in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel appeared to them, telling them not to be afraid. A baby had been born, and they could find him wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger. To a peasant mother outside of Bethlehem, the Son of God was born.

Taking a step back from the familiar hum (remembering to hum) of all those previous days of Advent I am considering, this morning, this story, Christians all around the world have really been waiting for, and I recognize I'm thrown off my usual Christmas kilter. This is not really the innocuous historical narrative I've commonly imagined. This is not a tame story. The bright lights and colors of all the final scene at Radio City Music all seems to have painted over the stark scenery of a story that startles all of history. Do I really understand this God who comes as a child, who steps into my world through a dirty stable and the unlikely arms of an unwed mother?

Yet even long before these strange additions to the story of God among his people, my pastor in his Advent sermons these past weeks, reminded me that the prophets were asking similar questions: “Who has understood the mind of the LORD?” This God who moves among people, touching all of life and history is certainly not the quiet and tame being I so often imagine. God’s ways are not my ways. God’s stories are not the kind of stories I would write if the telling were up to me. God’s thoughts are the kind of thoughts that expose deception and shine in darkness, that shatter hearts and rewrite stories.

It is the same with the Child born in a stable two thousand years ago. The infant the world remembers lying peacefully in a manger with cattle lowing nearby did not take long to fulfill the words spoken to his young parents: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too,” says St. Luke in his second chapter. Definitely not the sort of thing a stranger typically says to a young mother holding a baby. Is this the child I have been anticipating!

British author Dorothy Sayers once lamented the manner in which Jesus is often remembered: he is the quiet sage full of wisdom, the safe and peaceful one of history. He is, for all practical purposes, somewhat dull, someone we might be interested in at a later time. Yet Sayers writes in The Whimsical Christian, The Greatest Drama Ever Staged :  “The people who hanged Christ never, to do them justice, accused him of being a bore—on the contrary, they thought him too dynamic to be safe. It has been left for later generations to muffle up that shattering personality and surround him with an atmosphere of tedium. We have very efficiently pared the claws of the Lion of Judah, certified him ‘meek and mild,’ and recommended him as a fitting household pet for pale curates and pious old ladies.”

I'm coming to recognize with greater understanding this Christmas morning that this season of Advent should have been even more than I ever gave as a time of anticipation not for the harmless baby surrounded by lights and presents, but for the dynamic savior who is born into my midst in a way that must forever change me. “Do you want to be delivered?” asked Dietrich Bonhoeffer in an Advent sermon more than 70 years ago. “That is the only really important and decisive question which Advent poses for us. Does there burn within us some lingering longing to know what deliverance really means? If not, what would Advent then mean to us? A bit of sentimentality. A little lifting of the spirit within us? A little kinder mood? But if there is something in this word Advent which we have not yet known, that strangely warms our heart; if we suspect that it could, once more, once more, mean a turning point in our life, a turning to God, to Christ—why then are we not simply obedient, listening and hearing in our ears the clear call: Your deliverance draws nigh!”

Father, God, I thank You that I've had the opportunity this Advent season to hear a strange and drastic story. On this day of Christmas I receive nothing less than the Lion of Judah wrapped in swaddling cloths; the coming of a human Rescuer unhindered. Mystery Himself, mercifully, draws nigh. Amen

It All Begain at Cracker Barrel - My Needs vs Their's

I enjoy Cracker Barrel's menu.  Especially the breakfast sampler that Bettyann and I share.  And how she enjoys shopping their gift shop. She's always looking for something to gift someone with. During one of those stops to nourish and shop, a little booklet on a rack caught my eye entitled: " Year 1943." It sparked an ongoing interest due to the fact that I was born that year.  Well, one thing has lead to another and while searching for a good read to gift Bettyann this Christmas. I ran across a story that occurred in 1943. One of her enjoyment reading tends is anthing having to do with history; mostly by woman authors.  This story is of two hundred and thirty women who were arrested as members of the French Resistance and sent to Birkenau. Only 49 survived, and this in itself is remarkable but these women were as diverse a group as could be imagined. They were Jews and Christians, aristocrats and working class, young and old. Yet they were united by their commitment to the French Resistance and to one another. The author, Caroline Moorhead, in her book, A Train In Winter reconstructs this true story of these women through the journals and memoirs of survivors. Noting the mutual dependence that made the difference between living and dying, Moorhead highlights how the solidarity of these women to one another and to their mutual survival sustained them through unspeakable horror and torture. 

My father was one of those American servicemen who served at the end of Wold War Two, Wood Choppers Division, under Eisenhower. Dad was involved in the liberation of one site of a concentration camp. His reciting to me of his first hand experience and collaborated by many accounts of Holocaust survivors, telling of how the hellish conditions of extreme deprivation and torture drove many to hoard whatever meager resources they could save for themselves. Dad recounted one particular incident numerous times of the man of about 70 pounds who's hands were gripping a tin cup, for days, that he would not put down. How he held it constantly. Even when lying down. The man insisted any food, even a candy bar be placed in the filthy, stenchful cup, pressing it to his fully opened mouth, all the while, with deep, darkened, suspectful eyes, darting about as if someone was going to intrude upon his sustenance. Dad would always conculde his story with a tear, by asking, "And how could he be blame or mocked?"

Survival became the only goal—no matter what the cost, even to others. Yet, in most of the cases with these French women in Birkenau, their solidarity toward each other trumped the selfishness that engulfed so many others. As Moorhead writes, "Knowing that the fate of each depended on the others...egotism seemed to vanish and that, stripped back to the bare edge of survival, each rose to behavior few would have believed themselves capable of." Moorhead recounts that when unrelieved thirst threatened to engulf one of their members in utter madness, the women pooled together their own meager rations to get her a whole bucket of water.

I suppose that it's because my world is so very small, but I don't see this magniture of selflessness very often. It seems that, most of the time, putting my own needs first is as natural as breathing, and just as unconscious. Yet when faced with adversity, I notice something within me coaxing out the best and the most beautiful, I could ever imagine.  Is this the Spirit stirring my soul?  Why does it happen, mostly, when I'm troubled?  I digress. Yet something I think worthy of looking into.

  

Then I read in the ancient biblical account of Ruth. Three women are left widows, and one, Naomi, has lost her sons as well. Bereft of their economic and financial support, the women instinctively stay together even as Naomi insists they return to their homeland of Moab, where the prospect of finding a husband would be more likely. But the women insist on staying. "No, we will surely return with you to your people."

Do I miss this significance of this solidarity? When I dig into the story I discover that by staying with Naomi, the women forfeited any sense of security. In the ancient Near East, husbands and sons secured a woman's total wellbeing. Without husband or male heir, women were left to fend for themselves, often forced into prostitution to earn a living. They would not only depend on one another, but would be cast upon the mercy of another land and another people as strangers. 

Naomi understands the risks. It seems to me that she actually mourns for them when she cries out, "Return, my daughters! Go, for I am too old to have a husband. If I said I have hope if I should even have a husband tonight and also bear sons, would you therefore wait until they were grown? Would you therefore refrain from marrying? No, my daughters; for it is harder for me than for you, for the hand of the Lord has gone forth against me." One daughter in law, Orpah, finally relents, and after weeping with Ruth and Naomi, returns to her homeland of Moab. But Ruth will not leave. "Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from following you; for where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people and your God, my God." Ruth aligns herself with Naomi—her welfare is Ruth's welfare—no matter what the cost.

My study exposes that the ancient Hebrew law enforced the care of widows and orphans by the larger community as a sign of solidarity to the weakest and the most vulnerable members and to provide for the most desiccated and desperate among them—just as the women at Birkenau pooled their water rations for the sake of the one who needed it most. Ruth, as a Moabite, was bound by no such law and yet she sees her allegiance to Naomi, nevertheless. Their shared adversity, their shared identity as widows, bound them together and brought about something beautiful. 

My soul rejoices this morning to know that Ruth wouldn't ever see how this exceptional act of solidarity would save—not only Naomi—but the people of Israel. In this life, she didn't know that she became the great, great grandmother of King David. Indeed, One would come from David who would also demonstrate solidarity with humanity. So great was His act of unselfish sacrifice that He would "empty Himself, taking the form of a servant, and being made in the likeness of men." This One, as Philippians 2:5-8 tells me "humbled himself by becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross."

Father, God, thank You for this Advent season. A special season when I have a special opportunity of focusing on celebrating You the One of infinite solidarity. Thank You for exposing my memory of Dad's accounts of his experiences, and the women of the French Resistance which provides me with a contemporary example model of what Ruth demonstrated in ages past; an altruistic solidarity to one another in order to ensure survival. Father, guide me in not missing an opportunity, during the Advent season, in providing a solidarity with the less fortunate. Counting it all joy! Just as You chose, through Jesus, to cast the lot with humanity by becoming one of us, walking among us, even sharing the horror of human death with us. Counting it all joy! For You so loved the world that You gave Your only Son...solidarity in order to bring us eternal life.  Amen

Caught Up In Humming

I immensely enjoy listening to the local FM station that provides a continuous genre of Christmas music which began the day after Thanksgiving. I was captured one morning last week when I pulled from the garage and playing was the song; “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” Then Jason, my son-in-law mentioned the song, last Sunday, in the introduction of his sermon. I’ve been familiar with the song for I don't know how many years, yet couldn't remember the last time I heard it. But I've notice, at various times, and for long periods during the day it seems to be stuck in by head.  With kids jingle belling/and everyone telling you/”Be of good cheer,”/It’s the most wonderful time of the year. I caught myself humming the tune, repeating phrases of it silently and at other times out loud.  I still am curious as to the psych of it all but feel uplifted as if it truly is the most wonderful time of the year. 

On The other hand, I'm thinking that for too many individuals I hang around with at the shop or coffee shop, Christmas seems anything but wonderful. I think of my best friend, maybe in this world, that has just broken his leg, at seventy three and may spend Christmas day in a rehab center. My humming comes to an abrupt halt when I think of the possibily. In fact, the joviality, décor, and holiday music played at the coffee shop or other places of business, I visit, simply seem to strike dissonant chords because of the memories, emotions, and experiences associated with this season.  I hear stories of sorrow and loss from neighbors, acquaintances, and folks in general.  I suspect some of these sorrows will mark their tellers' Christmas seasons for the rest of their lives. An acquaintance told me how he grieves the loss of a loved one from the violence of a body turned against itself through cancer.  Another of the debilitating and destructive disease of dementia.  For them, Christmas reminds them of yet another empty chair. Then there are others who are experiencing joblessness or underemployment, numbing loneliness, disappointed expectations, ruptured relationships, and rejection that twist and distort the joy of the season into a garish spectacle. I wonder if my outward demonstrations of uplift celebration this season will introduce an uplifting celebration, as well, or will friends and neighbors walk away thinking the most wonderful time of the year seems a cruel mockery? For all of these, and many others, the Christmas season seems more like the opening verse of Christina Rossetti’s haunting Christmas hymn, “In the Bleak Midwinter.” 

In the bleak midwinter, frost wind made moan,

earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. 

I sort of sense, sitting here this morning, maybe for the first time in my life, I'm grappling with the realization that all the excitement, anticipation, and beauty of this advent season can easily be frozen by pain, disappointment and grief; instead of singing songs of joy, a bitter moan emanates like the cold, frost-bitten wind. What can I do? How can I fix it?    What an awful sense of hopelessness floods my soul! 

But not for long; I begin to think on the facts!  The fact that: Into this world—the world of the bleak midwinter—God arrived. The fact that: He was not sheltered from grief or pain.  The fact that: He descended into a world where poverty, violence, and grief were a daily part of God’s human existence in the person of Jesus. The fact that: Joseph and Mary, barely teenagers, were poor, and Mary gave birth to the Messiah in a dirty barn. The fact that: Herod the Great used his power to slaughter all the male children who were in Bethlehem under the age of two. The fact that: Shepherds slept on grassy hills, their nomadic home. The fact that: even in Jesus’ public  ministry, his cousin, John the Baptist, would be beheaded. The undeniable fact: that Jesus would experience rejection and eventually die a criminal’s death, with only a few, grieving women remaining at his side.

I am convicted this morning, to keep right on  celebrating, joyously, reverently, feverously, humming and testifying to the fact that God is on every scene of this world—this world of bleak midwinter—God arrives. I'm going to shout the fact that God arrives in the midst of my acquaintances' pain and suffering, doubt and disappointment, longing and loneliness to make a home with everyone living on earth, to be alongside us because of “great, eternal love.”  The gospel of John says to me that God did not stay removed from any of us or from our sufferings, but that “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” Immanuel, God with us, is here today to be my acquaintances' consolation. 

Father, God, I thank You that it is possible for me to celebrate this season as the most wonderful time of the year.  I call on Your Spirit to guide me in my demonstration of beauty, joy, and celebration by reaching out to those in bleak midwinter, doing my part, giving my all, sharing my heart.

Amen

Hammered by Dr. Seuss

Where was it, in this world of quirky factoids (new word for me) and interesting anecdotes, I have read or heard that now that I'm over seventy years, I have spent three years of my life just waiting? Waiting in line at the grocery store; waiting in the doctor’s office; waiting in traffic; waiting for lunch to be ready; waiting for recess time at school; waiting! In his book, Oh, the Places You’ll Go, children’s author Theodor Geisel, or “Dr. Seuss,” describes a place called “the waiting place.” It sounds like a  place I have often and still do inhabit. He describes it as a useless place where people are just waiting.

Waiting for a train to go

or a bus to come, or a plane to go

or the mail to come, or the rain to go

or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow

or waiting around for a Yes or No

or waiting for their hair to grow.

Everyone is just waiting.

Standing outside the Radio City Music Hall Monday evening with Bettyann, Amy, Jason, Sarah and Brayden, I recognize that sometimes waiting feels useless and futile. On other occasions, I ask myself: what am I exactly waiting for? Waiting is an in-between space difficult to inhabit for me.  I recognize that my patience is tried; restlessness is a constant companion, or at times, listlessness that comes from the tedium of waiting. I've always admired the person in front or back of me, in the same line that has the ability to wait patiently.  Should I also dawn an expensive set of noise cancelling head phones, hook them up to my iPhone and listen to whatever? Or take the opportunity of breathing deeply, holding that breath ten seconds and releasing it slowly while getting in touch with my true feelings…………..hummmmmmmm?

Waiting has always been counterintuitive in my A-type personal world. And now, that high speed Internet, instant messaging, and fast food, has been added to my life, waiting for anything seems like an eternity. Moreover, in a world where so much beckons to me, waiting asks me to be still and this can feel meaningless. The English poet John Milton once wrote that those who serve, stand and wait. Wow! I'm new at discovering that waiting asks me to be disciplined, self-controlled, and emotionally mature as the world speeds by me. I'm learning slowly that in a way, waiting requires my unshakeable faith, hope, and love that seems to trump (no pun intended) all the action done for the sake of expediency. So, Bill, waiting is often a good, hard work.  Don't you take pride in doing good, hard work?

Then I also notice that waiting also comprises a large part of my Christian worldview. But it is not the useless waiting of “the waiting place” that Dr. Seuss writes about, nor is it simply waiting for certain things or events, a trip or a raise, or even fulfillment. I am awaiting the return of Jesus in glory.

Isn't this season of Advent a season of hope-filled, lament-filled, expectant waiting? I know that Advent looks forward in anticipation of Christ’s return, but also remembers all those who awaited his arrival into this world more than 2,000 years ago. Haven't I practiced Advent, for some years now, as a season of stillness, reflection, and honest longing in the dark? And as such, is the antithesis of all the busyness and chaos and boxed happiness in the Christmas shopping season?

I can remember, sixty years ago, when our family's mentality wasn't overwhelmed and didn't demand a fever pitch of activity. Nor can I remember any of my freinds personas, either. Sadly, it seems, any more, any waiting folks might do is more likely waiting for Christmas to be over. And rather than being filled with hope and joy I, being no saint, at times, have also been caught waiting in a state of anxiety, or cynicism, or harried indifference toward the miracle that is upon the world. I confess that in all my busyness, I've missed the gift of waiting with expectation and longing.

Not this year! I'm committing to excepting the invitation of Advent season which is to watch and wait for the coming of the King, to wait for the Christ who comes in new ways into the very messy stuff of my live—not just one season a year. I know I cannot hope to catch a glimpse of Him without the hard waiting for Him to show up.

Of course, there are those, like the gentleman I visited with the other day, who feels he has been waiting far too long for God to show up in the messy details of his life. Giving up on waiting seems to hold the promise of rest, as the work of waiting for God to act is wearisome. Just as there were those in the early days of the Christian movement who began to ask with lament “Where is the promise of his coming?” and those who mocked the divine silence as inactivity, it is not difficult to understand how those who wait for answers—for an end to suffering, for reconciliation, for transformation—are tempted towards cynical despair.

I ask: Is there hope in remembering that Advent invites my friend also to wait for the God who does show up? Can encouragement be found in the celebration of Christmas, for him, a celebration proclaiming that God has come and that God will come again in the waiting of today? Is there reason for my friend to watch and wait for a God who arrives in ways he could not expect? As a helpless baby born in the dregs of a stable? My answer is yes, a thousand times, yes! 

Thank You, heavenly Father for the church's recognition of Advent.  May You receive glory in the way I recognize it as well.  Waiting.  I except the invitation.  I pray for my friend and all those like him.  My Your Spirit help him to take the required courage to wait. For I know from personal experience the very act of waiting opens eyes, hands, and heart to receive  Your most precious Gift.
Amen

A Foggy Soul and Being Ready

I've been thinking and preparing for over a week now, for Sunday, November twenty seventh!  Advent Sunday. I’ve been turning to the reading the passages of scripture that introduce the events described in the four Gospels. For the first time I can remember, giving deep attention to what the angle spoke to Elizabeth before her baby was born.  What an awesome experience that must have been!  He told her that her son’s name would be John. That he would be for the world a herald of the Messiah who was coming. Saint Luke records this in his first chapter: “He will go on before the Lord, in the spirit and power of Elijah,” the angel told her.

And that’s exactly what happened some thirty years later. The New Testament writers report that John called all who would hear to repent and believe just as God’s angle had promised his mother, John would do.  He was sent to prepare the way for the coming Lord, to prepare hearts to recognize God among them. “Many of the people of Israel will he bring back to the Lord their God,” proclaimed the angel. This John did and continues to do.

As I ponder, it seems a little odd to me that this untamed, locust-eating figure of John the Baptist is one of the key figures in celebrating the Christmas season. His wild and probing message continues to cry in urgency, “Are you ready,” and for this, despite the sentimental and domesticated visions of Christmas common to at least, my era, is a cry worthy of the bizarre and jolting doctrine of Incarnation. In fact, I am stopped in my tracks, right here, right now, and asked, “Bill, are you ready to respond to the fragile infant that came into the world through a manger in Bethlehem? Are you ready to hear him, see him, consume his flesh and blood? Are you ready to recognize God in body, the hunter, the king, the great I AM?” Isn’t the testimony of John essentially tame compared to the mystery of an incarnate God? St. John in his first chapter and repeats often the Baptists’ insistence: “I am not the Christ, but truly and fearfully, there is one who is.”

I’m reminded again, the Incarnation, this embodied presence of God, bids me not only to remember God’s descent into a dirty stable in Bethlehem, but to keep myself awake to the reality of God’s descending upon the thresholds of my life. As John called the people of Israel, so the Incarnation continues to sound the consequence of this mystery: Keep yourself clothed in readiness, for God is near.

I am unable to explain a spiritual chill.  But I get one when I recognize even John, who was the first to recognize Jesus for who he was, leaping in his own mother’s womb at the arrival of the pregnant Mary, struggled through dark and confusing times, wondering perhaps if God was indeed near. Thrown in jail by Herod, John’s certainty, seems to me, to be challenged for the first time.  I can attest to likewise seeing a fog coming over the “Go and ask Jesus,” John told his disciples, “Are you the one who was to come, or should we expect someone else?”message of light I’ve preached so confidently. “If this man is who I thought he was, why am I in this place?”

With John in mind, I turn back to some of my underlining of what Dietrich Bonhoeffer once compared our waiting on God to the waiting that is done in a prison cell, “in which one waits and hopes and does various unessential things… but is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside.” It is a dramatic metaphor, particularly from one who stood imprisoned himself, chained for standing up to the Nazi’s, waiting for them to deal with him as they would. Bonhoeffer saw clearly something I have forgotten many times in the midst of a sentimental holiday: the Incarnation is about God breaking through the door that I myself cannot open. And in fact, all year round, the Incarnation is my promise that God will come breaking through once again.

I have always wondered if Jesus’s response to John’s question frustrated the prophet behind bars or if it is my own frustration so easily read into his words. Jesus didn’t offer a clear and certain answer for the alone and imprisoned baptizer, but invited John to answer his own question in Matthew 11:4-6. “Go back and report to John what you hear and see,” Jesus told John’s disciples. “The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor. Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me.” I can’t find a response given from John. O’ I wish I could. What matters today is my response; isn't it?

Sitting within his quiet cell, perhaps, just perhaps, John began to recount the conversations he had with Jesus. I wonder, perhaps, hearing again the words God had placed on his own lips. “He who is mightier than I is coming, the strap of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire:” as St. Luke records in his third chapter.

Father, God, You are moving!  Every indication in the world says You are. Yet I confess I’ve been sitting, waiting. During this time of ruminating and puzzling this story of John the Baptist and the question Jesus seemed to ask of him has become the question for me.  Am I ready?  Am I ready for You, my redemptive God, Who continues to do the unthinkable?  My answer:  Yes! Yes!  Father, forgive me for I have sinned. Amen 

Lesson By Cell Phone

It seems interesting to me, having returned to my home in Florida, within recent weeks, that my life without a cell phone would be more than inconvenient. Not so much so when I am at Quiet Rest.  While there, it seems to tether me in so many ways.  But here, I fit in with everyone else. I can take calls with an “excuse me,” in the midst of that conversation with the understanding, garrulous (my newest found word)  friend. Nor do I need to make a mad dash home from the workshop in order to make that important phone call. I now make it on the way, sitting in traffic, driving to the hardware store, doctor’s appointment, making a stop at the grocery store for items Bettyann has asked me to bring home or all the above. And I admit I do have a great appreciation when I remember the time I had to use the phone with a five foot cord, having to operate within a five-foot radius. On the other hand, this is not to say that I don’t feel a tethering of a different sort. Owning a cell phone has fostered the attitude that I am always available, always working, always obtainable. While there is no cord to which I am confined, the phone itself has proven it can be ironically confining.

But these kinds of shifting dilemmas, I’m particularly aware of today,  are not all that uncommon. Just as the pendulum swings in one direction offering some kind of correction, I’m finding, it swings back to the other side introducing a new set of problems. Major and minor movements of history possess a similar, corrective rhythm, swinging from one extreme to another and finding trouble with both. The pendulum swings from one direction, often to an opposite error, or at best, toward a new set of challenges.

I’m forever realizing that within and without its walls, the church, too, is continually responding to what I perceive needs correction. When the need to get away from dead, religious worship initiated certain shifts within the church, it was an observation wisely discerned. But from my viewpoint, what this has meant for many churches has, unfortunately, been a shifting away from history, common liturgy, and its own past—in some cases contributing to a whole different set of problems. I don't say much outside my closest circle of family and freinds but I have long observed; that while breaking away from the “religiosity” of history, I think some now find themselves tethered in a sense to all things contemporary and individually, unable to draw on the riches of the history from which they have isolated themselves.  I think, that probably, while the intent may have been good, and the shifts did separate their flocks from certain problems within church history, it also seems to have separated the sheep and lambs from all of history. As a result, I wonder if many church leaders now seem more divorced from history than ever, having swung so far in one direction that they we can no longer see from whence they have come? Coupled with our culture’s general devaluing of anything that is “outdated,” the risk of seeing the church’s identity more in terms of today’s form than its enduring essence seems, to me, both high and hazardous.

Something in the image of the ever-oscillating pendulum reminds me of the countercultural professions and practices that are meant to root the church in an identity beyond the one that might exist at any given time or changing mood.  Is this ever-moving world, with all it's technological improvements and ideological corrections rushing in so fast that I get caught up living my life with no fear of the future or disdain of the past? Or am I professing with the community, which St. Paul mentions in first Corinthians 10:11, saying:  “upon whom the end of the ages have come?” And in the midst of this culture consumed with the new, the contemporary, and the progressive, am I rooted in the identity of a Man who lived 2000 years ago, One who proclaimed the reign of God on earth here and now, but whose future return He also asked me to look to expectantly.

Moreover, as I've been looking at this, the spirit of awe brought something to my attention the last time I took communion at church. The church professes something Christ left behind as a means to understanding my identity and mission, at having turned seventy three. Before going to the cross, Jesus imparted that the disciples were to continue breaking bread together, as they had done so often before, but that now these common meals would also hold new meaning. They could not go where Jesus was going, but they were to be partners in what was about to be done. The bread broken was to be His body which would be broken; the cup they share was to be His own blood shared—and their repeated sharing in this common meal was to continually move them to participation in His dying, rising, and victorious life. In this, the disciples were to be united with Christ in an event that would inform all past, present, and future.  I just can’t help but to keep going back once or twice a week and ruminate on some of Lesslie Newbigin’s explaination in The Open Secret: “When they are still far from beginning to understand what ‘the reign of God’ means, Jesus does a deed and gives a command that will bind them to him in a continually renewed and deepened participation in the mystery of his own being….The disciples will thus themselves become part of the revealed secret of the presence of the kingdom.”

Father, God, I thank You for allowing an expanded peek into Your being!  Amen 

Why No Black Folk?

I asked a question that silenced the breakfast table a couple of months ago.  In the sixteen years of living, part time, in Western North Carolina I have not seen more than a few black people and only two in the county where I reside. At what meant to be a benign, question: “Don't we have any black folk who live in our county?”, there was a definite shifting and stiffening of body posture.Three sets of eyes fell downward and seemed concreted to the plate or coffee cup in front of them. Now, I’ve been familiar with group and individual therapy long enough,I recognize “uncomfortable,” when I see it. At the moment, there was not a doubt. The next fifteen seconds seemed an eterinity before a somewhat direct, lengthy, honest but friendly conversation ensued about the past history of Western North Carolina. I felt ashamed of myself when the comment was made: “Well, preacher, you have to admit God’s children in the Bible were and had slaves, “right?.”  I felt a rush of flushness as I stammered around a little bit before I responded that there are many places in the Bible where slavery is mentioned or alluded too.  But then, I stepped toward honesty and said that I really didn’t know if the Bible condoned slavery or not. Then I committed to giving it some study and bring my findings back to the table, one day. 

The question nagged me for some time before, in earnest, began my research knowing that the Old Testament is rife with palace intrigues, polygamy, divorce, violence and the like, and godly people are very often part of the problem. Although the New Testament is decidedly improved, it still seems to fall far short of that which my friends, or for that matter, from what I've experienced, what twenty-first century human rights aficionados, I think might expect. For instance, there are no women among the twelve disciples of Jesus.  Just saying. And believers in Jesus, who are masters did have slaves.

When addressing this particular issue as others of it’s kind I was taught many years ago by an exceptional Bible professor, Dr. Holcroft, to step back and ask three larger questions: What are the theological, political, and cultural contexts in which the Old Testament narrative unfolds, and how is the behavior of God's people in the Old Testament expected to be different from those of other cultures?  What are the major developments in the New Testament that would give me a clue to interpretation of Old Testament ethics? And am I expected to further extrapolate changes in behavior beyond the New Testament times to the present day?

To begin with, I should not forget that the Old Testament narratives contain codes which are ethical, ceremonial, and social. Therefore, their application to the present day should not always be considered in literal terms. The social elements of those narratives need not apply to anyone, and the ceremonial ones are largely fulfilled in the completed work of Christ. It is the ethical aspects of Old Testament teaching with which I need to be concerned with, and there is a whole bunch I need to consider.

As an example, on the way to Canaan, in Exodus 23:9, God tells his people through Moses that the alien, or foreigner, among them should not be oppressed. The reason given is fascinating: the people of Israel know in their hearts how it feels to be oppressed!  (The word translated "alien" is not the same as slave, but the experience of the Israelites in Egypt was certainly that of slaves.)  I have just found the first statement on human rights: the alien was to be treated as a citizen; in fact, Leviticus 19:33-34 tells me that, he was to be loved as one of their own. Even when Hebrew law and custom shared in the common heritage of the ancient world, I’m finding, there is a unique care in God's Name for those people who by status were not considered people.  This was something much different from the codes of Babylon and Assyria.

When turning to the New Testament, I find a paradigm to interpret Old Testament practices. In one of their notorious fault-finding missions, found in Matthew 19:1-9; Mark 10:2-9, the Pharisees test Jesus on the subject of divorce. He initially appears to play into their hands, asking what Mosaic Law has to say on the subject. When they gleefully quote the permission of Moses to divorce one's wife, Jesus lays down a method of interpretation that has to be taken very seriously. He makes it clear that certain Old Testament commandments were to be understood as concessions to the hardness of the human heart rather than as expressions of God's holy character. He goes on to reference how this was not the state of affairs in the beginning. That being; before the fall.

The regulation of slavery, I believe ought therefore be seen as a practical step to deal with the realities of the day resulting from human fall. The aberrations that lead to alienation among individuals, races, and nations are the result of a fundamental broken relationship between humankind and God. Within this tragic scenario, Scripture comes as a breath of fresh air as it seeks to redeem the situation and sets us on a path of ever-increasing amelioration (new word for me) of our predicament. So, I trust my friends will accept that while the Bible does not reject slavery outright, the conclusion that it actually favors slavery is patently wrong. Scripture does reveal that slavery is not ideal, both in Old Testament laws forbidding the enslavement of fellow Israelites, the law of jubilee, and in New Testament applications of Christ. In fact, the Bible teaches in Philemon 2:1-8  that the feeling of superiority in general is sin! The abolition of slavery is thus not only permissible by biblical standards, but demanded by biblical principles. The pre-fall statement that should guide and ultimately abolish such (and any) practices of superiority is the declaration that all humans—men and women—are made in the image of God.

On this principle, James 2:1-9; 5:1-6, lays the foundation for progressing far beyond what was possible in New Testament times by addressing the very economic discrimination and favoritism of which slavery is the worst expression. I personally lament the fact that the Church has taken many centuries to live out what Scripture taught long ago, and no doubt many continue to drag their feet. The time delay between the Word of Scripture and its implementation in society is often due to what I call, the "holy huddle" mentality prevailing among Christians who are largely unconcerned about issues outside of their immediate periphery. I am particularly chafed by one example. There is no scriptural basis I can find regarding inter-racial marriage, yet there is a clarion demand in scripture that a believer is not to marry an unbeliever. Yet, it is unbelievable to me the outrage among fellow believers at inter-racial unions and totally satisfied with a union that is declaired not to be. I’m also thinking that another reason many Christians continue to remain silent in the face of injustice is the platonic view of the cosmos the Church has adopted, implying that life in the hereafter is the only issue to be addressed, while many of us stand by and watch the world go by in its destructive way. Both mentalities are sadly misguided.

Father, God, Thank You for leading me into a more exciting experience through the study of You word these past weeks in challenging to give an answer at all times.  Thank You for raising my level of awareness and commitment of involvement regarding social issues. Forgive me of letting such issues pass into the hands of those who may not be Christians, but are better informed about social injustice and concerned enough to fight wrong practices through legal means. While they have no logical basis to do what they are doing, the real truth is that I, in my small way, do have a basis to address these issues by the searching of scripture and the guidance of Your Spirit in my daily walk in this world.  Amen

I Remember When

It seemed to begin during the closing up of Quiet Rest. I am learning that it is becoming more and more difficult to pull information from my mind's filing cabinet.  There were times when I startled myself with the amount of information I carried about in my head. Not any more!  Has coming to depend on my vast directory of names and numbers I carry with me, for instant access on my smart phone, dulled my memory?  Map apps, the same?  I caught myself asking, the other day; "just text me the address," in order that I wouldn't have to think about where I was going.  Then, Bettyann knows me well enough that she, almost all the time now, texts me a reminder for most of my appointments. Hopefully, only thirty minutes or so ahead of time.  But, oddly, there are still those moments that some names, numbers, dates, zip codes, appointment dates and times that permeate my mind. Why?  Is it because I have deemed them so important that I want never to forget the number anymore than I would forget the person or things they represent? And, I've noticed that the significance moves well beyond the boldfaced digits themselves. Like the day of my marriage, the birth of my daughters, the death of my parents or a beloved friend, the various streets of houses where I grew up on, the number of times I failed before I finally passed the test.  The persons that have forgiven me the wrong toward them.

What has given rise to my rumination is reading the book of Esther in the Old Testament story of Mordecai and Queen Esther, wherein chapter nine, the people set themselves to remember the days when they received relief from their enemies, the month that had been turned “from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday.” And so it was determined: “These days of Purim should never cease to be celebrated by the Jews, nor should the memory of them die out among their descendants.” The days were weighted with enough hope to press upon them the need to remember them forever. More importantly, they saw the very certain possibility that they might forget.

There have been times, especially in the last year or so, when I have realized that I have always beheld the carving of a day into the great tree of history.  I look at the little carvings of Wood ducks in their tree nest, on our bedroom wall, and think of knowing, as the groom, from that 30th day of June, fifty years ago, forward, it would be difficult (and detrimental) to forget that day on the calendar. It would carry the force of forgetting so much more. I remember on my way to the hospital on the day my first grandchild was born; that day has come to be about to be something so much more. Like the day, when I was eight, my grandfather was buried. My remembering is more than a recollection of detail; it is the recollection of grandpa in all his person. 
   

With a similar sense of anticipation, God told the Israelites that they would remember the night of Passover before the night even happened. “This day shall be for you a memorial day, and you shall keep it as a feast to the LORD; throughout your generations, as a statute forever, you shall keep it as a feast” Exodus 12:14. Moses and Aaron were given instructions to tell the whole community of Israel to choose a lamb without defect, slaughtering it at twilight. Then they were to take some of the blood and put it on the doorposts of the houses. “The blood will be a sign,” the LORD declared. “And when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike the firstborns of Egypt.”

For a long time, I have known the significance of remembering is a theme carried throughout all of Scripture. But only recently have I realized with fulI weight that it is not about static facts or rules or figures, but the mystery of a place, the significance of a person, the marking of lives. Celebrating the Passover was nonnegotiable. The command to remember was passed down from generation to generation. But they were remembering more than the mere events of Israel’s exodus from Egypt; they were remembering God as the God showing up and changing them—the faithful hand that moved among them, the mighty acts which exclaim a Father’s untiring remembering of his people.

I can imagine the disciples sitting around the table celebrating their third Passover meal with Jesus, an observance they kept before they could walk, everything probably looking ceremoniously familiar. I smell of lamb filling the upper room; the unleavened bread prepared and waiting to be broken. Remembering again the acts of God in Egypt, the blood on the doorposts, the lives spared and brought out of slavery, I see them giving attention to their teacher as He lifted the bread from the table and gave thanks to God. Then Jesus broke the bread, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” Powerful!

I have always wished that Luke would have described a little more of the scene that followed. Were the disciples hushed and confused? Did their years of envisioning the blood-marked doorposts cry out at the Lamb of God before them? They had spent their entire lives remembering the sovereignty of God in the events of the Passover, and then Jesus tells them that there is yet more to see in this day on the calendar: In this broken bread is the reflection of Me.

Father, God, thank You for engraving across history the promise of Passover: I still remember you. I still seek you. Amen  

My Tool Shed Experience

I have read some of God in the Dock, by C.S. Lewis, but for the first time, I'm reading his essay titled "Meditation in a Toolshed," in which he is describing the scene from within a darkened shed. The sun is brilliantly shining outside, yet from the inside only a small sunbeam can be seen through a crack at the top of the door. Everything is pitch-black except for the prominent beam of light, by which he can see flecks of dust floating about.  He writes: "I was seeing the beam, not seeing things by it. Then I moved, so that the beam fell on my eyes.  Instantly the whole previous picture vanished. I saw no toolshed, and (above all) no beam. Instead I saw, framed in the irregular cranny at the top of the door, green leaves moving in the branches of a tree outside and beyond that, 90 odd million miles away, the sun. Looking along the beam, and looking at the beam are very different experiences."

Since focusing my scripture reading toward the Gospels, I have given attention to the accounts, more than once, of the woman with the alabaster jar, and notice some similarity to what Lewis writes. "Do you see this woman?" Jesus asks, as if He is speaking as much to me as the guests around the table. With a jar of costly perfume, she had anointed the feet of Christ with fragrance and tears. She then endured the criticism of those around her because she alone saw the One in front of them. While the dinner crowd was sitting in the dark about Jesus, the woman was peering in the light of understanding. What she saw invoked tears of recognition, sacrifice, and much love. Gazing along the beam and at the beam are quite different ways of seeing.

The late seventeenth century poet George Herbert once described prayer as "the soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage." At those words I picture the woman with her broken alabaster jar, wiping the dusty, fragrant feet of Christ with her hair. Pouring out the expensive nard, she seemed to pour out her soul. Fittingly, Herbert concludes his grand description of prayer as "something understood."

The woman with the alabaster jar not only saw the Christ when others did not, Christ saw her when others could not see past her reputation. "Do you see this woman?" Jesus asked while the others were questioning her actions, past and present. "I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much." Her soul's cry was heard; she, herself was understood. I should be so spiritually fortunate!

I'm disapointed in myself when I think of how many times I might have seen Jesus as a good man, historical character, interesting teacher, one who sees, one who hears, one who loves. And laid my Bible down, or arose from my knees bowed in prayer, easily walking away felling like I have seen and heard everything I need to see and hear. 

Father, God, the fact is, I confess, this morning, I have seen and heard very little.  Taking a bit longer and taking the risk of not accomplishing my goals and wants may well change everything for me.  I commit to staying longer in Your presence. Time; searching for a better perspective.   Amen

My Struggle with Anonymity

It is just about the dumbest incident I have ever read or heard.  I am unable to comprehend it; it's so stupid. Yet I find myself in it. It seems that a fella, wearing sunglasses and shirt over the lower portion of his face, walked into a pharmacy and announced it was a robbery.  The pharmacist toward the back of the store was astonished and couldn't believe it. He quickly came to the front, not with a gun in hand, not hollering in an attempt to dissuade the attempting robber but rather, recognizing the voice, called the man by name and told him not to joke around like this.  The  would-be burglar immediately spun around and ran out of the store, boarding a nearby city bus.

Most recently I found how easy it is to enter into a certain situation with a false sense of anonymity. Kind of like; when Bettyann says to me I can't wear the dirty shop shirt and pants to do banking.  I respond, that it will be fine, that no one knows me, anyway. Shielded under the veil of obscurity, the pharmacy break-in seemed somehow easier to carry out. The man walked into the pharmacy thinking he would carry out a faceless robbery, when in fact the pharmacist knew his name, his address, and enough of his character to suspect it was a joke. Had the pharmacist not recognized him, he might have followed through with the crime.

A long time ago, I was startled by the thought the God knows my name.  Ever since that day, I struggle in my inner being when I hear the phrase, "she/he found God." No, God found her/him. I have asked myself the question time and time again: Whether living with the suspicion that some flaws, fears, thoughts, or some worries can stay hidden, how has it changed my life, knowing God is calling out my name in the midst of it? At seventy three am I still as startled at the sound of my name; jarred to attention by the only sovereign One in the room? Yep, just like this pharmacy burglar, there are still times I instinctively feel like running, finding myself suddenly exposed where I once thought I was safely hidden. But really, what point is there in running away from Someone who knows my name?

 At one time in my life the words of Psalm 139 seemed a harsh reminder that my fleeing from God was unsuccessful. David’s prayer seemed to leap out, a stubborn confession of my own inability to hide:

“O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD. You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon me…Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?”

But there has always been one verse (6) in this psalm I unconsciously ignored. Speaking personally of God’s omniscience in his own life, David said, “Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.” This morning, I realize there have been many reasons in life that I have instinctively attempted to run from You. Often times, the thought of remaining in the presence of Your Holiness, Who knows my name has been far too much to bear. When I ruminate on it; the thought of it always makes me feel scolded. I don't wnt t justify myself, but David, too, seemed familiar with the terror of being caught in sin and called out by name. And yet, he also knew the beautiful mystery of being in the presence of One who would never stop calling his name, though he made his bed in the depths or settled on the far side of the sea.

Father, God, in the fact that You know my name means that You will not stop looking for me even though I hide.  I commit I am going to apply Your grace much more from this moment on not to turn away, but also know if my propensity for doing so rears up, You will not abstain from loving me. You, Father will not stop striving to bring me back into arms that long to gather me: “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me—just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep.” Such knowledge is indeed too lofty for me to attain. Amen

What Has Heritage To Do With Anything

The last battle had been fought, the final obstacle demolished; the land that was once promised was now land possessed. Joshua called together all the tribes of Israel and standing upon the foreign ground of freedom he announced to all the people: "This is what the LORD, the God of Israel, says: 'Long ago your forefathers, including Terah the father of Abraham and Nahor, lived beyond the River and worshiped other gods. But I took your father Abraham from the land beyond the River and led him throughout Canaan and gave him many descendants... Then I sent Moses and Aaron, and I afflicted the Egyptians by what I did there, and I brought you out.... You saw with your own eyes what I did to the Egyptians. Then you lived in the desert for a long time'" Joshua 24: 2-3,5,7

Goethe once penned, "What you have as heritage, take now as task; for thus you will make it your own." Having fought hard to possess the land God had promised, the Israelites now stood before Joshua looking forward to the life God had promised. On this momentous day, they were given instruction from God in the form of history. The vast majority of the people listening had not personally lived through the miraculous events in Egypt. As the Red Sea was parted and the Egyptians swallowed by sea, they were not standing on dry ground watching with their own eyes as it all happened. And yet, the impact of this history and the continual (and commanded) retelling of the story made it possible for the LORD to say it as such: With your own eyes you have seen almost a millennium of landless slavery redeemed by God's promise, transformed at God's own hands.

God continued to speak through Joshua, moving from Israel's early history into days the crowd would remember first hand: "'Then you crossed the Jordan and came to Jericho.  The citizens of Jericho fought against you, as did also the Amorites, Perizzites, Canaanites, Hittites, Girgashites, Hivites and Jebusites, but I gave them into your hands.... You did not do it with your own sword and bow. I gave you a land on which you did not toil and cities you did not build; and you live in them and eat from vineyards and olive groves that you did not plant'" 24:11,13).

His words told of current events and familiar scenery, while warning against forgetting it was God presently and historically who brought them there. God reminded the battle-weary Israelites that what happened at the crossing of the Red Sea with Moses was as imperative to their story as the crossing of the Jordan with Joshua. God's hand throughout their history was to be God's assurance of his plans to give them a hope and a future.

Bill, are you just reading this without comprehending what God is saying to you? Are you recongnizing the fact that Jehovah saves even on this day, in every one of your dark valleys, in each trying situation? In doing so, you are remembering the story of God in its entirety. God saved His people from Egypt; from God's hand came each victory across the Jordan.  By God's presence a nation was led into the Promised Land; by the blood of His Beloved the curse of sin and death was stopped. You are to take capture the thought that your worldview is a historical memory alive in you in this very moment. That is: today God saves because yesterday God saved.

I do remember the words in Dietrich Bonhoeffer's book, Life Together, where he states emphatically, "It is in fact more important for us to know what God did to Israel, to his Son Jesus Christ, than to seek what God intends for us today.... I find no salvation in my life history but only in the history of Jesus Christ." When Bonhoeffer was leading the anti-Nazi Confessing Church, he was moveing by the presence of God in the history of Israel, the promise of God in his crucified Son, such that he chose to believe in God's salvation even unto death in a concentration camp. Bill, you need to confess of your petty complaint. 

You need to firmly get a hold of the fact: it is God's word to his people on that day of promise, when Joshua declared, "Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your forefathers served beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD." Out of the history of God with the people of Israel comes a story that instructs my own, a rescuer born and wounded for my sin. With Isaiah I hear God's plea, "Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is no one like me, declaring the end from the beginning and from ancient times things not yet done."

Father, God, thank You for the insight into the fact of Your people being led into the Promised Land with a leader whose very name confesses "Jehovah saves." Also, that it is not coincidental that the same word marks the name of Jesus, who offered his life that, insignificant me along with the entire world, might be fully led into Your story.  Thank You for Bonhoeffer and his life story.  Amen