Dickens Brings Me More Reflection

Since enjoying the film maker's, The Man Who Made Christmas, all sorts  of thoughts have been rolling around in my head about the characters, issues, events, places and insights of his writings. I’ve been captivated for the last couple of weeks with Dickens and what might have struck his thoughts as he laid down the opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities.  They just might be the most heralding statements of anything he ever wrote. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair..." How often , over the past five decades, have I heard the abbreviated portion of the; “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” phrase? They are perfect for reflecting the novel’s central tension between opposing pairs and the ebbs and flows of an era.  Reflecting on my life, wow, what ebbs and flows! 

So, here I sit for the last few mornings, more inclined to reflect, looking back and look forward with thoughts and words that, I hope, may help me sift through the stories unfolded, enfolding, developing before me.  As I purchased a new calendar the other day for 2018, my mind’s eye immediately saw Bettyann turning each page, adding significant dates and holidays, birthdays and anniversaries. I really need to scrutinize it more closely this year because a visual contact with those dates seem to naturally lend themselves to a time of reflection. Not only on the past but for the future. For years, I’ve too often found myself (as dad would put it), “a day late and a dollar short.” At this moment, I see the first of the year being perhaps the most confronting dates (and certainly the best marketed) that calls me to reflect. I have before me the month that marks another unavoidable beginning of another year, even if merely seen as time to start potting rhizomes, building furniture and welcoming clients back.

I have already listened as friends and acquaintances proudly announce their resolutions.  Others somewhat reluctant.  After all theses years, I can't say I'm surprised when I read that this last month there has been a rise of sales in the self-help book area. My mind is already starring into the 365 days ahead with hope and expectation. Not as much as I would like, I confess.  A bit melancholic, but all the same, there's enough phlegmatic in in me to keep a decent balance, I think.  I admit I’m already expecting some times of fear and know it will take determination on my part. There are other times, I’m anticipating that will bring, over the top, excitement. As I review the year past, I’m trying to use a careful and measured eye. I’m feeling nostalgic for most that has gone by, yet there's a sense of heaviness for all I longed to see turn out differently, but hopefully with wisdom to carry into days to come. What were the year's successes and failures? What will I accomplish this year? Where have I been? How far have I come this past year?

But I’m convicted to rehearse again in the beginning weeks, starting tomorrow, to ask and answer the basics with a greater sense of existential angst, "Where am I going?" As an annual syndicated column in the pages of major newspapers on New Year's Day will be articles discussing several up and coming self-improvement, self-discovery books for the New Year. In between advice for learning to embrace life fully and tips for rehabilitating one’s sense of style, last year's writer noted the inconsistency of the well-marketed, self-help world of reflecting. "If all these books are out there," she asked, "the question remains: why aren't we well?"

Just as this last month’s celebration of Advent and Christmas reminded me in white, green, red, silver and gold, that the birth of Christ has ushered in a new era, I’m convinced that I do not want to miss this occasion for reflection. Why, I ask myself?  Because God has come near changing everything—and continues to change—everything.

I’m encouraged to find that at the commencement of the year 1874, Frances Havergal composed the following hymn as a New Year's greeting card.

Another year is dawning, dear

Father, let it be

In working or in waiting, another year with Thee.

Another year of progress, another year of praise,

Another year of proving Thy presence all the days.

Another year of mercies, of faithfulness and grace,

Another year of gladness in the shining of Thy face;

Another year of leaning upon Thy loving breast;

Another year of trusting, of quiet, happy rest.

Another year of service, of witness for Thy love,

Another year of training for holier work above.

Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be

On earth, or else in heaven, another year for Thee.

Father, Loving God, whether looking back or looking forward, I’m confident Your presence is both my help and hope.  Amen

Fight It or Join It?

Triumph, today, will seem to come in many shades of success in this culture. Experience tells me that; try as so many may, to keep a perspective of cheer, charity or readiness for the celebratory coming of Christ, tomorrow; a lot of people will find themselves coming up short.  

This morning many are feeling uncomfortable with the celebration of Christmas day. Kind of like the massage therapist, when asked if she would worship on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, began jabbering, incessantly, with excuse, all about all she had to accomplish by noon today and just hoping everything she wanted to purchase was still in stock.  And then she will attend a party and
probably not have time to wrap most gifts. She is going to cross  her fingers in trying to purchase huge gift bags so the children would have some surprise at the opening.  It is just a reminder that not a few folks are fighting the battle and can only feel they are winning when they  have met every shipping deadline, reciprocated every Christmas card, or averted every scheduling conflict. For some years now, I’ve noticed that victories, even I, might otherwise find slight, seem to become great feats during the holidays—finding a parking spot, getting my packages to Michelle for wrapping before she put away all her gift rap and ribbon, on and on. Other fights continue to brew, this early hour, over the accepting or rejecting of manger scenes, messiahs, and “Merry Christmases” in the face of less specific holiday tales and greetings. Though there seems to be an oscillation (new use of term) between who or what one might be fighting against—the clock, the perfect hostess, the family stressors, the agendas of others—everyone seems to be working toward tomorrow one insignificant round at a time.  

It was singing with the congregation the lyrics to a song during the lighting of the second Advent candle, a couple of Sunday’s ago, I was silenced by the image of a victory I need do nothing but join.

Joyful, all ye nations rise,

Join the triumph of the skies;

With the angelic host proclaim,

“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

The triumph the Church invites the world to join as we celebrate Christmas is far bigger than any of our best Christmases and more real than our worst. O what pleasure I derive as I stand among the various generations of believers offering the same cries of victory shouted on the very first Christmas night: Christ was born! God came near. God is with us! The birth of Jesus was orchestrated at the hands of God long before the inn would be full or the shepherds would be in their fields by night, long before Bettyann’s and my traditions would seem etched in stone, (although I didn’t hang lights this year) or some neighborhoods removing the Nativity from the common area.

I’m thinking this morning that while there may be some ‘victories’ to rightfully seek this season, there are others I can let go of, lost with Herod’s fight for control somewhere along the obscure path to a stable outside of Bethlehem. The triumph of a God who so cares for creation that He joins all human beings within it is a victory already won. God is with us. Hallelujah!  The triumph the church asks the world to join as I and all people celebrate Christ’s birth is a triumph known from the beginning, foreseen by the prophets, heralded by John the Baptist, and cherished by witnesses whose voices still cry out the incredible news of a Christmas story that will not change no matter what I think I am fighting for:

“And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’ Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.'” Amen

My Love Of A Good Story

Bettyann, Amy, Sarah, Brayden and I all enjoyed viewing the film, The Man Who Created Christmas and giving some reflections these past couple of weeks it struck me of a story I read some time ago about Frank Boreham's childhood and how storytelling became a huge part of his life. Just as Frank and his nine siblings sat around with their mother around the radio on Sunday evening listening to the "The Hassock Hour," I’m reminded of all those Saturday mornings when Ann and I went to the basement to shine our Sunday shoes with our dad, and listen to the “Buster Brown” adventure program.  I don’t think, to this day, I’ve ever heard rivalling adventurous stories as when I was a child. As a child I was always spell bound at the stories at the feet of grandpa, grandma, and dad, let alone the captive tales of Buster Brown, the Lone Ranger, or Masterpiece Hour. I have memories of many favorite stories but I do relish the story Frank says his mother told him.  It was a story she said had happened to her when she was seventeen.

As the story goes, she had made a plan with her cousin, Kitty, to spend the afternoon at Canterbury Cathedral. She said, neither one of them had been before and that was all the two teens could talk about for some time. What an adventure it would be. But on the day, hour and place they had agreed upon, Kitty was no where to be found. After an hour and a half, Mrs. Boreham relayed, "I was just about to turn away, dejected and disgusted, when an elderly gentleman approached me." He seemed to notice she had been waiting for someone, and proceeded to ask if she would like a tour. "I am deeply attached to the place," the man said, "and happen to know something of its wonderful story."

This turned out to be quite true. As they moved from point to point, the stories of and with the cathedral became alive. The man recreated in words the arrival of Augustine in the sixth century, the first archbishop of Canterbury. He described the pilgrims of Chaucher's Canterbury Tales, and the Danes' disfiguring attack on the noble building. Beside the shrine of Thomas Becket, the grim martyrdom of 1170 came to mind as never before. Mrs. Boreham had discovered adventure after all: "Concerning every pillar and arch, every cranny and crevice, my eloquent guide had some thrilling tale to tell."

I believe, more than ever, all the stories I’ve paid attention too (and some I gave no thought, at the time) along with those I’ve read, over the years, has unbelievably impacted and influenced my life. Over the past twenty years, I’ve come to the conclusion that my influence as a storyteller is equally profound. I give immense  praise and credit to all the hospice patients and staff with whom shared their stories with me as their spiritual care provider. Those stories are vividly stored in loving memory. But I'm more sensitive to this now that I'm in the middle of Advent. F.W. Boreham long cited his mother's masterful storytelling as the tool God chose to most shape his own writing and imagination. Her storytelling made visible the wonders of God at work. "The Hassock Hour" brought past and future, story and faith to life for Boreham—much in the way the guided tour brought Canterbury Cathedral to life for his mother, through the eyes of one who knew well the story, both learned to see.  

Viewing the early church a bit more intently this week, I see it full of similar testimonies. As Philip ran beside the chariot of the Ethiopian official, he heard a fragment of a story. The official had been in Jerusalem worshipping at the temple, and on his way home he was reading from the book of Isaiah. Hearing this, Philip asked the man if he understood what he was reading. "How can I," he replied, "unless someone explains it to me?" and he invited Philip into the chariot. Then Philip began with that very passage of Scripture and told him the rest of the story. The one whom Isaiah foretold, the one who would be "led like a sheep to the slaughter," was crucified in Jerusalem and resurrected to life. Seeing water, the man stopped the chariot and asked Philip to baptize him: "I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God," he said decidedly.

Why, I ask myself, is storytelling so profound?  Simply, it’s because I’m not only living in but living a story.  Mrs. Boreham's encounter at Canterbury invited her to live life among a great history of belief and story. In that cathedral, she was simply one among countless pilgrims to stand in awe before the Lord. Likewise, the Ethiopian official found himself a part of the same grand story, invited to life as it reached far beyond the words of Isaiah himself—from Eden to Nazareth to Ethiopia. Aren’t the stories I tell a constant reminder of the fact that life is first and foremost a story?

I’m reminded that there is first a storyteller. When at long last the cathedral tour was finished and they were heading out the great doors, Mrs. Boreham's guide suggested they exchange cards. She thanked him sincerely for his time and courtesy and tucked the card in her pocket. On the train ride home, she pulled it out. It simply read: Charles Dickens. Wow!  Yes, even though I understand my live as a story, how often do I fully realize the storyteller in my midst? 

Father, God, I'm going to continue to tell the story of Christmas because there is a story to tell?  Amen

Odd, But, Earnst, Your Still My Friend

I learned early on in life that sometimes a friendship can be forged that surprises everybody but the two that own it.  It happened to me, I think, for the first time when I was a junior in high school when five of us started a band called the “Harmona Cats” to “star” in the Stars of Tomorrow Talent of Wyoming.  Earnest was the son of a Pentecostal pastor and played the piano like I had never heard it played.  From classical to rag time, jazz to spiritual, boogie-woogie to rock and roll.  All that was needed was a suggested song and Earnest took off.  A dozen or so years later, when Andrea Crouch came on the scene, I was reminded of Earnest, once again.  I remember how Earnest had helped me in my early development of playing the bass fiddle by ear, introducing me to the “slap” string and key recognitions on the fly. Every Monday and Thursday evening Earnest and I became inseparable for two years, until graduation.  I regret that I never followed up on Earnest after I left for college.  Yet I will never forget the evening of practice when we shared with each other the struggles, fears, suspicions, and speculations of he being born black and my being born white.  Without expressing it, that night solidified a friendship, at least on my part, to this hour.

That relationship surfaced again the other night when patrolling my e-mails and found a friend suggestion I take a looks at a video of Gohan and Aochan.  It seems they lived side by side for months, at times even curling up next to one another as they sleep. Such behavior is, perhaps, natural among creatures sharing habitats—except that Gohan and Aochan should have naturally been predator and prey. Gohan was a three and a half inch dwarf hamster, and her companion, Aochan, a rat snake. The hamster, who was jokingly named “meal” in Japanese, was originally given to Aochan as dinner after the snake refused to eat frozen mice. But instead of dining, Aochan decided to make friends. Much to the zookeeper’s surprise, the two began sharing a cage. Gohan would even climb onto Aochan’s back to take a nap.

 The thought of such a relationship is one that fascinates in its complexity (if not an accident waiting to happen). Though the friend who sent me this story assured me that unusual bondings have occurred throughout the animal kingdom without bad endings, I still find myself leery of the Timber Rattler’s and Copper Head’s intentions we experience on occasion at Quiet Rest. Can a snake really surrender its natural instincts to hunt? What happens when Gohan gets in his way or makes him mad, or when the zookeeper is running late feeding the reptiles? Can the nature of a snake remain reversed because of a relationship?

 In a significant prophecy of the coming Messiah (literally, anointed one) and His ensuing reign, Isaiah describes a scene full of similarly unusual relationships in his chapter 11: “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them. The cow will feed with the bear, their young will lie down together, and the lion will eat straw like the ox. The infant will play near the hole of the cobra, and the young child put his hand into the viper’s nest. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain, for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea.”

 On many levels it is a scene that is unimaginable. Personally, I would no sooner trust the cobra than I would trust the one who suggests I allow any one of my grandchildren to play near it. Yet the vision speaks of a dramatic change in nature throughout God’s kingdom, where the aggressiveness and cruelty that are so much a part of our world will be forever changed. If I’ve got my eschatology and beyond right, I will look at the relationship of Gohan and Aochan and not fear the hamster’s trust of the snake. It seems to be with good reason that I ascribe such a reality as something God promises in the future, in heaven, when nature as I know it has passed away. Wow, there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain; the wolf will live with the lamb and the leopard will lie down with the goat, for the old order of things will have passed away. I’m confessing that this is indeed an image of things to come. But could it not also be something more?

As I’m focusing intently on the Christian story these days, I’m finding afresh that it tells something about the coming of the Messiah that brings this scene to life even now. The Incarnation—the coming of Jesus into creation—turns things on earth upside-down. Like the brutal outlaw in one of Flannery O’Connor’s short stories, the Misfit, recognizes, there is something about the Incarnation that has “thrown everything off balance.” The mere presence of the source of all matter in my present midst, the Incarnate Christ coming to me in flesh and blood introduces a possibility of grace that changes the nature of everything. O’Conner goes on to say: “If He did what He said, then its nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow him, and if He didn’t, then its nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best you can—by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him.” But I really get hold of what Isaiah depicts when he says it’s a world a world where lions and vipers will not kill; young lambs will rest peacefully beside predators, “for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea” It is unnatural for a wolf not to harm a defenseless lamb or a snake not to bite the hand that invades its nest. Is it any more natural that I should be able to defy my human nature? That I should claim the old has gone and left a new creation in its place? That I should find myself born a second time from above?

Yet to bow before the person of Christ—in life, in prayer, in relationship, in community—is to lay my life at the feet of the One who is both Lamb and Lion in a way that overturns these very notions of nature. In his work Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton finds fault with the way this is often envisioned. “It is constantly assured,” he writes “…that when the lion lies down with the lamb the lion becomes lamb-like. But that is brutal annexation and imperialism on the part of the lamb. That is simply the lamb absorbing the lion instead of the lion eating the lamb. The real problem is—Can the lion lie down with the lamb and still retain his royal ferocity?”

Father, God, these things are a mystery. Yet, Christ achieves them all.  I find His invitation, every day, to be one of fierce hope of transformation and the gentle assurance of new life on earth and as it will one day be in heaven. I confess it is He alone who can reverse the nature of the snake; He is both Lamb and Lion. Amen 

My Theology of Nearness

After I left her sitting at the little round top table, next to where I was seated for bagle and coffee, I began trying to think how many times I have tried to encourage someone with the assurance of God's nearness. I cannot even begin to estimate. I have remembered that in these last months it seems I have written not a few cards, trying to assure that; "God is near. God is standing with you." I believe, as a Christian, it is an astonishing attribute of the God I profess, to be THE "God of our refuge and strength," so writes the psalmist, "an ever-present help in trouble." Again, "The Lord is near," the apostle tells the Philippians, "Do not be anxious." To me, the One who draws near is a vital part of the story of Christianity, the One in which Christians understandably draw hope. Yet, I'm not ignorant of the fact that the same is not automatically hopeful true to everyone. I was reminded of this when my assurance of God's presence in the life of the struggling young lady at the coffee bar was met with her honest rejoinder: "Is that supposed to encourage me?"

I think I've figured out (puzzled) that nearness in and of itself is not assuring. I had forgotten this in my well-meaning, though knee-jerk truism. An essential ingredient in the assurance that comes from nearness is the person who is drawing near. The degree of comfort and assurance (or instruction and conviction) I believe is drawn from those near me and altogether contingent on who it is that has drawn near. Probably, for some folk, the thought that God is near resembles more a threat than a promise. My breakfast acquaintance's perception of God at that moment was perhaps closer to Julian Huxley's than King David's. For Huxley, God resembled "not a ruler, but the last fading smile of a cosmic Cheshire cat." For I read in Psalm 73 that for David, God's nearness was clearly thought for his good.

So I'm going to write my theology of nearness. It seems to me that in Christian theology, the attributes of God are qualities which attempt to describe the God who has come near enough to reveal who God is. These attributes cannot be taken individually, removed from one another like garments in a great wardrobe; they are not traits that exist independently but simultaneously, at times in paradoxical mystery. God is both near us and "among us" as Isaiah writes; God is also far from us and beyond us—in knowledge, in grandeur, in immensity, in position. "Am I only a God nearby," declares the LORD, "and not a God far away? Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?" declares the LORD. "Do not I fill heaven and earth?"

Further, I see that the One who dwells both among us and in the highest heavens is also according to Scripture good and wise and holy. The God of whose nearness I speak is infinite in being, glory, blessedness and perfection; all-sufficient, eternal, unchangeable, incomprehensible, everywhere present, almighty, knowing all things, most wise, most holy, most just, most merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth. I have picked that up from the Westminster Larger Catechism. There is no other God; God is wholly other.

I've begun to realize that it has been after the candid response from this particular young lady, how important it is to attempt to clarify what I mean—and whom I speak of—when I say that God is near; so my attempts will remind me that this is never a simple, casual knowledge understood. To everyone that I speak needs not only to know that God is near but that God is merciful, not only that God is holding them and their situation, but that God is good. When I speak of nearness - whoever needs to hear the "who" behind the promise, beyond the attribute. And I needed that candid reminder that morning.  That the attributes I can study, the biblical promises to which I cling, the words I count on to comfort or restore, are pale in comparison and meaningful only because of the One they describe. When I share the promise that God is among us I need to intentionally visualize God almighty that is standing among us.

I realize it's the beginning of Christians around the world contemplating again the mystery of the Incarnation, the divine drawing near in human form. Yet, I know I'll run into those not so spiritually enthusiastic and/or skeptics. I need to be an encouragement to them in the fact that nearness is a claim worth deeper inquiry. Who is it who comes near, who rends the heavens to stand beside humanity, who stands at the door and knocks? Who is this God among us?

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a man who attested to the nearness of God though confined to a jail cell, depicted the one beside whom he lived and before whom he prayed as a quiet voice, gentle, persuasive, and patient. He prayed in Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Christmas Sermons:

"Lord Jesus, come yourself, and dwell with us, be human as we are, and overcome what overwhelms us. Come into the midst of my evil, come close to my unfaithfulness. Share my sin, which I hate and which I cannot leave. Be my brother, Thou Holy God. Be my brother in the kingdom of evil and suffering and death. Come with me in my death, come with me in my suffering, come with me as I struggle with evil. And make me holy and pure, despite my sin and death."

Father, God, Your nearness means so much more to me than ever before.  Now may You add Your grace through the Holy Spirit to  embolden me in asking others: What if it is this God who hears our prayers, the one who walked in Jerusalem, the Christ who came among us? What if it is this God who is near?  Amen

Reflection of Being At Home This Christmas

Sometimes I wonder if I might not have acquired a "nutsy" propensity.  I haven't talked to anyone, professionally, about it.  Maybe I should, since it draws my focus down various odd, sometimes frightening, circuitous but always adventurous trails of thought. There is this way of transitioning or morphing  from ruminating on a particular mind film into a completely different storied film. Kind of like asking; what made me dream that?  Or like last week, when Amy called me.  In the course of our conversation she said, "We are really looking forward to mom's and your visit."  How in the world did that statement morph, the other morning, into my thinking how I  so much enjoy T.S. Eliot's imagination when he describes the reminiscent thoughts of one of the Magi journeying from far away to witness the birth of Christ in his poem Journey of the Magi? Was it deep within my filing cabinet of memory; how I enjoy being in her home, loving on her, Jason, and two of my grandchildren? Beats me. But it happens more and more frequently these past few years.  Finding the poem and familiarizing myself again, I visualized his using the voice of this, far from home, Magi to portray the weight in my own soul, who has confronted the human Christ, and Who has pointed me home.  I've been thinking for the last week on how powerfully the poem concludes for me when I read:

“Birth or Death? There was a birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt I had seen birth and death.
But had thought they were different, this Birth was
hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our palaces, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
with an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.”

I've been ruminating on an idea of which Eliot provides a scene here that suggests that by setting my eye's on the Child Who was born to die is like dying myself, in a sense, and forever changing my sense of "home."  I get a bit tenebrific (new word) at the thought, yet realizing it is a note echoed triumphantly, over and over again throughout the New Testament. I recognize that both Jesus and the apostle Paul utilizes the same imagery of death to describe life in Christ and uses interplay of both home and homelessness.  A couple of examples are found in Matthew 10 and Galatians 2.  First, Jesus uttered: “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” Paul: “I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me.”

In the season of Advent, I, along with millions of Christians, will be professing to be a people watching and waiting—in hope, in lament, in need—remembering and anticipating with those who first watched God step into the world through the mean estate of a dirty stable. We are going to be remembering those who first set their eyes on the Child who was born to die, becoming, in a sense, as Christ was on that first night, homeless and out of place. I wonder how many others  will remember that we, too, are far from home, longing for a home we know in part.  I am, already. Having truly seen the person of Christ, I see all the more clearly the reality of a world in need of justice, reconciliation, mercy, and healing. And I so desire to be, as Eliot describes, “no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, with an alien people clutching their gods.” The message of Advent has started to awaken me to a fresh sense that I am both near and far from home, reminding my shadowed world that a bright Light has indeed been born in my soul, reminding my broken thought patterns that I am waiting for the return of this One Who shows me what it means to be truly human and whole again. I must remind myself to thank my pastor for adding kindling to the fire last Sunday, teaching on the subject of heaven. 

While reading one of the most comforting conversations between Jesus and the disciples, in the gospel of John, I became conflicted, yet convinced as Jesus gives a description of this place, which I have only seen in part, and He assures me of an invitation to be fully inside. “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.” Compounding this hope, His words are followed by one of His most quoted promises. As Thomas replied, “But Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” Jesus answered: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”

Yes, I am finding in Christ Himself the curious interplay of home and homelessness. This One Who so loved creation that He joins me within it is not only the herald of my homelessness but the forerunner of my home. He still is proclaiming this very kingdom among all mankind and He mercifully offers himself as the way inside. I find that G.K. Chesterton describes my mysterious place of being both near and far from home when he wrote these words :

“For men are homesick in their homes,
and strangers under the sun…
but our homes are under miraculous skies
where the Yule tale was begun.”

Father, God, I thank You for the part of Your story where Christ’s birth first brought a unique, clarion, and one of a kind message of hope and home—with the much needed room for lament over all that is presently missing and the desperately needed foretastes of a table where, before much longer, I will have the privilege of approaching, in healed communion with myself, my neighbors, You-The Trinity. I thank You, Jesus for taking on the fullness of humanity and became homeless that I might come fully home. I worship in recognizing, this early morning, Your proclaiming a kingdom here and while mercifully continuing preparing  me for a place within it. May I be worthy to let my heart prepare You room!  Amen

Shopping Spree and Me

Black Friday.  The two word in themselves seem a bit ominous to me.  Like some galactic space phenomenal space novel  or maybe an event of biblical prophecy. No such event though. The term "Black Friday" was coined in the 1960s, although I was still in high school in that "out of the way" town in Wyoming and never remember hearing the phrase until, maybe, the 80s. I do remember hearing and getting involved in helping kickoff the Christmas season when we moved to Florida.  I've since learned the "Black" refers to the ink pen when accounting records were kept by hand, and the red ink indicated a loss; black in profit.  Ever since the start of the modern Macy's Thanksgiving Parade in 1924, the Friday after Thanksgiving has been known as the unofficial start to a very marry holiday shopping season. My interest peeked a little bit when finding that the concept has caught on in the last couple of decades in Canada and as far away as Europe.  I can't wrap my mind around the fact that thousands of Americans cress-cross borders and the Atlantic with Canadians and, especially, Germans to buy gifts and celebrate the approaching Christmas season. Yep, yep, yahoo, I just can't wait for the evoking me into seller competition, steep sales and loud advertisements to make for a frenzied scene and the need for more stamina. Ya, right! Even preferring to watch from the house or shop I'm still not going to be able to miss the fervor that has already started with the internet, radio and television blaring advertisements of becoming involved. Not mentioning the hectic race that occurs in traffic and lines at the hardware store.  Beginning tomorrow, I'll be on guard as folks lace up their tennis shoes, preparing to outrun me, come Friday, to wherever and whatever, as if wherever will collapse and whatever will vanish by Saturday.  I'm thinking that probable I ought to just stand real still for a few days. For me, easier said than done.

Sitting here, this morning, I do realize that in the past, the commencement of the Christmas shopping season has sadly overshadowed the commencement of a far quieter season. The season of Advent!  I'm going to be intentional this season about watching for the signals of the coming of Christmas.  I was hit between my eyes when I read the words of Joan Chittister: "Advent is about the spirituality of emptiness, of enough-ness, of stripped-down fullness of soul." Now isn't that a far cry from the hustle of the holidays that is a race for storing things up? I'm not going to allow, as some years gone by, speed-hoarding through the days of Christmas preparation cause Christmas itself to become anticlimactic. "Long before December 25th everyone is worn out," said C.S. Lewis more than 50 years ago, "—physically worn out by weeks of daily struggle in overcrowded shops, mentally worn out by the effort to remember all the right recipients and to think out suitable gifts for them. They are in no trim for merry-making... They look far more as if there had been a long illness in the house." I think I've got it right; it's going to be quite the opposite.  This Advent is going to be a season meant to slow me down, letting it open my windows of awareness and health, to trigger consciousness. It's going to be all about finding the kind of quiet and the sort of emptiness that can expectantly offer a place for the fullness for You, God, as an infant I hold closer and more intimately to my breast.

Of course, no matter how quiet my heart, I know that You, the incarnate Christ will still be a mystery. But I'm continuing to find that mystery, like beauty and truth, is well worth stillness, wonder, and contemplation. And this mystery—the gift of a God who steps into the world He created—is rich enough to make my distracted soul bow. "Let anyone with ears listen!" said Jesus repeatedly throughout His life on earth. "But to what will I compare this generation?" he added. "It is like children sitting in the market-places and calling to one another, 'We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn.'" Matthew 11. Yes, I can open my mind to hear the great and unsearchable things I do not know, things like the Incarnation that I may never fully understand but have always been invited to know further. Or I can simply look for all of Christmas to correspond with societal whims and unconscious distractions.

You will come regardless. The hope of Advent is that it is always possible to make room for You. I was reminded awhile back of a young Jewish woman by the name of Etty Hillesum who wrote a remarkable set of journals during the darkest years of Nazi occupation before being sent to Auschwitz, where she died in 1943. In one of her entries, Etty wrote, "Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths, or the turning inwards in prayer for five short minutes." I'm thinking that Advent can be this simple; the invitation of Christ is this simple. I have ears and I intend to open them. I refuse, while contemplating Christmas to compile aggressive lists and budgets, put in endless labor, or spin in fretful commotion.

Father, God, thank You for convincing me that Advent is about the riches of being empty-handed; so that I can fully hold the Mystery before me and nothing less; empty-handed, like You, Who came down from heaven without riches or power, but meek and small—and full, expectant, and enough. Amen

Me and Misplaced Affections

I thank those who, like my pastor, not letting me forget the many Christian believers that are still being held in Middle Eastern prisons, the refugees still fleeing, along with those remaining who are experiencing the grotesque and tragic-rape, cutting off of heads, and torture of loved ones, friends and neighbors. I realize it's been over the last couple of years I've left myself wondering the reason for this perpetration by Islamic terrorist. Is it so horrible that I had buried my rumination when being confronted? But since a conversation with a friend and his suggestion of reading the Qur'an, I think an answer has dawned or is rising by reading numerous passages like this one of 8:12:  "Terrorize and behead those who believe in scripture other than the Qur'an."  I ask, have they no heart for "their god" or is it a irrational belief of such passages that such atrocities are committed?

Now, I open my precious Bible; the one that has comforted and been a blessing for sixty five years. I turn to the book of Judges and read all sorts of posing challenges as to any claims that I might have on it being a book of pleasant stories. I just finished reading Judges 19 where there was rape and a subsequent division of a division of the Levite's concubine into twelve pieces.  Then there is the undoing of mighty Samson, and other stories like Jephthah and his vow to offer up one of his own children as a burnt offering in Judges 11. I'm finding my Christian sensibilities being severely challenged!

On the other hand, despite these interpretive difficulties and challenges, the book of Judges is powerful in revealing the tragedy that ensues from misplaced affections. I think, perhaps it is the poignant story, in this regard.  He was born the youngest son of the smallest tribe of Israel, the half-tribe of Mannaseh. Gideon grows up in a land oppressed by the Midianites, the Amalekites and the "sons of the east." Judges 6 tells how these enemies were so numerous that they "would come in like locusts for number, both they and their camels were innumerable; and they came into the land to devastate it."

Aw! Here's where I find the reason for Gideon threshing wheat in a wine press. He's hiding from his innumerable enemy! Aw, but despite his fear, the angel of the Lord addresses him as a valiant warrior and appoints this young man as the deliverer of Israel. Sure enough, as the text informs me, Gideon and a mere three hundred men defeat the innumerable armies of their enemies. Gideon is the unlikely hero and the Israelites are so impressed by his military leadership that they seek to make him king in the eighth chapter. "Rule over us, both you and your son, also your son's son, for you have delivered us from the hand of Midian." Gideon rightly persuades these men that the Lord is their king and ruler. But the story doesn't end there. If it had, I would have never seen the weak knees of this story's hero.

I am never told why Gideon does what he does, but rather, than be rewarded by becoming king over Israel, he instead opts out for a monetary remuneration and exacts a spoil from the men who came to make him their ruler; a gold earring from each one totaling 1,700 shekels of gold. Inquisitively, I've found that amount to be roughly the equivalent of 3 million dollars. But these earrings were in addition to the spoils of war Gideon had already collected from the slain Midianites: crescent ornaments, pendants, purple robes, and even the bands from the camels' necks. And he uses this gold to craft a monument of sorts to himself—a golden ephod or decorative vestment—which he placed in his home city, Ophrah. What was he thinking? What am I thinking when I do stupid things? The text gives no hint as for the reasons for making this ornament, either. But, just like in the scenario of my dream, the other night, the outcome is disastrous. "Gideon made an ephod, and placed it in his city, Ophrah, and all Israel played the harlot with it there, so that it became a snare to Gideon and his household."

I'm tempted to chase a number of applications I think I can draw from this story, but what is most pertinent for me this morning is to recognize the warning about the perils of my misplaced affections.
Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, "A person will worship something, have no doubt about that. We may think our tribute is paid in secret in the dark recesses of our hearts, but it will out. That which dominates our imaginations and our thoughts will determine our lives, and our character. Therefore, it behooves us to be careful what we worship, for what we are worshipping we are becoming.” I've known in my mind for a long time that, eventually, what dominates my innermost thoughts and imaginations comes forth as that to which I will inevitably give my allegiance and worship. Long before I ever read Emerson, Jesus warned similarly that where my treasure is, I'll find my heart. 

Father, God, Your child approaches You this morning, humbled and asking for Your forgiveness and continued conviction as to my desire for honor becoming a snare for my family, friends and acquaintances and perpetuating their propensity towards idolatry? Subtleness and seemingly innocuousness has rocked my desires into entities I worship. I ask for Your forgiveness. May I be more mindful, during these remaining years, in rehearsing: What are my great desires, and what do they tell me about what I love?  Amen

Disappointment vs Holy Discontent

I had an occasion to ask a fella his reason for choosing the path of Christianity, when I learned he had been raised from infancy walking a total hedonistic religion. His answer, “being a Christian and going to church beats the alternative,” sent me racking my brain as to the pivotal point in my Christian worldview where I had come very uncomfortable with the hint in that line of thinking that Christianity offers favorable qualities. As we talked a bit deeper and openly about struggles and benefits of our journey experience, I discovered him to be a true brother in Christ and not unlike many other believers, held captive to the irrational and stringent (new word)  belief that a life of a believer should be void of disappointment, hurt, anger and sorrow. That thought that sometime rears it's ugly head to temp me into believing that there is something wrong with my relationship with God if discontent is dominating in this journey with Christ. Puzzling on it, I am convinced that, though the sources of my disappointment continue to very, they all have played an important role in my journey as a believer. The fact is that nothing has brought this more home to roost than the reading of Tim Keller’s book:  Walking with God through Pain and Suffering, where he relates the experiences of the earlier followers and how God makes good use of disappointment in the lives of those God loves.

In the Old Testament, God speaks of the disappointment in the hearts of the people of Israel as a signpost to truth. When I’ve wandered away from my first love, when I’ve settled for something less than God's promises, disappointment has invariably shown me the way back home. God identified the dissatisfaction among the people of ancient Israel as an indicator that all things apart from his presence will always fall short of filling their hearts. I continue to find the second chapter of Jeremiah to be filled with the imagery of inevitable disappointment for me as I seek to supplement the love of God with other pursuits:

"Now why go to Egypt

to drink water from the Shihor?

And why go to Assyria

to drink water from the River?

Why do you go about so much,

changing your ways?

You will be disappointed by Egypt

as you were by Assyria.

You will also leave that place

with your hands on your head,

for the LORD has rejected those you trust;

you will not be helped by them" Jeremiah 2:18, 36-37

I’ve been learning over the years, without exception, when I face a  disappointment I am faced with a choice. I’m tempted to be lead into futile pursuit for fulfillment or I can let it be the signpost that causes me to turn around or take a firmer grip of the Father’s hand.  I confess, though, I haven’t always allowed Him to use disappointment in my believing life.

But this type of disappointment is far different from what I might fudge and call holy discontent, the unsatisfied hunger that reminds me that I have been ushered in to a great banquet, but the feast has not fully been served. In the hands of God, this has often been an equally powerful signpost.

I often have to remind myself of Saint Augustine’s words about restlessness and dissatisfaction. There, on the very first page of his Confessions, he begins to summarize the story of his life in a single confession to God: "You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You." How many times has this line been the quality that distinguishes me as a believer from my darkened unbelieving heart from my restlessness. Yet, I don’t think this is what Augustine intended, nor do I think it is a helpful place to draw the line. Since confessing Christ I’ve not ceased to experience disappointment, drought and hints of despair. Moreover, I’m not able to read Augustine's Confessions without realizing that he saw himself as a restless soul! He saw all people this way, and for good reason, I think. As a believer, I still struggle with sin and disappointment. I’m hoping not, but tomorrow I’ll probably find myself as restless as driving away from Quiet Rest this past week. I’ll probably still long for something down the road.  I know I’ll be hungry for this or that again, discontent where I’m at or what I’m doing.  My thirst is partially satisfied this moment because I’m partially sanctified. I have, in the Spirit, a taste of what is to come. But the table of God is not fully here yet, and at times I confess I’m full of discontent at the thought of it. With all of creation, I am still groaning for restoration, reconciliation, redemption—to sit at the table that has been prepared for me and recline with the One who's prepared it.   This was vividly brought back yesterday when we viewed the movie: Let There Be Light.

I believe the rest that Augustine is talking about is eschatological rest—and of course I’m not there yet. I recognize my journey there is going to be of longing, filled with discontent that the world is not as it will be, marked by the difficulty of waiting, and the hunger for more than I have or now taste and see. But how beautiful this longing is! On the other hand, I’m seeing my disappointment as a testimony to the promise that I will rest in God, and such a signpost is an unlikely blessing in the midst of my need. I believe this is why Jesus declares throughout the beatitudes that those on the verge of disappointment, those in the grasp of pangs for something more—these are the blessed among us. Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who mourn, and those who are meek. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Father, God, thank You for such hunger because I find it as a declaration that I am indeed on my way to a great banquet and You are truly reconciling all things so that I—and my enemies—have a place at the table. Thank you for showing me through Your Word and the writings of Your servants, like Augustine and Keller that restlessness can be deeply devotional, my discontent a constant confession that I anticipate nothing less than redemption and restoration, a place at the great table of eternity. Thank You for the blessing for hungry Bill.  Amen

An Experience In Flight With Cats and Pain

What a lesson I learned from being seated next to a lady a few weeks ago, on a flight into Ashville, who had two cats in her “under the seat, please” carrier.  She wanted to hold them on her lap during takeoff and the attendant wasn’t to have anything to do with the plea.  I was so thankful.  The new aircraft was so cramped the way it was and the carrier just seemed to add to my claustrophobic tendency.   Once we took off and were notified we could relax, etc., etc., etc. the dear lady asked her cats if they would be all right under the seat in front of her.  I didn’t hear their answer but her assuring response of: “I think so, too,” gave me great solace of getting a bit of shut eye. As I laid my head back, she asked me if I had any pets.  I responded that I had numerous over the years and once Bettyann and I were settled year round in a location, I may get another.

Sweetheart, if you ever read this, I must confess, I would like a cop of chickens, rabbits, a couple of goats, a miniature donkey, barn cat and faithful Schnauzer.    

The remainder of the trip was the story of her journey of being shuffled back and forth between multiple states, that sat like metaphors, between her divorced parents—a summer, a spring break, and always Christmas without one of them. A vivid description of what seemed to be a multitude of painful events and issues where she was always leaving palpable, but always had to leave.

I found myself empathizing with her somewhere because I recognized a long time ago that it’s strange the things we interpret as children with the limited perceptions we have. She shared that she was very little when she silently vowed she would not allow anyone to keep her on the wrong side of anyone or anything in pain. As a result, she has spent a lifetime collecting stray cats.  She indicated she is very wealthy, never married and no relatives. There was no way I was going any deeper but I wonder to this day if she hasn’t been searching, most of her adult life, for the oppressed, feeling the pain of others, and desperately attempting to bind broken hearts, usually without much success. I asked her to tell me about her faith.  She said that every church she had ever been involved with has been one somehow marked by suffering.  She said she at times had been somewhat frantic about expanding her circle of care. “The world of souls is a sad and broken place,” she said. I asked how she recognized that.  “I’m certain of it, because I’m one of them and I vowed that every little kitten that comes to my door will not be alone.”  The story ended as abruptly as it had begun with the announcement: please return to your sets, etc., etc., etc. Would I be on target if she really said in conclusion: I’m certain of it, because I’m one of them and at times, more accurately, that I would not be alone.

Well, I’ve been ruminating greatly on my own past and present pain these past few weeks since this precious lady poured out her story. Down through the years, there has been on occasion, unhealthy patterns to my ever-expanding circles of care. I recognize the many oppressed people and groups I had come along side with the best of intentions. I gave everything I could and some things I could not.  There were times when I collapsed physically, mentally and spiritually, no longer able to give anything at all. I always thought I was retreating out of necessity because taking in pain, I now understand, was and still is understandably exhausting. I figured that the metaphorical house I tried to keep filled, at times, simply needed to be emptied from over-crowding. I was opening up my house until people were hanging from the rafters and lamps started getting broken, and I was falling apart. Little did I realize; the house was falling apart before any of them entered in the first place. I was inviting them into the wrong house.

I’ve recently learned something old and something new from the writing of Timothy Keller in Walking with God through Pain and Suffering. Sometimes God in his mercy must tear down even walls built with good intention. “Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain… In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat—for he grants sleep to those he loves” Psalms 127. Such was the case with me. In my house, the broken and the oppressed found care with limits, hospitality with conditions. But we are like olive trees who “flourish in the house of God,” says the psalmist. For in this house, we can “trust in God’s unfailing love for ever and ever” Psalm 52:8.

Describing the disparity between the mind of humanity and the mind of God, Abraham Heschel writes, “The [human] conscience builds its confines, is subject to fatigue, longs for comfort, lulling, soothing. Yet those who are hurt, and He Who inhabits eternity, neither slumber nor sleep.” Powerful! I’ll make it mine by saying: God never sleeps or slumbers because when I'm hurting I don't sleep or slumber. Try as I may as a caretaker I cannot be as God to the hurting. I can stay awake with them in their pain and suffering. I can care for them as neighbors. But the house in which the suffering find unfailing love is the Lord’s. Like the friends of the paralytic who carried him all the way to Christ, this is the house to which I must bring them. His is the house in which I must live.

I don’t seem to move quickly toward broken people or communities as often, any more, but those I do I find myself still struggling with the weight of some of the things I see, I realize I struggle equally with the apathy that makes me want to flee from it all and clear away the crowd. But I am convinced that the right side of pain can only be accessed through the house of God, a house built not by human hands, but held up by the beams of the Cross. Here my soul finds a house with rooms prepared for me and a table set with room for my enemies.

Father, God thank You for inviting me into the kingdom; the doors of which are opened wide. And it is a house where hospitality is not a conditional sharing of my personal pains, or a self-centered preoccupation with suffering, but an extension of Christ’s real invitation: Come to me, all who are weary and I will give you rest. Amen

Chesrerton Helps Me Find My Parodoxy

After finishing your book, The New Jerusalem, a couple of weeks ago, I fell back to sleep, exhausted.  Since then I have become convinced that you, G.K. Chesterton, have taken the word "prolific" to a level that, always, simply makes me feel worn out. From the time I discovered your writing four or five years ago, I had not realized you authored over 100 books and contributed to 200 others in your 62 years of life. You penned hundreds of poems, five plays, five novels, and some 200 short stories, including the popular Father Brown detective series. You wrote over 4000 newspaper essays, including 30 years worth of weekly columns for The Illustrated London News, and 13 years of weekly columns for The Daily News. You also edited your own newspaper, G.K.'s Weekly.  And my head is swimming again!

I can easily imagine after such an inventory, G.K. Chesterton must have always been writing.  His repertoire of subjects suggests, to me, that wherever he found himself, and with whatever he could find to write on, that's exactly what he did. So, in the tearoom he scribbled on napkins. On the train, in front of a bank teller, or in the middle of a lecture, he was known to jot hurriedly in a notebook, or even on the cuff of his sleeve.

I've learned that Chesterton's eccentric approach to writing, in fact, matched his eccentric approach to life in general. His public image was one out of a Shakespearean comedy. If he were not recognized in the streets of London by the flowing black cape and the wide brimmed top hat he always wore, he was given away instantly by the clamoring of the swordstick he always carried, it seems, for nothing more than the romantic notion that he might one day find himself caught up in some adventure where defending himself might become necessary.

It is said, he rarely knew, from hour to hour, where he was or where he was supposed to be, what appointment he was to be keeping, or lecture he was to be giving. The story is often told of the time he telegraphed his wife with the note, "Am at Market Harborough. Where ought I to be?" His faithful wife, Frances, wired back, “Home,” knowing it would be most promising for all involved if she could physically point him in the right direction. Chesterton seemed to live out one of his own clever paradoxes: "One can sometimes do good by being the right person in the wrong place."  I see myself here.  I've experienced being the right person in a wrong place, sometimes not doing good things though.  On the other hand, I've been the wrong person in the right place, doing some good.

In fact, as some of my closest friends have said, paradox, in more ways than one, is an ample word for me, as I think it was for Chesterton. I have gotten myself in more trouble by pointing out, stirring up, and calling to mind, because I believe it a vital part of life and life's callings. This, to the chagrin and giving rise to ire in some others. Chesterton described paradox as "truth standing on its head to gain attention," and, I find, often evoking the jestering truisms throughout his dialog. With declarations bizarre enough to escape defensive mindsets, but with a substance that could blow holes in fortresses of skepticism, G.K. Chesterton, as absentminded as he may have appeared to be, challenged the world to think. This is not, in any way, part of my personal testimony. Though, I do think that Chesterton has taught me, in Father Brown's words, that often it isn't that I can't see the solution; it's that I can't see the problem.

In his disarming manner, even his opponents regarded him with affection, Chesterton exposed the inconsistencies of this modern mindset, the unfounded and unnoticed dogmatism of the unbeliever, and the misguided guidance of the cults of comfort and progress. He marveled that religious liberty now meant that we were no longer allowed to mention the subject, and that "there are those who hate Christianity and call their hatred an all-embracing love for all religions." To the convicted agnostic he said, "We don't know enough about the unknown to know that it is unknowable." To the social Darwinist he said, "It is absurd for the Evolutionist to complain that it is unthinkable for an admittedly unthinkable God to make everything out of nothing, and then pretend that it is more thinkable that nothing should turn itself into everything." And to all who would listen, Chesterton devotedly pled the case for Christ: "The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried."

I find myself most affected by your boisterous point about delighting in life to its fullest, first and foremost, because there is Someone to thank. You wrote:
You say grace before meals.
All right.
But I say grace before the play and the opera,
And grace before the concert and the pantomime,
And grace before I open a book,
And grace before sketching, painting,
swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;
And grace before I dip the pen in the ink.

Father, God, thank You for turning me on to the man of Chesterton and his writings. I plead Your grace in assistance to become more alive with the gusto of resurrection, the marvel of truth, and the thankful foresight of the coming King. Amen

Is My Religion a Relic?

Ya, Ya, I realize that some headlines are intended to startle as much as they to inform. The other morning, I read several on the suspicious social media front page, which did both. One announced that religion doesn’t lead to a healthier society.  Another headlining the “fact” that prayer doesn’t heal the sick.  The last read that the North Korean Christians face execution, constantly.  While the first two headlines piqued my interest, the actual claims themselves didn't hold their intention of shock; only a bit of mere intrigue. In my opinion, whatever a scientific study can say about prayer, it usually says more about the formula it is trying to measure and very little about the God before whom, I, the prayerful stand. Likewise, there are many things that can be said about healthy societies and the impact of religion, but it was Jesus who perhaps said it best: in Luke 5: “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick” 

On the other hand, the last headline actually did startle me, as the article continued what the title began: “To be Christian in North Korea is really seen as treason against their whole political system—a system built to deify the leader.” Thus, the current regime “has a history of persecuting believers in the most savage of ways, including public execution.” I thought, wouldn't such an article startle anyone who is at ease in any belief to reflection. I’m asking myself; how sacred is the faith of one who is willing to face execution for it? How treasured is the Bible that must be buried in the backyard for protection? And why is it so easy from my place of comfort to forget those who are persecuted even when the rule of faith I follow is supposedly the same?

For the early persecuted church, the Rule of Faith, or regula fidei, was the essential message, the fixed gospel through which they saw the world. It was the foundation that set the Christian apart and often put them in danger: profession of one God, salvation in Christ, and the presence of the Holy Spirit. It was also the foundation on which they stood when all else was stripped away. In the life of a confessing Christian, the Rule of Faith was seen as the normative compendium, the communal account of the story that held the individual through daily trials and united them with the believing community. The Rule was not a rival of the Scriptures; on the contrary, it was the worldview that emerged from Scripture, but also the worldview with which they approached the Scriptures, their lives, communities, and afflictions.

I realize that when I was young, even in my fifties, I was averse to rules and intent on independence, but now, in my seventy fourth year, am I so quick to deem the regula fidei a relic—and hence an irrelevancy—of the early church? Apparently to men and women persecuted in North Korea, the regula fidei, is at the very heart of the Story for which they suffer and the rule by which they live. To them I owe the startling reminder: I am not an island of spiritual autonomy, but a pilgrim who thinks, lives, and serves with the truth and power of a thoughtful chorus.

What’s wrong with my thinking along this line of reasoning?  I know in my head that to be Christian is to follow God’s Way in the world, a Way that compels me to move along with it. For some this will mean persecution, even martyrdom; for me, it seems to mean laboring to avoid becoming at ease in Zion, moving to the beat of a drum that may take me where I don’t want to go.  But movement forward will require; as recorded in the gospels of Mark 15 and Luke 23: “As they led [Jesus] away, they seized a man, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming from the country, and they laid the cross on him, and made him carry it behind Jesus. Then they brought Jesus to the place called Golgotha which means the place of a skull.”

Father, God, Thank You for showing me that the regula fidei is the heart of a startling story, a story that has turned the world and my thinking, both, on their heads and empowers a different kingdom.  Thank You for Your help in my realization that it is something quite like Your heart, which brings rhythm to my chaotic mind up into my personal mission.

Amen