I Feel The Sting Of Death

Looking across and about the sanctuary from where I stood yesterday, speaking words of honor, appreciation, love, and thanksgiving for my beloved friend and brother in Christ, I saw the span of at least three generations, gathered together, memorializing David's person and living. A myriad of expressions filling the place. 

I have awakened very early this morning to the unanswerable, yet rhetorical question: how many of those, old or young, have or will, ever give thought to when they might die? How odd a thought, you have, Bill? Now gives recollection of reading where two Scandinavian researchers who believe they have come up with a questionnaire that can measure a person’s chances of dying within the next four years. According to the one of the test’s designers, it is reported to be roughly 81 percent accurate among those who are 50 years or older. Their report, which was published in the Journal of the American Medical Association, claims the assessment will be useful to doctors in offering prognostic information and to patients who want a more determined look at the future. Interesting, I don't think the question hardly arises in my own mind. On the other hand, I persistently asked David, "what did the doctor say, about your condition?"  It's the first thing I ask Bettyann after she's been to her physician. Is it a subliminal thing with me? But regardless of the questionnaire’s effectiveness, however, the headline still strikes me as ironic: “Test Helps You Predict Chances of Dying.” And immediately brings to mind a line, I just read while in preparation of my thoughts last week, of Emily Dickinson, “Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me.”  Now, I don't need a test to tell me my chances of dying, do I?  

It was the avower atheist, Roy Hattersley, after attending a funeral, said it almost converted him to the belief that funeral services–of which he has disapproved for years–ought to be encouraged. His conclusion was forged as he sang the hymns and studied the proclamations of a crowd that seemed sincere: “ the church is so much better at staging last farewells than non-believers could ever be,” he added. He continued, reported in the article, “‘Death where is thy sting, grave where is thy victory?’ are stupid questions. But even those of us who do not expect salvation find a note of triumph in the burial service. There could be a godless thanksgiving for and celebration of the life of whomever. The music might be much the same. But it would not have the uplifting effect without the magnificent, meaningless, words.”

I have officiated at many funerals and memorial services, attended more visitations and wakes that I could not help but give intentional prayer for Carol, Leslie and Barbie and imagined the meticulous way in which they moved through the planning stages. I remember the note sent to me the week after David's death telling me of her desire that "David be honored and Jesus glorified." I'm convinced beyond measure, this morning, that was exactly what happened yesterday in that gathering.  

I'm realizing, also that something fresh happened to me yesterday not unlike happens to me each and every time I attend a funeral, memorialor service graveside. I get this notification of reality. Like the sting of death is a running commentary on the futility of my life and fleeting nature of my humanity. I'm slapped upon the side of the head with, “For who knows what is good for a man in life during the few and meaningless days he passes through like a shadow?” asked Solomon. “Surely the people are grass,” wrote Isaiah. I've been possessed  for the last eighteen or so hours like no other by the awareness of my own transience.

But sitting here, I'm finding an incredible paradox in this looming experience of death’s repetitive sting. With it comes the unnaturalness of the process all over again—a body at the front of the altar or the picture on the easel, a hole dug deeply or the mausoleum wall, a coffin lowered or vessel placed . Yet as death rears it's ugly head in my own head and it's futile to stop it, the words spoken in memorial have not become futile. On the contrary, they are growing all the more resounding. The words spoken yesterday were not spoken to soften the blow, but rather, to affirm the offense, to acknowledge the sting of death in all of its aberrancy–and to name the One who came to reverse it, having gone through it Himself.

It's fact that we human beings are the only creatures who have ever ceremoniously buried their dead, who speak words over bodies, and carry and place them in the grave. Why is it that death never ceases to seem unnatural even despite any worldview anyone brought to the memorial yesterday? What is it about my spirit that does not stop, that refuses to be reconciled to the loss of my loved ones, giving death the last word?  What is it that makes me cry out to my Creator; Someone beyond myself?  St Paul admonishes me: “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men.” 

I wonder if Hattersley really looked into the depths of his concluding observations with the comment: “Dull would he be of soul (or the humanist equivalent) who is not moved to tears by the exhortation, ‘He died to make us holy, let us live to make men free.'” Such are the final lines he utters as I read in his article of: A Decent Send-off. 

Father, God, I thank You for the inherent logic that has taken me to think and reiterate words and longings hints of a transcendent memory that David's life was never intended to be cut short nor will mine. That death will be overcome. That my last farewell to David is not the final word! Rather: I am the resurrection and the life. He who comes to me will live, even though he dies.

When I Comes To Lonliness

During this process of continued seeking, praying, deliberating, planning, and walking by faith in and through this fall season of life, I find myself more intentional.  Intentional at imagining the ‘what if’s.’ Ever so much more as I witness the decline of health in those that have surrounded me over the past seventy decades, leaving behind spouse, family and the closest of friends. And particularly, having just found and read Julianne Holt-Lunstad’s 2017 presentation on loneliness at a meeting of the Psychological Association. I think I've never been so aware of the hundreds of thousands that dye in loneliness, even during my years of ministering as hospice chaplain. 

I’ve been reminded of the fella, Vincenzo Riccardi, apparently, who, no other person on earth knew. The sensational discovery of his mummified body in Southampton, New York, proved it. He had been dead for 13 months, but his television was still on, and his body was propped up in a chair in front of it.  The television seems to have been his only companion, and though it had much to tell him, it did not care whether he lived or died.

This 2007 story has raised  many unsettling questions for me these last few weeks. How can a human being vanish for over a year and not be missed by anyone? Where was his family? What about his relatives? Why was the power still on in his house? Whatever the answers are to these and other questions, one thing is clear in my thinking: Riccardi must have been a lonely individual whose life, most likely, can be summed up in one word: ‘alienation.’  My believe is substantially increased by the fact that he was blind.  He never really watched television; leading me to believe he needed this virtual reality to feed his need for real companionship. Moreover, as reported in a piece entitled, He Died in Vast Isolation, his frequent “outbursts and paranoid behavior” may have played a role in driving people away from him.

I tell myself, ya, this is indeed a tragic and extreme tale, but it is making a powerful statement about how cold and lonely life is for millions across this country. Here I am, thinking I have all my ducks in a row but confess I, at times, have not been immune to the pangs of loneliness and alienation. Once again, I must go back to the Christian story attesting that alienation affects me and everyone else at three different levels. We are alienated from ourselves, from others, and most significantly, we are alienated from God. That is the reality in which every person exists. The restoration process involves all three dimensions, but it begins with my proper relationship with God. It’s just a fact that I cannot get along with myself or with anyone else until I am properly related to God.  I’m thrilled beyond anything to have applied the Gospel truth, which is; that there is abundant restoration.  It demonstrates itself by an ongoing encounter with Jesus Christ. 

I can’t imagine any better way to illustrate the process than that of an encounter Jesus had with another deeply wounded man who lived in a cemetery. I take liberty in imagining there were relatives, and perhaps friends, that had tried unsuccessfully to bind him with ropes or chains of some nature to keep him at home. But further imagine he preferred living among the tombs (alienated from others), cutting himself with stones, his identity concealed in his new name—”Legion” (alienated from self). It’s recorded in Mark's gospel that his mind and body were hopelessly enslaved by Satan’s agents, and his life was no longer his own (alienated from God). It took an encounter with Jesus for the man to be fully restored, “dressed and in his right mind”. Only then could he follow Jesus’s command to go back to his family and tell them what God had done for him.

The restoration process remains the same today, doesn't it? Until one is properly related to God, one’s true identity and potential will always elude him/her. No virtual reality or gadget can even begin to address the problem, for they only give back to us what we have put into them. They are like the message in a bottle which a castaway on a remote island excitedly received, only to realize that it was a cry for help that he himself had sent out months before. As Augustine prayed, “You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they find their rest in You.” We are finite creatures, created for a relationship with an Infinite Being, and no finite substitute can ever meet my or anyone else’s deepest needs. Trying to meet any of my real real needs without Christ is like trying to satisfy my thirst with salty water: the more one drinks, the thirstier he becomes. This is a sure path to various sorts of addictions.

Thank You, Father, God that when I turned myself over to Jesus, sixty six years ago, at the age of nine, I was called to the table by name, and loneliness was countered with the hope of embrace. I became a member of Your extended family. Over these many years, I can see myself standing beside and saying with the same voice, Abraham's, I look “forward to the city with foundations whose architect and builder is God.” Yet, it’s like dad use to say, “one day at a time son. One day at a time.” I’m still learning to trust You, Father, day by day; learning as I travel with others along this heavily trodden path that never disappoints. Yes, there are those moments that I sense a loneliness yet I know I have not been alienated. Yes, I admit I grieve and lament more often these day, but never like those who are without hope. It’s mysterious sometimes. I do have peace and joy within, and even in my hours of need, I’m discovering other family members, friends and acquaintances that are finding their own path to You, through my stumbling and bumbling, yet victorious life. Father I need Your Spirit more than ever before in my remaining days; especially when a crippling sense of isolation and alienation starts to creep in upon me. Arouse, shake and infuse me by this vibrant hope You, Your Son Jesus and Holy Spirit provide.  Amen

A Song: Any Place, Any Time

Never had known of the person named Catherine of Siena before a few weeks ago but after reading Mary O’Driscoll’s book, I  can say I do. Turning in often to the Catholic Religious channel, in keeping up with the catholic laity's view of these most recent discoveries of decades old clergy issues of abuse, I am thankful to have stubbled on to a keynote address given at the 9th World Meeting of Families, where the book was mentioned.

I have learned that at the age of seven, Catherine claimed to her parents that she had had an encounter with Jesus and some of His close disciples, proclaiming, unequivocally, that she would immediately give herself to complete religious life. I have some sense of her experience, in that; at age nine is when I had my first encounter with Christ. Her parents responded by making her a hermitage in the basement of their home. From that day forward in the mid thirteenth century until her death twenty six years later Catherine lived in a world of extreme fear, war economic distress, filth, terrorizing disease, and blatant corruption within the Catholic church. Her short thirty three years were an amazing journey, marked by passion for the truth, intense care for humanity, and a fervent life of prayer. Well documented accounts describe her emphatic declaration of the Word, whether it was administering care at the bedsides of plague victims or writing letters to feuding church leaders, or visiting the pope. She pointed her finger at the pope on her visit and insisted: “The way has been made. It is the doctrine of Christ crucified. Whoever walks along this way…reaches the most perfect light.” Catherine prayed with a similar intensity: “O eternal God, I have nothing to give except what you have given me, so take my heart and squeeze it out over the face of the Bride.” Through the extreme frailty of her own body, racked with great pain of illness and living in constant sorrow, her severe desire was that God would take her life as an offering, using her in whatever way to mend the brokenness she saw all around her.

When crossing her recorded prayers and letter which have been collected, I was struck by a phrase the editor used to describe her. In her prayers, the editor notes, “her theology becomes doxology.” Namely, what Catherine professed to be true about God became in her prayers—and arguably in her life—an expression of praise to God. Then this past week I have, again, been stricken with the same beautiful notion presented in my new copy of Keith and Kristyn Getty’s book: Sing!—what I know of God being something that moves me to sing to God.

I ask myself at this point: doesn’t all theology, by its nature lead me to doxology? Or does it?

I’ve read many a testimony of persons professing they are persons swallowed up by the Christian story. Not one can I find that their life has not been touched by God’s goodness, moved by God’s mercy, and transformed by God’s mighty presence. In these souls I find a profound correlation between profession and praise. This was certainly true of Catherine, beginning at age seven, not unlike the teenaged peasant girl who was used by God to bring into the world the child who would be named Jesus and called ‘God with us.’ In the Gospel of Luke, I witness the thoughts of Mary actually erupting into song. In the midst of the uncertainty that must have been running through her young, innocent mind, she nonetheless praises God for the things she knows to be true, for the promises that have touched her life, and the very character of the one to whom she sings:

My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Almighty One has done great things for me—
holy is his name.
God’s mercy extends to those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm…
He has helped his servant Israel,
remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever,
even as he said to our fathers.    Luke 1:46-55

This is my proof that’s Mary’s theology is intertwined in her doxology: God is a God who has acted in the story of, not limited to Mary and Catharine of Siena but throughout history and is present today. God has  kept every promise and has indeed promised great things. Holy is the name of the One who sent every person on earth. 

As I come closer and closer in knowing You, Father of heaven, as my eyes are opened wider, I see Your reach, longing to gather every person unto Yourself. Every time I catch a glimpse of the goodness of the Son, His human hand in my life, His giving  the gift of the Spirit, I realize I’ve been given a song. It makes no difference as to my location, there bubbles up within me a need to praise You as a creature in my very createdness, to sing of all that I see and all that I know because of You the Creator who wants to be known. Is this all behind my passion for singing?

Father, I would like to think that it is the reason behind my earthly father's, unsolicited, in any place, at any time, calling out, “Praise Christ.”  Might my theology become a song worth singing. In my limited knowledge of You and in my knowing of Christ, might I find in word and deed, in prayer and song, my life a doxology to the goodness of a Creator who wants to be known.  Amen

He's In A Better Place

Why am I so alarmed at all these various reactions of people when  sharing my pain and sorrow, this past week, following the death of David?  Do I need to look any further than reading Blaise Pascal in Pensees, as he penned: "Being unable to cure death, wretchedness, and ignorance men have decided, in order to be happy, not to think about such things."

The more and more I think about it; when facing the reality of suffering and the specter of death, most folks, I've experienced, are most likely to actively seek for a distraction. One of the most common distractive comments has been, "he's in a better place, now." Then we're off to: "do you think we're going to get anything out of this storm?" And I can remember it’s only been a few of generations ago that it didn’t seem to be that way.  I have to be careful here of hypocrisy and admit that, at times, I have found the fear of death as an underlying, albeit unconscious, motivation;  nevertheless recognize that my life is filled with distractions. Whether it is in the juggling of priorities, the relentless busyness of this age, or perpetual media noise, most people’s lives are so full that they rarely give themselves space or time to reflect. Isn’t this been more noticeable, particularly with my own family and friends, for some time now?  It’s alarming and I pull myself back from what I have come to name ‘mindless consumption’ that I’ve found numbs me to the eventuality of corrosion on my mortal condition and finitude. Not excluding my darkened heart, at all, but I know over these seventy five years I’ve had the propensity of being sucked into the consumptive destruction of the advertising world.

The figure is staggering of the what marketers spent in billions of dollars in total media advertising this last month. I now think of how the progressive church has been seduced and inextricably bound up into the same vein of lights, smoke, and football jerseys but I’m not going down that rabbit hole today. Just convicted. . . . . . . ‘what is that to you, Bill.’  

As I think further, it is easy to understand how one’s fear of death and suffering would compel him to live a life of distraction. Yet, I know how costly that distraction is in pervasive and deadening apathy—apathy not simply as the inability to care about anything deeply, but the diminishment for engagement that comes from caring about the wrong things.  I have been struck again when rereading Kathleen Norris lament in my copy of Acedia and Me: A Marriage, Monks, and A Writer's Life : "It is indeed apathy's world when we have so many choices that we grow indifferent to them even as we hunger for still more novelty. We discard real relationships in favor of virtual ones and scarcely notice that being overly concerned with the how many threads are in cotton sheets and the exotic ingredients of gourmet meals can render us less able to care about those who scrounge for food and have no bed but the streets." I hope it continues to sadden me, to no end, to think that my inability to recognize my own mortality and to live my life in light of the fact that I will die leading to the diminishment of my ability to genuinely care for others—because my care, by its very nature, will demand my willingness to suffer, and to lose my life for someone else. The more I love, the more I open myself up to vulnerability and the possibility of pain. And yet, if I choose against loving engagements, I will be only left with a diminished and distracted last sentence of life.

I love what the ancient Hebrew poets, while meditating on the brevity of life, prayed in Psalms, "So teach us to number our days that we may present to you a heart of wisdom." It was the inevitability of death that motivated this prayer for wisdom for living. This was a wisdom that didn't try to hide from the realities of life—be they joys or sorrows—but rather sought to keep finitude ever before it. I find the poem ending with a cry for God to "confirm the work of my hands." I haven't given it a great deal of thought but I do recognize that for some time now, my day's seem to led to more meaningful engagement—and if there is truth in what the poets write is the mark of wisdom. 

Father, God, I thank You for Jesus, Himself, facing His own death with intention and purpose, walking the way of the cross, not only up the hill to Golgotha, but also offering His life in loving service to those around him. May I always remember Hi words: "I am the Good Shepherd...and I lay down my life for the sheep....No one has taken it away from me, but I lay it down on my own initiative." Thank You for my friend David and through these last few days, allowing me to realize the way of wisdom demonstrated by the life of Jesus calling me to engage my mortality as a catalyst for purposeful living. Thank You for demonstrating through reading, prayer, meditation and listening to others closely that while following Jesus insists on my laying down my life in Your service, it can be done in the hope that abundant life is truly possible even in these dark day of David's passing. For the One who laid His life down is the One who was raised. He is the one who declared, "I am the resurrection and the life; the one who believes in me will live even though he dies."  Amen

My Scar Tissue

I recall the chain of events this way:  a month and a half ago I received an email from a dear younger friend that requested input on resources dealing with  the subject of emotional suffering.  I scoured my kindle and hardcover library; finding eleven resources, they were passed on. Since a good deal of time has passed since approaching the subject, myself, I began surfing, only to run headlong into a music artist I haven’t heard of in twenty five years or longer.  Michael Card. His song, Lift Up The Suffering Symbol, which I had never heard, popped up.  I like it. I see he has also become an author. One title drew my interest: Fragile Stone. Of Card’s explanation for writing this book, he says: "The ultimate reason for getting to know Peter," is so together we might better know Jesus. For the story of Peter is the story of Jesus. Perhaps, if you and I do our best, the same will be said of us someday."  For me, that someday is today.  

I’ve found the book well written, very worthwhile, especially since I’ve  found it immeasurably comforting that Jesus gave Simon the name “Cephas,” or Peter, before Cephas had done much of anything. Before Peter had even determined to follow Jesus, let alone serve or love him as the Christ. Before Peter had muttered his denials of knowing Jesus or had one of his moments of blurted insight. At the beginning of John, Jesus calls Peter the “Rock,” before He had reason to call him “Satan.” 

I ask: What does this say? First, it says a great deal about who Jesus is. He is willing to vouch for me. Before and during the times I am  standing around with my hands in pocket, thinking about what I stand for, He is willing to stand up for me. And second, it’s reminding me that I am more than the sum of my blunders and failings, as well as my victories and my bright spots. Bettyann and I just talked about this very thing the other evening at the dinner table. As the apostle Paul wrote to the Romans: “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Before we had a chance to prove ourselves to each other –let alone Him, before we had a chance to fall on our faces in our marriage and life in general or say something fairly smart, Christ knew that He would die to show us the reach of His love. And He has.

Then there is the disciple Peter that makes me feel okay about myself. He is a loud statement to my hopelessness, to my skepticism, to my guilt-ridden mind that God can take my doubts, my regrets, the hopelessness of my past or my present position, and create something solid by giving me the Son. O yes, it’s in Peter I find that pains of regret and faithlessness have left a permanent mark, but that even scars are reminders of the living hope I profess. Or as Peter calls it, in the first book he wrote, chapter 1,verses 24-25 “the Word that will not wither.”

Even so, there have come those moments, when I take a look back at my multitude of moments of faithlessness or foolishness, those marks of humiliation, the bitter sting of missed and lost opportunities, it is hard to see much beyond regret and remorse, even if I have been told, and conceded that Jesus has forgiven me. I have given question; is there more to be seen in the weight of my past, the glimpses of guilty motives, disappointments, and poor behavior? The testimony of Peter himself is that yes, very definitely, there is.

Peter’s passion for Christ was no doubt shaped by the pain and humiliation of denying Him. Just as Paul wrote to Timothy: “If we are faithless, God remains faithful, for God cannot deny Himself” Scars indeed have a way of reminding me that I’m alive, participating in this fragile thing called life. Some of these scars have reminded me lately me that I am not an island, that I need people, that I desperately need a savior, that I need You, Father, in all that I face. When I look at the scars on top of scars, I’m reminded that I am healed or being healed. But I realize that even Peter’s most indelible marks were nothing beside the mark of the risen Christ upon his life. And so with mine!

When Jesus appeared to the gathered, frightened disciples after the horror of the cross, his invitation was: “See my hands and my feet, that it is me. Touch me and see.” The disciples had gathered together to discuss the rumors some had heard that Christ was alive and out of the grave, risen from the cruel death they had witnessed just days earlier. They were disoriented and afraid, and Jesus told them to look at his hands and feet, which had been pierced. And a lump now rises in my throat as His invitation to Thomas is, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side.” It was to His closest friends, Jesus said, “Look at my scars, see that it is me. Recognize me by my scars; they will point you to God.” And so it is for me, at this moment! 

Thank You, Father God, for making Yourself available through Your Son, Jesus. I say amen to the fact that far beyond any scar I might bear, the wounded hands of Christ are still available and open, touching my disfigured world with His own humanity. At moments of frailty and questioning, may Your Holy Spirit remind me that He has been crushed for my iniquities. By His stripes I am healed. I have little doubt that it is this same piercing reality of Jesus bearing the scars of my failure, carrying my pain, and taking my shame, that Peter had in mind when he dynamically instructed me to throw all my anxieties upon Jesus because he cares about me! Amen

My Haphazardness

I’m remembering a time, in the third grade at Mountain View school. It was when Dad and Mom came home from a parent/teacher conference and announced I had better start putting more effort into my studies and stop woolgathering.  My teacher had shared that I could be looking straight at her and seemed to be listening or with book open and seemingly reading but seldom able to respond accurately as to what she was teaching or what I had just read.  She called it ‘daydreaming.’ It is still an issue, I admit. Like the other day when telling Bettyann I hadn’t heard  her, after being asked to pick up the mail, while in town. I didn't but probably did. And after all my years of loving to read, I am still notorious for reading sentences—sometimes entire pages—before realizing that that my mind is simply elsewhere. With my eyes moving down the paragraphs, taking in the ordered sentences, it is as if my mind pronounces each word into a room with no vacancy. I am reading in a way that can’t even be called half-hearted. I have come to the conclusion that the practical spirit of multitasking isn’t always practical for me. Illustrated by the fact that how I’m going to proceed with the transplanting of a Dalia, and dove-tailing a drawer corner  while reading Tolstoy isn’t reading Tolstoy. Hearing the words, I have heard nothing. I walk away from the paragraphs as if never seeing the sentences at all.

Ah, so it is distinctly possible, as Jesus states here: to see without seeing, and to hear without hearing. I do it often, and not only with Tolstoy.

I suppose it’s like, with most communication, there are varied degrees to which I hear the stories of Scripture, the words or stories of Jesus. In other words, I have different levels of interest, concentration, and understanding. In my searching I learn that it’s like all metaphors having levels in seeing, layers to uncover, depths that call for attentiveness. I just read that Jesus’s parables and descriptions of reality ring in ears on many wavelengths. It is true that I have looked at them as moral fables, abstract stories, truthful similes (new word)  and images, great and awful mysteries at which I need to pay well attention. Beautiful words, wonderful word, wonderful words of life. Words I must try my hardest not to ignore. I need to be on guard lest I become likened to a Pharisee; not recognizing myself in the storyline. Further and more importantly, that I react appropriately to any significantly mirrored images. 

I’m thinking here; how often do I look into the mirror when shaving and walk away with confidence that every stubble is whacked? .  I suspect, as with my less than haphazard reading, not much, until Bettyann asks me if I’ve forgotten to shave.  When the Pharisees saw themselves in the words of Jesus’s parable of the talents, they were furious. Wholeheartedly, they began scheming a strategy to silence Him. Ironically, they were plotting to do exactly what the parable said they would do.

After leaving church on a certain Sunday morning, I thought of my Dad’s advise: “anything worth doing, deserves doing well and all the way,” and how Christianity describes the world with a wealth of detail. But it is more than a system whereby we believe certain information and thus call ourselves Christians or otherwise. I believe what Jesus has presented is a transforming way; it is intended to be life itself. If I merely hear God’s words, or half-see reflections of truth, I actually miss everything. Such a response cannot even be called haphazard. Like the pages I have read mindlessly—lifelessly—in seeing, in reality I have seen nothing, hearing I have heard nothing.  I’m convicted by St. James’ description of this common self-deception, “If any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves and, walking away, immediately forget what they were like.” 

Father, God, I come humble in petition of forgiveness, this morning. Forgiveness for walking away from Your Word without really noticing myself. Forgiveness for all the occasions I’ve taken in Jesus’s words haphazardly or halfheartedly. O that Your Holy Spirit will help me in clearing my mind of all the peripheral and draw me to an inescapable response of appropriate, full sensing of which Jesus beckons. In seeing that I will see. In hearing I will hear.  Amen

An Interactive Moment With A Five Year Old

Our visit in our nieces' home a few weeks ago was a beautiful experience.  The last time I visited, Jackie hadn’t been born but now five; undeniably one of the most precocious children I’ve ever met. Her thought structure is absolutely amazing to me.  I also noticed, almost immediately, she is unusual in the fact she asked, almost no questions. I understood more as to the reason when one of her parents told of her sharing, casually, earlier during the day, that she didn’t need to be promoted after kindergarten. Her reasoning was; she would have gained all the knowledge she would ever need in kindergarten. Jackie is unique and refreshing. It’s been my experience that most kids seem to use questions instinctively to find out about the world.  Jackie is the midst of creating the world.  

I think I've always been the average kid, starting with a question seems like a good idea.  I think it helps to bring a sharper focus, it’s conversational, it reveals gaps in knowledge for me. Of course, I have honed questioning to the lazy types, but I’d like to think, more often the thoughtful types. I’m finding the difference is a bit difficult, as I’m thinking about it, but over the years, hearing or asking a great, a  wonderful or amazing question, asked at the right time, hints to the reason  why good, careful, thoughtful questions are always worth asking.

When it comes to questions about faith, I’ve experienced a lot of Christians pointing to the example of God asking Adam and Eve, ‘Where are you?,’ when He Knew where they were and the way in which Jesus interacts with people in the New Testament. Here are just a few of the questions, I’m finding Jesus asks: What are you looking for? What do you want Me to do for you? Have I been with you for so long a time and you still do not know Me? If you love only those who love you, what credit is that to you? Do you want to be well? Do you see this woman? What good is it to gain the whole world but forfeit your soul? Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Who is greater, the one seated at the table, or the one who serves? Do you think that I have come to establish peace on the earth? Which of you would hand his son a stone when he asks for a loaf of bread, or a snake when he asks for a fish? How can you believe, when you accept praise from one another and do not seek the praise that comes from the only God? Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see the glory of God? Why do you call me ‘Lord, Lord,’ but do not do what I command? Why do you break the commandment of God for the sake of your tradition? For which of these good works are you trying to stone Me? Do you think that I cannot call upon my Father and He will not provide Me at this moment with more than twelve legions of angels? Would you like some breakfast? Have you come to believe because you have seen Me? I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in Me, even if he dies, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in Me will never die. Do you believe this? Do you love Me?

Well, from those questions can I assume that leading off with a thoughtful question isn’t so bad an idea?  Even so, when I asked my grandniece, Jackie a leading question; her furrowed  brow and beaded eyes indicated that my question was rhetorical, leading or loaded. Like: “is this great uncle trying my smarts or something”? As a Chaplain, it wasn’t uncommon for adults to be concerned about being unfaithful to God if they use and engage properly with questions. But, since I was a follower of Christ and followed His model it became one of the strongest if not the strongest reason for using them. And when Jesus asked a question it suddenly brought everything into focus, not just for the one He was asking, but for everyone listening as well. I’ve learned over time that Jesus’s often subversive questions summarizes and lifts up the prevailing authority structures, symbols, and assumptions. His questions lift them high up into the air for inspection, so that everyone can see more clearly the motives, traditions, assumptions, and all the wildness that often rages under the surface.

This recent, adventurous encounter with my darling great niece has churned my thinking that questions, more than likely, will help me concentrate, pay attention, and think along with the One providing all her answers to life. How could I ever forget those times when a good question transformed a meandering discussion into a life-changing moment for me or the other person, when reality broke through illusion. 

Father, God, I thank you for Jackie and our first time meeting and in those moments, inducing my thinking about gently asking the right questions at the right time of myself or others. Help me, in these aged years to call out, as did so of T.S. Eliot: “Oh my soul, be prepared for the coming of the Stranger. Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions.” Amen

Desperately Digging

It's been during a tough, shadowed, emotional and spiritual dig this past week that I've found this nugget of hope when running into a strata of unmined history called the Counter-Reformation or Catholic Reformation or Catholic Revival. It's been many years ago now since learning of the Protestant Reformation era but never remembered that one of it's consequences' was this Catholic resurgence. It seems it all began with the Council of Trent. The whole of it was that the Catholic Church was not about to relinquish the power, influence and material wealth it enjoyed.  This, along with presenting a theological challenge to Luther and the whole of the Protestant Reformation. It spread across Europe like a wildfire and caused darkness to cover the land with The Thirty Years’ War. In one way or another eight million deaths occurred and tens of millions suffered in excruciating pain. During my exercise of essaying this nugget, was finding this brilliant, sparkling, story overwhelming me. The story of a German pastor, Martin Rinkart, who, it is said, buried nearly five thousand fellow citizens and parishioners in one year, including his young wife. Conducting as many as fifty funerals a day, Rinkart’s church was absolutely ravaged by war and plague, famine and economic disaster. Yet in the midst of that darkness, he sat down with his children and wrote the following lines as a prayer for the dinner table:

Now thank we all our God
With heart and hands and voices;
Who wondrous things hath done,
In Whom his world rejoices.
Who, from our mother’s arms,
Hath led us on our way
With countless gifts of love
And still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God
through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts
and blessed peace to cheer us;
And keep us still in grace,
and guide us when perplexed;
And free us from all ills,
in this world and the next.

Tears well up again, as I journal this morning. It's been difficult to pray a prayer like that for me in recent days. While my soul has been in such adversity. No matter the amount of spiritual strength I exude, I've yet accomplished praying with such peace and hope of complete recovery. Honestly, Rinkart’s expressions of thankfulness, at moments this past week, have seemed either incredibly foolish or mysteriously important. I’ve been so convicted and convinced these last few days, after sitting, conversing with my best friend, Dave, his wife, Carol, that amidst the heaviness of darkness, Rinkart must have saw the wisdom in fixing his gaze on what he could not see—the light of the Gospel, the life of Christ, the eternal weight of the glory of a God who is ever present, no matter how difficult the scene. The author  says that standing on this Christian notion, Rinkart saw the certainty of God and the significance of thanksgiving. He saw that to be thankful was to make the bold confession that encountering the presence and glory of God far outweighs everything else we encounter, whether a matter of despair or delight.

The Book is open, on my lap, and I read the Apostle Paul, who lived similarly, wrote of his own dark encounters as “momentary affliction” in which he saw nonetheless an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. “For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” 

I’m finding it interesting to note that the word I use as ‘glory’ takes an entirely different shape in the New Testament. The word was  particularly influenced by its Hebrew counterpart meaning “weighted” or “heavy,” and hence, denoting something of honor and importance. The word doxology, referring to an expression of praise, comes from the same Greek word. The etymology is fascinating because the word itself seems to cry out for comparison. O my! Will the things I give most honor always measure up? Under the heaviness of life, what weight does the hope I profess actually carry?

Will I believe Paul; here is proclaiming the eternal weightiness of his hope in Jesus Christ. “It is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” The peculiar message of hope in the midst of darkness originate with the God who first spoke light into darkness, the God who made light to shine in the darkness of Christ’s grave, and the inextinguishable light of Christ given to shine upon me today and every day, henceforth. Isn’t this God of intrinsic glory in whom I know light and life itself?

I see where this simple table grace of Rinkart’s was later made into a  hymn and sung at a celebration service at the Thirty Year’s War end.  Adding a third stanza, Rinkart’s words continue with thanksgiving, concluding fittingly with words of doxology, words proclaiming the weightiness of the glory of God.

All praise and thanks to God
the Father now be given;
The Son and Him Who reigns
with Them in highest heaven;
The one eternal God,
Whom earth and heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now,
and shall be evermore.

Father, God, who else have I but Thee to throw my trust and hope?
None but You, my eternal Sovereign!  
Your unworthy son, Bill

Bubblegum Beat and Lyrics

The other evening when it was suggested I designate another couple of genres to my iHeart Radio app, I thought I might check out the today’s pop scene since I have often wondered as to what Grace and Sarah might be listening too. The first demo was of an artist named Lily Allen.  I’ve never heard of her but like her voice and what I’ve always called bubblegum beat and lyrics.  So I checked her and some of her songs out.  The particular one I found interesting, she had made somewhat popular in the 2000s. I thought this was just another clever pop tune, a little tapping the foot until I focused on the words to the chorus:

"I don't know what's right and what's real anymore
I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore
When we think it will all become clear

I'm being taken over by The Fear." (name of the song)

This song does not appear to be  just another slickly produced tune without substance. This gal seems to be singing of the destructive impact of materialism:

"I want to be rich and I want lots of money
I want loads of clothes and loads of diamonds
I heard people die while they are trying to find them
Life's about film stars and less about mothers
It's all about fast cars and passing each other
But it doesn't matter because I'm packing plastic
and that's what makes my life so fantastic
And I am a weapon
of massive consumption
and it's not my fault it's how I'm programmed to function
I don't know what's right and what's real anymore
I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore

Cause I'm being taken over by fear."

As I’m finding out, the song laments the vacuity (new word) of mindless consumption and its pervasiveness in the society of today. I am surprised of the wisdom this, relatively young, lady points out.  Consumption can be like any other form of addiction, providing an initial high that hooks anyone, but never again delivers what it promises. Instead, it leads people of all generations down the path toward diminishing returns and never ultimately calms anyone’s fear.

Over 200 years before Ms. Allen stepped onto the pop music scene, John Wesley, both citizens of the United Kingdom, articulated the dangers of materialism. "I fear, wherever riches have increased," Wesley wrote, "the essence of religion has decreased in the same proportion. Therefore, I do not see how it is possible, in the nature of things, for any revival of religion to continue long....as riches increase, so will pride, anger and love of the world in all its branches." Even as thousands and thousands were joining his ranks, he spoke prophetically about the inevitable decline and dissolution of this revival as a result of the increase of wealth arising from Christian diligence and frugality.

Not being a student of human societies, myself, but a learned from those that are, I realize the fact that an increase in prosperity, more often than not, brings with it a precipitous decline in religious involvement. My question is, why not? After all, haven’t there been times when I haven’t demonstrated the need of God when there has been Master Card and Visa? Thank You, Father for the last decade or so and especially since I’ve been on a fixed income I’ve rethought owing anything. I’m also thinking of the declining numbers in churches of the Western World that sure could be affirming that Wesley's fears were warranted. I read or heard somewhere (I think it was Philip Yancy) that Christian leaders speculate that if current trends continue in England, for example, Methodists will cease to exist in that country in thirty years. Of course, long before Wesley uttered his fears, Jesus warned his disciples: "No servant can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one, and love the other, or else he will hold to one, and despise the other. You cannot serve God and riches." Jesus warns of the idolatry that so easily entraps us, luring us away from faithful allegiance.

All this talk of vacillating trade wars, interest hikes, the markets, etc., my friends and I discuss around briskets and gravy; if not careful can be tempted lull ourselves to the idea of another time of economic "slow down." How can people be tempted to serve "the master" of money, after all, when there is so much less of it? Yet even in its absence, I’m certainly aware I could find my heart soothed more by money than by God and behold the signs of a dangerous dependence. I think that probably when one's aged heart finds salvation and security in having more and more material gain—whether we actually hold it or not—we are reminded of "the deceitfulness of riches" and the narcotic effects of material success.
So clearly, I’m thinking; the abolition of wealth or production is not the answer to materialism! Rather, the answer Jesus suggests lies in the proper use of wealth in this old world: as a blessing for others and not just for my own use. Do I consider myself a disciple of Jesus?  Well then, Bill, didn’t Luke tell of Jesus instructing disciples to "sell your possessions and give to charity; make yourselves purses which do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven....For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also?"

Reading some of The Works of the Rev. John Wesley, I’m convinced that he understood this, too, and in the spirit of Jesus reiterates the same idea: "We ought not to forbid people to be diligent and frugal: we must exhort all Christians, to gain all they can, and to save all they can... What way then (I ask again) can we take that our money may not sink us to the nethermost hell? There is one way, and there is no other under heaven. If those who gain all they can, and save all they can, will likewise give all they can, then the more they gain, the more they will grow in grace, and the more treasure they will lay up in heaven."

Father, God, thank you for Your Spirit’s counsel, as well as, John Wesley’s, and Philip Yancy’s writtings. It may be, in fact, the very idea that finally breaks any unnoticed chains of addiction and reveals a far better treasure. Amen

When It All Went Very Wrong

"Well, what did you think of the church service," asked my friend, after excepting his invitation to attend a Sunday morning worship service, recently. "It was a pleasure worshipping with you folk," I responded. "A bit different than the congregational worship at my home church, but I sensed your congregation's deep love of Christ and each other."  It wasn't too 'jumpen' for you, was it?"  "Not at all," was my reply.  Then a day or so after, thoughts of another, long past, worship service, flooded my mind.  A worship service that I consider, to this day, as 'jumpen."  In fact, in my estimation it went completely 'awry.'  I thought we where gathering to celebrate the person of Christ, but in the end it seemed we were more celebrating words void of life. I am going to fail to recall the name of the church, the denomination it was a part of, or even what the sermon was about. I only remember the rabbit trail that led us down a darkened hole of condemnation. From body piercings and baggy pants to homosexuals and liberals, the list was long, the frustration clear, and the rationale was fired with as much passion as the targets that had been chosen: “Sitting there, you must recognize that hell is a fearful reality, and that many—maybe even those sitting near you, this very moment—will find it their final place of unrest.”

“Amen!” the person in front of me called out. “Yes, amen,” said several others in agreement. I don't think my heart could have sunk any deeper into my soul. Did they know that “Amen!” means “Let it be", I silently asked?

A great deal of time has passed since this experience, and yet, remembering it still brings despair to mind and a bad taste to my spiritual mouth. But what I remember only as a particular worship service in a particular city on a particular Sunday morning, I also remember as an illustration of any worship service I am all too capable of leading now or in the future. When I allow myself to cling more to dissent than to Christ, when I cherish words of death more than words of life, when I spend more time complaining about what is wrong with the church than putting energy into being the church; this is exactly the worship experience I recreate—and there are always voices willing to shout “amen” at the end of each of my sermons. From my experience, Christianity in many circles has become synonymous with negativity.

I was reminded of this again the other day re-reading “The Weight of Glory,” with C.S. Lewis taking note of a subtle shift in the language of his day, which he felt was the first detour in a road leading far away from Christ. Writes Lewis, “If you asked twenty good men today what they thought the highest of the virtues, nineteen of them would reply, Unselfishness. But if you had asked almost any of the great Christians of old, he would have replied, Love. You see what has happened? A negative term has been substituted for a positive, and this is of more than philosophical importance.” I see this morning, he goes on to explain the ideologies that grow out of subtle shifts of language. The positive answer requires a perspective that looks outward at others—those who are the recipients of the virtue or else the one from whom this virtue arises in the first place—whereas the negative virtue shows that my concern is primarily with myself—my own self-denial—and hence the appearance of good virtue. It powerful thinking what Lewis notes, “The New Testament has lots to say about self-denial, but not about self-denial as an end in itself.” To put this in terms for the subject at hand: Scripture has lots to say about what is wrong with the world. But thankfully, this is never the end of the sermon. (At this point I can't forget and remind myself that both the Old and New Testaments have a lot to say about complaining.) 

Of course I would be remiss if I don't confess that I live in a world full of philosophical pitfalls, bad behavior, and theology with which I can rightfully see fault. But so is it fuller of the glory and action of God. So why am I, at times, more excited to see fault than to see faith? Why am I so quick to complain and so lamentably slow at showing my reason to be more fully alive and authentically graceful? The same God who tells me though the writing of Peter in his first epistle, to defend my faith, tells me to do it with gentleness and reverence—so that those who abuse me for “my good conduct in Christ” may be put to shame. The same scripture telling the Philippian Christians also geodes me to do all things “without complaining and arguing” instructs me to do so because it is by my “holding fast to the word of life” that I demonstrate I'm truly holding onto a different message than that of a crooked and perverse generation.   Moreover, the same apostle who died to defend the person of Christ instructs me to stay focused on the kind of person Christ is: “For the Son of God, Jesus Christ, whom we proclaimed among you, Silvanus and Timothy and I, was not ‘Yes and No’; but in Him it is always ‘Yes.’ For in Him every one of God’s promises is a ‘Yes.’" For this reason, I learn from 2 Corinthians that it is through Him that I say ‘Amen’ to the glory of God.” 

Father, God, in everything I create with my words and actions, with the things I do and the things I leave undone, might there be good reason for those around me to say “Amen.”

Dad Said It and I Believe It

When I was a teen, one of Dad's most often quips was:  "Believe nothing you hear or read and only half of what you see." But Dad, I would protest. As my reasoning and 'horse sense' kicked in, I learned Dad knew of which he quipped. Even more since the information age advanced faster to what I consider time warping spin. I had to laugh at myself the other night after Bettyann and I had watched, the newly found, Netflix series entitled Sherlock Holmes and opened my laptop to investigate whether Sherlock Holmes was a real or fictional person. Yep, Dad's truth of the matter: "you can’t believe everything you hear and read" on the 'tley' (as one might say in England) or on the internet, for that matter. Sherlock's “biography” is as easy to find as Winston Churchill’s (and there seems to be some fact/fiction confusion on both counts). Between the years of 1887 and 1927, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote prolifically of the famous detective known for his heightened skills of observation and eccentric personality. Holmes was both memorable and beloved—and entirely fictional. It is a strange irony indeed that there are a great number of people who would claim the clues suggest otherwise. As Holmes himself once said, “The temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession.”

I am getting more and more weary of the process of gathering and interpreting information.  Nearing the end of my seventy-fourth year it's seemingly never ending and over loading my mind's breaker. Have I become accustomed to the patterns of life around me and created, even cynically, theories on how it all works and how I must live? Is it that I've become 'age wise' in knowing whether it is insufficient data or fast truth, that readily form my theories? I have more suspicions than I can ever remember having before, don't I? My desire is to hold an unconscious acknowledgment that my theories are the means to understanding and relating to the world. I'm going to have to give intentionality to not theorizing the end I want, need, or hope to be true. 

Strangely, the temptation Sherlock Holmes speaks of—forming theories upon insufficient data—seems to grow with age. And I know this; having worked with elders for two decades. But I've filed and forgot about it in mind, until recently. Now, as I think about it, since budding into blooming eldership a decade ago, I realize and confess, when seeking answers to questions, it has become more difficult the older I get.  This, needless to say, has raised the ante for interpreting accurately. And yet, thank You Lord, I am finding a desire to be willing to adjust my theories. Isn't it the biases I've brought into the investigation which often prevents me from recognizing data as insufficient or tampered with? Then there's the fact of remembering the sting of being burnt; holding on to the old interpretation, causing a response with predisposed theories. Rationally, how might I respond to a child who insisted that if broccoli were good for him, it would taste like candy?

I like what F.W. Boreham writes in one of his essays, telling of his grade school difficulties with geography class.  When the teacher spoke of life in a far-off land, he found himself drifting off to scenes in that land and remaining there long after they had switched to another destination. One day, catching him in the midst of a daydream, the teacher called on Boreham and asked, “What part of the world are we studying?” Recognizing a fellow student in distress, a friend scribbled the correct rejoinder on the paper beside them.  ”Java is the answer,” said Boreham. “Good,” the teacher noted, “Now tell me, what was the question?”

I've been reminded in the last few days that when the theories I hold as answers become the end and not the means to understanding, I eventually lose sight of the question. “If God exists,” someone might essentially ask, “why wouldn’t God be like the God I want to believe in?” or “why wouldn’t God be revealed in the way that I need God to be revealed?” I would be unreasonably holding the answers without realizing the questions I am even asking. “I maintained that God did not exist,” noted C.S. Lewis of his years as an atheist, “I was also very angry with God for not existing.” I'm glad to learn that great people, also, have had answers they clung to without admitting the question they have asked is faulty.

I believe the clues of a creative and personal God are all around me. I am convinced that Christ’s vicarious humanity is unique in its ability to change and transform mine and every person's life. I also know the desperation of clinging to the answers that has keep me from really seeing the evidence. But this is not seeing. I really appreciate the admonition of Romans 1:20: “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that we are without excuse.”

Father, God, I thank You for the ability given to investigate You with a rational thinking to see what is really there? I believe here is indeed something to the call of Jesus to receive the kingdom of God like a little child. Amen

Remembering The Password?

This latest book, Knowing Jesus by Mark Jones, has stimulated me, like never before, in questioning myself. Who am I really looking at when I see Jesus? Likewise, questioning where I'm finding the anchors in my life, at this time of life, after viewing Drain the Oceans and Copper's Treasure. Even my dear friend, Dave Rose, in his blog, a few weeks ago, trip-wired another question when writing of the too long forgotten song; written by Leila Long, Jesus Is The Sweetest name I Know. I've  puzzled: is it so, drawing another question; rarely, periodically, often, or most of the time? I've determined that these most recent questions are more than rhetorical or philosophical; they are truly heartfelt. 

Now, this week, I've been particularly struck by this announcement in John's Gospel, first chapter: "The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, 'Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!'" John says, "Look, the Lamb of God." The question is posed, what are you looking at? John emphatically directs focus too: "Look at Jesus." In fact, I count he makes this declaration, at least, fifteen times in his gospel. This word is translated in the King James Version as behold. Fifteen times he exhorts me to look at Jesus. Will you behold? This is astonishing. All these years and I've never recognized it.  This is amazing. Look at Jesus.

For the past decade, Charles Wesley seems to have become one of my favorite hymnwriter.  And one of my favorites is named, "Jesus! The Name High Over All." In the final verse of his hymn, I sing,

Happy, if with my latest breath
I may but gasp His Name,
Preach Him to all and cry in death,

"Behold, behold the Lamb!"

Now, an account of John's death tells that that is exactly what happened. As John lay dying, he uttered those words, "Behold the Lamb," and then took his last breath. John is telling everyone to look at Jesus—for hope, for provision, for their very life.

In his gospel he is inviting me to behold Jesus through the lens of seven signs or miracles. That is to say that he seems deliberate on choosing deliberately only seven out of the many miracles that Jesus performed in order to give a particular perspective of who this Jesus is. And the fourth miracle that he records is Jesus' feeding of the five thousand. Jesus Himself beholds the crowd—He looks attentively at their need—and He responds with compassion and provision. We encounter a dramatic miracle: Jesus multiplies fives loaves and two fish to feed five thousand people. Then John tells, "When they had all had enough to eat, [Jesus] said to his disciples, 'Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.' So they gathered them and filled twelve baskets with the pieces of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten". What a picture of amazing abundance: the Son of God demonstrating the abundance of God to a hungry people.

I've been more sensitive to many folks my age that seem to view this last part of the journey wondering if God is still at work in such a way. I'm sensing that I need to be at the place on my journey to encourage them, that He is. But how? I have to confess, I haven't been prepared or listening for God's voicing the answer, until, reading a testimonial story in a monthly periodical. I was intrigued to learn of a man named Chris who had gone out from the UK to smuggle Bibles. And although every three seconds someone in China becomes a Christian, there's a real lack of the Word of God there. I am still captured by what happened to Chris: he and his team stood at the pickup point in China where they were to meet their contact, who would utter a password, and they would deliver their Bibles. They arrived with only minutes to spare, but the contact didn't show up. Knowing they were being watched, the team started walking towards the edge of town as though leaving. Hot and tired, they stopped at a nearby park for a drink of water, rest, and prayer. It was hard to understand why after all the difficulties God had brought them through that something had gone so wrong. They had looked to God for provision and direction, and yet their mission had seemingly failed.

Soon the team became aware of three very ragged and dirty men under a tree behind them. Chris felt the Lord leading him to go over with some water. When he offered it, one of the men suddenly spoke the password very clearly in English. The rest of the team hurried over in amazement and pieced together the men's story from the little Chinese that they knew. Two years earlier, God had given a word to these Chinese men in one of their services that they should plan for this trip. God would lead them to this park, on this date, and have Bibles ready for them, which would be brought by white men from far away. Since they were all poor farmers, it had taken a long time for them to save the money for food and shoes for the trip. The men had walked for two and a half months, mostly at night to keep from being arrested. Coming from the far north of China near Mongolia, they had climbed a range of snowcapped mountains, traveled through the desert, and crossed several rivers without a compass or any knowledge of the country. All they could explain was that God had shown them where to go.

How did they know the password? How could they speak it in English when they knew no English? How did they survive the heat and the snow without protective clothing? It could only be God.

When the men saw the Bibles, they cried and praised the Lord for a long time. They had brought cloth bags with them to carry the Bibles home, and inside each one was a small watermelon that they had carried all those miles as a gift of appreciation. Even though they had been without food for several days, they didn't eat a single watermelon. The team exchanged clothes with them and Chris explained what an honor it was to put on those dirty rags. The shoes were completely worn out, but the team chose to go barefoot and give up their own shoes. Many tears were shed as the team prayed for the Chinese and sent them back home with food and money for their journey.

Thank You, Father, for the journey You have provided, throwing in a TV program, a book of knowing Jesus better, Dave's reminder of a gospel song and a story about a smuggler.  They have all helped me in nailing down the fact that Jesus, Your Son, is the God of abundance. He is the one within whom this provision, this abundance, is located. I'm more amazed these past weeks as I've been looking and beholding Him!  Amen

New Friend Helps Me Understand Nearness

I cannot begin to estimate how many times I've needed someone to or attempted, myself, to encourage someone with the assurance of God's nearness: God is with you, Bill. Or, God is near, my friend. At times; God is among us. As a Christian, it is an astonishing attribute of the God I profess, a comforting attribute which voices long before my own confessed: "God is my refuge and strength," writes the psalmist, "an ever-present help in trouble." "The Lord is near," the apostle tells the Philippians, "Do not be anxious," in chapter four. Once again, I testify to The One drawing near is a vital part of the story of my faith, Christianity, and one in which believers understandably draw hope. On the other hand, there have been certain junctures of my journey that drawing on that hope, has not come automatically. I was reminded of this, a week or so ago, at breakfast, when I met a brand-new friend. Being left at the table at which we were seated and into the forty-five minutes of getting acquainted, dripping with candor, he shared a tremendous grief he has been experiencing over the past eight years. My speaking assurance of the presence of God in the life of my new struggling friend was met with his honest rejoinder: "Is that supposed to encourage me?" 

I instantly thought I knew what was going though his mind because I've experienced when nearness in and of itself is not totally assuring. I had forgotten this in my well-meaning, though knee-jerk truism. My experience has been that one of the essential ingredients in the assurance that comes from nearness is the individual who is drawing near, at that moment. The degree of comfort and assurance (or instruction and conviction) I draw from those near me is wholly contingent on who it is that has come alone side. For some, that God is near resembles more of a threat than a promise. My friend'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 David, I understand that God's nearness was clearly for his good. (cf. Psalm 73:28).

So, sitting here, ruminating and outlining the draft for the entry I sense the need to ask the question: who is it that I as a believer, believe is near? And what does this even mean?

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 vast closet of clothes; they are not traits that exist independently but simultaneously, at times in paradoxical mystery. Isaiah finds God is both near us and "among us;" 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, according to Scripture, the One who dwells both with me and in the highest heavens is also good and wise and holy. I also hade forgotten until reminded of the excerpted from the Westminster Larger Catechism; the God of whose nearness Christians 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. All this leads me to believing the fact: like this God there is no other; God is wholly other.

These last days after the candid response from my friend, I'm realizing how important it is to attempt to clarify what I mean—and whom I speak of—when I say that God is near; my attempts will remind me that this is never a simple, casual knowledge understood. Just like me, at times, my friend needed not only to know that God is near but that God is merciful, not only that God is holding him and his situation, but that God is good. He needed to hear the "Who" behind the promise, beyond the attribute. And I needed the candid reminder that the attributes I can study, the biblical promises I cling to, the words I count on to comfort or restore, are pale in comparison and meaningful only because of the One they describe. The promise that God is among us is only promising because it is this God who is among us. 

I'm going to make it an intentional point to revisit this nearness business with my friend and provide him brotherly love, compassion, and the opportunity to contemplate the mysterious questions of The Who is it that comes near, The Who that rends the heavens to stand beside him, The Who that stands at the door and knocks? Who is this God that sits with us at the table, when we work in our gardens, hold our wife's hand, watching our grandchildren's accomplishments, and, in his case, lay his head on the pillow after a long laborious day without his "sidekick," son?

I trust that I will never forget the life of 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:

"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."  Amen