‘Twas the night before Christmas and outside the house
The wind was a’howling (the lousy old louse).
Snowing at breakfast and snowing at lunch;
Deeper at dinner - Why snow so darn much?
I was house sitting, as warm as could be,
Inside a big house with two dogs and no tree.
But come Christmas Eve I sought to depart
To go the church and offer my art.
To play the piano was my one intent
Or else I don’t think I would ever have went.
(Note: The last word in the above sentence has been used for rhyming purposes only, and in no way condones the use of improper language in poetry.)
The drifts were knee deep, but in my borrowed car
Nothing did I fear as I pushed through the bar.
One moment in time (just one, and that’s all)
The four tires spun like a cat on a ball.
And then we were free! Free to take flight
Down the slick highway and into the night.
(Actually, we barely made it to thirty.)
The service was grand with the candles and songs.
I played every tune, and they all sang along.
And then I was off once again in the car
That wasn’t exactly my own by so far.
We got to the driveway and started to go.
Then - THUMP! - we were stuck, just like that, in the snow.
The night before Christmas! Oh, what could I do?
Well, what would you do if it happened to you?
I called the nice people whose car I twice drove.
I called them and said I was stuck in the snow.
They said, “Call the neighbor and see if he will
Come out in the snow and lend you his skill.”
So, I did what they said, and I called him right up.
He said he would come and get me unstuck.
But did he know how it was howling outside,
With temperatures plummeting so far and wide?
But come he had said, and he didn’t dodge
But brought out his chains for the car that was lodged.
Well, the chains didn’t work, so he started the tractor,
And I sat in the car, waiting until after
The driveway was cleared of a foot of cold snow.
And all the whole while, the wind sure did blow.
I wondered as I sat inside the warm car
How his fingers and toes were faring out thar.
(Note: During that last sentence, the author suffered a temporary lapse into a somewhat obscure accent that uses the pronunciation “thar” to mean “there.”)
And this is a story from Christmas this year,
A story of manifest holiday cheer.
While you with your family and me in my socks
Were cozying up for a movie and talks,
A man outside in the freezing cold air
Was ridding a rather poor driver from care.
No fussing about it, no stomping, no glare,
Just one simple, “Yes, I can help you out there.”
And this is the meaning of peace upon earth,
The reason the Christmas songs have any worth.
A simple, benevolent story to weave -
Like one long ago on the first Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
An Illegitimate Christmas
Well, it’s blizzarding outside (welcome to Nebraska!), there’s an angel in a red robe playing what I assume to be a first century version of the trumpet in the opposite corner of the room (It’s cardboard. The angel and the trumpet.), I haven’t drunk my cup of hot chocolate for the day, but it is feeling something like Christmas. Which is probably a sign of health and awareness, considering we’re less than 48 hours out from the Big Day.
Christmas. That time of year when girls know to expect aromatic gifts that they’re not quite sure if they’re supposed to wash with or eat (With flavors like Vanilla Hazelnut and Coconut Cream, who would have ever thought it was only hand lotion?), and boys sit in church pews, listening fanatically to see if they will change the old hymn to “where ox and lamb are feeding,” instead of that other word. The time when pastors are allowed to sing all sorts of utter lies about a jolly man in a red suit and a reindeer with a similarly scarlet nose that everyone knows doesn’t exist - and not a single, truth-loving member of the congregation cares. The time of year when we entertain all sorts of traditions - gift giving, kissing plants (that’s mistletoe to you), carol singing, murder of the pines (I’m sure every true blue tree-hugger buys a plastic one) - in a society that struggles to keep up even traditional traditions, like having a father and a mother at the head of the family.
A time when the songs exhort you to dream about snow, even though you dread it the rest of the year. When family finally comes before work, unless your name is Scrooge; and, even then, you might reconsider if only a Tiny Tim would walk - excuse me, hobble - into your life. A time when the stores are packed and the bars are empty (or are they?). A time when, for once, you might walk down the street and see people not only smiling, but cheerfully chatting with that all-suspicious complete and total strangers.
It’s a good thing, right? No matter what else they might accuse us of, at least the rest of the world has to admit that we know how to celebrate Christmas! Even if the point does get a bit lost in the whirlwind. Because even though we might congratulate ourselves that they’re using the word “Jesus” on the public radio stations as something other than a swear word, it’s easy to bypass the heart of the matter. We don’t do it on purpose; there’s just so many other things to look at. One more illegitimate baby to populate the globe isn’t really that spectacular. I could walk you down the street and point out ten more. Not that any of them had shepherds or angels singing over them; a nurse maybe, but no one crooning in Hebrew, and certainly nothing heavenly. Maybe that’s why two thousand years ago a good portion of the Israelites, the Pharisees, and the local rulers missed it. I’m not sure about the idea of a synagogue ruler belting out “I saw Mama kissing Santa Clause,” but I’m sure they had plenty of other things to look at. Something besides another illegitimate child.
Unless He wasn’t illegitimate. Unless it was miraculous. Unless the Son of God really did become flesh and make His dwelling among us, like John says He did. Unless He really was who He said He was. Is who He says He is. And if that’s all true, then Santa and Rudolph really ought to be tossed in the backseat with the Legos and fairytale books. We have more important things to look at.
Christmas. That time of year when girls know to expect aromatic gifts that they’re not quite sure if they’re supposed to wash with or eat (With flavors like Vanilla Hazelnut and Coconut Cream, who would have ever thought it was only hand lotion?), and boys sit in church pews, listening fanatically to see if they will change the old hymn to “where ox and lamb are feeding,” instead of that other word. The time when pastors are allowed to sing all sorts of utter lies about a jolly man in a red suit and a reindeer with a similarly scarlet nose that everyone knows doesn’t exist - and not a single, truth-loving member of the congregation cares. The time of year when we entertain all sorts of traditions - gift giving, kissing plants (that’s mistletoe to you), carol singing, murder of the pines (I’m sure every true blue tree-hugger buys a plastic one) - in a society that struggles to keep up even traditional traditions, like having a father and a mother at the head of the family.
A time when the songs exhort you to dream about snow, even though you dread it the rest of the year. When family finally comes before work, unless your name is Scrooge; and, even then, you might reconsider if only a Tiny Tim would walk - excuse me, hobble - into your life. A time when the stores are packed and the bars are empty (or are they?). A time when, for once, you might walk down the street and see people not only smiling, but cheerfully chatting with that all-suspicious complete and total strangers.
It’s a good thing, right? No matter what else they might accuse us of, at least the rest of the world has to admit that we know how to celebrate Christmas! Even if the point does get a bit lost in the whirlwind. Because even though we might congratulate ourselves that they’re using the word “Jesus” on the public radio stations as something other than a swear word, it’s easy to bypass the heart of the matter. We don’t do it on purpose; there’s just so many other things to look at. One more illegitimate baby to populate the globe isn’t really that spectacular. I could walk you down the street and point out ten more. Not that any of them had shepherds or angels singing over them; a nurse maybe, but no one crooning in Hebrew, and certainly nothing heavenly. Maybe that’s why two thousand years ago a good portion of the Israelites, the Pharisees, and the local rulers missed it. I’m not sure about the idea of a synagogue ruler belting out “I saw Mama kissing Santa Clause,” but I’m sure they had plenty of other things to look at. Something besides another illegitimate child.
Unless He wasn’t illegitimate. Unless it was miraculous. Unless the Son of God really did become flesh and make His dwelling among us, like John says He did. Unless He really was who He said He was. Is who He says He is. And if that’s all true, then Santa and Rudolph really ought to be tossed in the backseat with the Legos and fairytale books. We have more important things to look at.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Is It Wrong or Just Unfavorable Consequences?
Ancient Rome might have called it revolution. Greeks might have hailed it as the rise of a new philosophy. Middle Age Britishers might have called us all separatists and demanded the rack, and I’m sure someone somewhere might have used the word “witch.” Bonfire, anyone?
But in today’s modern, technologized, politicized, civilized 21st Century, we only say, “That’s just the way things are these days.” It isn’t a crime, you can’t scientifically prove that it’s wrong, and it’s not really hurting anyone, is it? So, give it up. Live and let live. Isn’t that what everyone else is doing? What’s the big deal about the downfall of modern morality anyway? Not that I’m addressing our lack of morals, mind you. No, this is worse. This is our wholesale extinction of them. The fact that we don’t have any. Just like you could walk down the street and find no pet dinosaur romping about in someone’s backyard.
You see, morality has become something of a dirty word here in the West. Moralists share the same boat as Communists: We’re not precisely sure what they are, but we’ve been told they’re up to no good, and we know how to spot one when we see one! The issue can be left-winged or right-winged, old-fashioned or radical, biased or impartial, even good or bad. It is hardly ever right or wrong.
Why? Because right and wrong don’t exist anymore. Drunk driving has unfavorable consequences. Murder will cost you any degree of respect, besides getting you thrown in jail. Giving to the poor is a great way to boost self-worth. Divorce is hard on the children. Helping the stranded driver on the side of the road - well, that’s a bit risky, but he might be grateful and give you twenty bucks. Stealing company money is bound to end you up jobless and friendless, and that’ll be your own fault and no one else’s. Does anyone say anymore a simple, “That is right; that is wrong”?
How would Jesus be received today, I wonder, with His blunt, “Let the dead bury their own dead,” and, “Unless you repent, you too will be condemned”? How, with His exclusive, “I am the way, the truth, and the light”? I mean, really, you must admit that does sound a bit narrow-minded of Him. But we have said we would like to be lowered to the level of animals, which have no moral consciousness; and, in doing so, we have all but lost our own. We have grasped hold of too many contradictions in our speech and thought patterns; and in doing so, have had to let go of our hold on truth.
And the worst is this: Since we have - or think we have - a good portion of the world’s money, the rest of the globe looks up to us. The trends we pick here are plastered on billboards across China. (I know; I’ve seen some of them.) The philosophies we so devotedly preach here are actually put into practice in nations like the Philippines, sometimes to devastating affect. We who claim to be the shepherds of the world are leading the flock down an incline that will quite possibly get us all killed. But is it really wrong, after all? Or is death simply another one of our unfavorable consequences?
But in today’s modern, technologized, politicized, civilized 21st Century, we only say, “That’s just the way things are these days.” It isn’t a crime, you can’t scientifically prove that it’s wrong, and it’s not really hurting anyone, is it? So, give it up. Live and let live. Isn’t that what everyone else is doing? What’s the big deal about the downfall of modern morality anyway? Not that I’m addressing our lack of morals, mind you. No, this is worse. This is our wholesale extinction of them. The fact that we don’t have any. Just like you could walk down the street and find no pet dinosaur romping about in someone’s backyard.
You see, morality has become something of a dirty word here in the West. Moralists share the same boat as Communists: We’re not precisely sure what they are, but we’ve been told they’re up to no good, and we know how to spot one when we see one! The issue can be left-winged or right-winged, old-fashioned or radical, biased or impartial, even good or bad. It is hardly ever right or wrong.
Why? Because right and wrong don’t exist anymore. Drunk driving has unfavorable consequences. Murder will cost you any degree of respect, besides getting you thrown in jail. Giving to the poor is a great way to boost self-worth. Divorce is hard on the children. Helping the stranded driver on the side of the road - well, that’s a bit risky, but he might be grateful and give you twenty bucks. Stealing company money is bound to end you up jobless and friendless, and that’ll be your own fault and no one else’s. Does anyone say anymore a simple, “That is right; that is wrong”?
How would Jesus be received today, I wonder, with His blunt, “Let the dead bury their own dead,” and, “Unless you repent, you too will be condemned”? How, with His exclusive, “I am the way, the truth, and the light”? I mean, really, you must admit that does sound a bit narrow-minded of Him. But we have said we would like to be lowered to the level of animals, which have no moral consciousness; and, in doing so, we have all but lost our own. We have grasped hold of too many contradictions in our speech and thought patterns; and in doing so, have had to let go of our hold on truth.
And the worst is this: Since we have - or think we have - a good portion of the world’s money, the rest of the globe looks up to us. The trends we pick here are plastered on billboards across China. (I know; I’ve seen some of them.) The philosophies we so devotedly preach here are actually put into practice in nations like the Philippines, sometimes to devastating affect. We who claim to be the shepherds of the world are leading the flock down an incline that will quite possibly get us all killed. But is it really wrong, after all? Or is death simply another one of our unfavorable consequences?
Monday, December 7, 2009
From 1962
I have finished a rather interesting book written nearly half a century ago by a man who, as a public educator, had quite a right to hold opinions on public education. What follows is an abbreviated quote of what he had to say:
First, as written from his own point of view:
“In my view there is a sense in which education ought to be democratic and another sense in which it ought not. It ought to be democratic in the sense of being available, without distinction of sex, colour, class, race, or religion, to all who can - and will - diligently accept it. But once the young people are inside the school there must be no attempt to establish a factitious egalitarianism between the idlers and dunces on the one hand and the clever and industrious on the other. A modern nation needs a very large class of genuinely educated people and it is the primary function of schools and universities to supply them. To lower standards or disguise inequalities is fatal.”
Then, as written from the view of an enemy of the human race:
“In that promising land the spirit of I’m as good as you has already become something more than a generally social influence. It begins to work itself into their educational system . . . The basic principle of the new education is to be that dunces and idlers must not be made to feel inferior to intelligent and industrious pupils . . . At schools, the children who are too stupid or lazy to learn languages and mathematics and elementary science can be set to doing the things that children used to do in their spare time. Let them, for example, make mud pies and call it modelling. But all the time there must be no faintest hint that they are inferior to the children who are at work. Whatever nonsense they are engaged in must have - I believe the English already use the phrase - ‘parity of esteem’ . . . The bright pupil thus remains democratically fettered to his own age group throughout his school career, and a boy who would be capable of tackling Aeschylus or Dante sits listening to his coeval’s attempts to spell out A CAT SAT ON A MAT.
In a word, we may reasonably hope for the virtual abolition of education when I’m as good as you has fully had its way. All incentives to learn and all penalties for not learning will vanish. The few who might want to learn will be prevented; who are they to overtop their fellows? And anyway the teachers - or should I say, nurses? - will be far too busy reassuring the dunces and patting them on the back to waste any time on real teaching. We shall no longer have to plan and toil to spread imperturbable conceit and incurable ignorance among men. The little vermin themselves will do it for us.”
Perhaps if you have looked very hard into America’s present-day educational system, you have seen something of this very sort going on. Perhaps I also ought to qualify the previous quotations by making several pertinent remarks. First, you might be interested to know that the man who wrote this admitted (even from nearly 50 years ago!) that he was writing specifically about the American educational system. Second, that said man was British (which is why he spelled color with a “u” and added an extra "l" to modeling). Third, that this man happens to be C.S. Lewis. The book, if you haven’t read it, is The Screwtape Letters, and the quotes are taken from an ending addition, “Screwtape Proposes a Toast.”
First, as written from his own point of view:
“In my view there is a sense in which education ought to be democratic and another sense in which it ought not. It ought to be democratic in the sense of being available, without distinction of sex, colour, class, race, or religion, to all who can - and will - diligently accept it. But once the young people are inside the school there must be no attempt to establish a factitious egalitarianism between the idlers and dunces on the one hand and the clever and industrious on the other. A modern nation needs a very large class of genuinely educated people and it is the primary function of schools and universities to supply them. To lower standards or disguise inequalities is fatal.”
Then, as written from the view of an enemy of the human race:
“In that promising land the spirit of I’m as good as you has already become something more than a generally social influence. It begins to work itself into their educational system . . . The basic principle of the new education is to be that dunces and idlers must not be made to feel inferior to intelligent and industrious pupils . . . At schools, the children who are too stupid or lazy to learn languages and mathematics and elementary science can be set to doing the things that children used to do in their spare time. Let them, for example, make mud pies and call it modelling. But all the time there must be no faintest hint that they are inferior to the children who are at work. Whatever nonsense they are engaged in must have - I believe the English already use the phrase - ‘parity of esteem’ . . . The bright pupil thus remains democratically fettered to his own age group throughout his school career, and a boy who would be capable of tackling Aeschylus or Dante sits listening to his coeval’s attempts to spell out A CAT SAT ON A MAT.
In a word, we may reasonably hope for the virtual abolition of education when I’m as good as you has fully had its way. All incentives to learn and all penalties for not learning will vanish. The few who might want to learn will be prevented; who are they to overtop their fellows? And anyway the teachers - or should I say, nurses? - will be far too busy reassuring the dunces and patting them on the back to waste any time on real teaching. We shall no longer have to plan and toil to spread imperturbable conceit and incurable ignorance among men. The little vermin themselves will do it for us.”
Perhaps if you have looked very hard into America’s present-day educational system, you have seen something of this very sort going on. Perhaps I also ought to qualify the previous quotations by making several pertinent remarks. First, you might be interested to know that the man who wrote this admitted (even from nearly 50 years ago!) that he was writing specifically about the American educational system. Second, that said man was British (which is why he spelled color with a “u” and added an extra "l" to modeling). Third, that this man happens to be C.S. Lewis. The book, if you haven’t read it, is The Screwtape Letters, and the quotes are taken from an ending addition, “Screwtape Proposes a Toast.”
Saturday, November 14, 2009
King of the Ants: A Parable
One day all the children gathered on the back lawn. “I will be king of the ants,” the first little boy said. But then the second stepped forward and said, “No, I will be king of the ants.” And then what do you think? The third declared the same thing, and the fourth didn’t want to be left out, and well - it might have gone rather impolitely after that, for little boys are more prone to using fists than words, but for a little girl who stepped forward. And the little girl said, “Only one of you will be king of the ants, and this is how we will decide. Whoever can make the ants love him will be king.”
The boys agreed, and thus the test began.
Said the first little boy, “I know! I will give the ants a picture of me. A very small picture that they can carry into their homes and hang up on their walls and stare at all day. And so they will see and love me.” But when he tried, the ants carried the picture underground and vanished in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Seeing a picture of me is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Meanwhile, the second little boy said, “I know! I will find honey, and I will rub it on my hands and feet and arms and legs. Then the ants will come to the honey, and so they will love me.” But when he tried, the ants came and ate the honey and then wandered off in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Eating the honey I give is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Said the third little boy, “I know! I will speak to the ants. Loud and slow and clear. Then they will hear my voice and love me.” But when he tried, the ants thought it was angry thunder and flew terrified in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Hearing my voice is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Meanwhile, the fourth little boy said, “I know! I will get a box, and I will put the ants in the box. I will feed them and water them, and they will be safe in the box, and so they will love me.” But when he tried, the ants refused to stay in the box but escaped in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Wanting safety is not the same thing as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Now for all I know, those four little boys and their befuddled little ants are still sitting on the back lawn, not knowing what to do (although I am quite sure the girl has left by now). But you are waiting for the moral of the story, and it is this: What four boys could not accomplish, one God did. Not by sending pictures, bribery, sensationalism, or security. So, how did He do it? Simply this: He sent Himself.
The boys agreed, and thus the test began.
Said the first little boy, “I know! I will give the ants a picture of me. A very small picture that they can carry into their homes and hang up on their walls and stare at all day. And so they will see and love me.” But when he tried, the ants carried the picture underground and vanished in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Seeing a picture of me is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Meanwhile, the second little boy said, “I know! I will find honey, and I will rub it on my hands and feet and arms and legs. Then the ants will come to the honey, and so they will love me.” But when he tried, the ants came and ate the honey and then wandered off in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Eating the honey I give is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Said the third little boy, “I know! I will speak to the ants. Loud and slow and clear. Then they will hear my voice and love me.” But when he tried, the ants thought it was angry thunder and flew terrified in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Hearing my voice is not the same as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Meanwhile, the fourth little boy said, “I know! I will get a box, and I will put the ants in the box. I will feed them and water them, and they will be safe in the box, and so they will love me.” But when he tried, the ants refused to stay in the box but escaped in every direction. And the little boy thought, “Hm. Wanting safety is not the same thing as loving me.” And he did not know what to do.
Now for all I know, those four little boys and their befuddled little ants are still sitting on the back lawn, not knowing what to do (although I am quite sure the girl has left by now). But you are waiting for the moral of the story, and it is this: What four boys could not accomplish, one God did. Not by sending pictures, bribery, sensationalism, or security. So, how did He do it? Simply this: He sent Himself.
Monday, November 2, 2009
A Chinese Driving Test
REAL honest-to-goodness questions on a driving test in China, late 2009. Go ahead and try the test yourself . . . You might be surprised at how well you do! (I have provided some American explanations in parenthesis.)
TRUE/FALSE
A) When a vehicle goes uphill on a mountain road, it should change to low gear in advance, speed up and dash uphill.
B) When a vehicle overturns slowly and jumping out of the vehicle is possible, the driver should jump in the opposite direction of the overturn.
C) When driving on a muddy road, the driver should remove the muddy and cover with sands, rocks, grasses or wood if the wheels of his vehicle spin. (We know you’re stuck in the mud, but get rid of the mud anyhow, find some grass, pick it quick, and cram it under your tires.)
D) When the driver senses he will inevitably be thrown out of the vehicle, he should violently straighten both his legs to increase the force of being thrown out and jump out of the vehicle.
E) When putting out a fire, the driver should refrain from breathing through mouth or crying loudly. Otherwise, the fire and smoke will scorch the upper respiratory tract. (Since fires start in cars so often, this is a very important answer to know.)
F) When a vehicle falls into water, the driver should in no way panic. In particular, those who cannot swim should first manage to escape through the windows. As long as they reach the water surface, they will have more chances to survive. (If, however, you are so unfortunate as to not be able to reach the water surface, your chance of survival is slightly decreased.)
G) After a vehicle falls into water, the driver should immediately close the windows to prevent water from flowing into the compartment and to keep the air from flowing out. At the same time, they make telephone calls to tell the rescue personnel the place of the accident and wait for their arrival. (Lock yourself in the car 20 feet underwater, and call for help!)
H) When a wounded person is under the wheel or cargo, the correct method is to pull the limbs off the wounded. (Translation: If you run someone over, pull their arms off!)
I) The main feature of pedestrians participating in road traffic is, they walk around at will and can easily change directions. (They don’t really know where they’re going, and they’re more zombie than human, since they obviously have no idea how to watch out for traffic.)
J) In hot weather, the driver may drive barebacked, barefooted or wearing slippers. (No shirt, no shoes . . .)
K) When encountering a flock of sheep on the road the driver must honk loudly and continuously to drive them off. (Is the answer the same when you meet a family of gorillas? What about an elephant herd?)
Answers:
A) True
B) True
C) True
D) True
E) True
F) True
G) False
H) False
I) True
J) False
K) False
Many thanks to the brave missionary family in China who both passed and sent us this test. I’m sure we’re all very much wishing we could drive our cars where you drive yours!
TRUE/FALSE
A) When a vehicle goes uphill on a mountain road, it should change to low gear in advance, speed up and dash uphill.
B) When a vehicle overturns slowly and jumping out of the vehicle is possible, the driver should jump in the opposite direction of the overturn.
C) When driving on a muddy road, the driver should remove the muddy and cover with sands, rocks, grasses or wood if the wheels of his vehicle spin. (We know you’re stuck in the mud, but get rid of the mud anyhow, find some grass, pick it quick, and cram it under your tires.)
D) When the driver senses he will inevitably be thrown out of the vehicle, he should violently straighten both his legs to increase the force of being thrown out and jump out of the vehicle.
E) When putting out a fire, the driver should refrain from breathing through mouth or crying loudly. Otherwise, the fire and smoke will scorch the upper respiratory tract. (Since fires start in cars so often, this is a very important answer to know.)
F) When a vehicle falls into water, the driver should in no way panic. In particular, those who cannot swim should first manage to escape through the windows. As long as they reach the water surface, they will have more chances to survive. (If, however, you are so unfortunate as to not be able to reach the water surface, your chance of survival is slightly decreased.)
G) After a vehicle falls into water, the driver should immediately close the windows to prevent water from flowing into the compartment and to keep the air from flowing out. At the same time, they make telephone calls to tell the rescue personnel the place of the accident and wait for their arrival. (Lock yourself in the car 20 feet underwater, and call for help!)
H) When a wounded person is under the wheel or cargo, the correct method is to pull the limbs off the wounded. (Translation: If you run someone over, pull their arms off!)
I) The main feature of pedestrians participating in road traffic is, they walk around at will and can easily change directions. (They don’t really know where they’re going, and they’re more zombie than human, since they obviously have no idea how to watch out for traffic.)
J) In hot weather, the driver may drive barebacked, barefooted or wearing slippers. (No shirt, no shoes . . .)
K) When encountering a flock of sheep on the road the driver must honk loudly and continuously to drive them off. (Is the answer the same when you meet a family of gorillas? What about an elephant herd?)
Answers:
A) True
B) True
C) True
D) True
E) True
F) True
G) False
H) False
I) True
J) False
K) False
Many thanks to the brave missionary family in China who both passed and sent us this test. I’m sure we’re all very much wishing we could drive our cars where you drive yours!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Contrasing Darkness: Africa vs. America
We all know that children are dying for lack of bread in Africa. Just as we know that children are dying for lack of truth in America. And it is very sad, to be sure. The world is shocked to witness the political reign of chaos and rebellion on the Dark Continent, just as they are shocked to witness the moral reign of chaos and rebellion on the Free Continent. What Africans say with bullets, Americans say with court rulings. It is not the message that differs; only the language.
Their schools are empty because of violence; our schools are empty because of indifference. Their armies of child soldiers kill with machine guns the way our armies of educated students kill with words, texted, typed, or spoken. Their burnt villages are our empty churches. Their rampant diseases are our rampant greed. Their rebel gangs are our undisciplined youth.
What the world sees as blood painting their streets is no more evil than the blood painting our eyes.
They sell and slaughter bodies; we sell and slaughter souls. They watch the enemy abduct their children and make them into callous murderers; we watch the enemy abduct our children and make them into callous businessmen. Their evil men sling automatics over their shoulders and dangle human teeth around their necks. Our evil men hold doctorates in their hands and knot designer ties around their throats. They are unable to provide their people with jobs; we are unable to provide our people with meaning.
Africa kills its old people through poverty and the harshness of living. America kills its old people through neglect and the retardation of dying. In Africa, churches meet under tin and bamboo, meeting in danger of their lives. In America, churches meet under marble and stained glass, meeting in danger of their souls. Their diseases bury them under the ground. Our diseases bury us under paperwork. Their violence is splattered in blood and bodies on the streets; our violence is splattered in words and pictures on the Internet.
The only difference in our suffering is this: A doctor, if one could be found, could heal their wounds. A God, if one could be found, could heal ours. Why is Africa not begging for doctors? Why is America not begging for God? They say they believe in God but do not live under peace. We say we believe in peace but do not live under God.
Africa found simplicity, and it failed them. America found prosperity, and it failed us. They tell us we are sick with money; we tell them they are sick with AIDS. They belong in prison; we belong in counseling. We’ve both served our time and come out on the other side unchanged. We are both dying by the millions.
Why? Why are Africa’s physical evils such a mirror image of America’s spiritual evils? Why is their physical death our moral depravity? Why are the stomach-empty children in their cities echoes of the mind-empty children in our schools? Why do their soldiers wield machetes to the same affect that our educators wield lies? Why does senseless violence rule their streets as broken promises rule our homes?
WHY?
Because we have both forgotten God. Because God’s people, child by child, spanning every town, city, and village, have not thrown ourselves on our knees before God Almighty, repenting of our sins, and screaming out for God to hear and act.
We are busy; we are upset; we are dying. But we are not sorry.
Their schools are empty because of violence; our schools are empty because of indifference. Their armies of child soldiers kill with machine guns the way our armies of educated students kill with words, texted, typed, or spoken. Their burnt villages are our empty churches. Their rampant diseases are our rampant greed. Their rebel gangs are our undisciplined youth.
What the world sees as blood painting their streets is no more evil than the blood painting our eyes.
They sell and slaughter bodies; we sell and slaughter souls. They watch the enemy abduct their children and make them into callous murderers; we watch the enemy abduct our children and make them into callous businessmen. Their evil men sling automatics over their shoulders and dangle human teeth around their necks. Our evil men hold doctorates in their hands and knot designer ties around their throats. They are unable to provide their people with jobs; we are unable to provide our people with meaning.
Africa kills its old people through poverty and the harshness of living. America kills its old people through neglect and the retardation of dying. In Africa, churches meet under tin and bamboo, meeting in danger of their lives. In America, churches meet under marble and stained glass, meeting in danger of their souls. Their diseases bury them under the ground. Our diseases bury us under paperwork. Their violence is splattered in blood and bodies on the streets; our violence is splattered in words and pictures on the Internet.
The only difference in our suffering is this: A doctor, if one could be found, could heal their wounds. A God, if one could be found, could heal ours. Why is Africa not begging for doctors? Why is America not begging for God? They say they believe in God but do not live under peace. We say we believe in peace but do not live under God.
Africa found simplicity, and it failed them. America found prosperity, and it failed us. They tell us we are sick with money; we tell them they are sick with AIDS. They belong in prison; we belong in counseling. We’ve both served our time and come out on the other side unchanged. We are both dying by the millions.
Why? Why are Africa’s physical evils such a mirror image of America’s spiritual evils? Why is their physical death our moral depravity? Why are the stomach-empty children in their cities echoes of the mind-empty children in our schools? Why do their soldiers wield machetes to the same affect that our educators wield lies? Why does senseless violence rule their streets as broken promises rule our homes?
WHY?
Because we have both forgotten God. Because God’s people, child by child, spanning every town, city, and village, have not thrown ourselves on our knees before God Almighty, repenting of our sins, and screaming out for God to hear and act.
We are busy; we are upset; we are dying. But we are not sorry.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Glove Compartment
It wasn’t what I was expecting to see when I opened the glove compartment. Nestled in with my car registration, a faithful Oldsmobile manual, and sundry other bits and pieces. I don’t actually remember why I yanked open the drawer in the first place, but I had most certainly not anticipated company. Nonetheless, there it was, blinking up at me, small, fat, and twitching.
It was a mouse. Quite a large one (I think it was pregnant). That, in and of itself, was in my unbiased opinion right and proper provocation for a very loud, very high-pitched scream. Shriek might be a better word.
Now I’ve recently read The Borrowers, and I’m all for the little people in this world. (Little in this case meaning approximately three inches tall.) Just not in my car. Although if they’re looking for another sequel for the Clock family (that’s the heros in The Borrowers for those of you uneducated in children’s book lore), I could make a suggestion. Just imagine what would happen if the Clocks tried to live in a car for awhile. Better yet, make it an RV. You’d get all sorts of adventures.
Too bad I wasn’t facing a three-inch human. I might have had a fantastic story to tell. Not that anyone would believe me. But instead I was face-to-face with a three-inch mouse, and I didn’t really fancy the notion of keeping him. Pets in your house are one thing - but in your car? After wrapping up my very necessary and impressive shriek (I took voice lessons, you know), I slammed the glove compartment door shut again. Sort of like a magic trick, I guess. Now you see him . . . and now you don’t! Then I gave the door a few solid smacks with the palm of my hand. Hm. What next?
Rid of the rodent temporarily - or, at least, he was out of sight - I peeped into the glove compartment for a closer look at the damage. Do mice nest? Cause I’m pretty sure that’s what this little guy was trying to do. A fairly good-sized ball of yarn/foam/insulation stuff had appeared from who knows where, and this was sprinkled with a lovely assortment of chewed-up paper. The pink flakes of which happened to be my car registration paper. I have a three-year old niece who has a habit of eating these little forms, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. In fact, I should probably be grateful. My little visitor only nibbled on the edges; my niece chomped down the whole thing.
Then I shut the lid, pounded on it a few more times, and started the car.
Yep, that’s right. I purposefully tried to scare the little mouse into running away (hopefully into the intricacies of the car engine) and then turned the key. I think I expected my car to blow up. Or to hear a “Yee-ow!” and see a little ball of fuzz go flying through the air. Well, it didn’t. At least the car didn’t. The mouse might have; I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since. I’m rather hoping I don’t ever.
My newly-designed car registration paper now resides safely in my back seat for the wind to blow where it pleases. I hope I don’t get pulled over any time soon. On the plus side, I have to say that my glove compartment has never been cleaner . . . So, here’s a friendly word of warning from one who’s been there: Always beware when opening the lid to your glove compartment. You never know what might be in there.
It was a mouse. Quite a large one (I think it was pregnant). That, in and of itself, was in my unbiased opinion right and proper provocation for a very loud, very high-pitched scream. Shriek might be a better word.
Now I’ve recently read The Borrowers, and I’m all for the little people in this world. (Little in this case meaning approximately three inches tall.) Just not in my car. Although if they’re looking for another sequel for the Clock family (that’s the heros in The Borrowers for those of you uneducated in children’s book lore), I could make a suggestion. Just imagine what would happen if the Clocks tried to live in a car for awhile. Better yet, make it an RV. You’d get all sorts of adventures.
Too bad I wasn’t facing a three-inch human. I might have had a fantastic story to tell. Not that anyone would believe me. But instead I was face-to-face with a three-inch mouse, and I didn’t really fancy the notion of keeping him. Pets in your house are one thing - but in your car? After wrapping up my very necessary and impressive shriek (I took voice lessons, you know), I slammed the glove compartment door shut again. Sort of like a magic trick, I guess. Now you see him . . . and now you don’t! Then I gave the door a few solid smacks with the palm of my hand. Hm. What next?
Rid of the rodent temporarily - or, at least, he was out of sight - I peeped into the glove compartment for a closer look at the damage. Do mice nest? Cause I’m pretty sure that’s what this little guy was trying to do. A fairly good-sized ball of yarn/foam/insulation stuff had appeared from who knows where, and this was sprinkled with a lovely assortment of chewed-up paper. The pink flakes of which happened to be my car registration paper. I have a three-year old niece who has a habit of eating these little forms, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. In fact, I should probably be grateful. My little visitor only nibbled on the edges; my niece chomped down the whole thing.
Then I shut the lid, pounded on it a few more times, and started the car.
Yep, that’s right. I purposefully tried to scare the little mouse into running away (hopefully into the intricacies of the car engine) and then turned the key. I think I expected my car to blow up. Or to hear a “Yee-ow!” and see a little ball of fuzz go flying through the air. Well, it didn’t. At least the car didn’t. The mouse might have; I’m not sure. I haven’t seen him since. I’m rather hoping I don’t ever.
My newly-designed car registration paper now resides safely in my back seat for the wind to blow where it pleases. I hope I don’t get pulled over any time soon. On the plus side, I have to say that my glove compartment has never been cleaner . . . So, here’s a friendly word of warning from one who’s been there: Always beware when opening the lid to your glove compartment. You never know what might be in there.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Saving Batman
All in all, it had been a fairly decent day. Made a pretty little windchime out of seashells. Rode my horse while the setting sun flamed brilliantly. Named a deaf puppy Beethoven. Managed to cook without getting anything burnt, flooded, smelly, or started on fire.
But that was before me and my sister decided to watch Batman. Horseback riding had taken a little longer than anticipated, and it was quite late in the evening when we started the movie. Late and dark. Heedless, we sat in the shadowy living room of the large, empty house (my parents are gone just now to Washington), staring at the TV screen. Impressive scenes of karate and jujitsu, grave danger and heroic rescues, gaudy mansions and squalid alleys filled the screen. And bats. Most of the scary scenes had bats.
Especially that one part where the little boy (Batman in his younger years) falls into the well and sees the dank, dark hole out of which shoot hundreds of the small shrieking creatures. We were somewhere past that bit - somewhere after he’s gotten out of jail but before he saves the world - when IT happened.
IT was a hurtling boomerang of frantic energy, zooming dizzying circles up near the ceiling, now buzzing over our heads like a war plane threatening attack, now ducking into another room only to come shooting back. In our living room. Batman had come to life.
I scrambled to hit the “pause” button just as soon as I stopped screaming and managed to extricate my hands and head from under the blanket I suddenly found myself buried under. Don’t get me wrong - I like Batman. I like bats. But they are both much more charming - and a lot safer - on the other side of the glass.
On the other hand, we couldn’t just leave him in here. Not for his sake - neglect, cruelty to animals, save the whales, and all that - but for ours. So, we began the rather delicate process of extrication. I blocked one doorway, leaping up and down, furiously waving my blanket, and yelping every so often in a tone that I hoped would convince the little guy not to dive-bomb into my head. My sister took the more casual approach, actually aiming her blanket in concise movements that ultimately showed mini-Batman the merits of life out-of-doors.
The way I see it, we saved his life. Even with all the spiders and ladybugs we keep inside our house, I doubt a bat could survive here indefinitely. So, we rescued Batman. Practically. And saving a super hero from cruel and certain death is not something you get to do every day. I’m just glad we weren’t watching Jaws.
But that was before me and my sister decided to watch Batman. Horseback riding had taken a little longer than anticipated, and it was quite late in the evening when we started the movie. Late and dark. Heedless, we sat in the shadowy living room of the large, empty house (my parents are gone just now to Washington), staring at the TV screen. Impressive scenes of karate and jujitsu, grave danger and heroic rescues, gaudy mansions and squalid alleys filled the screen. And bats. Most of the scary scenes had bats.
Especially that one part where the little boy (Batman in his younger years) falls into the well and sees the dank, dark hole out of which shoot hundreds of the small shrieking creatures. We were somewhere past that bit - somewhere after he’s gotten out of jail but before he saves the world - when IT happened.
IT was a hurtling boomerang of frantic energy, zooming dizzying circles up near the ceiling, now buzzing over our heads like a war plane threatening attack, now ducking into another room only to come shooting back. In our living room. Batman had come to life.
I scrambled to hit the “pause” button just as soon as I stopped screaming and managed to extricate my hands and head from under the blanket I suddenly found myself buried under. Don’t get me wrong - I like Batman. I like bats. But they are both much more charming - and a lot safer - on the other side of the glass.
On the other hand, we couldn’t just leave him in here. Not for his sake - neglect, cruelty to animals, save the whales, and all that - but for ours. So, we began the rather delicate process of extrication. I blocked one doorway, leaping up and down, furiously waving my blanket, and yelping every so often in a tone that I hoped would convince the little guy not to dive-bomb into my head. My sister took the more casual approach, actually aiming her blanket in concise movements that ultimately showed mini-Batman the merits of life out-of-doors.
The way I see it, we saved his life. Even with all the spiders and ladybugs we keep inside our house, I doubt a bat could survive here indefinitely. So, we rescued Batman. Practically. And saving a super hero from cruel and certain death is not something you get to do every day. I’m just glad we weren’t watching Jaws.
Friday, June 5, 2009
All I Wanted Was a Bouncy Ball
This evening I went to Walmart. Right after attending a dinner to wrap up the end of Royal Family Kids Camp. That’s the camp I led singing for in the mornings and then went to school to direct the last week of Robin Hood play practice in the evening. It was what you might call a busy week.
So, I’d just played my last note on the keyboard, smiled my last tired smile, and gotten into the car for the long drive home. But I needed a bouncy ball first. Preferably one with blue and green swirls. Turns out they make great crystal balls for rogue heros dressed up as gypsies (That would be Robin Hood and Little John, in case you were wondering.).
So, I went to Walmart. But first I had to look in the make-up section. For a gilded mirror that Prince John could smack over Sir Hiss’s head. Under two dollars please. We don’t want to break anything expensive. But Walmart doesn’t carry cheap gilded mirrors. Only I must mention the detour because it was there that I saw my first strange sight. It was a little midget. Three feet tall or so. Blonde hair. I think it was a girl. In fact, I do hope it was, cause she had on a knee-length dress, fashionable black pantyhose, and no shoes.
And I had always been under the delusion that Walmart was a respectable “no shirt, no shoes, no service” store like the local Pump and Pantry.
Well, I shrugged this one off (I’d just been through camp after all. Shoeless dwarves aren’t THAT odd.) and began making my way towards the toy section. Which is when I spotted the six-foot dude with the tennis shoes and stubble on his face. Not enough to be called a beard. And THAT wouldn’t have been so strange either except that he was wearing a dress. Quite a long, sunny one with puffed sleeves and a creamy yellow hue to it. Did I forget to mention the blonde wig?
I began to think I might need to set up an eye appointment in the very near future. The people around me walked on as though nothing was out of the usual. I swallowed and tried to do the same. To the toy section! Oh, except first I pulled off a nonchalant loop in the women’s clothes department (I felt just like Sherlock Holmes) to get a better look at the guy in the dress. Coming out of the loop, I saw the sixty-year old. The one with the frazzled beard - looked like he might have belonged to a motorcycle gang. Only he was obviously missing his bike and his buddies cause he was all hunched over his cart with his feet up on the bars and booking it down the aisle just as fast as he could go. I think I even heard a “vroom, vroom,” from him as he raced by.
That’s when I began to wonder if I had ever really left camp at all.
Well, I finally did make it back to the toy section. Found my one dollar blue-and-green swirled bouncy ball (Walmart might have disappointed me on the gilded mirror, but they sure came through on the fortune telling paraphernalia). But you can’t just buy any old crystal ball, you know. You have to make sure it’s bouncy enough. That’s very important. So, I was bouncing it down the aisle, moving along with all my years of latent basketball talent finally finding release in a display of brilliant dribbling. Except for that one second when the ball rather got away from me, and I went dashing after it, and the floor was a little slipperier than I expected it to be (not at all like the courts they play on in the pros), and, instead of coming to a smart, squealing halt, I slid and stuttered and very nearly fell flat on my nose. All right in front of a wide-eyed eight-year old who happened to be walking towards me at the time. She leveled me with a very strange look, I said something about being careful on the slippery floor, and she walked on without a word.
That’s when I began to worry that I might be going insane. I decided to get out of there before anyone else noticed. Payed $1.07 for the crystal ball (they add tax, you know). Got out to my car just as a van was pulling up, and I watched in horror as its two occupants unloaded for all the world as if they hadn’t just parked opposite a car full of 27 rubber duckies. And, really, how do you ignore a thing like THAT?
I got in my car and drove homewards. Thinking I had seen enough of the crazy side of life, and it was high time for a change of pace. Normality might be good after all. Little did I know about the cop who was going to pull me over on the way home. But that’s a different story . . .
So, I’d just played my last note on the keyboard, smiled my last tired smile, and gotten into the car for the long drive home. But I needed a bouncy ball first. Preferably one with blue and green swirls. Turns out they make great crystal balls for rogue heros dressed up as gypsies (That would be Robin Hood and Little John, in case you were wondering.).
So, I went to Walmart. But first I had to look in the make-up section. For a gilded mirror that Prince John could smack over Sir Hiss’s head. Under two dollars please. We don’t want to break anything expensive. But Walmart doesn’t carry cheap gilded mirrors. Only I must mention the detour because it was there that I saw my first strange sight. It was a little midget. Three feet tall or so. Blonde hair. I think it was a girl. In fact, I do hope it was, cause she had on a knee-length dress, fashionable black pantyhose, and no shoes.
And I had always been under the delusion that Walmart was a respectable “no shirt, no shoes, no service” store like the local Pump and Pantry.
Well, I shrugged this one off (I’d just been through camp after all. Shoeless dwarves aren’t THAT odd.) and began making my way towards the toy section. Which is when I spotted the six-foot dude with the tennis shoes and stubble on his face. Not enough to be called a beard. And THAT wouldn’t have been so strange either except that he was wearing a dress. Quite a long, sunny one with puffed sleeves and a creamy yellow hue to it. Did I forget to mention the blonde wig?
I began to think I might need to set up an eye appointment in the very near future. The people around me walked on as though nothing was out of the usual. I swallowed and tried to do the same. To the toy section! Oh, except first I pulled off a nonchalant loop in the women’s clothes department (I felt just like Sherlock Holmes) to get a better look at the guy in the dress. Coming out of the loop, I saw the sixty-year old. The one with the frazzled beard - looked like he might have belonged to a motorcycle gang. Only he was obviously missing his bike and his buddies cause he was all hunched over his cart with his feet up on the bars and booking it down the aisle just as fast as he could go. I think I even heard a “vroom, vroom,” from him as he raced by.
That’s when I began to wonder if I had ever really left camp at all.
Well, I finally did make it back to the toy section. Found my one dollar blue-and-green swirled bouncy ball (Walmart might have disappointed me on the gilded mirror, but they sure came through on the fortune telling paraphernalia). But you can’t just buy any old crystal ball, you know. You have to make sure it’s bouncy enough. That’s very important. So, I was bouncing it down the aisle, moving along with all my years of latent basketball talent finally finding release in a display of brilliant dribbling. Except for that one second when the ball rather got away from me, and I went dashing after it, and the floor was a little slipperier than I expected it to be (not at all like the courts they play on in the pros), and, instead of coming to a smart, squealing halt, I slid and stuttered and very nearly fell flat on my nose. All right in front of a wide-eyed eight-year old who happened to be walking towards me at the time. She leveled me with a very strange look, I said something about being careful on the slippery floor, and she walked on without a word.
That’s when I began to worry that I might be going insane. I decided to get out of there before anyone else noticed. Payed $1.07 for the crystal ball (they add tax, you know). Got out to my car just as a van was pulling up, and I watched in horror as its two occupants unloaded for all the world as if they hadn’t just parked opposite a car full of 27 rubber duckies. And, really, how do you ignore a thing like THAT?
I got in my car and drove homewards. Thinking I had seen enough of the crazy side of life, and it was high time for a change of pace. Normality might be good after all. Little did I know about the cop who was going to pull me over on the way home. But that’s a different story . . .
Monday, May 4, 2009
Building
If a little child can sit before his colorful pile of foam pieces and scheme and sort all with the intent of creating something that only he as the grand master builder can see - if this child can build thus, selecting each piece and setting it in the place he determines, delighting in his creation and enjoying his work - and if, when the pieces become unruly (and sometimes, you know, they will) and abdicate their assigned positions to leap off the platform their builder has put them on for a place they imagine more desirable, and the little builder sees this and lets them jump, and then simply, patiently picks them back up in his unhesitating hands and begins construction all over again, unvexed by the obstinacy of his foolish building blocks - and when at last the designer is content, the design is complete, and the master building grins a full-blown grin, giggles with pleasure like the child he is, and eyes his masterpiece in perfect contentment and utter delight - It is just exactly how he planned it should be.
And if . . . if a mere child can build thus - and I have watched them at work, even if you have not - if they, how much more God. How much more carefully, diligently, flawlessly does He build. How much more patiently, painstakingly does He handle the pieces heaped in a confused jumble before Him. How much more delightfully does He regard His completed design.
Delight in the Builder. Delight in His place for you. Delight in the other pieces. One day you too will see the perfect completed design.
And if . . . if a mere child can build thus - and I have watched them at work, even if you have not - if they, how much more God. How much more carefully, diligently, flawlessly does He build. How much more patiently, painstakingly does He handle the pieces heaped in a confused jumble before Him. How much more delightfully does He regard His completed design.
Delight in the Builder. Delight in His place for you. Delight in the other pieces. One day you too will see the perfect completed design.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Robin Hood Gone Wrong: An Excerpt from a Day with the Director
It wasn’t really blood. I want to make that perfectly clear from the start. I mean, it definitely looked like blood. Especially when it got all over my hands and dyed the shirts pink we used to mop it up with. But it wasn’t really blood.
Maybe I should start at the beginning. Back when we went into the basement and stole the ping-pong table from the church. With permission, that is - stole with permission. It fit in the elevator too, wonderfully enough. It’s one of those fold-up-in-half kinds, and we felt grandly clever wheeling it out the church and up into the back of the pick-up truck (helped by several sheets of plywood that served as an impromptu ramp). Maid Marian and Lady Kluck were finally going to be able to practice their serves and backhands for their thirty seconds of ping-pong ball fame. Truly, we could not have been more thrilled. But then the folded-up sides (they looked like poised wings on a bird) wouldn’t quite stay in place without some help, so two of the kids jumped in back to hold it in place. While I sat in the driver's seat, talking on the cell phone to assure the other kids waiting for us at the school that we really were coming. Which would have been fine if the cop hadn’t driven by right at that exact moment.
And then turned our direction a block later. I thought we were done for. For all I knew, kidnaping a ping-pong table (even with permission), wrestling it into the back of a pickup, and eliciting the help of minors to do it might be a federal offense. Worth life at least. So, I quickly got off the phone. After yelping, “Oh, darn! It’s a cop!” One less strike against me. Maybe they’d reduce the sentence to 80 years. With bated breath and wide eyes, I waited for the cop to come around the corner, lights blazing. Maybe he’d even called for back-up. Those ping-pong table thieves can be pretty slippery, so they tell me. But then - miracle of miracles! - he never came. Must’ve been going for donuts.
Deciding not to wait around for another law enforcement officer to drive by, we gunned the corner, doing about 2 mph, past the courthouse, just a few blocks from the police station, and finally to the school. Where all the kids who were waiting for us happily helped us unload our abducted prize, and I went around to the passenger side door to get the paint out.
That’s when the little quart jar of bright red paint decided to commit suicide. I opened the door, and the poor little thing flung itself out without a moment’s hesitation. I’m pretty sure I heard an, “Aaaaahhhhh!” as it nosedived, slow motion, towards the pavement. Then - CRASH! The can flopped once and lay still, the lid jerking to one side, and red paint spewed everywhere. We’d just created a new point of interest on the elementary school’s parking lot.
Which looked disturbingly like a puddle of blood. Right next to the playground too.
I ran for a couple old shirts (we used them as rags), one of those paint stir sticks, and an empty roller tray. Maybe I thought I’d paint the entire parking lot. After all, with the whole thing that color, this one spot couldn’t be so obvious. When I rushed back to the scene of the crime, the puddle had definitely gotten bigger. With the help of my brave, speechless minors, we started scooping away, pushing and shoveling and conjuring the slimy stuff to go somewhere a little less visible.
In the process, I got it all over my hands. Looked up once, towards the road, at the nice little houses sat across the way. I’m sure there’s an 80-year old grandmother living in each one. With a cat named Fluffy and a rosebush. “Wow. This looks a lot like blood,” I said out-loud. Then I glanced around furtively, hoping no one had heard me.
Finally, the paint partially cleaned up, I rushed back inside, across the gym floor, headed for the bathroom. To wash my bloo- I mean paint-splattered hands off. Opened the gym door to step out into the hallway and was met by two rows of faces sitting in the plush chairs of the conference room across the hall. They were meeting now? I almost waved - you know, in a real nonchalant, cool sort of fashion. Then I remembered my hands, stifled the urge to cram them behind my back, and dashed into the bathroom.
Woohoo! Free at last! They’ll never catch me now! The evidence will all be washed away down the drain, and - Wait a second. What was I saying? I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I mean, it wasn’t like I had killed somebody! Although I was a bit concerned about how I should approach this with the school principal. How exactly could I explain that the fresh red stain on their parking lot isn’t really blood. I mean, I know it looks that way, but . . .
Maybe I should start at the beginning. Back when we went into the basement and stole the ping-pong table from the church. With permission, that is - stole with permission. It fit in the elevator too, wonderfully enough. It’s one of those fold-up-in-half kinds, and we felt grandly clever wheeling it out the church and up into the back of the pick-up truck (helped by several sheets of plywood that served as an impromptu ramp). Maid Marian and Lady Kluck were finally going to be able to practice their serves and backhands for their thirty seconds of ping-pong ball fame. Truly, we could not have been more thrilled. But then the folded-up sides (they looked like poised wings on a bird) wouldn’t quite stay in place without some help, so two of the kids jumped in back to hold it in place. While I sat in the driver's seat, talking on the cell phone to assure the other kids waiting for us at the school that we really were coming. Which would have been fine if the cop hadn’t driven by right at that exact moment.
And then turned our direction a block later. I thought we were done for. For all I knew, kidnaping a ping-pong table (even with permission), wrestling it into the back of a pickup, and eliciting the help of minors to do it might be a federal offense. Worth life at least. So, I quickly got off the phone. After yelping, “Oh, darn! It’s a cop!” One less strike against me. Maybe they’d reduce the sentence to 80 years. With bated breath and wide eyes, I waited for the cop to come around the corner, lights blazing. Maybe he’d even called for back-up. Those ping-pong table thieves can be pretty slippery, so they tell me. But then - miracle of miracles! - he never came. Must’ve been going for donuts.
Deciding not to wait around for another law enforcement officer to drive by, we gunned the corner, doing about 2 mph, past the courthouse, just a few blocks from the police station, and finally to the school. Where all the kids who were waiting for us happily helped us unload our abducted prize, and I went around to the passenger side door to get the paint out.
That’s when the little quart jar of bright red paint decided to commit suicide. I opened the door, and the poor little thing flung itself out without a moment’s hesitation. I’m pretty sure I heard an, “Aaaaahhhhh!” as it nosedived, slow motion, towards the pavement. Then - CRASH! The can flopped once and lay still, the lid jerking to one side, and red paint spewed everywhere. We’d just created a new point of interest on the elementary school’s parking lot.
Which looked disturbingly like a puddle of blood. Right next to the playground too.
I ran for a couple old shirts (we used them as rags), one of those paint stir sticks, and an empty roller tray. Maybe I thought I’d paint the entire parking lot. After all, with the whole thing that color, this one spot couldn’t be so obvious. When I rushed back to the scene of the crime, the puddle had definitely gotten bigger. With the help of my brave, speechless minors, we started scooping away, pushing and shoveling and conjuring the slimy stuff to go somewhere a little less visible.
In the process, I got it all over my hands. Looked up once, towards the road, at the nice little houses sat across the way. I’m sure there’s an 80-year old grandmother living in each one. With a cat named Fluffy and a rosebush. “Wow. This looks a lot like blood,” I said out-loud. Then I glanced around furtively, hoping no one had heard me.
Finally, the paint partially cleaned up, I rushed back inside, across the gym floor, headed for the bathroom. To wash my bloo- I mean paint-splattered hands off. Opened the gym door to step out into the hallway and was met by two rows of faces sitting in the plush chairs of the conference room across the hall. They were meeting now? I almost waved - you know, in a real nonchalant, cool sort of fashion. Then I remembered my hands, stifled the urge to cram them behind my back, and dashed into the bathroom.
Woohoo! Free at last! They’ll never catch me now! The evidence will all be washed away down the drain, and - Wait a second. What was I saying? I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I mean, it wasn’t like I had killed somebody! Although I was a bit concerned about how I should approach this with the school principal. How exactly could I explain that the fresh red stain on their parking lot isn’t really blood. I mean, I know it looks that way, but . . .
Sunday, April 12, 2009
John 20:17
John 20:17 reads: “Jesus said, ‘Do not hold on to Me, for I have not yet returned to the Father. Go instead to My brothers and tell them, “I am returning to My Father and your Father, to My God and your God.”’” I have often read that and wondered why Jesus would say such a strange, almost calloused thing to an obviously emotional, probably sobbing woman. It just doesn’t seem kosher. Where’s the, “It’s okay,” and the pat on the back? I mean the second part is all right with its uplifting command and discipline and the echo of Gospel fire. But what about that “Do not hold to Me” part? I thought we were supposed to hold onto Jesus.
Except that, of course, this isn’t a mystical, theoretical holding we’re talking about here. I imagine Mary, once she realizes who she’s talking to, more or less throwing herself at Him and bursting into tears the way you might if you had someone walk through the door that you thought had just died. And, if Mary was like a lot of us, she probably would have been alright with staying that way, crying and clinging to Jesus. Which doesn’t sound that awful, unless you consider that to do this, she would not be able to do anything else. Or tell anyone else. Or, really, affect the world in any way at all.
Obviously, she had to let go first. Not that Jesus would leave her, for didn’t He also say, “It is for your good that I am going away (John 16:7)”? Because, since He left, He sent us the Holy Spirit, that mysterious flame within the hearts of all of God’s children, now advising, now correcting, now soothing with a peace deeper than the ocean. But ever and always with us - clinging to us, if you will.
So, the lesson for us? Precisely the same as it was for Mary. We have to let go of the physical things we hold onto. To step out of the place where we are safe and comforted and held. To stand up from our prayers, to walk out of the church, to step into the lives of others. To “go and tell,” as the old song says. Not that we leave Jesus or that He leaves us. But that we release our death grip, even prying our own fingers off the safety net if we have to - whatever it takes to release our grasp on listening to the lessons only and start sharing the lessons. Start sharing the truth. Start sharing Him.
Except that, of course, this isn’t a mystical, theoretical holding we’re talking about here. I imagine Mary, once she realizes who she’s talking to, more or less throwing herself at Him and bursting into tears the way you might if you had someone walk through the door that you thought had just died. And, if Mary was like a lot of us, she probably would have been alright with staying that way, crying and clinging to Jesus. Which doesn’t sound that awful, unless you consider that to do this, she would not be able to do anything else. Or tell anyone else. Or, really, affect the world in any way at all.
Obviously, she had to let go first. Not that Jesus would leave her, for didn’t He also say, “It is for your good that I am going away (John 16:7)”? Because, since He left, He sent us the Holy Spirit, that mysterious flame within the hearts of all of God’s children, now advising, now correcting, now soothing with a peace deeper than the ocean. But ever and always with us - clinging to us, if you will.
So, the lesson for us? Precisely the same as it was for Mary. We have to let go of the physical things we hold onto. To step out of the place where we are safe and comforted and held. To stand up from our prayers, to walk out of the church, to step into the lives of others. To “go and tell,” as the old song says. Not that we leave Jesus or that He leaves us. But that we release our death grip, even prying our own fingers off the safety net if we have to - whatever it takes to release our grasp on listening to the lessons only and start sharing the lessons. Start sharing the truth. Start sharing Him.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Persuasive Little Saint and the Unconvinced Angel
The skeptical angel was innocently bouncing on the bright yellow chair one day when the persuasive little saint saw his chance. After all, his darling kid sister was acting like a heathen, and it was up to the older, wiser one to point out the error of her ways. What followed was a conversation that went something like this:
“Kylie, there’s gonna come a sad, sad day when you’re going to die. But it’s not going to be too sad because, well, maybe in a few days you’ll go to heaven.”
“Why do I have to die?”
“Cause, Kylie, you have to die before you can go to heaven. See, you’re going to die, and they’ll bury you in the ground, and then -”
“But I don’t want to die.”
“Kylie, you have to die. That’s the only way you can go to heaven. Kylie, you need to go to heaven.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Yes, you do. Cause otherwise you have to go to hell. You have to go to hell if you don’t go to heaven.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do, Kylie. You don’t want to go to hell.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to die.”
“But you have to die first. You have to die to go to heaven. There’s no way you’re going to be able to go before you die.”
“But I don’t want to die.”
And so, in the end, the persuasive little saint was forced to abdicate all attempts and move out until the next opportune moment. And the unconvinced angel was left to bounce unaccosted on her bright yellow chair.
And that is a fairly typical conversation in the lives of my nephew and niece, aged 5 and 3 respectively.
“Kylie, there’s gonna come a sad, sad day when you’re going to die. But it’s not going to be too sad because, well, maybe in a few days you’ll go to heaven.”
“Why do I have to die?”
“Cause, Kylie, you have to die before you can go to heaven. See, you’re going to die, and they’ll bury you in the ground, and then -”
“But I don’t want to die.”
“Kylie, you have to die. That’s the only way you can go to heaven. Kylie, you need to go to heaven.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Yes, you do. Cause otherwise you have to go to hell. You have to go to hell if you don’t go to heaven.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do, Kylie. You don’t want to go to hell.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to die.”
“But you have to die first. You have to die to go to heaven. There’s no way you’re going to be able to go before you die.”
“But I don’t want to die.”
And so, in the end, the persuasive little saint was forced to abdicate all attempts and move out until the next opportune moment. And the unconvinced angel was left to bounce unaccosted on her bright yellow chair.
And that is a fairly typical conversation in the lives of my nephew and niece, aged 5 and 3 respectively.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Robin Hood
Over the last couple months, I have been keeping myself busy directing a play. I had the idea one day in January, and shortly thereafter read a book where a young Scottish man did something similar, so I know I am not the first! Here in Central City, we are getting ready for an early June performance of the play Robin Hood with 16 local youth participating. We will be using the local elementary gym, and all proceeds from the play will go towards a gift for the children in Rwanda and Uganda. Directing on a larger scale than I have before has proved a bit of a challenge, although I am greatly enjoying it. However, it has also brought to the forefront of my mind the necessity of looking to God for guidance in no less than everything.
I have become fully convinced over the years in the power of God to answer when His children pray. Not only this, but the power that those of us who are His children hold when we come before our Father and plead on another’s behalf. All other work, without prayer, is really quite useless. As it says in Psalms, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain. In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat - for He grants sleep to those He loves.”
The youth who are volunteering their time to help in this venture could most definitely use something as practical as sleep. They are shockingly busy and have more commitments than energy, it seems. Moreover, we are seeking to build, not on our own foundation, but on the foundation of Christ. With God as the Master Builder - with His hand guiding all we do - we seek no glory but His.
It is with this in mind that we ask you to pray for us as we step forward in this task. Already we have faced joys and struggles, hardships and blessings, and there is more to come. We plan to perform the play June 8-10, and there is much work to be done before then! What will come next, I do not know. God knows. It is enough to follow one step at a time in the footsteps of Him who leads astoundingly well.
Anyone seeking more information about the play and all it entails is welcome to go to www.heartofthesong.webs.com. And if you happen to find yourselves in our town in early June, please come and enjoy the show!
I have become fully convinced over the years in the power of God to answer when His children pray. Not only this, but the power that those of us who are His children hold when we come before our Father and plead on another’s behalf. All other work, without prayer, is really quite useless. As it says in Psalms, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain. In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat - for He grants sleep to those He loves.”
The youth who are volunteering their time to help in this venture could most definitely use something as practical as sleep. They are shockingly busy and have more commitments than energy, it seems. Moreover, we are seeking to build, not on our own foundation, but on the foundation of Christ. With God as the Master Builder - with His hand guiding all we do - we seek no glory but His.
It is with this in mind that we ask you to pray for us as we step forward in this task. Already we have faced joys and struggles, hardships and blessings, and there is more to come. We plan to perform the play June 8-10, and there is much work to be done before then! What will come next, I do not know. God knows. It is enough to follow one step at a time in the footsteps of Him who leads astoundingly well.
Anyone seeking more information about the play and all it entails is welcome to go to www.heartofthesong.webs.com. And if you happen to find yourselves in our town in early June, please come and enjoy the show!
Monday, February 9, 2009
An Exhortation
I have read now several examples of men and women of faith who, not knowing where they were going, yet placed their lives in God’s hands alone and went. Jim Elliot. Amy Carmichael. Gladys Aylward. Hudson Taylor. Brother Andrew. The disciplined devotion of their lives has floored me again and again. Such determined discipleship, such child-like faith as was theirs I would be hard-put to find in live, present example today.
Why? What has changed so much over the years that we do not now live and trust as they lived and trusted? Is it God Who has changed? Assuredly not! But I think, in America at the least, it is this: We have at our fingertips, so very easily within our grasp, almost so that we do not even need to take the effort to reach for it and it is already ours, the means and the power to rescue us from almost any calamity. And, while these things may or may not be evil in and of themselves, they tempt us away from full, unadulterated trust in God. For my own life, I have recently become aware of one such area in my life where, for all these years, I was not trusting God at all, and I never knew it! What made me aware? The life example of one of God’s servants who lived several hundred years ago.
So, first, I must press upon you books. Any sort of book you can get into your hands that will commend to you a Godly life well-lived. The Bible would be my first choice. And following that, stories of the entire host of those warriors who have gone before us into battle and fought victoriously for the advance of the Heavenly Kingdom.
But this is not enough. This is nowhere near enough. All the knowledge in the world is not sufficient to save us from the disgrace that surely waits us if we do not wake up from our slumber and march out into this world that slides distressingly nearer and nearer to the gates of Hell.
I implore you, I exhort you, and in all other terms that will let you know how very strongly I urge you (if I could, I would command, but I shall leave that word for the Spirit of God to speak to your spirit): Church, cast off from the shores you’ve anchored yourself to in your attempt to keep in safe harbor. Set the sail, throw off all hindrances, and set yourself fully in the hands of Him Whom the winds and the seas obey. The great men and women of faith from Hebrews chapter 11, the disciples who walked with Jesus, the courageous missionaries of the past - these all call to us across the ages from fiery souls that were not dampened by any confidence in mere human aid. They marched out into the great desert that is an entire world lost without drinking from the Living Water, trusting the Maker of the skies to send the rain and not attempting to create their own. They did not seek to pitch their tents by the lake so that they might never be in need. If you would be like them - if you would see the Kingdom of God advance - if you would have your own soul rise to praise Him Whose you are - in short, if you confess yourself a child of God and would live for the sake of your Savior - then you can do, must do, no less.
The world dies for lack of such as these.
Why? What has changed so much over the years that we do not now live and trust as they lived and trusted? Is it God Who has changed? Assuredly not! But I think, in America at the least, it is this: We have at our fingertips, so very easily within our grasp, almost so that we do not even need to take the effort to reach for it and it is already ours, the means and the power to rescue us from almost any calamity. And, while these things may or may not be evil in and of themselves, they tempt us away from full, unadulterated trust in God. For my own life, I have recently become aware of one such area in my life where, for all these years, I was not trusting God at all, and I never knew it! What made me aware? The life example of one of God’s servants who lived several hundred years ago.
So, first, I must press upon you books. Any sort of book you can get into your hands that will commend to you a Godly life well-lived. The Bible would be my first choice. And following that, stories of the entire host of those warriors who have gone before us into battle and fought victoriously for the advance of the Heavenly Kingdom.
But this is not enough. This is nowhere near enough. All the knowledge in the world is not sufficient to save us from the disgrace that surely waits us if we do not wake up from our slumber and march out into this world that slides distressingly nearer and nearer to the gates of Hell.
I implore you, I exhort you, and in all other terms that will let you know how very strongly I urge you (if I could, I would command, but I shall leave that word for the Spirit of God to speak to your spirit): Church, cast off from the shores you’ve anchored yourself to in your attempt to keep in safe harbor. Set the sail, throw off all hindrances, and set yourself fully in the hands of Him Whom the winds and the seas obey. The great men and women of faith from Hebrews chapter 11, the disciples who walked with Jesus, the courageous missionaries of the past - these all call to us across the ages from fiery souls that were not dampened by any confidence in mere human aid. They marched out into the great desert that is an entire world lost without drinking from the Living Water, trusting the Maker of the skies to send the rain and not attempting to create their own. They did not seek to pitch their tents by the lake so that they might never be in need. If you would be like them - if you would see the Kingdom of God advance - if you would have your own soul rise to praise Him Whose you are - in short, if you confess yourself a child of God and would live for the sake of your Savior - then you can do, must do, no less.
The world dies for lack of such as these.
Friday, February 6, 2009
From the Life of J. Hudson Taylor
-An Excerpt from Hudson Taylor (Hudson Taylor, pages 116-118)-
Among the passengers on board the boat was one intelligent man, who in the course of his travels had been a good deal abroad, and had even visited England, where he went by the name of Peter. As might be expected, he had heard something of the Gospel, but had never experienced its saving power. On the previous evening I had drawn him into earnest converse about his soul’s salvation. The man listened with attention, and was even moved to tears, but still no definite result was apparent. I was pleased, therefore, when he asked to be allowed to accompany me, and to hear me preach.
I went into the cabin of the boat to prepare tracts and books for distribution on landing with my Chinese friend, when suddenly I was startled by a splash and a cry from without. I sprang on deck, and took in the situation at a glance. Peter was gone! The other men were all there, on board, looking helplessly at the spot where he had disappeared, but making no effort to save him. A strong wind was carrying the junk rapidly forward in spite of a steady current in the opposite direction, and the low-lying, shrubless shore afforded no landmark to indicate how far we had left the drowning man behind.
I instantly let down the sail and leaped overboard in the hope of finding him. Unsuccessful, I looked around in agonizing suspense, and saw close to me a fishing boat with a peculiar drag-net furnished with hooks, which I knew would bring him up.
“Come!” I cried, as hope revived in my heart. “Come and drag over this spot directly; a man is drowning just here!”
“Veh bin” (It is not convenient), was the answer.
“Don’t talk of convenience!” cried I in agony; “a man is drowning, I tell you!”
“We are busy fishing,” they responded, “and cannot come.”
“Never mind your fishing,” I said, “I will give you more money than many a day’s fishing will bring; only come - come at once!”
“How much money will you give us?”
“We cannot stay to discuss that now! Come, or it will be too late. I will give you five dollars” (then worth about thirty shillings in English money).
“We won’t do it for that,” replied the men. “Give us twenty dollars, and we will drag.”
“I do not possess so much; do come quickly, and I will give you all I have!”
“How much may that be?”
“I don’t know exactly, about fourteen dollars.”
At last, but even then slowly enough, the boat was paddled over, and the net let down. Less than a minute sufficed to bring up the body of the missing man. The fishermen were clamorous and indignant because their exorbitant demand was delayed while efforts at resuscitation were being made. But all was in vain - life was extinct.
To myself this incident was profoundly sad and full of significance, suggesting a far more mournful reality. Were not those fishermen actually guilty of this poor Chinaman’s death, in that they had the means of saving him at hand, if they would but have used them? Assuredly they were guilty. And yet, let us pause ere we pronounce judgment against them, lest a greater than Nathan answer, “Thou art the man.” Is it so hardhearted, so wicked a thing to neglect to save the body? Of how much sorer punishment, then, is he worthy who leaves the soul to perish, and Cain-like says, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The Lord Jesus commands, commands me, commands you, into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature. Shall we say to Him, “No, it is not convenient”?
Among the passengers on board the boat was one intelligent man, who in the course of his travels had been a good deal abroad, and had even visited England, where he went by the name of Peter. As might be expected, he had heard something of the Gospel, but had never experienced its saving power. On the previous evening I had drawn him into earnest converse about his soul’s salvation. The man listened with attention, and was even moved to tears, but still no definite result was apparent. I was pleased, therefore, when he asked to be allowed to accompany me, and to hear me preach.
I went into the cabin of the boat to prepare tracts and books for distribution on landing with my Chinese friend, when suddenly I was startled by a splash and a cry from without. I sprang on deck, and took in the situation at a glance. Peter was gone! The other men were all there, on board, looking helplessly at the spot where he had disappeared, but making no effort to save him. A strong wind was carrying the junk rapidly forward in spite of a steady current in the opposite direction, and the low-lying, shrubless shore afforded no landmark to indicate how far we had left the drowning man behind.
I instantly let down the sail and leaped overboard in the hope of finding him. Unsuccessful, I looked around in agonizing suspense, and saw close to me a fishing boat with a peculiar drag-net furnished with hooks, which I knew would bring him up.
“Come!” I cried, as hope revived in my heart. “Come and drag over this spot directly; a man is drowning just here!”
“Veh bin” (It is not convenient), was the answer.
“Don’t talk of convenience!” cried I in agony; “a man is drowning, I tell you!”
“We are busy fishing,” they responded, “and cannot come.”
“Never mind your fishing,” I said, “I will give you more money than many a day’s fishing will bring; only come - come at once!”
“How much money will you give us?”
“We cannot stay to discuss that now! Come, or it will be too late. I will give you five dollars” (then worth about thirty shillings in English money).
“We won’t do it for that,” replied the men. “Give us twenty dollars, and we will drag.”
“I do not possess so much; do come quickly, and I will give you all I have!”
“How much may that be?”
“I don’t know exactly, about fourteen dollars.”
At last, but even then slowly enough, the boat was paddled over, and the net let down. Less than a minute sufficed to bring up the body of the missing man. The fishermen were clamorous and indignant because their exorbitant demand was delayed while efforts at resuscitation were being made. But all was in vain - life was extinct.
To myself this incident was profoundly sad and full of significance, suggesting a far more mournful reality. Were not those fishermen actually guilty of this poor Chinaman’s death, in that they had the means of saving him at hand, if they would but have used them? Assuredly they were guilty. And yet, let us pause ere we pronounce judgment against them, lest a greater than Nathan answer, “Thou art the man.” Is it so hardhearted, so wicked a thing to neglect to save the body? Of how much sorer punishment, then, is he worthy who leaves the soul to perish, and Cain-like says, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The Lord Jesus commands, commands me, commands you, into all the world, and preach the Gospel to every creature. Shall we say to Him, “No, it is not convenient”?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Worthy
There is no worthy deed I can achieve, no grand feat I can perform, no magnificent pursuit I can chase after - even capture! - that will gain me the right to even the smallest amount of favor from the Great I Am. All I do - never mind if you see it as bad or good - must be falseness, foolishness, the most pathetic attempts at righteousness before the Holiness of Jehovah. This in, in part, because of my own lowness. I am formed of dirt, chained to earth, banned from a soaring life in the heavens, and my power to change or elevate my base situation is completely beyond my grasp.
But there is another reason, a more important one, why I deserve no favor, and it is this: the unspeakable Yahweh Himself. The blazing radiance of the King of Heaven - the blinding power burning through the eyes of Creator God and making us all as ashes - the exalted, ineffable holiness of His very Presence - before this, who - who can be worthy? Who can utter so much as a syllable, never mind an entire comprehensible word? Who can open their wide, awe-struck eyes to look around at anything else save the consuming Fire that is the Terror and Glory of His Being?
Now you understand why the fall of Satan was a thing so great, so horrendous, so awful, so unendurable, so shocking. Now you see why the fall of man - our fall - is the same. We took our eyes away from the Glory. We turned our minds from the One Who owns all worth and makes all worth. We dared to name something else glorious equal to or - appallingly! - above the One before Whom everything not only surrenders all worth but disappears entirely.
Do you understand now why earth and sky shall flee from His Presence? Why the Mountain thundered and trembled as He descended to speak to man? Why the seas and skies rage when He rides down on His victorious chariots? They understand the Glory; they understand that they are not worthy. That He looks on us at all is astonishing. That He lets us enter His throne room is outrageous. That He invites us - almost begs us - to enter is very close to scandalizing. That He loves us is . . . well, if it was anyone other than God, it would be impossible. The canyon - the rift, the gulf, the galaxies - between us is too great. But, after all, He is God. Anyone less would have failed. But if God is Yahweh God - and you can be sure He is - then He not only can, He did. He does.
But there is another reason, a more important one, why I deserve no favor, and it is this: the unspeakable Yahweh Himself. The blazing radiance of the King of Heaven - the blinding power burning through the eyes of Creator God and making us all as ashes - the exalted, ineffable holiness of His very Presence - before this, who - who can be worthy? Who can utter so much as a syllable, never mind an entire comprehensible word? Who can open their wide, awe-struck eyes to look around at anything else save the consuming Fire that is the Terror and Glory of His Being?
Now you understand why the fall of Satan was a thing so great, so horrendous, so awful, so unendurable, so shocking. Now you see why the fall of man - our fall - is the same. We took our eyes away from the Glory. We turned our minds from the One Who owns all worth and makes all worth. We dared to name something else glorious equal to or - appallingly! - above the One before Whom everything not only surrenders all worth but disappears entirely.
Do you understand now why earth and sky shall flee from His Presence? Why the Mountain thundered and trembled as He descended to speak to man? Why the seas and skies rage when He rides down on His victorious chariots? They understand the Glory; they understand that they are not worthy. That He looks on us at all is astonishing. That He lets us enter His throne room is outrageous. That He invites us - almost begs us - to enter is very close to scandalizing. That He loves us is . . . well, if it was anyone other than God, it would be impossible. The canyon - the rift, the gulf, the galaxies - between us is too great. But, after all, He is God. Anyone less would have failed. But if God is Yahweh God - and you can be sure He is - then He not only can, He did. He does.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Art of Wall Writing
Last night while reading my Bible I stumbled over the most delightful discovery. It really did make me laugh. It was this: God has been known to write on walls. You know, the taboo scribbling on the inner framework of a house. Well, God’s done it before. I mean this very literally, physically. With a human hand in understandable letters. He came to a palace in the Middle East and wrote on one of the walls. See Daniel 5:5. Isn’t that fascinating? Who knew a mischievous little act so prone to two year olds had its origin in the Scriptures? And not only from the pages of the Bible, but from God Himself! So, next time you find those tell-tale marks of your child’s signature scrawled across the wallpaper in flaming orange permanent marker, don’t get too upset. Remember: God did it first!
Monday, January 12, 2009
Lofty, Bleak Moorlands
I was reading today (A Man Called Peter by Catherine Marshall) and came across this simple phrase: “lofty, bleak moorlands.” Now, to a non-Scotsman, those words I am sure hold minimal and perhaps no charm whatsoever. But they affected me like an electric shock. My heart started beating faster; I literally forgot to breathe for one long, long moment. There was a deep, enormous country slanting off to the horizon before me. The loneliness was grand and solemn. I tuned my ears to the cryptic wail of the wind, tipped my face to a sky that rumbled, promising storms though perhaps not rain. A lone rider was cantering towards me, horse and man billowing with the gale and rolling upon every dip and rise of the land. Somewhere off in the rugged hills behind them, there was a solitary castle, yet holding to its faithful breast the secrets of honor and glory. The beckoning voice of the bagpipes mingled with the stern drumbeat of thunder, and they blended together like a song of God.
And all this from three simple words! You just try and tell me I don’t have any Scottish blood pulsing through my veins. You try to convince me that one of my ancestors, however many years ago, didn’t walk those shadowed moors and drink of the entrancing solitude and listen for the voice of God. But nothing you say will win me over to your point of view.
If such fiery blood, such determined heartbeat will cross the bounds of generations and hold onto one with a fastness undeterred however many the years - does it not instill within you such an earnest, a profound sense of awe, of duty? To live - to love - to serve well. To listen today for the voice of your Maker as you pray your children and their children after and on and on will listen. To be the shadow from the past - the years forgotten but the burning heart undiminished - one of the mighty witnesses from the clouds to spur on your descendants to follow hard after the God Who knows all such majestic mysteries.
And all this from three simple words! You just try and tell me I don’t have any Scottish blood pulsing through my veins. You try to convince me that one of my ancestors, however many years ago, didn’t walk those shadowed moors and drink of the entrancing solitude and listen for the voice of God. But nothing you say will win me over to your point of view.
If such fiery blood, such determined heartbeat will cross the bounds of generations and hold onto one with a fastness undeterred however many the years - does it not instill within you such an earnest, a profound sense of awe, of duty? To live - to love - to serve well. To listen today for the voice of your Maker as you pray your children and their children after and on and on will listen. To be the shadow from the past - the years forgotten but the burning heart undiminished - one of the mighty witnesses from the clouds to spur on your descendants to follow hard after the God Who knows all such majestic mysteries.
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