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 . . .

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.

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.

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!

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.