Culture of Death

January 31, 2019

We used to wonder how the German people of the 1940s could for the most part stand silently by while six million Jews were systematically murdered by the government. I wonder no more. Since 1973 in the United States, over ten times that many babies have been aborted with governmental blessing. They were first dehumanized as blobs of tissue, declared inconvenient and even harmful to their mother’s health, and finally, all pretension has been gleefully stripped from this self-induced genocide as New York proudly carries the torch for our culture of death.

What surprises me however, is the silence of the Black community in the face of all this. Margaret Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood, was an avowed racist and eugenicist who encouraged the placing of their facilities in Black neighborhoods so as to weed out those she considered a pestilence upon society. Even today, the majority of their facilities cater to the minorities of our land. How is it that there is no outcry by Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, or even Corey Booker or Oprah? The systematic singling out for death of Black babies should be at the forefront of today’s Civil Rights movement. The silence is deafening.

I must confess that I have been too slow in doing anything significant in the Right to Life movement. I’m not a fighter by nature, so like the Germans in the ‘40s, I’ve willfully and negligently closed my eyes to the magnitude of the issue. Until now. Perhaps our own Dr. Mengele, otherwise known as Andrew Cuomo, has overplayed his hand. If his signing into law this bill to allow abortion even during delivery of a viable baby finally awakens people to the barbarity into which we are descending, he may even merit our thanks. If so, I thank him tonight, but even more thank God for opening my eyes and heart to the plight of these most vulnerable of our citizens.

Slimy Saints

January 30, 2019

Jacob was a conniving schemer, a liar and a swindler. The more often I read his story, the slimier he appears to me. He’s not the sort I’d choose as a friend. Or an enemy, which makes his stature in the pantheon of Jewish and Christian saints all the more astounding. How is it someone so disreputable is the one God chooses over his more honorable brother? Were I God, I’d be all over Jacob while encouraging his brother Esau, whose only fault seems to lie with his failure to take the long view of life. His impulsiveness cost him his future, while Jacob’s carefully laid schemes were rewarded with success. 

Their stories seem designed to encourage dreaming and planning, no matter who has to get stepped on to reach the top, while at the same time discouraging impulsivity. I’m not usually a very impulsive person, so it’s hard for me to identify with Esau. I don’t think I’m too much of a schemer, so I’m not cut out of the same cloth as Jacob. Instead, I have a little of each in me. I have like Esau often enough taken the easy way out, given in to the temptation of the quick fix or the shortcut. And like Jacob, I’ve schemed and plotted for my future, and not always in God-honoring ways. 

Most importantly, I’ve experienced undeserved grace. God has often covered my Esau-like shortsighted tracks, and like Jacob, has favored even my scheming when I didn’t deserve it. So tonight I am thankful that for all his shortcomings, God included Jacob in his roster of saints. It gives me hope. And even Esau, though forever known as the one who foolishly traded his inheritance for a bowl of soup, God chose to be the ancestor of many people. Favor comes in many ways; I’ve seen more than my share of it, and am grateful.

A Granddaughter’s Prayer

January 29, 2019

The call was completely unexpected. Linda’s voice was trembling; I could almost hear her tears. “Katie is dying.” Katie is an Amish woman Linda met some years back while caring for her mother. Katie’s vegetable stand was down the road from Linda’s mother, and Linda would stop for tomatoes or cucumbers on Wednesdays when she visited. They struck up a friendship that transcended the cultural differences between Amish and English. Even after her mother died, Linda would stop by Katie’s to sit and chat, and at times, to pray together. Se described Katie’s home as calming, and always came home from her visits feeling rested and refreshed.

Katie was a tiny woman with a ready smile. She had not been well for some time; congestive heart failure may have been sapping her strength, but her kindness and gentleness was unperturbed. She had been away for treatment, so Linda hadn’t seen her for a few weeks and decided today was the day. It didn’t turn out as she had expected. When Linda arrived, she found Katie lying on her bed unresponsive, surrounded by her family. She stayed for awhile, then called me from the grocery where she had gone to buy food for the extended family who was gathering in preparation for the worst.

It’s been a hard day for Linda. So this evening when we called granddaughter Abi to see how college life has been going, after chatting awhile I mentioned her Meema’s breaking heart, whereupon Abi not only expressed her sorrow, but asked if she could pray for her. It’s been a sad day, but I am thankful tonight for a granddaughter who blesses us with prayer. It was a spontaneous and treasured gift that spoke comfort and peace to a troubled sea.

Meteorology

January 28, 2019

We often tend to define life by the storms that break upon us instead of by the sunshine that brightens our way. I suppose it’s to be expected; “ordinary” is just that, and because it is, it blends in with all the other ordinary days of our lives. The fury of each storm however, is unique. The damage is not merely to people and things; our very souls are torn and beaten by them. 

Years ago when I was a seminary student, my theology professor, Dr. Paul Hessert, had done his doctoral work at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. He was convinced that John Knox’s dour Presbyterianism was a direct result of the dark and dank Scottish weather. There could be some truth to that. Storms imprint themselves on our souls.

Meteorologists are telling us that a major cold front is moving into our area with subzero temperatures and bone-numbing wind chill. Like the Buffalo Blizzard of ‘77, this storm could become a defining event. But so could the calm preceding it. We’ve been given warning. We can prepare. The storm doesn’t have to define us.

The Bible gives ample notice of judgment to come. People don’t like to hear it, preferring the soothing message of love to the hard words of warning. But that warning is our hope; without it, we could plunge unknowingly to destruction. With it, there is the possibility of salvation. It is better to be forewarned of a coming disaster than to have it break upon us unexpectedly. If we take heed, life can be defined by the calm—the peace of God. Without it, life gets defined by the devastation brought by the storm. 

Even though meteorologists are often wrong, I am grateful for the warnings they give. They enable me to prepare, which enables me to ride out the storm in safety. Our divine meteorologist of the Scriptures are never wrong, and with its warning, I need not fear the storms of life.

Dark Nights

January 27, 2019

Jacob’s tale continues to intrigue me. Were he alive today, he would be a shrewd businessman, perhaps CEO of a major corporation. Right from the start, he knew what he wanted, and let nothing and nobody stand in his way of getting it. He’s clawed and climbed his way to the top. We would say he had it made. But something wasn’t right, and he knew it. He was living in a foreign land, not just geographically, but spiritually too. The God he claimed to worship didn’t inhabit the place where he was, and he knew—just knew—that he had to get back to his roots.

There was just one problem. For 40 years he had tackled life on his own terms, and that was how he ended up in this foreign land, a stranger and alien who didn’t really fit in. Sometimes that smooth exterior masks a jagged and bleeding soul. But Jacob didn’t know that. Yet. He was still doing life on his own terms.

On his way back home, he gets wind of his brother, the one he had cheated out of a substantial fortune years before, coming to meet him. With a small army. Suddenly, Jacob’s well-oiled plan begins to unravel. This was not the happy reunion he had imagined. If that weren’t enough, he finds himself confronted by a stranger who fights him no matter which way he turns. Every avenue of escape is blocked, and Jacob is stymied for the first time in his life. No amount of scheming works. Even the last trick up his sleeve—demanding the name of his adversary—fails. He can’t even identify what the problem is, so he there’s no way he can fix it.

Perhaps you’ve been there. I know I have. I thought I knew all about growing a church. I had gone to all the seminars, studied the books, gotten the best mentors—and it still collapsed, leaving me empty and spent, with no escape, and not a single clue as to how to get out of the mess I was in. Everyone’s Waterloo is different, but sooner or later, we all come to the place where nothing we’ve tried works anymore. We’re worn out, beaten by life, and scared of what lies ahead. 

But it’s in that dark valley of despair where we come to the end of our own resources that we meet the God who confronts our stubborn selves, stubbornly refusing to give up on us. He could pin us to the ground with ease, but lets us struggle on till our strength is gone and we finally yield ourselves to him. 

He still refuses to be named. We still may not have the answers we seek, but this unnamed Adversary gives us a new name—a new identity and future, and the darkest night can turn into a new dawn that begins an entirely new life of grace and favor with God. Those dark times are never fun; they are often as bad as we think them to be, but if as we struggle in the darkness, we meet Jesus Christ, it’s all worth it. Paul Simon said it well a generation ago: “Hello Darkness, my old friend...” Our worst darkness may be where our best new beginning takes root. I am thankful tonight for this scripture from Genesis 32, and the hope it gives for anyone who finds himself in a dark valley. The night will pass, the dawn break, and we can have a new name and a new future. Thank you, Jesus!

Limping Through Life

January 26, 2019

Limping your way through life may not seem like much fun, but it may be the best way to live. In Genesis 32, Jacob’s deceitful past is finally catching up with him. His entire life up till now has been spent in scheming and clawing, climbing over anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. It began years before when he cheated his brother out of his birthright, the larger inheritance given to the elder son. That little trick put Jacob on the lam and had him going toe to toe with his uncle who was as much of a con artist as he.

Now he is on his way home, and he’s scared. His brother is coming to meet him with an armed entourage. It’s time to face the music, and it is in a minor key. Jacob lays his plans carefully to protect those he cares about. He may be a scoundrel, but he’s not a total jerk. After seeing to their safety, he goes on ahead, and in the middle of the night finds himself in a wrestling match with none other than God himself—a pretty formidable adversary. The contest rages back and forth throughout the night, and to Jacob’s credit, he doesn’t quit, even as he tries one last trick he has up his sleeve. 

All through this midnight contest they wrestle, grunting and grasping till Jacob is about spent. Up till the end, he’s too preoccupied to concern himself with the identity of his adversary. All he knows is that someone is blocking his way, not allowing him through, thwarting his plans. Towards morning, he asks his adversary’s name. This isn’t about congratulating him for a good match like two tennis players shaking hands after the game. This is about control. If Jacob can name him, he can control him. It’s much like when we know something is wrong, but can’t place our finger on it. Once we identify the problem even if it’s a bad situation, we at least feel some measure of control over it. Jacob’s adversary knows what he is up to, and refuses his query. Then he does something that changes the whole game.

He smacks Jacob on the hip, dislocating it. The fight is over. As the sun comes up, we see Jacob limping away from the fight, only he is no longer Jacob, “the Cheater,” but Israel, “the Prince.” This prince doesn’t swagger towards his brother that afternoon. He limps and shuffles. He may have prevailed—succeeded—in standing his ground with God, but he’ll never swagger again. He limps.

I’ve walked this planet for nearly 70 years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to be wary of those who swagger. They may be politicians or they may be preachers, but if they try to convince me that they have all the answers, that they have everything figured out, that if I just do what they say, everything will turn out all right, I avoid them like the plague. I’d sooner trust a starving lion. But if someone walks with a limp in their soul, I know I’m in the presence of someone who has been with God. They don’t look pretty; they aren’t suave and sophisticated, but they are trustworthy, and I thank God for every limping saint who has shuffled into my life.

Experience

January 25, 2019

Experience is a difficult, wonderful thing. It’s what enables the professional to do the same job as an amateur twice as well in half the time. Experience is costly. The best experience often comes from pain; unpleasant at first, but it makes life easier later on. It’s like John Wayne once said, “Life is hard. It’s harder when you’re stupid.” Or as someone once said, “Good decisions come from wisdom. Wisdom comes from bad decisions.” 

Forty years ago, I would have been frantic by now. A little backstory is in order. I had arranged for a colleague to preach for me last Sunday while Linda and I were in Toronto with friends. As it was, church was cancelled due to the weather. Normally, I would have just shifted from last Sunday to this Sunday, giving me another week off, but pastor Debbie’s father needed surgery this week, which means she has had to shoulder some additional responsibilities in taking care of him and her mother. “Would it be better for you if I preached this Sunday so you don’t have that burden hanging over your head?” I knew the answer even before I offered. Pastor Debbie was relieved to be able to give her parents the undivided attention they need right now, and I was glad to be able to make things a bit easier for her.

There was a slight problem however. I had gotten a bit lazy, and didn’t have a sermon ready. I worked on it off and on through the week, but nothing came together. I had a rough idea of what I wanted to do, but it was very rough indeed! As I said, forty years ago, I would have been in a panic. Experience however, has taught me that if I am patient, God has a way of coming through, and this week was no exception. I’ve been mulling over the scriptures I had planned on using, but also spending time with Linda and our granddaughter, doing jigsaw puzzles and playing dominoes together. Tomorrow will be packed full, so anything that was going to come needed to come tonight, and it so happens that as I was getting ready for bed, the unifying idea popped into my head. Experience is a difficult, wonderful thing, and I am thankful tonight to have it working in my favor. It saved me a great deal of worry; I know I can trust God for the future because I’ve experienced his faithfulness in the past. Tonight is no exception.

January 24, 2019

“Be careful little ears what you hear...” Who would have guessed that a simple child’s Sunday School song could be so instructive for life today? I’m sitting at the dealership waiting for a warranty frame inspection on my truck, and hearing in the background MSNBC chattering on about the government shutdown, throwing around blame and demonizing the opposition. I feel sorry for those pundits. Spending every waking hour fixated on everything they don’t like has to be a hard way to live. The same goes for social media trolls are busy attacking people they don’t even know. The whole situation has way more heat than light.

This little song has wisdom for much in life. Kids listen to the online bullying, unable or unwilling to shut it down. Husbands and wives are often quick to point out each others’ faults, but slow to build each other up. Bosses humiliate employees while the latter complain about the unfairness of it all. Any or perhaps all of these are justified in their dissatisfaction, but when we focus all our energy and attention on what’s wrong instead of what is right in life, it can drain us of the resources we need to live with joy and gratitude. 

Talking with a friend the other day, I recounted a time when the situation I was facing was so distressing, so wrong and so all-encompassing that it took enormous energy for me to shift my attention from my hurt and anger to the work I needed to do and the life I wanted to live. It wasn’t easy. It was absolutely necessary for me to listen to Scripture, to the proddings of the Holy Spirit, all of which were pushing me to move in a direction I didn’t want to go. I wanted revenge; to get even, to hurt those hurting me and my family. Had I listened to those voices, had I allowed myself to think this way, it would have resulted in me walking a dark road to the destruction of my own soul, let alone much of what I value. I had to choose what I would listen to, how I would allow myself to think. As I said, it wasn’t easy. But it was critical to do so.

Those who listen to those who tell them they are entitled, to those who demonize those whose opinions are different than theirs, who listen to their own inner conversations, to the politicians and pundits whose job is more a matter of stirring up dissatisfaction than actual governing or informing, are setting themselves up for a joyless, vapid existence.

I am thankful tonight that I learned that Sunday School song so many years ago. I listen to the news in measured doses, but not before I allow the Scriptures to shape and strengthen me. I am careful about what I hear, because I know that what grows in my life depends on what I plant in my soul. I want to; I must, plant well.

Hearing

January 23, 2019

Crowds bother me. It’s not that I don’t like people; in small doses or one on one they’re fine, but when too many of them are all in one place, a crowd becomes for me an isolation booth. While others are talking, laughing, having a good time, their voices to me are a cacophonous jumble of indistinct sounds. I see lips moving, with not a clue as to what is being said. Two people sitting on either side of me can have a conversation back and forth with me not able to figure out what they’re talking about. It can be frustrating; those whose hearing is good have no idea how much deafness cuts one off from life. If nothing else, I often worry that people think I’m stuck up or angry because I don’t enter into conversations.

When I started writing about the things for which I was thankful, the author whose writings inspired me spoke of “hard eucharistos,” blessings that don’t at first appear to be blessings. My hearing loss is one such gift. Rather than wallow in self-pity, I am learning to use this condition for good. If you’ve ever been to a swim meet, you know that the sound booms and echoes off the hard surfaces of tile floors and walls, and concrete ceilings. It’s like sitting for hours inside a drum. Tonight at our granddaughter’s swim meet, while those with me were conversing, I used the time to converse with God. Nearly three hours was given to me. I couldn’t pray without ceasing, as Paul would say; the noise was distracting. But I was able to pray more than if I had been home, with things to do, and one on one conversations with my wife.

There is a second blessing in my condition. The Bible tells how Jesus healed those who were deaf. He hasn’t yet done that for me, but he does have a track record of doing so, which gives me hope. And if it doesn’t happen in this life, when it comes time to hear the angels sing, I will appreciate it all the more for being able to hear the full range of sound for the first time in my life.

Repurposing

January 22, 2019

There’s not much in our newspaper these days. With 24 hour news available on tv and online, people aren’t reading the paper the way they used to. The want ads that used to fill page after page of small print have all but succumbed to eBay and Craigslist, and aside from local events, obituaries, and high school sports, there’s not much left to read.

My grandfather was a Linotype operator for the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, one of two dailies for the city, the other being the Times Union. Before the advent of computers or even aluminum print sheets, the Linotype was a huge, noisy machine into which molten lead was poured. The operator would type on the keyboard which operated mechanisms allowing the molten lead to flow into molds called slugs, each slug containing a line of one to perhaps half dozen words which were shuttled to the print press. It was dirty, noisy work, and many was the morning he would come home with burns where the lead had splattered on his arms or hands.

Back then, the papers were not only thick, but large. I remember him teaching me how to make a printer’s hat out of a sheet of newsprint. With today’s papers, that same hat would barely fit on a doll’s head. 

So, like so many items of a certain vintage, repurposing seems to be the way to go. We do it with old furniture, kitchenware, even tools. Why not with newspaper? This evening after dinner, it was time to repurpose a few old newspapers, along with the remnants of candles burned to the short end of their wicks. Separated into pages, rolled, tied off, and dipped into an old baking pan filled with the melted bits of candles, and I have a stack of firestarters that will last nearly till springtime.

Jesus is in the repurposing business, too. He takes people who were used up, broken, and ready to be thrown out, covers them with molten love, and makes something brand new, ready to catch the flame of his Holy Spirit to set ablaze a whole new fire that can warm any who will come close. I am thankful tonight that he repurposed me, and continues to do so for countless people who once thought themselves good for nothing more than the scrapheap of life, only to find that there is a new and eternal purpose waiting for them at the foot of the Cross.

Thumbs up

January 21, 2019

A visit to the audiologist is always more interesting with an eleven year old grandson in tow. For my annual hearing evaluation, I was asked to bring someone whose voice I was familiar with to do some of the testing. I chose Nathan because he talks fast, and the pitch of his voice is in the range where most of my hearing loss occurs. I figured he’d be perfect for the part, and I was right, in more ways than one. I paid him with a Big Mac dinner and a cinnamon bun from Tim Horton’s. The original plan called for ice cream at Coldstone Creamery, but when we got there, no ice cream was to be found. The young woman who waited on us told me that the company took it out for some reason unbeknownst to her, to which I responded that I didn’t even know her, and she was breaking my heart with the news.

So on to the audiologist. A little backstory is in order here. Nathan’s father is very tactile in his interactions with the world. When he was Nathan’s age, he had to touch everything within reach. During Advent when we had family devotions, we were always chastising him for sticking his fingers in the hot wax from the candles and dripping it all over the table. He couldn’t walk an aisle in a store without handling everything in sight. He would poke and prod his little sister till we told him if he touched her once more, he would face consequences, whereupon he would deliberately lay his index finger on her arm and say, “Touch!”

So at the audiologist, I’m in the little soundproof booth listening to the beeps and boops of the testing equipment, and through the glass I can see the audiologist right before me, and behind her sitting in a chair against the back wall is Nathan, waiting as patiently as he can. He turns to read the framed poster on the wall, and of course, touches it. A little too energetically, it turns out. It was hung by the frame resting on two screws in the wall. As he touches it, he accidentally lifts it from one of the screws, causing it to flop at a crazy angle while his eyes get as big as saucers. He looks at me with a panicked look, and frantically tries to put it back in place while I am doing my best to keep from laughing out loud. When he finally gets it in place, he turns my way with a cheesy smile and a thumbs up. All is well. 

A few minutes later as I am escorted into a different room to talk with a company rep about the possibility of new devices, the audiologist casually says, “That’s not the first time that picture has come off the wall.” Busted!

Parents have to be more disciplinary than do grandparents, so instead of getting into trouble, we had a good laugh about it. I suspect I laughed more than Nathan. It’s been a good day, and a couple hours laughing with my grandson is a big part of why I am thankful tonight.

Weather

January 20, 2019

I’ve thought about it for quite some time and have come to the conclusion that one of the requirements for being a meteorologist, especially one that appears on the news, is having failed a lie detector test. It’s the only profession I know of outside of politics, where being consistently wrong has no consequences. Politicians can get voted out of office, but until they do, the bubble in which they live insulates them from having to live with the results of the rules under which the rest of us must live. And weathermen (and women) move to the next prediction oblivious to the inaccuracy of their last one.

I’m not being cynical, and not even complaining; just stating the obvious. I suppose they have to be careful. If a major storm rolls through without warning, heads will roll. Better to have overplayed the emergency than to miss it altogether. We were supposed to have been hit with a major storm this weekend. Linda and I were in Toronto with some friends who treated us to a delightful weekend of theater, hotel, and most of all, their company. Curtain time was 2:00 on Saturday, and having watched the forecasts, we decided that since it would be almost dark by the time the show was over, instead of heading home, we would spend an extra night. 

It was cold when we got up this morning, but there was hardly any snow. A friend from the Canada north country asked if Toronto had much snow. “A dusting,” I said, adding, “We Western New Yorkers thumb our noses at such snow!” The roads on the way home were almost devoid of traffic; it was about the best Toronto driving I’ve ever seen! Even back home, we only had maybe a foot of the stuff to push around with tractor and plow, and surprise of surprises, son Matt had already cleared the driveway for us.

I’m thankful the weatherman was wrong. We had a wonderful weekend without the stress of driving home in a blizzard, and the usual Sunday crew to welcome us when we arrived. So, thank you, Chuck and Kelly, for the very special weekend. We loved the musical, but even more, spending the time with you. Thank you, Matt, for plowing the driveway, and girls, for preparing Sunday dinner. And thank you Lord, for a weekend to remember, meteorologically-stress free.

Compassion

January 19, 2019

“Isn’t it amazing how much variation God can get out of one head, two arms and two legs?” My friend Chuck and I were watching the crowds in the mall. God’s creativity in the human being goes unnoticed among those we see every day, but a day in Toronto watching thousands of people milling around the Eaton Center presents so many people of all shapes and sizes that it’s impossible for me to not notice. And if size, shape, gender, or race weren’t enough, the inner persons shining through their attire reveals personality, identity, and preferences that common enough in the city, appear strange to these country eyes. Today was a smorgasbord of humanity. 

And God loves them all. Equally. He doesn’t love me more because I’ve tried to follow him, and doesn’t love any of them less if they’ve shaken their fists in his face. He doesn’t prefer youthful voluptuous beauty or handsome virility over the old dirty homeless man huddled over a heating grate, the pockmarked or wrinkled, the skinny or the fat. Introvert that I am, though I enjoyed watching the parade of people, most of the time I prefer them one at a time, or if necessary, in small groups. It’s admittedly easier loving those who see life as I do, and harder to love those I’ve never met. 

I think I need to get out more. The Scripture tells us, “when [Jesus] saw the crowds, he was moved with compassion for them.” (Matthew 9:36 and 14:14). It wasn’t his study of the Scriptures or the frequency of his prayers, but his connection with the crowds that moved him to compassion. The prayers and Scripture certainly set the stage, but it was mixing it up with ordinary people in all their infinite variety that moved him to compassion. He saw through the both the physical form and the social and spiritual posturing to the souls that were lost and wandering like sheep without a shepherd; it was this lostness that grabbed his heart. I’m thankful for the crowds I saw today. May their lostness also grab mine. 

Noisy Waters

January 18, 2019

From a distance, it’s just another noise in the background that fades in and out of my awareness. Traffic, the barking of our dog Emma, or even the constant whistling of my tinnitus easily blocks out its sound. An afternoon trek through the snow changes all that; the closer I get, the louder it gets. Finally, standing by the water’s edge, everything else disappears before the rushing and gurgling of the creek as it laughs over the gravel and shale, picking up momentum as it rounds the bend and tumbles over the small waterfall behind our house. 

Everything hinges on proximity. And on movement. Only close up does it muffle the clatter of traffic and the whooshing of our furnace exhaust. Only when the water moves does it talk. Still waters may be deep, but they also hide their secrets in their silence.

Jesus said, “Whoever believes in me, as the scripture has said, ‘Out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.’” For the water of life to flow from within us, we must get close to Jesus. Distance masks the sound of his voice, and too often, I find myself standing beside still and silent waters, waiting for but not hearing the Voice. As God told Jeremiah, “My people have committed two evils; they have forsaken the fountain of living (ie. flowing) waters, and hewed themselves cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water.” (2:13). 

I stood by the creek today, listening to the water drowning out all other sounds. I was close, and wanting to be close enough to God that all other voices fade away before the majesty of the living, flowing waters of the Holy Spirit.

Happy birthday Linda

January 17, 2019

Sometimes being ahead of the game can get you painted into a corner. 

Christmas is no sooner over than I’m thinking of what to get Linda next year, and usually I have most of her presents hidden away by late August, with perhaps only a couple odds and ends left for shopping during the Christmas season. And since her birthday is in February, I usually lump everything together and simply decide towards the end of December which will be Christmas gifts and which I’ll save for her birthday. It’s called planning ahead, and when it comes to Linda, I’m not too shabby at it.

When the grandkids are here for their twice-monthly overnight, either pancakes or French toast, sausages, and eggs are standard breakfast fare. I used to do everything on the old cast iron griddle we have hanging from the butcher’s block, but Linda convinced me to use her old electric fry pan; “It’ll be quicker and easier,” she said. This particular electric fry pan I think was a wedding present, so it’s seen better days. Everything on it works, but over the years, the heat has warped the bottom so all the oil puddles into a two-inch circle the middle, leaving the rest of it high and dry. Needless to say, it’s not the best scenario for flapjacks. So—just before Christmas I decided to buy her a new one, but since I already had enough stuff for Christmas, the fry pan became a birthday gift.

Fast forward to today. She had an appointment with the eye doctor and had a couple errands to run in town. Not having anything pressing, I offered to chauffeur her and take her out to dinner, an offer she couldn’t, and didn’t, refuse. One of the errands involved a trip to the mall, and here is where I made my fatal mistake. The kitchen store in the mall is having a going out of business sale, so I suggested we pop in to see if there were anything there she needed. She agreed, and upon entering immediately asked about electric frypans. The sales lady showed us to the remaining selection, whereupon Linda looked them over, asking me repeatedly which one I thought would be best. I said nothing, in my mind just watching her birthday surprise fizzle and fade.

“So which one do you like?” Her tone was getting a bit more demanding, so yes, I admit it...I folded. 

“You can have one of these, or the one I already bought you for your birthday!” I had to admit I was trapped.

“So THAT’S why you weren’t saying anything. Wait! For my birthday? Sounds to me like you bought it for yourself; after all, you’ve been the one complaining about the fry pan.”

Well, another birthday bites the dust, in more ways than one. I guess planning ahead doesn’t always get you any brownie points. Thankfully, I’m married to a woman with a good sense of humor. Married to me, she needs it often.

Unplanned Blessings

January 16, 2019

Once in awhile I find myself in the middle of a situation I didn’t plan and can’t control. Usually when we think of such circumstances in the abstract, good scenarios don’t generally come to mind, but today brought a confluence of circumstances that I can only believe is the work of the Holy Spirit, who has his own timing on things that doesn’t always correspond to our own.

Last week in our church board meeting I asked as to whether or not we wanted to do another outreach in the park this summer. During last summer’s centennial celebration, for the first time in a year, I heard people talking about “next year...” They were moving beyond survival mode. The board agreed that we not only want to do it, but we want to invite other churches to join us and make it a united Christian witness to the community. Great idea!

This morning in our pastor’s prayer time, we talked about how we could work together on this. Pastor Jeff mentioned that pastor Erika (who wasn’t able to be with us this morning) had wanted to do a joint prayer and worship service sometime soon, and added that he wasn’t interested in just serving hot dogs and play games if there were no long term community involvement. So we decided that the prayer meeting would be specifically geared towards reaching our community together, and that the big event in the park would simply be the springboard to weekly meetings in the park where we connect with young people, building bridges that we hope will lead them to Christ. “Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! (Psalm 133:1). “All of us are smarter than any of us.” I don’t know where that last quote comes from, but both these quotes were fulfilled today.

Our prayer time concluded, I got busy with the day’s work. Our financial secretary gave me some numbers I needed for a decision we need to make which will provide for real pastoral presence in the community. God is orchestrating things that a year ago I would never have imagined. The church is slowly growing, people are excited, and together with my brothers from another congregation, a plan is starting to come together. As I said, I didn’t plan this and I sure can’t control it, but after a years and a half of prayer and work, suddenly the pieces are starting to fall into place, and I am a very thankful man tonight.

Recalibrating

January 15, 2019

Back when this country was founded, people got their news perhaps once a week; even less frequently for those who lived on the frontier. They had time to ponder and consider the implications of what they read. Even into the Twentieth Century, it often took days for the latest happenings in Washington or Moscow or Berlin to reach the masses. World War II had its correspondents, but the battles were over long before the reporting of them hit our shores. Even the newsreels that introduced the Saturday matinees reported events that had happened weeks ago.

It all began to change during the Vietnam war, when almost-instantaneous reporting gave us nightly insight into the changing fortunes of battle, and those who gave us eyewitness accounts began to see themselves not only reporting the news, but shaping it. The era of the evening news hour was already fast coming to a close when CNN launched its round the clock channel. Others followed, and soon we found ourselves inundated with information, but starved of the time necessary to process it. We soon became slaves of the sound bite, surrendering thoughtful reflection to the addictive draw of the immediate emotional reaction. We no longer possess a worldview that enables us to consider all that is happening before offering a measured and thoughtful response. We are trying to drink out of an informational fire hose, and wonder why we are blown all over the landscape by its pressure.

This morning on my way to town, I couldn’t get my mind reeled in from some of the latest absurdities coming out of Albany and Washington. I was trying to follow St. Paul’s admonition in 2 Corinthians 10 to bring our errant thoughts captive to Christ, but they were giving me a run for my money. Then I read today’s Scripture from Daily Light on the Daily Path; mental and spiritual medicine I sorely needed. It began like this:

“My soul clings to the dust; give me life according to your word!”

“If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. For...your life is hidden with Christ in God.”

My soul indeed clings to the dust. Or more accurately, the dust clings to me. Only in God’s Word do I find life, and then, only when I seek things above and set my mind on them. This isn’t the sum total of what I need to do; I cannot shirk civil responsibility by quoting Scripture, but neither can I exercise it wisely apart from having my mind and heart shaped by Scripture. Such shaping requires time. Time to sit, to reflect, to pray. Skimming over the text is like gobbling a fast-food meal; it satisfies initially, but long-term nutritionally, our souls starve. So I am making time for reflection and meditation, seeking, setting my mind, recalibrating my soul to the only GPS that really matters: God’s Positioning System. Isaiah’s words as I remember them from years ago remain true: “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.” (26:3)

Battling Klingons

January 14, 2019

“Cling to what is good.” So says Romans 12:9. I decided at the beginning of the new year to make this verse the focus of my meditations. There’s more to it than this short phrase, but it’s these words that have my attention tonight, especially that “cling to.” One might think that to a preacher, the “good” would come more or less naturally, but this couldn’t be much further from the truth. The doctrine of Original Sin is still a basic tenet of the Christian faith, partly because it explains so much of what we see all around us and within us. The Reformed theologians spoke of Total Depravity, meaning not that everything we do is as bad as it could be, but that there is no area of our lives untouched by sin. The old hymn says it well: “Take away our bent to sinning...” 

The writer to the Hebrews speaks of sins that “cling so tightly” (12:1). It’s really quite ironic that sin clings to me, but I have to consciously cling to the good. That’s what Original Sin is all about; sin finds me, but I have to look for and hold on with desperation to the good. There are times when everything within me wants to let go of the good and let the sin hold onto me. It’s called spiritual warfare; God has given us the tools to fight the battle (see Ephesians 6:10-18), but we are the ones who must actually do the fighting. After Paul describes the weapons we have, he describes the battle itself when he says, “praying always...” It’s not a fight won in the classroom, in the halls of government, or by force of arms, but by prayer. It is in prayer that I best cling to the good and shake off the sin that would cling to me. Thank God for this marvelous privilege of coming before the throne of grace to find mercy and grace to help in our time of need (Hebrews 4:16).

Buterflies

January 13, 2019

“You still get nervous preaching?” Bob was surprised; after all, I’ve been doing this for almost fifty years. People seem to have a hard time believing I get so nervous that I can’t eat before preaching. It’s true though; I get knots in my stomach Sunday mornings, preceded by a general  dread that I’m not ready, haven’t been clear enough, haven’t prayed enough, or don’t have what the people need to hear at this moment in time. Fifty years hasn’t dulled the edginess of preaching. It’s one of the reasons I knew it was time to retire. I was tired of constantly having to keep the mind going, thinking ahead, planning sermon series, continually worrying that instead of proclaiming the Good News, I’d only be hawking good advice, which is not what I was called to do. So yes, I still get nervous. 

When I taught preaching classes, I would tell my students, “It’s when the butterflies in your stomach disappear that you should start getting nervous.” It’s the price that must be paid in order to do the job right.

I’ve been doing this a long time, and at times I feel like the spring is wound a bit too tightly, and that it’s time to hang up the spurs, so to speak. Inevitably (at least so far), something happens to make me pause and ponder. I’ve been preaching in Dunkirk for a year and a half; it was supposed to be just a couple weeks in the summer to tide things over till the Superintendent could find a more permanent solution. She did just that—me. It’s been slow going, and just when I think it might be time to slow down and back off, God throws me a curve ball. Today it was in the form of six visitors, two who had visited last week and returned, and four who came for the first time and said they’ll be back. It’s like, “Lord, you’re pulling a fast one on me.” 

God is like that; full of surprises. Abraham was surprised when God actually gave him a son in his old age. The children of Israel were surprised to see the waters of the Red Sea splitting in two so they could escape Egypt. Jesse was surprised when his youngest son David was chosen to be king. And the devil was surprised when Jesus rose from the dead and thwarted his best laid plans for our destruction. Why should it surprise me when God sends people who are ready to hear the Good News? Well, it does. I can be pretty thick-headed sometimes, so I am surprised. But I am also very thankful. These new faces ministered to me this morning, unwittingly giving encouragement they didn’t even know I needed. So thank you, my new friends. And thank you, Jesus! Maybe the nervousness is paying off.

Aging Photos

January 12, 2019

Photos showing how people have aged over the years are all the rage on Facebook these days. It’s a fad that contains a basic problem. Occasionally we’ll see one that shows an individual or couple who have changed their lifestyle and gotten enough healthier that they look better today than they did some years ago. Most of us aren’t so lucky. I look in the mirror and wonder why from the looks of me, I was standing in the middle of the road waiting to get run over by that truck. If I were to post before and after photos of myself, I would be at a grave disadvantage in that there is a lot of time in between the before and the after. It’s a good thing that I didn’t lose my sense of humor along with my hair.

The real problem with such photogenic comparisons is that they cannot capture what’s really important. If we do it right, as the body shows increasing signs of wear and tear, the soul would show signs of deepening strength and real beauty that a camera cannot catch. Rarely, an artist can capture the depth of the inner self, but most of our photos only show skin.

If a soul-camera were available, I would like to think that my “after” picture would reveal more compassion, a deeper holiness, a greater love than I had fifty years ago. I would like to think it shows a softening of the lines of judgment and a deepening sense of justice. Beneath the hairline that long ago receded into the background, I would hope lies a greater wisdom.

Little that is important about aging can be captured by the lens, so these photos tell me little about the persons depicted. Time hasn’t been particularly kind to this old body, but I believe my soul to be stronger, more alive and resilient than ever before, even though lived amidst various aches and pains and diminished physical strength. I don’t know why this photo-fad has taken off the way it has, but I am thankful that it has given me reason to reflect on what’s really important in life.

There is one photo comparison I want to make tonight. We celebrated our eldest son and daughter in law’s 25th anniversary. It’s not a professional photo, but in it they sit behind their engagement picture filled with anticipation of the future. And now, 25 years later, their integrity, faith, faithfulness, and love is seen not in the “after” photo, but in the faces of scores of people whose lives have been touched by their love for God, for each other, for their children, and for the world around them. I think the only “after” photos that are really important are the ones that show the lives changed by the people in the “before” photo.