Harvest

September 30, 2019

Below and behind our garage the lawn is slowly being carpeted with the leaves floating down from the ash, maples, and oaks. The goldenrod is in full bloom, a flowery goldmine of nectar and pollen for the bees, while the squash and pumpkin vines are withering, their golden bounty lying like mini orbs across the fields. The apples are yielding their fodder for my cider press, and a neighbor commented the other day about the marshmallows springing up across her meadow. She was of course, referring to the huge round hay bales wrapped in white plastic as they await collection.

It strikes me as odd that the harvest matures with the dying of the vines and the days, just before winter. Fecundity and death walk side by side in this life and in a way, in the life to come. Jesus said that the seed cannot bear fruit unless it dies in the ground, and that we cannot bear fruit in life apart from our readiness to die to self. It’s my observation that there is more truth in that statement than we are usually ready to hear. Anything worth accomplishing requires us to die to a million other choices we could make. The musician, the athlete, the businessman, farmer, teacher...those who excel do so by sacrificing the “other” life they could have. Death is prerequisite to life. 

This season of the year reminds me too, of the harvest God promises at the end of the age. According to Matthew 13, he allows the wheat and weeds to grow together until the harvest when he will send his angels to reap. Then, the end comes. The bounty I see all around me blesses us with sustenance for this life, but along with the dying leaves and vines, I am directed to the harvest of souls that will come just before the end of time and the ushering in of the eternal Kingdom of God.

Back

September 29, 2019

Mistakes and all, it was good to be back on the worship team playing bass. I definitely need more practice. For the past two years while I’ve been preaching, the music has had to take a back seat; I haven’t really touched the electric bass much in all that time. You’d think playing the upright would transfer to the electric, and to some extent it does, since the scale patterns are identical. It’s just that on the upright, there are no frets to tell me where I am, and everything is spaced farther apart, so the placement of the fingers is different. Right hand technique is not the same, either, and to top it off, I’ve been playing from sheet music—actual notes and scales—instead of chord sheets. 

Making up the runs from the chord sheets might be a breeze for someone who’s had some music theory, but I couldn’t tell you the notes in an F# minor if my life depended on it. If written in standard music notation however, playing those notes in an arpeggio would be a snap. If I didn’t have to play them too fast. So...when playing for the worship team, if I don’t want to mess everything up, I’ll need to figure out the runs and write them in. 

Life is often like that. There is a formal and traditional way of doing things, but there are also colloquial methods that work just fine. Years ago, when the exhaust pipe on my car began sounding a bit throaty due to the hole rusted through it, an old soup can and a couple of hose clamps did a pretty fair job of quieting things down. Today when my throat starts feeling a bit scratchy or my chest starts getting congested, I rub down with some of the DoTerra oils my daughter sells. Some people may scoff, but I used to come down with a cold that would lay me out for days, but in the three years since I began using these oils, that stuff never gets the chance to dig in.

I am thankful to be able to do my small part making music, whether in the concert or jazz band, or on Sunday mornings in worship. The latter however, is particularly satisfying, as the music lifts us to eternal realities in a way that other music cannot. I listen to all sorts of music, play what I am able, but tonight I am thankful to be back in the band.

Understanding and Healing

September 28, 2019

If you keep at it long enough and don’t give up, the answer usually comes. I’ve been reading the gospel of Matthew with its stories of the miracles of Jesus healing people and exorcising demons. In chapter ten, Jesus sends his disciples through the land with the command to preach the Good News, heal the sick, cast out demons, and raise the dead. I read things like that and wonder why we don’t see more of it today. When reading this the other day, I also noticed his command for them to go out with just the clothes on their backs, and wondered if my unwillingness to live in abject poverty is one of the reasons I don’t see more healings. 

Today I was reading in chapter 13, where after Jesus tells a few stories, he explains to his disciples why he speaks in parables. He quotes Isaiah, explaining that he speaks this way so people won’t be able to understand what he’s saying. We thought he used these stories to help people understand, but that’s not the rationale he gave. Why would Jesus deliberately hide truth from the people? And should we follow suit?

I suspect one of the reasons he does so is to protect his hearers. Isaiah says, “their hearts have grown dull...” If as I believe, we will be judged according to the light we’ve received, it makes sense for Jesus as an act of mercy to withhold that light from those who aren’t ready to receive it so they won’t be judged more harshly. 

The rest of that verse 15 speaks to me and the issue of healing. I want to be clear that I am not applying this verse to anyone else. It was God’s word to me as I read it this afternoon. Jesus hid the truth from those whose hearts weren’t ready to hear it, ending with these words: “Lest they should understand with their hearts and turn, so that I should heal them.” Jesus and Isaiah link understanding with healing. For most of my life, I’ve tried to understand the Gospel. I’ve often wondered why I’ve been spared the sickness and disease so many have endured. As I read today, God spoke to my heart, “You haven’t been the instrument of my healing for others, but your willingness to try to understand has healed you.” 

I know this raises the question of why other, more faithful saints of God have endured all kinds of illness and disease. I wish I knew, but I don’t. And I don’t extrapolate my understanding of the text to others. God only speaks to my heart occasionally; it’s not an everyday occurrence for me. I certainly wasn’t looking for an answer to my question, and was completely surprised when that thought popped into my head, which is why I think it was God’s word for me. It’s the last thing I would have expected to hear. My reading of this Scripture may be completely off base, but I am thankful tonight that in his mercy God somehow made me attentive to his voice. It had to be mercy, because left to myself, I’d be anything but attentive to his voice. I’m ready to be corrected if I misread the text, but till then, am thankful to have heard that quiet whisper from the Lord himself and to have experienced his healing even if I’m not able to impart it to someone else. 

Gauntlets

September 27, 2019

When I bought them, it was to protect my hands from the cold. They’re German military-issued lobster gloves, made for cold weather motorcycle riding. The long gauntlets cover the arms of my leather jacket, keeping winter’s cold air from blowing up my sleeves. Oh yes—I did say winter’s cold air. Being a sidecar bike, winter roads are not the obstacle for three wheels that they can be for two. My bike is licensed and insured for year round use; the slightest break in the weather in January or February can be reason to take it for a spin. Engageable two-wheel drive make the Ural the only factory-issued, three-wheel, all-season, street legal ATV in the world. But I digress. I bought those gloves for cold weather riding.

Processing grapes is simple enough, but it can be tricky. The juice is steamed out of the grapes, so it’s pretty warm when I squeeze the clamp to fill the jars. Once in awhile, the clamp twists in my grip, spewing boiling hot grape juice every which way. So far this season, those gauntlet gloves have twice protected me from getting burned by hot grape juice. Being lobster gloves, they look a bit funny, but no matter what the season, they’re worth every penny I paid for them, and I’m thankful for them tonight; not a burn in the bunch!

The Power of Poverty

September 26, 2019

Today’s Bible reading came from Matthew 10, where Jesus chooses the twelve disciples and sends them out on a missionary venture. The scope of their task was clear: They were to go only to the Jewish people, “And as you go, preach, saying, ‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out demons. Freely you have received, freely give.” —Matthew 10:7-8

Earlier, we’re told that he gave them power, or authority over demons, sickness, and disease; pretty impressive credentials by anyone’s standards. Strictly speaking, this commission was given only to the Twelve, and is not necessarily a model for modern missionary work; after all, they were sent only to their own countrymen. But still we may wonder why we see so little of this sort of thing today, aside from the often dubious shenanigans of certain televangelists. Either this authority was for the disciples only, or it is available to everyone who responds to the call of Christ. If the former is true, the matter rests, and Christianity is reduced to little more than another ethical and moral system with a religious twist.

But if this authority is meant for all Christians, why do we not see more healing, more deliverance, even raising the dead? Perhaps the answer lies in the very next verses in the text:

“Provide neither gold nor silver, nor copper in your money belts, nor bag for your journey, nor two tunics, nor sandals, nor staffs; for a worker is worthy of his food.” —(Vv. 9-10)

Jesus sent them out with nothing but the clothes on their backs, living in a degree of poverty most of us are unwilling to accept. So the question becomes, “If I am unwilling to let go of all earthly support and trust Jesus to provide everything I need, why should he trust me with the authority to heal and provide deliverance?” It’s a knotty problem, especially for those of us with families. It’s one thing to pursue such a spartan lifestyle for oneself, but asking a spouse and children to live an essentially vagabond life can be problematic. The way this text is structured pushes me to examine not only the claims of the preachers of the “Prosperity Gospel,” but also my own willingness to take Jesus completely at his word. I’ve regularly wrestled with this issue over the course of my life, and have yet to settle the matter. 

Some would claim that Jesus only demands that we be willing to give up everything for him, but how can I be sure I am willing if I don’t actually do it? This much I know: God uses Scriptures like this to challenge and call me to a more devoted life of faith. I am under no illusion that living in voluntary poverty would necessarily make me a better person. While the baubles of this world have the power to pull us away from God, so too, extreme self-denial can be the root of a perverted kind of pride. Listening to the voice of the Holy Spirit speaking through Scripture is not always a black and white affair. Healthy relationships don’t operate that way. So I read, ponder, question, and pray, doing my best to remain open to whatever God would say, giving thanks that my salvation is not dependent on my understanding, my ability to discern clearly what God is saying, nor even my faithfulness. It is God’s gift to me and all people, offered through the merits of Jesus Christ who died and rose again for our sakes. He knows our hearts, and is faithful to fulfill his purposes in us, for which I am thankful tonight.

Grapes

September 25, 2019

“The Bailey charm; you can’t read it in a book, you can’t buy it in a store.” So my nephews used to say in their dating days. The same can be said of the Bailey grape juice. Welch’s has nothing on what’s been cooking on our stove today. That sweet Concord aroma fills the house as the steamer works its magic. It’s that time of year; the leaves are falling, apples are in the fruit stands, the vineyards are heavy with their bounty. In you drive around in an air-conditioned vehicle you’ll miss the fragrance of the grapes. Open the windows and inhale deeply; it’s an experience not to be missed. 

The cycle of the seasons rolls on; autumn’s harvest will soon give way to winter’s cold and snow. We’ll sit by the fire, soaking up the warmth that was stored in the wood, waiting to be released. Fruit and vegetables put away in September will fill our plates in January, and the juice I canned tonight will satisfy thirsty grandchildren all year long. The world rolls on; politicians jockey for power, the poor scratch for survival, widows weep, children play, armies march and fight. Processing grapes may not seem like much, but most of life consists of little things that in and of themselves are insignificant, but taken together, fulfill the promise of God given to Noah: “While the earth remains, Seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, winter and summer, and day and night shall not cease (Genesis 8:22).” For that, and for the fruit of the vine, I am thankful tonight.

FOURTEEN!

September 24, 2019

FOURTEEN! How could I have lost a year? I was congratulating my granddaughter on entering her teenage years only to find out today that she’s been at it for an entire year. It’s no surprise she’s developing into a beautiful young woman; after all, every “Meema and Beepa night,” Linda prays that she, along with the other grandchildren, will be “as beautiful on the inside as they are on the outside,” a prayer that is being wonderfully answered. We are privileged to have a front-row seat in the theater of their lives, and Madeline is today’s star of the stage.

Of all the things there are to love about her, that which to me stands out most is her tender heart. Last year Linda bought a DVD of “Marley and Me” for her and her brother to watch on a family road trip. They hadn’t gotten out of Ohio before we got a text message accompanying a photo her mother took of Madeline weeping profusely in the back seat. The message was simply, “Thanks, Meema.” 

At fourteen, it’s hard to know what the future holds. Madeline would make a good vet or vet’s assistant, but her caring spirit would also make her a good counselor. If she chooses, she will also be a wonderful wife and mother. We pray daily for her and for our other grandchildren. The future into which they walk will in many ways be quite different from the world we have known. I am grateful tonight not only for Madeline, but also for the Lord whom she loves and serves, who will walk with her as surely as he has walked with us. 

Our prayers for our grandchildren are taken from Scripture, so they are prayers God loves to answer. Linda’s is, “I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your hearts, living within you as you trust in him. May your roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvelous love. And may you be able to feel and understand, as all God’s children should, how long, how wide, how deep, and how high his love really is, and to experience this love for yourselves, though it is so great that you will never see the end of it or fully know or understand it, but someday you will be filled with God himself.“ —Ephesians 3:17-19

My prayer for them comes from Hebrews 13:20-21–“May the God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, that great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is wellpleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ our Lord; to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.” —Hebrews 13:20-21 

Our prayers are being answered in Madeline, and in all our grandchildren, for which I am deeply grateful tonight.

Crazy Praise

September 23, 2019

“I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth.” (Psalm 34:1) You might be tempted to think that an utterance such as this is the word of someone who’s had it pretty easy in life; the well-heeled bon vivant who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but you would be wrong. The notes to this psalm tell us that David wrote it at a tie when he was dangerously pressed. Exiled from king Saul, who wanted him dead, he had fled to Israel’s historic enemy, the Philistines. Yes, these were the same Philistines whose champion Goliath David as a young man had rocked to permanent sleep, occasioning a military rout and earning him international fame as a fierce warrior. David must have been pretty desperate to imagine the Philistines would have such short memories that he could safely jump ship and they would welcome him with open arms. Amazingly, at first his ruse worked, but then a few astute Philistines said, “Wait a minute! Isn’t he the one about whom they sang, “Saul has slain his thousands, but David his ten thousands? We’re going out to fight against David’s people; no matter that he has incurred the enmity of Saul; if he gets the chance, he’ll surely turn on us.”

David realized he was in a tight spot, so he pretended to be insane, scribbling on the walls and drooling. They kicked him out, and David retreated into the wilderness where he began gathering together a band of guerrilla fighters who would later form the core of David’s military once he came to power.

The prelude to that 34th Psalm is important. It keeps us from imagining that praise is only possible when things are going well for us. It reminds us that praising God is what we do even when life is caving in on us. It is a choice we make to bend our will and attitude towards God even if we don’t feel like doing so. 

I’ve been asked about how I manage to write something every day. My answer is simple: I choose to do so. I don’t always feel thankful; Reasons to praise God aren’t always automatically on my mind. More often than not, I have to stop and think. It’s not that there aren’t reasons to praise God; it’s that my mind and heart are no different than anyone else’s. The Bible says “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” (Jeremiah 17:9). That goes for me just as much as it is true of anyone else. My natural tendency is to gripe and complain, to see the cloud in every silver lining. I must as Scripture says, “bring every thought to captivity unto Christ.” (2 Corinthians 10:5). Corralling my thoughts and feelings is not easy; they want to break loose and run all over the landscape of my soul. Every day, I must saddle up, ride out, and rope those wayward thoughts, and drag them back into the corral of God’s will and God’s Word. 

So today, even though my body and mind are tired, I choose to bless the LORD and have his praise continually in my mouth.

Accomplishment

September 22, 2019

New accomplishments are one of the signs of growing up. This afternoon, Linda had set out a jigsaw puzzle, and when seven-year-old Gemma came over this evening while her mom was leading SOTA, (School Of The Arts) at church, she decided to join me at the table. At 500 small pieces, this was no child’s puzzle, but she tackled it with enthusiasm and skill, completing the main feature of the picture while I struggled to get the edge pieces in place. 

Later, she sat at our kitchen table reading an entire Dick and Jane anthology and a vintage elementary reader from our childhood days. The years will flash by, and before we know it, she’ll have a boyfriend or be off to college. In the meantime, we have the distinct privilege of watching her grow from an infant to toddler to little girl, her mind and personality developing before our eyes. There will be new challenges and changes, and we have a front row seat as the mystery and wonder of a young life unfolds before us. It is an indescribable joy and privilege.

Home

September 21, 2019

It’s good to be home. We’ve only been gone overnight, but opening the front door and stepping through felt so good. I know the word home doesn’t carry for everyone the pleasant nuances it holds for me. For some, it’s a place of tension, uncertainty, and fear, where brutality and anger reside. Others have spent so much of their lives moving from one place to another that home is simply where they sleep at night; still others, living on the streets or migrating in large caravans, cannot even describe home. 

As nice and welcoming as it can be staying somewhere else, I still like home. Ours doesn’t have the elegance of a Victorian mansion, the appointments of a five star hotel, nor the simplicity of a primitive cabin, but its walls echo with years of love and peace, and its rooms are filled with the symbols of our life together. It’s where my heart and soul rests and my spirit soars.

The people of God are described as pilgrims traveling through a foreign land with no place to call home. Jesus described himself as someone who hadn’t a place to lay his head, and the Bible reminds us that here we have no permanent home; we’re always seeking our place of eternal rest. If the home we have here is any indication, a precursor of our home to come, even if my corner of it is on the wrong side of heaven’s tracks, I’ll be happy. In reality, the four walls that surround me are only a house. It’s Linda who makes it a home, our kids and grandkids who visit and fill it with laughter and prayer. A house is not a home unless the heart is there. Mine is here as it looks forward to the greater home Jesus has prepared for us, and I am thankful tonight.

97 Years

September 20, 2019

September 20, 1922. It was a different world back then. Warren Harding was president, the Roaring Twenties were in full swing with flappers, Prohibition, and bootleg liquor. The “War to End All Wars” had come to an end, the stock market was booming. The airplane was in its infancy; long distance travel was by train or steamer. The Model T was still king of the road, life in America was good, and my mother was born. 

Her childhood was defined by the Great Depression that hit when she was seven years old. She once told me of her parents going without meals so she and her sister could eat, and of her feelings of being unwanted when she was sent to her grandmother’s farm where they grew plenty of food, and her parents would have one less mouth to feed. She first met my father when she was in ninth grade; their marriage lasted for over sixty years until his death on Father’s Day in 2012. 

She knew the heartache of a miscarriage, the worries of a son in the military during Vietnam, and the difficult decision during a missionary conference to stand in support of her second son’s decision to follow whatever path God might choose in ministry. Her decision to start going to church started a chain of events that literally transformed my life when a couple years later I responded to a Gospel invitation to receive Christ.

One of the most important life lessons I ever learned came from her lips: “You always stick to your first commitment even if something better comes along.” Those words have saved me a lifetime of second-guessing and waffling, making many decisions much simpler. Together with my father, she left a legacy of faith and faithfulness that has resulted in my family alone, three children and nine grandchildren following Christ, in addition to many others who have come to Christ in my nearly fifty years of ministry. 

This evening, I recounted some of this to her. “I guess I’ve had more of an influence than I thought,” she said softly, tears welling in her eyes. Yes, mom, you have, and I am not the only one to give thanks tonight. I know you are looking forward to the day when you see Jesus face to face. You are going to be surprised to see all the others who will greet you and say, “Thank you for living the life you lived. I’m here because of you.”

JOY

September 19, 2019

They were ordinary people—factory workers, office people, housewives, secretaries—ordinary folk who were good teachers. They taught Sunday School, youth groups, Vacation Bible School, Christian Service Brigade. I don’t think there was a professional teacher in the entire bunch. The men took me in as they worked on the church building Monday nights, giving me jobs I could handle and letting me help them with the bigger stuff. Even today more than fifty years later, I can point out parts of that building in which I had a part in its construction. I learned by watching and listening to these saints, most of whom have long gone to their reward. I didn’t realize it at the time, but they were not only teaching me the Scriptures, but also life itself.

J.O.Y. What is the secret to joy? They taught me; “Jesus, Others, You.” I thought of that today as I picked up a Christmas gift I had ordered for Linda. Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am not an effusive person. Everyone around me can be cheering at a ballgame, but I sit there, enjoying the action, but not getting too enthused. And if I spend much time thinking about how I feel, or wondering why God doesn’t zap me with joy and hilarity, I can get downright depressed. Why? Because whenever I focus on my feelings, I’m putting myself first, and that is a sure path to melancholy. 

If however, I focus on what the Scriptures tell me about God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, even without thinking about it, I feel pretty good. And when I’m focused on doing something that benefits someone else or will make them happy, something inside me begins to glow. That old formula I learned so many years ago still works: Joy is spelled Jesus, Others, You.

That Smile

September 18, 2019

He blew in upon a raging blizzard that Sunday evening, stamping the snow from his feet before turning to me with tears in his eyes. The details are unimportant for today’s tale; suffice it to say he was desperate. His life was falling apart and he was at his wit’s end. Which means he was receptive to the Gospel I shared with him. He prayed. Hard. Confessing his sins and begging God to forgive him and help him be a better man, Jesus Christ transformed him that very day.

He knew what needed changing, so he changed. It took awhile to get everything cleaned up and in order, but clean it up he did, and when a few years later he married, the glow on his face lit up the sanctuary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a smile on a man. Funny thing—it seldom leaves his face. His eyes dance every time I see him, every time he receives Holy Communion.

When his father lay dying, he came and asked if I would go talk with him and tell him about Jesus. I refused. “You do it,” I said. “Why should I deny you the privilege of leading your father to Christ?” He wasn’t sure he was up to it, but was determined to try. We rehearsed a bit, and he went on his way. When he came to church the next Sunday, he was almost floating on air. He had led his father to faith in Christ! The tears of desperation from those years before were now tears of joy streaming down his face. And that smile—it went from ear to ear.I consider it one of my better pastoral successes to have refused his initial request.

I saw him in passing today. I was on my bike and coming to an intersection when I saw an arm shoot out of a car window, waving enthusiastically. I looked closer, and there was that unmistakeable smile. There’s a lot about ministry that is mundane and humdrum, but the privilege of leading someone to Christ and then seeing them do the same for another doesn’t even come close to falling into that category. It is a privilege for which I am deeply grateful tonight.

Friends

September 17, 2019

“You don’t need to be his friend. He has lots of friends; he has only one father. Be his father.” I couldn’t tell you how often I said that to a young father who was trying to mollify an out-of-control son. It didn’t matter whether it was it was a father or a mother; it never turned out well when parents were more concerned with their children liking them than obeying and respecting them. Linda and I often told young parents, “If it won’t be cute at fifteen, it’s not cute at five.” 

We were asked numerous times to teach a class on raising teenagers, but always refused. When our kids were still at home, we figured we weren’t out of the woods yet, and wanted to wait till we had solid evidence that what we were doing actually worked. We also knew that there is not much sense in teaching such a class; if parents haven’t been doing the right things when their children are pre- and elementary school age, by the time they’re teenagers, it’s too late. People often told us we were lucky to have good kids. We always countered, “Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s a lot of hard work and a lot of grace.” Our kids weren’t perfect by any means. Both we and they made our share of mistakes. We were fortunate however, in that they didn’t have to live in the proverbial pastoral family fish bowl. 

A couple days ago, son Matt called. “Can I borrow your truck on Tuesday?” 

“No problem. What for?”

“I’m buying a motorcycle. It’s in Rochester.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” 

“I might need help getting it loaded.”

Yesterday, he told me he had borrowed a trailer which would make it easier to load. Though he technically didn’t need me, I tagged along anyway. Rochester is a couple hours away, and I had the opportunity to spend it with my son. Up and back, we talked about his work, about motorcycles, cars, guns, politics, family, and a host of other things. Not being his friend when he was growing up made it easy to be friends now. Topping it all off, he got a killer deal on a great bike. Plenty for which to be thankful tonight!

Choosing Gratitude

September 16, 2019

I don’t always feel very thankful, but I give thanks anyway. My days are pretty ordinary; they have their bright spots and times of conflict or confusion, and times of emotional flatlining. This business of being thankful is not as much an emotional response to blessings I experience as it is a determination, a choice to obey the Scriptures which tell me to “give thanks in everything.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). 

Lately I’ve been wrestling with what it means to know God. Some people have experiences that move them deeply, that turn their lives around, saving them from habits and deeds destructive to themselves and/or others. My Pentecostal brothers and sisters live in a world in which they feel the presence of God in very emotive ways, yet they and I know that feelings are not a reliable indicator of that Presence. The presence and growth of religious cults provides plenty of evidence of the failure of emotional experiences as signs of the presence of God.

So how do we know? Everyone looks for happiness and most of us equate finding it with a Higher Good. But that blissful feeling can be produced by narcotics and alcohol as well as by the Holy Spirit, which is one reason St. Paul tells the Ephesian Christians to be filled with the Holy Spirit instead of alcohol. Feeling good is not an adequate indicator of whether we know God because it is too subjective. C.S. Lewis once said that Christianity is a pretty poor way of finding happiness. “A bottle of Port can do that,” he noted. Christianity is all about transforming us—albeit sometimes painfully slowly—from being self-focused individuals to being God-and-other-focused individuals. If the measure of my faith is how I feel, I will always be focusing on me, trying to make me feel better. That is a pretty narcissistic way of living, and is doomed to failure because it elevates me and my feelings to the place God has reserved for himself.

My daily (and often hourly) decisions to give thanks are my way of taking the focus off me and placing it in God, who is the giver of all gifts. Gratitude is not dependent on my circumstances, but rather upon my choices. It often sounds pretty mechanical and legalistic, but is anything but. When I give thanks, I reach beyond myself. When I give thanks to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I reach beyond myself to the One who is Savior and Lord of this otherwise selfish and narcissistic man. So tonight, I give thanks, turning my full attention to Jesus Christ, attempting in the process to discern his glory even in the humdrum of life.

Ordinary

September 15, 2019

Though the weather report for the morning was a bit dodgy, I opted to take the sidecar to Dunkirk. I’m glad I did. Rounding the bend just north of our home, I caught a whiff of some of the freshest air I would inhale today. The sun cast mottled shadows on the road until I topped the rise where the fields stretch out from either side and I could see the next ridges over a mile away, the valleys hidden in between. It was a good morning to be alive!

Friends recently returned from a trip out west to see Yellowstone and Mount Rushmore. The photos they showed me were of magnificent vistas—snow-capped mountains, majestic waterfalls—scenes worthy of a postcard, places that fairly call out, begging to be visited. The amazing thing is, in their quest for places to see, people regularly ignore the glory that lies in their own backyard. I know plenty of people here in Western New York who have never seen Niagara Falls, a mere two hours away. But they’ve traveled across the country and around the world to see places the natives never visit. 

Why is it that other places (or people or things) so often seem more enticing than what is already ours? How is it we get so blinded to what lies all around us that we miss seeing the glory that shines right in front of our faces? This morning I preached on “Enduring Ordinary.” In Jesus’ story of the Talents, three men were entrusted with varying amounts of money by the master. Two invested their money while the third simply buried his trust in the ground. The first two might have lost everything; investing is never a sure bet, start up businesses fail at an alarming rate. But the one who played it safe is the only one condemned. The others were commended with the words, “You have been faithful in a little; I will give you responsibility over much. 

Little, ordinary things are important. Waiting for the big break, looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow which is always somewhere else is not the way to live. I am thankful tonight for the ordinary that surrounds me; the fragrance of this morning’s breeze, my littlest granddaughter wiggling her first loose tooth, the hug and “love you” from Abi, who ran out to say goodbye as I left worship halfway through to go preach in Dunkirk, for dinner with the family, for walking the yard with Linda and having an impromptu conversation with a young couple out for a walk. There is more...little things that of themselves aren’t much, but taken together make for a blessed life. I pray to be faithful in them, and give thanks for them.

History Days

September 14, 2019

Smallville, USA—that’s where I choose to live. Today was History Day in Sinclairville, a celebration of small town life, beginning with a devotional and prayer by area pastors, the Pledge to the Flag, and a parade, which this year in addition to the fire trucks, cheerleaders, and Cub Scouts, had a few Muscle and classic hot rods along with two ‘70’s era V8 trikes. My old Ural even won a trophy in the car show, motorcycle division. We probably could have taken another for gramps’ ‘48 8N, but it remained in Nate’s barn. Vendors, bounce houses for the kids, live bands, a chicken barbecue to benefit the library, raffles, a beautiful baby and a pie contest; kids can wander around all day without their parents having to worry about their safety. What’s not to love about living here? 

Three years ago, a couple who lives just down the road were driving through on the Saturday of the fair. They were so enchanted by what they saw that they sold their home near Buffalo and bought a house in the village. It all ended with a pretty good fireworks display within walking distance of our home. We sat on the grass on the hill overlooking the village park, talking with friends and enjoying the company of grandkids spread out on either side. 

With such a full and varied day, I suppose I should have taken a few photos, but I didn’t. Except for one. The barbecue consisted of half a chicken plus sides. We couldn’t eat all ours, so after putting all the bones and garbage in one of the takeout boxes to throw out, I put an entire half chicken in the other box to take home for later. Guess what was in my box when I got home! 

Of all the places I could have spent my life, I wouldn’t have imagined living here. The first time we drove through it nearly forty years ago, I wasn’t impressed. It isn’t quaint like some villages. Tourists don’t seek it out. But the people are great! It’s obviously not perfect, but it’s about as close as I expect to see in this life. You can color me thankful.

Depression

September 13, 2019

“Is the Gospel true?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself many times. The Bible is filled with promises that lie unclaimed, like a forgotten Christmas gift on layaway. Jesus said he came to give us life abundantly; Paul declared, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me;” John says Jesus came to destroy the works of the devil. Why then do so many of us constantly battle with addictions, depression, obesity, guilt, anger, jealousy, lust, and pride (to name a few)? Why are so many of us dependent on medicines and therapists?

These questions came to mind again today after a conversation with friends about the depression so many of us experience. We live in a society that has more goods and services, more opportunities than any other in history, yet with all that is available to us, we are still empty-souled, filled with a spiritual anguish that eats away at the very core of our being. We are often afraid to even talk about this lest we sound judgmental, implying that the sufferer is somehow to blame for his/her problems. So the question persists. How do we account for the disparity between the promises of the Gospel and the reality with which we live?

Years ago, a friend’s daughter was killed in a car accident. When I went to her home to make funeral arrangements, she shook me by the shoulders, sobbing, “Why did this happen? You’re the pastor; you’re supposed to know these things.” I didn’t then, and I don’t now. But the despair she felt is alive and well in way too many people. 

I think sometimes the problem lies with our expectations. We have forgotten our theology; the Westminster Shorter Catechism says it well: “The chief end (read “goal”) of Man is to love God and enjoy him forever.” We often turn this on its head, believing that the chief goal of God is to bless us and make us happy forever. We wouldn’t dare say this out loud, but it is imprinted on our souls by our humanistic society, the same society that has proven incapable of filling the void within.

Although I cannot speak for everyone, I can testify of what I have experienced. Most of my life I endured a nagging melancholy. I cannot claim it was full depression; I never wanted to end my life, but it often felt not worth the living. I would beg God to take it away, ask him why I felt so bad. Invariably, he would remind me that whenever I felt this way, I was focusing on my feelings instead of his glory. Whenever I turned my thoughts away from myself and towards him, the clouds would part. It was never easy. It still isn’t. If I allow my thinking to be dominated by the news, by social media, by all the ills of this world and my own feelings of inadequacy, I begin a downward spiral that continues until I deliberately and often with great effort bring my thoughts captive to Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5). I make it a point to constantly look for things for which to give thanks. They are always there, often hidden. But when I make the effort to look, I always find them, and meditating upon them lifts my spirit and fills my soul. The Gospel is indeed, true.

What I Want

September 12, 2019

Only a couple weeks ago, I wrote about Elisha asking Elijah for a double portion of his spirit. Elijah responded, “You have asked a hard thing; yet, if you see me as I am being taken from you, it shall be so for you; but if you do not see me, it shall not be so.” —2 Kings 2:10 RSV-CI. Elisha saw him carried away in a chariot of fire and was granted this “hard thing.” I wondered then how often I’ve shied away from asking hard things of God, trimming my prayers to fit into the minuscule box of what I can imagine happening instead of praying boldly for what would be impossible without God. I wonder what God wanted to give to me, to do through me, but I wasn’t bold enough to ask. 

Bold prayers can be tricky. The line that separates boldness from arrogance is quite fine. Years ago when the church I was pastoring was exploding with growth, I asked God what I might have accomplished had I been in a thriving suburb instead of a backwater village. It wasn’t audible, but I know it was God speaking to my heart. “Jim, I couldn’t do any more with you there than where you are. I’m doing the best I can with what I have to work with.” Did you know God has a sense of humor? Only I wasn’t laughing. 

Since then, my “go-to” Bible text comes from Psalm 131:1. “O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.” God gave me a reality check that evening so many years ago. I’ve never been good at networking, am not a good administrator, am only passable at managing staff—not the stuff that makes for big organizations or ministries. That being said, there is no excuse for thinking small. I have my limitations, but God doesn’t. The problem isn’t ever God; it’s me.

I think it boils down to not knowing what I want more than anything else. Psalm 37:4 says, “Delight yourself in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart.” It doesn’t say God will give me the desires of his heart, but of mine. The only condition of that prayer is that I delight in God. That means two things: not allowing myself to be distracted by lesser things, and knowing what I want. The former is the stuff of life, the spiritual battle we face every day. The latter is the issue that needs to be settled once for all. If I don’t know what I want, I cannot ask big. Linda asked me at dinner today how I wanted her to pray for me. The question caught me off guard, and I didn’t know how to answer. I’ve thought about it and tonight I know. I need her prayers to learn my own heart; to know what I really want. I am thankful for a wife who prays for me, and for Scripture that challenges me to examine my heart and mind so I can pray boldly.

Poverty and Hunger

September 11, 2019

Understandably, most everything posted on social media today is about the attacks of 9/11. It was a horrific day that changed us as a nation. We came together in the face of a common enemy. Unfortunately, eighteen years has dulled out senses, lulled us into a slumber that could turn out to be a nightmare from which we do not awake. The unity that held us together those years ago has degenerated into partisanship at least as dangerous as the external threat to the country. Our representatives are more intent on demonizing the other party than on genuinely seeking solutions to the existential threats to our citizens. 

It is in light of this that today I began a journey in prayer and meditation for which I have high hopes. The Scripture came from Luke’s account of Jesus’ Beatitudes in chapter 6. Where Matthew “spiritualized” Jesus’ words of blessing, Luke’s recollection is stark and to the point. “Blessed are the poor...Blessed are you who hunger...Blessed are you who weep.” Poverty of spirit and hungering for righteousness are condensed into a simple statement about poverty and hunger. If God’s blessing is reserved for the poor, the hungry, the persecuted, where does that leave me, who has experienced none of that? We in America know very little of the suffering that is commonplace elsewhere in the world. We get irritated over minor inconveniences, think we are deprived if we have to cut back on cable tv or our cell phone plans; they live with continual lack of even the necessities of life. And God says they are the ones blessed. So how do we rich, filled-to-the-point-of-obesity, unpersecuted Americans obtain the blessings of God?

St. Francis of Assisi offers a clue. This Twelfth century Christian was born into great wealth, but renounced it to follow Christ. Poverty in itself is no virtue; neither is hunger or persecution (we would call it “bullying” today). Only that which is voluntarily entertained has spiritual value, incurring the blessing of God. This in turn, presents another problem: it is one thing to choose poverty for oneself; it is quite another to impose it on one’s family. We instinctively want our children to do better, to have more than we. I love to shower gifts upon my wife, and am grateful for the resources to do so. But we have come to that stage in life where there is precious little we need and gifts start becoming superfluous, so we try to bless others on those special occasions where we have been used to receiving gifts. We haven’t come to the point of actual poverty, but have chosen to live below our means. 

As far as hunger goes, we can, along with our prayers, choose to fast—to deny the body that we might be more attentive to the spirit. Fasting is a way of telling our bodies that they do not rule our lives; we don’t have to do what our stomachs demand. We can choose to let our spirits have the upper hand. I haven’t figured out the persecution part yet. Actively seeking it doesn’t seem to me to be particularly wise or spiritual.

Eighteen years ago, fanatical Muslims attacked us. They saw our moral and spiritual decay; they saw us choosing indulgence and determined that we had become weak and vulnerable. Perhaps bit by bit and Christian by Christian, we can prove them wrong by choosing a lifestyle of sacrifice for Jesus’ sake. I cannot wait for someone else to begin; today it’s up to me. I imagine I’ll make my share of missteps along the way, but today I took step #1 by choosing to fast once more. It’s been awhile, and it’s time. I am thankful for the Scripture that prodded me to resume a personal discipline that I hope will heighten my receptivity to the Holy Spirit and to the needs of those around me.

Holy Mnemonic

September 10, 2019

“But he, being full of the Holy Spirit, gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God, and said, “Look! I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!””                      —Acts 7:55-56 NKJV

In deacon Stephen’s speech before the Sanhedrin in Acts 7, a subtle pattern emerges with a simple English mnemonic that probably doesn’t exist in any other language. Nonetheless, it helps me remember an important gospel truth about how God works.        

Stephen is recalling Jewish history, from Abraham to Moses and the prophets. He ad libs the story, but also gives a few exact quotes throughout his talk. At one point, the Holy Spirit descends upon him he sees the presence of the glorified Jesus standing at the right hand of the Father, and bears witness to the fact. 

Christians argue back and forth about what it means to be filled with the Holy Spirit, how it occurs, and what are the conditions or requirements for it to happen. Some insist that there is a “second blessing” to which Christians ought to aspire and that speaking in tongues always accompanies it; others assert that we get all the Holy Spirit we’re ever going to get when we repent and are converted. We talk a lot about the gifts of the Spirit, with healing and prophecy usually at the top of the list of desired gifts. We read of the fruit of the Spirit in Ephesians. Entire libraries have been written about this elusive Third Person of the Trinity. In all my own reading on the subject, I cannot recall ever seeing this particular text being quoted. And yet, it seems to be quite seminal on the subject.

Here’s the pattern I see in this text: Stephen quotes Scripture, is filled with the Spirit, sees Jesus at the right hand of the Father, and speaks out in testimony of the fact. This pattern gives rise to the mnemonic: 

Scripture, 

Spirit, 

See, 

Say.

Being filled with the Spirit is what happens when we immerse ourselves in Scripture. The result is our seeing the glory of Christ and speaking out in testimony of what we see. Bearing witness apart from Scripture and the filling of the Spirit is empty. Only when we allow the Scripture to soak into our souls do we give the Holy Spirit the wherewithal to do his work in us. He uses Scripture to open our eyes to see what others cannot, to which we bear testimony. Instead of our witness resulting in the conversion of the hearers, it may provoke anger and hostility, but that too, is evidence of the pattern. 

I’ve preached for years the necessity of immersing oneself in Scripture in order for God to work in us. Scripture is the  tool he uses to bring conviction and correction of sin, comfort in trials, and guidance in times of confusion. Without them there can be no filling, and without his filling we cannot see what God is doing, and consequently have nothing of importance to say. I am thankful tonight for this simple memory device. It’s now up to me to actually begin the process whereby God can fill me with his Spirit, open my heart and eyes and mouth to declare the glories of Jesus Christ, the crucified, risen, and glorified Savior .

Where Am I?

September 9, 2019

One of the cardinal rules of Bible study is to ask ourselves where we are in the story. Often when I do that, I don’t like what I see. In Acts 7, Stephen has been hauled before the Sanhedrin, which was the first century Jewish court. For preaching about Jesus, he was accused of blasphemy against God and the temple, which being considered treasonous, was a capital offense. Not satisfied with simply defending himself, Stephen goes on the offense, recounting Jewish history from Abraham to Joseph to Moses and the prophets, concluding with a scathing denunciation of his accusers, which resulted in his own demise. Stephen, a layman, was the first Christian martyr.

As he recounts their history, Stephen says something quite telling in verse 39. Speaking of their Israelite ancestors, he slips in this remark: “in their hearts they turned back to Egypt.” And I ask myself, “Where am I in this story?” 

I would like to think I am Moses, steadfastly leading God’s people in spite of opposition and trial. Or perhaps faithful Joshua and Caleb who stood against the spies who instead of turning their eyes upon the God who had delivered them from Egypt, were intimidated by the people of Canaan. In their minority report, they in vain tried to convince the people of the viability of the conquest of the land. But too often, I fear that in my heart, I turn back to Egypt. Temptation challenges, and Egypt beckons. Danger frightens me; instead of meeting big challenges with an even bigger God, I cower before the seeming impossibility that looms ahead. I prefer the comfort and safety of the familiar to the challenge and danger of what lies ahead. I let what I see trump what I believe, and in my heart I say, “let’s turn around.”

As St. Paul said, “all these things happened to them as examples, and they were written for our admonition, upon whom the ends of the ages have come.” —I Corinthians 10:11. The Scriptures aren’t stories of shining examples of faith for us to emulate; they are the record of stumbling, failing, foolish, and sinful people whom God chose to love and save. I’m not the hero; Jesus is. I’m the one he keeps grabbing just as I’m about to go under for the third time. When Stephen hurls his accusation at the Sanhedrin, I discover I’m sitting on the bench, and he’s talking about me. In Acts 7, they’ve had enough, and drag him outside and rock him to sleep—permanently. Maybe hearing this story once again, I’ll drop my stone and fall to my knees in repentance, that I might receive again the grace for which Stephen prayed as he died: “Lord Jesus, do not charge them with this sin.” Thank you, Lord for this amazing grace!

Willie

September 8, 2019

As I sit down to write, it’s actually early Monday morning, so this will be short. A day spent with my daughter in law at an Outlaw festival watching Alison Krause, Bonnie Raitt, and Willie Nelson can hardly be anything other than over the moon. Conversing on the way up and back was an additional bonus, as was hearing Alison Krause sing “It is Well With My Soul” at the conclusion of her portion of the concert. Debbra and I have been to three of Willie’s concerts, and given that he is 86, this will probably be the last. It’s been a good ride, for which I am thankful tonight.

The Cycle

September 7, 2019

Darkness descends earlier these days and lingers longer in the mornings. The warmth of this afternoon’s sun is giving way to a night cooler than we knew just a couple short weeks ago. Here and there, the lawn sports a mottled brown, courtesy of the few dry leaves that released their hold on the maples, cherry, and ash along our creek, harbingers of days to come, with  muscles aching from the pull of the rake. Hours spent sweating in the sun through summer’s labors will soon yield to stoking the stove and sitting through the evening in its warm glow. It’s part of a pattern that has existed for thousands of years, giving continuity and order to life itself.

The Biblical story of Noah concludes with the promise, 

“While the earth remains, 

Seedtime and harvest, 

Cold and what, 

Winter and summer, 

And day and night 

Shall not cease.” (Genesis 8:22)

Summer morphs into Autumn, Autumn to Winter, Winter to Spring, Spring back to Summer...a seemingly endless cycle of the seasons observed in various ways throughout the world. Some see in this cycle hints of an endless reincarnation of the soul, but the text is clear: “While the earth remains...” The Jewish and Christian Scriptures are adamant that time is linear, not cyclical—a view that stands in stark contrast to the polytheistic (and atheistic) religions. The Day is coming, these Scriptures assert, when this earth will pass and God will create a new heaven and earth (see Isaiah 65:17, 2 Peter 3:13, and Revelation 21:1).

As the days shorten, I will dig out the sweaters from their storage bins, check the coats in the closet, retrieve my winter fedoras from their boxes in the attic, make sure the woodbin is filled. My Ural needs to be prepped for winter storage so when the renegade warm day pops up in January, I’ll be ready to ride. I’ve already cleaned the chimney and vacuumed last year’s ashes from the stove. The cycle of the seasons rolls on, but not endlessly. There is a future, a goal towards which we move. It’s called the Kingdom of God, and one day, as Jesus taught his followers to pray, it will come “on earth, as it is in heaven.” For that future I await and give thanks tonight.