Halloween

October 31, 2019

Even when our children were little, Linda hated Halloween. We often had intense conversations over who would stay home to hand out candy to all the little urchins who would appear at our door, and who would take our own costumed critters around the neighborhood to scarf whatever they could from fellow townspeople. Living in the center of town with a convenient loop up East Avenue, across Mitchell and down Church Streets before returning along Park St, it wasn’t unusual for us to have upwards of 250-300 kids knocking at our door. We never were able to balance the kids’ take with the outlay of candy we forked over each year. Our only consolation was that the mini goblins who trudged up our walk didn’t get much for their efforts. No chocolate bars at our house!

In our neck of the woods, today’s Halloween is tame compared to forty years ago. Tires burning in the middle of the intersection, toilet paper draped over the telephone wires, pumpkins smashed in the streets, Crisco on car door handles, were commonplace, alongside the occasional vandalism. A November 1st sun always rose on a litter-strewn village, but it was mostly cleaned up by the end of the week. Strangely enough, all this disappeared when our boys went off to college. Odd coincidence!

All through those years, Linda hated Halloween. To her, it was a necessary evil. Occasionally I dressed up myself to scare the little spooks who appeared at our door. One year, I donned a sheet with holes cut out for eyes, sat down in the dark behind the solid panel of the storm door with flashlight and candy bowl. When this one little kid appeared, I slowly rose into the glass portion of the door, flashlight at my chin, throwing shadows on my ghostly features. Looking back, I feel a bit convicted at the fright I inflicted upon that child as his eyes got big as saucers before he turned and ran back down the sidewalk. 

For the past few years however, we’ve both changed our tunes. I no longer scare little kids, and Linda has taken to enjoying the evening by hosting a gathering for f few young families, friends of our children. They start drifting in about six o’clock, staying for a couple hours drinking hot and cold cider and coffee, and eating donuts, cookies, and Timbits. This year, instead of hiding their Halloween candy around the house for a scavenger hunt, Linda had the kids do funny stunts, including dancing with a parent, hopping like a bunny, or in the case of granddaughter Eliza and her friend Emiley, giving their mothers big hugs, something these two confirmed “Never Express Any Public Affection” girls would only do under duress. 

It was a delightful evening, devoid of the dark and sinister elements that so often accompany this celebration of death, and I am thankful to have been able once more to pass the evening in the company of young people and their families, laughing and sharing our lives with one another.

Good News

October 30, 2019

In other news...

While the Democrats and Republicans traded barbs today, Kanye West continues to confound his critics from both the Right and the Left by giving praise to Jesus Christ, author J.K. Rowling fell off the list of the world’s billionaires by giving millions to various charities, former president Jimmy Carter picked up his hammer once more at aHabitat for Humanity work site, and more than a hundred girls from Western New York competed in a championship swim meet, doing their best to beat the team in the next lane after chit-chatting together and encouraging their competitors without drama or rancor. 

Patti went to bed early, anticipating another four o’clock morning serving the regulars at the diner, mothers and fathers tucked their children into bed with prayers, hugs, and kisses, and after nearly fifty years together, Linda and I lay down side by side, still choosing each other.

24 hour news is not the only game in town, and not even the most important one, despite what their purveyors believe. Politicians, pundits, and professorial elites churn out a steady stream of dissatisfaction, hoping to control the narrative so the rest of us will do their bidding. Washington, Beijing, Damascus, and (in NYS) Albany will continue to insist on their importance, but for most of us, life is lived closer to home with the people we love, where there is much for which to give thanks. I’ll rise early tomorrow to pray with brothers in Christ before serving fifty kids pancakes and sausage at the church. For life lived close to home I give thanks tonight.

Constant Prayer

October 29, 2019

The apostle Peter was in jail. If today a Christian leader were in jail here in the USA, it would be scandalous news, but it happened all the time in the first century, just as it currently occurs in countless places around the world. Jesus told us that following him would land his people in trouble with the world. “If they treat me this way, don’t be surprised if they do the same to you,” he warned. King Herod, puppet oligarch of Palestine, had managed to execute James, the brother of Jesus, and decided to add the coupe de gras by doing the same to Peter. It didn’t turn out quite as he expected.

Acts 12 tells the story. The heart of it is in verse 5: “Peter was kept in prison, but prayer was made without ceasing by the church unto God for him.” Prayer. Without ceasing. By the church. Unto God. For him. This little band of believers had no political clout, no strings they could pull. All they had was prayer. And pray, they did! “By the church.” At various times in Acts, we are told that the believers met “in one accord.” They had their differences, as we learn in the 6th chapter, but when the chips were down, they set those differences aside and prayed. Specifically. They didn’t beat around the bush; they weren’t praying wish-washy prayers of blessing. They prayed for God to work a miracle! They didn’t organize; they didn’t picket the jail; they didn’t petition anyone except God. And those prayers were so powerful, they rattled the gates of the prison and set Peter free.

I’m intrigued by the phrase, “without ceasing.” The word implies strenuous as well as relentless activity. If we are lacking in anything in our prayers, I think it is here. I wonder what that prayer meeting was like. Was everyone speaking at once like they pray in Cuba? Did everyone wait his or her turn as we do here? Were there times of silence? If God were to grade my prayers, I’m afraid I’d get an “F” on the “without ceasing” part. I’ve been asking God to help me with this. 

The amazing part of this story is that their prayers weren’t particularly faith-filled. They apparently weren’t really expecting an answer, for when after being set free by an angel Peter knocked on the door where they were having their prayer meeting, a girl named Rhoda answered the door. She ran back into the house to tell the others, leaving Peter standing outside knocking. No one believed her when she told them he was there. So much for “faith as a mustard seed!” That is encouraging for me. Sometimes when I pray for things, I must confess a lack of faith. I pray the prayers, but don’t really expect much to happen. Faith is important, but if there is any lesson in this story, it’s the importance of just keeping at it. Often, the difference between successful people and failures is not greater talent or opportunity; it’s simply that those who succeed kept going after the others gave up. So I’m going to keep at it till I get it right. Maybe that’s part of what praying without ceasing is. That much, I can do. That much, I will do, and I will thank God in advance for answers that are on their way, just waiting for that one more Amen to send them along.

Deep Love

October 28, 2019

It was a different world back then. Meals weren’t served cafeteria-style in the seventies at Houghton College; no sirree! We ate family style, with waiters and waitresses serving tables as in a restaurant. Friday nights were semi-formal occasions; the men wore sport jackets or suits and ties, the women semi-formal dresses. After dinnner, songbooks were distributed, one of the music majors would be seated at the piano in one corner of the dining hall, and two hundred or more students would raise their voices in song.

One of the favorites which I had never heard before that time was, “O, the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus.” I ran across that hymn today and was once more stirred by its lyrics and melody:

O the deep, deep love of Jesus!

Vast, unmeasured, boundless, free;

rolling as a mighty ocean

in its fullness over me.

Underneath me, all around me,

is the current of thy love;

leading onward, leading homeward,

to thy glorious rest above.

O the deep, deep love of Jesus!

Spread his praise from shore to shore;

how he loveth, ever loveth,

changeth never, nevermore;

how he watches o'er his loved ones,

died to call them all his own;

how for them he intercedeth,

watcheth o'er them from the throne.

O the deep, deep love of Jesus!

Love of ev'ry love the best:

'tis an ocean vast of blessing,

'tis a haven sweet of rest.

O the deep, deep love of Jesus!

'Tis a heav'n of heav'ns to me;

And it lifts me up to glory, 

For it lifts me up to Thee.

Coupled with last night’s “matchless grace of Jesus,” I am again amazed and so grateful for grace and love that has surrounded me all my life. It’s there for everyone, but too often we fail to penetrate through our troubles and worries to appropriate it for ourselves. But it’s there, available, and for that I am thankful tonight.

Sufficient Grace

October 27, 2019

We are often caught by surprise, but God never is. The worship leadership team meets prior to the mornings’ services to rehearse, but before rehearsal comes a devotional led by one of the team members. An email sent out the week before lists the songs for the week and the name of the one leading the devotional. Grandson Ian was on tap for today, but hadn’t caught the email, so was scrambling, grabbing a devotional from his mother and frantically leafing through for something appropriate. He found it.

The gist of the devotional was how we compare ourselves to others, either for good or ill, either of which is destructive. When we offer up comparisons, we are second-guessing God’s hand in our own lives, thinking either that he could have done better with ourselves, or with the other. it’s often hard to see the uniqueness of how God has shaped us; we envy the gifts and personality of the other, or wonder why they can’t be more like us. The message resonated with everyone in the group; I don’t know their experiences, but after spending yesterday with some spiritual giants, I was feeling somewhat like the spies of Canaan who told Moses, “We were like grasshoppers in our own sight...” (Numbers 13:33). I envied their passion, their evangelistic fervor, the network of believers committed to spreading the Gospel, their scholarship...the list goes on and on. I come away from such gatherings wondering why I was included—everyone I met seemed so much more accomplished than me, but there I was, one of three asked to speak at my friend’s memorial service. 

Failure to accept the grace of God as it pertains to ourselves is as much a sin as lust or pride or theft, for it is unbelief; an insistence on believing our feelings instead of the Word of God. Part of what it means to trust in God is to believe that the work he is doing in me is exactly what he intends for the purposes he has in store. I frustrate those purposes not only by disobedience to his Word, but also by unbelief in his grace.

Years ago as a teenager, Sunday evening song services were as regular a part of my life as Sunday morning worship. We did a lot of singing, the lyrics and melodies of which occasionally pop into my head. “Wonderful Grace of Jesus” is one of those songs, of which the chorus goes,

“Wonderful the matchless Grace of Jesus,

Deeper than the mighty rolling sea;

Higher than the mountain, sparkling like a fountain,

All sufficient Grace for even me.

Broader than the scope of my transgressions, (sing it!)

Greater far than all my sin and shame

O magnify the precious name of Jesus,

PRAISE HIS NAME!” (Lillenas & Goss)

  

I am thankful tonight for God’s grace which is still is sufficient even for me.

Civilians

October 26, 2019

“We grew up as civilians in a war zone. We learned to live in it without fear.” I was having a conversation with Ken, brother of the man whose life we honored as we gathered to say our final earthly goodbyes today. I had met him a year ago as Joel and I left on another of our trips to Cuba, and approached to express my condolences to him. A quiet foil to Joel’s ebullience, Ken is just as passionate about the Gospel, but much more subdued. His calling in life has been to teach in Bible schools, whereas Joel’s was criss-crossing the country drumming up support for the Cuban churches and people he knew and loved so deeply. Ken’s focus in teaching these days has been in the area of spiritual warfare and inner healing. He didn’t actually say so, but I suspect he was thinking, “A lot of those speaking and writing about spiritual warfare don’t really understand how it works.” If he wasn’t thinking that, I was.

Ken went on to explain, “It’s the angels and demons who are fighting the battle. We aren’t the warriors; we’re just the civilians living in a war zone, doing what we do to spread the Gospel and bring people to Jesus.” I’ve listened to a lot of preachers and teachers speaking of spiritual warfare. I’ve read my share of books on it, but I had never heard spiritual warfare described this way before. Too often, I’ve listened to too many people brag about “kicking the devil’s butt,” or “binding the devil.” The latter I can accept if it isn’t accompanied by the braggadocio I often hear. The former I’ve never been able to understand, given Jude’s reminder that even the archangel Michael demurred from cursing Satan, instead saying, “The Lord rebuke you” (Jude 9). We are instructed to “resist the devil,” not rebuke him (James 4:7). We aren’t the warriors; we’re the civilians, called by God to live and speak the Gospel in a war zone.

“Civilians in a [spiritual] war zone;” I’ll be ruminating on this for some time to come. Joel traveled in different circles than I. Today I met many of those in his circle, and came home grateful once more to have been invited in. Once more, I feel like a midget among giants, and have drunk deeply at a well of wisdom and experience that God willing, not only blesses me, but will become channels of blessing to others through me.

Friends’ Funerals

October 25, 2019

“When I was a young pastor, I buried a lot of old people. Now I’m burying friends.” I was talking with a few friends as we waited for jazz band to begin. One of them nodded knowingly before the conversation moved on to other things. Generally speaking, I like this stage of my life. The pressure to perform is gone; if church attendance is down, it’s not my problem. I’m as busy as I want to be, sometimes a bit more, but I can say “no” without even a twinge of guilt. As the years go by, I’ll be asked to officiate at fewer weddings and baptisms, and more funerals. They didn’t tell us about that in seminary.

It’s an honor, really, being invited into the dark and terrible home of grief. Emotions are raw, the wellsprings of tears are full to overflowing; we stand on holy ground, souls bared, and if we aren’t careful, like Peter at the Transfiguration, we blurt out inappropriate blather that breaks the spell, and the moment is over. 

As a Christian, I have the unique message of hope and life available to us through the resurrection of Jesus Christ. I do not pass the shadowy gates of death ill-equipped. Fortified by prayer, encouraged by the Word of God, I speak confidently, knowing that behind my words stands the mighty power of the Holy Spirit and the promise of Christ that “where I am, there you shall be also.” I don’t like burying friends, but am thankful to be honored with speaking at this friend’s service. May Jesus Christ be lifted high for all to see!

Puzzles

October 24, 2019

Her eyes brimmed with excitement as we dumped the pieces on the table and began to sort through them. Edge pieces to one side, patiently turning over the ones that fell upside down. Little Gemma loves jigsaw puzzles, as does her big sister Eliza. It began last Friday when they stayed overnight, and by Sunday afternoon, it was done, but instead of admiring their handiwork, Gemma was ready to immediately tackle another one. Each individual piece makes little sense by itself. We start with the edge pieces so we know the boundaries within which everything else fits. Bit by bit, we match shape and color, till the picture begins to reveal itself, and we keep the box nearby so the picture on the cover can guide us as we work.

I often feel my life is a lot like that jigsaw puzzle. There are bright pieces, dark shadowy pieces, neither of which make much sense individually. Naturally, I prefer the bright colored pieces of my life, and often rail against the darkness that makes no sense to me if I fail to look at the picture on the box. God has shown us the picture; it’s the redemption of all Creation through his Son, Jesus Christ. As long as I keep my eye on that picture, even the dark pieces dutifully take their place. They’re still dark, but in the completed puzzle, they have their place. 

The edges are the boundaries set in the Gospel and the Word of God. People often ignore the boundaries or rebel against them, but they help hold the picture together, giving it structure. Tonight, I am thankful that though I am puzzled by the dark piece that is the death of my friend, I can see the picture God has provided in Christ, and know that for my friend, the dark pieces are no more.

Tom

October 23, 2019

I love Thomas! Having received word that his friend Lazarus was sick, after waiting for two days, Jesus decided to head down to Bethany in Judea from his sanctuary in neutral territory east of the Jordan river. Judea was a hotbed of intrigue, filled with religious and political elites who were itching to find a way to get rid of this pesky preacher. Anyone associated with him also had a target on his back and a price on his head. 

Among Jesus’ disciples was ebullient Peter, fiery James and John, Matthew the collaborator, and Simon from the Resistance. And Thomas. Thomas was a realist, not an idealist. Others may have signed on for the adventure; not Thomas. He heard a voice with authority, was called, and said yes. But he is under no illusion; he can read the signs, and they don’t look good. He’s not about to tell Jesus what he should or shouldn’t do, but knows what likely lies ahead. “Then Thomas, who is called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with Him.”” —John 11:16 NKJV

Thomas doesn’t refuse to go. Knowing what it may mean, he resigns himself to his fate. In chapter 14, when Jesus tells the disciples they know where he is going, Tom protests. “We don’t know where you’re going; how can we know the way?” And famously, in the 20th chapter of John, he asserts that he would not believe Jesus was alive unless he put his fingers into the nail holes in Jesus’ hands and the wound in his side. Thomas is no Pentecostal; he’d make a better Presbyterian. 

I resonate with Thomas; in fact, I think I’m that twin of his. He’s no captive of his emotions like Peter. He may have envied Peter his enthusiasm, but what we find in Thomas is a dogged determination to simply stick it out, even when it looks like all is lost. He’s not about to be swayed by the other disciples’ stories of meeting Jesus; he isn’t quitting even if he isn’t sure of the outcome. I’m thankful for the Peters of life. I appreciate their enthusiasm and wish I could muster up a bit of it myself. But I’m also thankful that among Jesus’ disciples there was a Thomas—skeptic, doubter, but determined follower. He gives hope for me.

Covered

October 22, 2019

“The truth will always out.” My daughter and I were having a conversation about confidentiality in counseling and how challenging it is for us to be completely open with one another. Everyone has skeletons in their closet; things we’ve done or that happened to us we hope no one will ever find out. Finding someone with whom we can share those secrets without fear is a formidable, but important task. In Judeo-Christian tradition, it’s called confession, and truthfully, it is good for the soul. 

The Bible says, “Love covers a multitude of sins.” It doesn’t say “ALL sins are covered,” but “a multitude of sins.” In the Hebrew tabernacle was the Ark of the Covenant, the lid of which was called the Mercy Seat. There, the high priest would sprinkle the blood of the sacrificial lamb each year to atone for the sins of the people. The word for atonement was a “covering.” God covered the sins of the people. Those sins however, must be confessed to be covered. Here is the important part: Those sins we continue to hide are fair game for the Enemy of our souls, who is not at all shy about exposing them and using them against us. 

Repentance and confession are inimical to our fallen condition. Most of us would rather die than admit our sins and shortcomings. And that is exactly what happens. When we hide and deny, something inside us begins to die; our integrity, our connection with our soul, and our ability to connect with one another. I regularly see the results of this in people who live isolated from others, unable to maintain significant relationships. At the extremes, they live in a fantasy world, incapable of recognizing their need to change behavior, prisoners to their unwillingness to repent and confess. 

I am thankful tonight for this conversation with my daughter. Sometimes it takes a conversation to clarify things we know intuitively, but haven’t expressed clearly. That the only sins covered by God are those confessed was made clear as we talked. And that the Enemy will use against us those not covered—ie, unconfessed—is a corollary we would do well to hear. Lives and reputations have been ruined because of this. They can be saved if we are simply honest with at least one other person we can trust.

Choosing Praise

October 21, 2019

“I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth.” So reads Psalm 34:1. There are times when such praise comes easily; it was a beautiful fall day, with blue skies topped by an unusually warm day. The foliage is in full flame; praise naturally rises from such settings. It was a difficult day, trying to help a homeless woman who resisted every attempt we made to help her. I’ve been there before, so though it was difficult, we had to let her face the consequences of her decisions. 

Evening brought news that my friend for whom we’ve been praying, passed away. I don’t understand why God heals some but not others. Many of his ways are still mysterious to me, and in times like this, praise is a choice I make even when I don’t feel like it. Tonight is part of the “all times,” and even tonight I praise God that my friend is in the presence of the Christ he served so faithfully. I don’t think he ever knew how many people he has influenced, but I made sure he knew how much he impacted me. For him, faith is now sight. For me, it’s still faith, and I trust God knows what he is doing, even when he doesn’t let me in on it, and I choose to give thanks and praise.

Flu

October 20, 2019

In 1966, Bobby Fuller and his group the Bobby Fuller Four released a song that soon became somewhat of a cult classic, reappearing on oldies albums with amazing regularity. I have my own version of it for tonight’s post: “I Fought the Flu, and the Flu Won.” It’s not been pretty, but it does offer perspective. I don’t often get sick, and each trip to the bathroom last night and today caused me to reflect on so many of my friends who are receiving chemotherapy. Just about the time they start feeling well, it’s time for another infusion which they know will make them nauseous all over again. My little bout with the flu is penny-ante compared to what others experience, and I am grateful tonight that this is but a minor irritation. I’m grateful too, for the fortitude, courage, and determination I see in so many people whose misfortunes are far worse than mine. They are heroes.

Fall Ride

October 19, 2019

October skies in Western New York are not usually picture-perfect blue, framed by scarlet and orange decked trees whose branches overhang quiet country lanes, but today, that’s exactly what greeted us as we rode the backroads “just because.” Because he had raved about it last time, I had promised my friend James another ride in the sidecar, and the window of opportunity was starting to close for the season. “If the weather cooperates,” I told him, “Saturday is the day.” 

Between his schedule and mine, we didn’t have hours to ride, but we didn’t let what we couldn’t do keep us from what we could do. So we suited up and took off. The weather was perfect—sun shining brightly in an almost cloudless sky, temperatures in the low sixties, no wind. The trees were a kaleidoscope of color, patterns continually changing as we drove by. Smoke from fall’s first stove’s firings wafted through the air, one of many aromas we drove through as we moved from macadam to gravel and dirt. Although we didn’t really travel very far, it was on roads I hadn’t traversed in years, and I was amazed at the number of homes that had sprung up alongside them since I was last on them.

Thumbs-up from a group of men standing and talking by their pickup truck greeted us as we passed, earning a wave and thumbs-up from us. As we crested a hill from the east, we felt the temperature change where the sun had warmed the blacktop on the western slope, sailing down to the valley below. It was a good day, having a riding buddy for a change. I don’t often have extra weight in the sidecar; it was fun winding through the curves at speeds I wouldn’t dare risk empty, and the gravel roads are no trouble for a bike with three wheels. We finally pulled into his driveway where he thanked me. I need to thank him. I rarely get on the bike just to ride; “too much to do” is my excuse. Slowing down just to enjoy the day was just what I needed, so tonight... “Thank you, James. If weather permits, let’s do it again before the snow flies. Maybe even take in a coffee break.”

Cider

October 18, 2019

Last Christmas, Linda surprised me with an antique cider press. It needed a rebuild of the grinder, but I still have some oak table leaves my grandfather bought for ten cents apiece back in the fifties. After dismantling the old grinder to use as a pattern, I built and installed the new one. We just needed to wait for apple season to try it out. A couple weeks ago Linda and I drove to Northeast, PA to our friend Gordon, who owns and operates a vegetable and fruit farm. We came back with three bushels of apples, including a bushel of seconds for cider. 

Tonight, the grandkids took turns helping grind and press the apples. The work wasn’t entered into as enthusiastically as the sampling of the wares, but followed by our annual apple dunking contest, I would say the evening was a success. 

A number of times through the evening I received phone calls from Debbie, the associate pastor in Dunkirk. Although I’ve turned over the reins to Matt, we actually work as a team, and since I’ve been involved in this particular situation from the start, it was natural for Debbie to call me. We’ve been working with a homeless woman, repeatedly paying to put her up in a local motel and instructing her as to what she needs to do on her part. She hasn’t done any of what we outlined, and tonight showed up at Debbie’s door, having been evicted from the motel. She is middle-aged, has no contact with her family, no friends, and neither the skills nor the social skills needed to hold down a job. 

I can’t help but reflect on the difference in our lives. I am surrounded by grandchildren who laugh, press cider, bob for apples, work on jigsaw puzzles, and have fun together while filling our hearts with joy. They are the fruit of years of labor and prayers over their parents, of our choices and God’s grace. We are blessed and I am deeply grateful tonight.

Joel

October 17, 2019

My friend lay in the hospital bed, occasionally opening his eyes, but mostly sleeping fitfully as the dread disease wreaks its havoc on his body. He is younger than me by only a few years, but has taught me so much. Joel is an unusual combination of a scholar with childlike exuberance for life. He once sent me his paper on the philosophical foundations for local church-based theological education. I’m not overly dense, but I struggled to get through it. He loves planning curricula, dreaming of a future he likely will not see in this life.

Coupled with intellectual virility is an enthusiasm that can be disarming. Literally. On one of our last mission trips to Cuba, the team was gathered at the church with all our bags open so we could evenly distribute the humanitarian supplies we were taking with us. Medicines, clothes, toiletries, sanitary items, household goods were being gathered from piles on tables and tossed in various bags before being weighed. Joel had brought a set of kitchen knives to give to the cooks at the center where we often stayed. He grabbed big carving knives, steak and paring knives, and butcher’s knives, tossing them into one open bag before moving on to other items. Everything was weighed, closed up, and we were ready to go.

Going through security at the airport, the TSA agent operating the X-ray machine stopped the belt as my carry on went through. He called me over, told me to step back while he opened the bag. Sitting on top were Joel’s set of knives. Joel hadn’t paid attention to which bag he tossed the knives into, and I failed to double check my carry on. The agent was nicer about it than he had to be, offering three times to let me take them back to my vehicle. “I can’t do that, sir,” I said. “Our rides have already left. You’ll just have to remove them and throw them out.” He reluctantly complied. Joel’s enthusiasm was in full operational mode that day.

Today was different. He lay silent, unable to speak. He smiled when I approached his bed, then drifted back into a world we cannot see. I doubt we’ll converse again as we have done so many times, baring our souls, sharing dreams and disappointments, rejoicing in the goodness of God and the wonders of grace. Our faith sustains us, but doesn’t eliminate the sadness that scuds across my soul like the clouds that scowled across a threatening sky on the way home. I grieve for the joy we’ve shared; the laughter, the prayers, the friendship. Had we not known this joy, I would not feel this sorrow. So I give thanks tonight for brotherly love, for partnership in ministry, for my friend whom I’ve been privileged to know, from whom I’ve been able to learn, with whom Iv’e been honored to serve.

Homeless

October 16, 2019

What is it like to be homeless? I’ve never been in that situation, but I could hear the panic in her voice as she pleaded with me to help her. She was locked out of the room we had procured for her at a cheap motel. Individuals from the church had provided the cash for the past couple weeks, but we can’t keep it up, and I don’t think she’s capable of managing on her own. There’s a lot about the situation that doesn’t add up, including a family in the area that isn’t lifting a finger to help. Why, we haven’t been able to figure out. There’s more to the story than we are getting.

But there’s no getting by her panic and the desperate circumstances in which she finds herself. Homeless in the summer might be manageable; this time of year is another story. 

After arranging for another couple nights at the motel, I was riding home with my friend Harry. He had kindly offered to take me to the motel to make arrangements on the way home from band instead of my going all the way home and all the way back to Dunkirk. It was out of his way, but that’s the kind of friend he is. We got to talking. If my mother were destitute, there’s no way I’d let her fend for herself on the streets. If I were destitute, my children would step in, and if they were unable, I have a network of friends who would be there for me. How does someone live more than fifty years and have no one who will come to their aid? Yet that is the reality for countless people who for one reason or another never built a network of family and friends on whom they can lean in time of need.

In the fellowship of the cross there is a family for the lonely. The Bible says “God sets the solitary in families” (Ps. 68:6). In Christ we are alone no more.

I am grateful tonight that I’ve never been that destitute, and I’m thankful that if I were, I am surrounded by people who would make sure I had a place to lay my head at night. And I pray for this woman, and for those who are alone tonight without a home.

Abiding

October 15, 2019

Prayer is such an enormous subject that entire libraries have been written about it, so my short musings are not likely to add much to the discussion. Jesus’ words however, are always worth hearing: “If you abide in Me, and My words abide in you, you will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you. By this My Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit; so you will be My disciples.” —John 15:7-8 NKJV

Linda and I are not world-class travelers. We’ve done a bit, but she is a homebody just like her father; if genetics has anything to do with it, she’s done a good job passing it along to son Matthew, but that’s beside the point. When we go somewhere for anything more than a couple hours away, we usually end up spending the night at a motel or a B&B. We once stayed in a five star hotel, and we’ve ended up in some pretty seedy places. So far, our favorite is the Asa Ransom House B&B in Clarence, NY. It’s not cheap, but it’s by far the best overnight and breakfast we’ve ever enjoyed. 

No matter whether it’s high class, a room that looks like it gets rented out by the hour, or anything in between, one of the best parts of traveling is pulling into our driveway at the end. We are home! Every other lodging is just that—a place to sleep while on a journey. Home however, is where we live. It is the hub to which we always return. If we were to use biblical terms, it’s where we abide. 

Jesus speaks of prayer in this rather strange language. He says if we want answers to prayer, if we want to honor God, if we want to live fruitful lives, we must abide in Christ and have his words abiding in us. In other words, prayer is not to be a place we visit in passing. Sadly, too often I’ve treated prayer this way. I visit, but don’t stay, then wonder why they seem to have so little effect. To receive answers, to glorify God, to live fruitfully, Jesus must be the hub, the home to which I return and belong. 

Of course, home is not only where we return, where we spend most of our lives, it is also where we work. Homes must be maintained. When staying at A B&B or hotel, we don’t have to do anything. Someone else cleans and provides the meals, cares for our needs. When we are home, the maintenance is our job. Abiding in Christ isn’t a vacation where everything we want is at our beck and call. There is a relationship to be maintained, and that isn’t always easy. But it’s worth it. When we are at home in Christ, the promises Jesus makes in these two verses are fulfilled. Jesus himself is at the heart of prayer, is the fountain from which God is glorified and the source of fruitfulness.

Paying Attention

October 14, 2019

The Gospel Lectionary for yesterday was from Luke 17:11-19. 

“Now it happened as He went to Jerusalem that He passed through the midst of Samaria and Galilee. Then as He entered a certain village, there met Him ten men who were lepers, who stood afar off. And they lifted up their voices and said, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” So when He saw them, He said to them, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And so it was that as they went, they were cleansed. And one of them, when he saw that he was healed, returned, and with a loud voice glorified God, and fell down on his face at His feet, giving Him thanks. And he was a Samaritan. So Jesus answered and said, “Were there not ten cleansed? But where are the nine? Were there not any found who returned to give glory to God except this foreigner?” And He said to him, “Arise, go your way. Your faith has made you well.”” —Luke 17:11-19 NKJV

Years ago, I went canoeing down the Conewango Creek with a friend. It had recently rained and the banks had overflowed in places, the water creeping up the lawns of the homes that bordered this usually tame waterway. We stopped for lunch on one of these lawns, and when we were done, decided to walk the canoe back to deeper water before getting in and shoving off. My friend Jon was in the lead, and just like the old cartoons, he took one step too many and completely disappeared, leaving just his hat floating on the water before surfacing a few moments later. I was completely unsuccessful at containing my mirth at his expense. 

This seemingly simple narrative is deceiving, like the overflowing Conewango Creek. It has depths that are not easily seen on the surface. The story overflows with contrasts and comparisons. At first, the ten were “afar off,” the usual position of lepers, who were ostracized and shunned from society, lest the disease spread and contaminate the entire community. They were afar off from everyone except other lepers. Towards the end of the story, one of them was no longer afar off; he was kneeling at the feet of Jesus, able for the first time in perhaps years to be close to another human being. No longer an outcast, he gave thanks. 

At the beginning of the story, Jesus saw these ten. He noticed them; it would have been hard not to, with all the shouting that was going on as they tried to get his attention. There are at least three Greek words for “see” in the Bible. The one used here means “to notice.” We often see without really seeing, as when we’re driving down the road seeing the road, the traffic, the scenery, but not really paying attention to it. Here, the word used is more than that. It means to give attention. It is the same word used of the one leper who saw that he was healed. As he’s walking to the priest, he notices the change in his skin and turns around to give thanks while the others continue on their way to show themselves to the priest, apparently not noticing what was happening to them.

Three different words are used for the actual healing. They were “cleansed.” The putrid sores were no more. The one leper who noticed the changes noted that he was “healed,” the word signifying the process of healing. Apparently, he looked at perhaps his hands, and saw the flesh returning to normal. He saw the process, which must have been pretty amazing. Lastly, Jesus said to him, “your faith has made you “well,” or “whole,”” the word being the same as the word for salvation. Jesus cleansed the ten without regard to their faith, the one was made whole—the brokenness of his life put back together—through his faith. God can heal anyone, but our the healing of our brokenness requires our cooperation. For this man, that faith was evidenced by his gratitude, which makes me wonder how much “wholeness” I am missing out on because I’m not paying attention to the process of cleansing and consequently giving thanks. Jesus noticed me; I too often am not paying attention to what he is doing in my life, and therefore miss the fullness of life he offers. The discipline of gratitude is not always easy, but it is necessary if we are to experience the fullness of life as God intends it to be.

Sent

October 13, 2019

John’s gospel chapter 9 tells the story of a man blind from birth whom Jesus healed. One of the more lengthy narratives in the gospel, it recalls not only the healing, but the effect it had upon the man, his family, the religious leaders, and the crowds that followed Jesus everywhere. The manner of his healing is somewhat unique. We often hear of Jesus healing with a touch, with only a word or command, and even sometimes from a distance. In this case, he spit on the ground, made a mud paste with the spit, and rubbed it on the man’s eyes; not very hygienic by any standard. Then told the man to go and wash his eyes in the pool of Siloam. The man did so, and immediately was able to see.

This interests me on two accounts. First, he sent the man away still blind. I would imagine that the man might have been somewhat disappointed. He undoubtedly had heard of this miracle-worker, and when summoned to Jesus, must have been filled with anticipation. To be sent away still blind would likely have been quite a disappointment. This wasn’t what he was led to expect. 

I’ve heard people say they’ve been disappointed by others plenty of times, but never by Jesus, but that’s not been my experience. I’ve listened while someone has prayed for the healing of a loved one and marveled at the often miraculous results, while the person I’ve prayed for dies. I’ve expected great things from God and received penny-ante answers to my pleading. I’ve also experienced great blessing, but God hasn’t often immediately come through with the answer I’ve been expecting. I leave his presence still stumbling in the dark.

Something else about this story intrigues me. Jesus sent him to the pool of Siloam to wash the mud off his eyes. That part of the story seems pretty ordinary, but then John adds a comment: “Siloam means “sent.”” His little notation is significant. The story line didn’t require that observation to carry the narrative forward. His comment is almost an intrusion into the tale that John thought so important that he was willing to interrupt the flow of the story to make his point. But what is that point? 

There are probably better explanations than mine, but I think John is highlighting the importance of our obeying even what seem like nonsensical commands if we want to be healed; if we truly want to see. I cannot see if I am unwilling to go where Jesus commands. If when Jesus begins his work in me I choose to simply stand still and bask in his touch and the sound of his voice, I will remain blind. I need to go where he sends me, even if it means stumbling in the darkness, unsure of the next step, jostled by the crowd. Even if I still cannot see, I must keep moving forward towards the goal he has set for me. I cannot afford to listen to the crowd or even my own heart. There were other pools in Jerusalem. The blind man might have been closer to the pool of Bethesda, but it was to the pool of Siloam he was sent. I might have to ask directions, I may carom off walls or trip over an uneven stone in the path, but if I want to see, I must allow myself to be sent. Staying where I am, waiting for my miracle is not an option. 

Not being able to see is no sin. But standing still when I’ve heard the voice of Jesus telling me to go is a huge mistake, whether I can see or not. So I stumble along in the shadow of my own blindness, towards the pool where I shall wash...and see...to be sent.

Grace Sufficient

October 12, 2019

When I was preaching every week, the luxury of self-reflection was not something I regularly enjoyed (or endured, as the case may be). Sunday night always gave way to Monday morning and the necessity of preparing for the next week’s sermon. As any pastor who’s been at it for any length of time can attest, there were weeks when giving a sermon was pure joy, and other times when it was sheer torture, with most Sundays falling somewhere in between. Back in my seminary days, the one class I had on preaching was taught by a professor who likened preaching to a meal. “You can’t eat it all in one setting,” he would say. “So don’t try to pack everything you know into a single sermon. It’s a feeding, and there are plenty more meals to come. Give them a little at a time, and don’t forget that it doesn’t have to be a gourmet; it just has to be nourishing.” 

During those years of weekly sermons, I knew that if I muffed it one Sunday, another would soon roll around with amazing regularity. And of course, I actually did preach my share of flops at the box office, of which some of my friends, and perhaps a few enemies, are not hesitant to remind me. I didn’t worry about it much, because there was always another chance to give it a go. 

But there were those occasions that defied the norm; times when there would be no next time. Weddings were one. Ideally, there would be no repeat performance, so what I said to the couple had to be on target—a bullseye. I couldn’t go back the following week and say, “Oh, I forgot to mention...” They were on their honeymoon, and the last thing they were interested in was an addendum to their wedding sermon.

Funerals were another time when getting it right was always important to me. They still are. Even in retirement, I do funerals. Maybe it’s because at my age I know so many people who are potential customers, but whatever the reason, funerals are still a part of my life. Today I officiated at the funeral of the mother of a dear Christian brother. I worked on it, did my best, but now, without the benefit of the pressure of a Sunday morning following, I have the luxury of reflection. So I wonder if I said enough or not enough, did I give comfort to the grieving, was the Gospel presented clearly enough? People almost always say nice things afterward, but they aren’t the ones to whom I must give account. The real question is, “What does the Lord think?”

Today, I preached as I often have, on the story of Jesus’ healing of the blind man in John’s gospel, chapter nine. At one point, Jesus says “we must do the works of him who sent Me, working while the light shines...” (Msg). If we didn’t know better, we might imagine that Jesus is telling us that our salvation comes from working hard and getting it right. For me, that means getting my sermons right every single time—an impossible and disheartening standard.

Fortunately, Jesus explained what he meant in the sixth chapter of the gospel when he said, “The work of God is that you believe in Him whom he has sent.” (V. 29). In other words, the work we are called to do is to believe in Jesus—in his grace, his forgiveness, the salvation that comes not from trying harder, but from believing that what he accomplished for us in his death and resurrection is sufficient. 

So I reflect. And although I think I might have done more, I am thankful tonight that his grace is sufficient. For the family; for even me.

Grandchildren’s Prayers

October 11, 2019

For more than twenty years, Linda and I have had the rare privilege of opening our home to our grandchildren for an overnight twice each month. It started with Alex and Abi when they were babes in arms, and continues to this day. We’ve literally watched them grow up before our eyes. Friday night begins with dinner, usually Linda’s macaroni & cheese, with hot dogs, peas and cottage cheese, and her homemade applesauce. Dinner is followed by “High-Low,” going around the table with what was the best thing today, and what was the worst. Highs are mandatory, lows optional. Often board games in colder weather, or kick ball and campfire in warmer months round out the evening before getting everyone ready for bed. In the morning, it’s pancakes and sausage or french toast for breakfast.

There’s one other item on Friday night’s agenda: we pray together. Linda’s prayer is from Scripture: “I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your heart, 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 know and understand as all God’s children should, how wide, how high, how deep, and how long God’s love for you really is, though you will never fully know or understand it, but someday you will be filled up with God himself.” At various phrases, the kids, from the oldest to the youngest, have learned to chime in with the right words. Then I pray, and everyone heads to bed. This has been going on as I say, for twenty years.

Tonight just before prayers, Linda shared with them the events of last night, how she passed out and spent the night in ER. She told them the tests indicated something not quite right inside her brain—perhaps she’s had a silent stroke at some point. She asked them to be praying for her. She then continued with her regular prayer, I offered mine, and we were just about to shuffle them to their respective sleeping areas when Abi motioned to Meema to come sit beside her. Linda did, and Abi invited the rest of the kids to gather round and lay hands on her while she prayed, instructing Linda to not cry as she began. It’s one thing to pray for your children and grandchildren. It’s something else—a humbling blessing—when they return the favor. We are both so very thankful tonight for grandchildren who have learned to pray and who stand ready to pray for us. What a gift of grace!

Magnified

October 9, 2019

“I will bless the LORD at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth. 

My soul shall make its boast in the LORD; 

The humble shall hear of it and be glad. 

Oh, magnify the LORD with me, And let us exalt His name together.”

—Psalm 34:1-3

That word “continually” convicts me. We don’t need to be in conversation very long before it turns inevitably to complaining about this or that. Christians are just as prone to grumbling as anyone else; we all find it easier to see what is wrong in this world than what is right. Whether it’s politics, religion, the weather, our health...there’s always something wrong. Politicians thrive on our dissatisfaction. Even writing about these things becomes a subtle form of complaint. 

Praise, on the other hand, isn’t usually on the tip of our tongues. We have to stop and think about what we are thankful for; we have to work on praise. When I started focusing on gratitude, it felt as if I were somehow neglecting my responsibility to correct people or stand for what is right. Praise somehow seemed inadequate for dealing with the great issues of our day. However, the Scripture is clear about this: if we bless “at all times,” if praise is “continually in our mouths,” there can be no room for complaint and criticism. “All” and “continually” are pretty comprehensive. 

The last phrase is instructive. We are invited to magnify the LORD together. If we look through a magnifying glass or telescope, we don’t make the object any bigger than it already is; it just appears bigger. We cannot make God any bigger than he already is, but when we praise him together, he appears bigger to us and our problems shrink to their proper size. It’s the “together” that makes the difference. This morning I met four other pastors for a time of prayer. Each of us had situations that concerned us; people we were praying for, problems we were facing. But we also had the Scriptures and we had each other. In our prayers, we reminded each other of the goodness of God, his mercy, power, and wisdom. God wasn’t any bigger, but we saw more of him, in greater clarity, than when we began. He was magnified, we were encouraged, and I am thankful.

Power

October 8, 2019

The lights are on and the garage doors work! You might be tempted to say, “Well, of course they do! That’s what happens when you flip the switch.” Except it’s not what happened a couple days ago. Toggling the light switch on and off accomplished nothing. Checking the panel in the basement, I noticed one of the breakers had tripped, so I reset it only to have it trip when I flipped the switch. Repeated efforts yielded the same results, leaving me with the distinct impression that the breaker was bad. At least, that’s what I hoped. If it weren’t the breaker, it meant there was a problem in the line, twenty feet of which was buried somewhere between the house and the garage. Locating and digging it up is definitely not on my bucket list.

A trip to the local electric supply company and I was back in business. There are two main breaker brands; I knew which ours is, so I went armed with the right information, or so I thought. After trying unsuccessfully to install the new breaker, I checked it against the pile of old ones lying on a shelf next to the panel board; the main connection was wrong. A second trip to the electric supply company revealed that Cutler-Hammer, the maker of my breakers, has two different models; of course, I was given the wrong one. This afternoon, I exchanged it, came home, and after dinner, installed the new one. Success is seeing the lights shining from the garage when I came up the cellar stairs. 

All of this is pretty minor and ordinary stuff...here. But it brings to mind memories of driving in vain all over the city of Jovellanos, Cuba, looking for a couple screws to mount a light switch. I had no such problem today. I walked into Home Depot this afternoon to see the shelves packed with box upon box of breakers in all sorts of configurations alongside rows of switches, electrical boxes, rolls of wire, boxes of wire nuts...in short, everything anyone would need to completely wire a home. At most, I deal with the annoyance of an easily fixed failed breaker, while people in many parts of the world get their electricity, if they have it at all, from cobbled and dangerous connections. I read in the glow of lights that operate reliably at the flip of a switch. I plug my iPad into the receptacle confident in the power readily available there. I take all this for granted until something fails, at which time I reflect and give thanks.