Keep Going

February 28, 2021

“Be not weary in well doing,” St. Paul admonishes us in Gal.6:9 and 2 Thess. 3:13. I wish he had stated it a bit differently. I am feeling weary today, and I still have at least two hours to go before I can slow down. If he had said, “Don’t be weary of well doing,” I could manage it. I don’t mind trying to do good; the effort doesn’t tire me out, but I do get tired in the middle of doing it. As it is, this word is God standing behind me, giving me a bit of a shove, and telling me to not quit. 

In the workout routine I follow, the leader often says, “When you can’t do anymore, give it another fifteen seconds.” I think God often does that with his children. We think we’ve had enough; we’re ready to pack it in, and God says, “Don’t quit. Give it fifteen more seconds. Don’t be weary in well doing.” Too often, we only do what we think we have strength to do. When we come to the end of our strength, we say, “Enough!” and in so doing, miss what God can do when we’re at the end of our rope. If I want to see God work, I have to get beyond what I can do in my own strength and in my own wisdom. That’s not where God operates. Only when we push through our weariness, when we step out where we have no map, when we are in over our head, are we giving God space to work in our lives. 

Years ago, someone told me, “When you’re in over your head, it doesn’t matter how deep it gets.” So weary or not, I’m getting up and going back at it. I’m sure the Lord has something in mind. I wonder what it is?

 

Fearing God

 February 27, 2021

“The LORD of hosts (armies), him you shall hallow; let him be your fear. Let him be your dread.” —Isaiah 8:13. 

A lifetime ago when I was a candidate for ordination, the interview team of the Board of Ordained Ministry was critiquing the theological paper I had submitted in which I spoke of my “fear of the Lord.” This phrase caught the attention of the interviewers, one of whom tried to explain to the others that I was speaking of having a healthy respect for God. I broke in.

“That’s not it at all. What I meant was, literally having a shaking-in-your-boots fear, knowing you are in the presence and hands of a holy and almighty God who could snuff you out in the blink of an eye.” The room was suddenly strangely silent. 

As my interview concluded, one of the interviewers commented that I seemed unusually calm during the process, and asked why that was. “I know God has called me into ministry,” I responded. “I just don’t know where. You know Methodism; I don’t (I came in as a Baptist). It’s your job to decide whether or not I fit. If I don’t, I’ll just go somewhere else.” Apparently my theological aberration in this regard wasn’t enough for them to give me the boot, for here I am, fifty years later, still (often uncomfortably) a United Methodist.

This text from Isaiah still challenges me. We don’t hear much talk about the fear of the Lord, unless it is to water it down into a mushy, toothless “respect.” But Isaiah doesn’t allow such thinking. He had had a vision of the LORD, high and lifted up, which caused him to say, “Woe is me! For I have seen the LORD.” He knew he was in dangerous territory. So two chapters later when he tells us to hallow the Lord of hosts and to let Him be our fear and dread,” he is speaking of more than giving a nodding affirmation of an abstract theological principal. 

If my fear of the Lord is not greater than my fear of anything in this world, it means I am worshipping at the wrong altar, and am able to be dislodged from my position in Christ. I’ve often said that I don’t worry for me; after all, my life is mostly behind me. I have also said that I fear for my children and grandchildren, but this too, is wrong. These children and grandchildren were born with God’s purpose etched into their souls. He knew them from the womb; they were born for such a time as this. It is into this world at this time and place where they will find their calling and fulfillment in Christ. That they are here is no accident.

When the LORD asked, “Who will go for us,” Isaiah responded, “Here am I. Send me.” (6:8). Two chapters later, he intensifies that affirmation, saying, “Here am I, and the children the LORD has given me. We are for signs and wonders...from the LORD of hosts.” (8:18). I cannot claim to be available to God if I will not bring my family with me. In calling me, he has also called them, and together we will stand, surrounded by the heavenly armies of which the LORD is the commander. As Jesus said to Satan during his temptation, “Fear God and him alone shall you serve.” Yes, we will...with confidence and joy, even if we have to stand alone (8:11).

What Might Have Been

 February 26, 2021

“What might have been” can be the four most debilitating words we speak, or four of the most empowering words we speak. 

Young people seldom utter these words. They haven’t had enough life to look back on to wonder how things might have turned out differently. But to old people, these words are stock in trade. We’ve lived long enough to recognize and admit the mistakes we’ve made (unless perhaps, we are politicians), and to wonder how those mistakes have shaped our lives and the lives of those we’ve influenced. We see opportunities missed, love lost, sins committed, and ponder how much better life would have been had we chosen differently. Oh, we had our reasons, our excuses, our justifications, but time has a way of stripping away the veneer of arguments, exposing the reality that we could have done differently. 

The problem with what might have been” is that it takes us down a dead-end road to a fantasy land where nothing real exists. It paralyzes us, preventing us from corrective action, shackling us to those mistakes while we fantasize over the life we will never know. “What might have been” can be debilitating.

On the other hand, “What might have been” can empower us with the life-giving energy of gratitude. I’ve been going to physical therapy for a problem with my left hip. It’s not debilitating; more of an irritation that I wanted to address before it got worse. As I was waiting to be called, I noticed a particular woman in the waiting room. I’m guessing her age to be somewhere in the late forties or early fifties. She wasn’t very tall, but was very obese, belly hanging to mid-thigh and barely able to waddle down the hall to the therapy area. I wondered what had happened in her life to bring her to such a state, and thanked God for my health. I’ve worked at it, but so much of it is a gift that I didn’t earn nor deserve. The family genes were given to me. It could have easily been me waddling down the hallway. 

“What might have been” moved me to gratitude, to prayers of blessing for this woman, and a deeper realization of the debt I owe to God and even to society, as I hold the health I have as a stewardship to be treasured and managed to the best of my ability. When I think of some of the decisions I almost made, and the consequences that would have arisen from them, “what might have been” humbles me and drives me to my knees.

I’m getting old. I don’t have time to wander down the dead end of “what might have been” regrets. I want instead to walk the endless path of “what might have been” thankfulness.

Life Support

 February 25, 2021

In the 1950s, Donald McGavran began writing about mission work. While a missionary in India, he noted that some efforts proved very fruitful and others not so much. When he asked why, those who succeeded invariably said that it was because they were being faithful to the Gospel. When he asked those whose ministries struggled, they too said it was because they were being faithful. Success was seen as a sign of God’s blessing upon their faithfulness, but failure was also seen as a sign of faithfulness, except that they were being tested. McGavran decided to look deeper, and in doing so, discovered that there were commonalities to success and different commonalities to failure. From these observations, he eventually headed the school of missionary at Fuller Seminary in California.

I read McGavran and his many students who were on the cutting edge of the church growth movement in the 80’s and 90’s. Putting this learning into practice, our church experienced unprecedented growth in rural Western New York—not exactly the epicenter of congregational potential. In 2003, it all collapsed. I’m still not sure if it was because I got lazy and stopped doing the things necessary to growth, or if we were just putting our trust in human ingenuity. 

One thing I do know: fruitfulness doesn’t come from programs, but from life. Jesus didn’t tell us to follow the right programme, but to abide in him. Like a trellis that supports the vine, programs and the right organization can put structure to life, but cannot produce life. Only Life produces life. I want to be fruitful in life, so I make sure I am connected to the Vine. I also make sure I structure the life God has given me with daily prayer and Bible study, weekly worship, faithful stewardship, and regular service. None of these can produce life, but they do support it.  My nightly writing is part of my spiritual trellis, forcing me to think when my mind would rather be lazy. I am thankful for the Life, and also for the support systems that help with fruitfulness. After all, that’s what Jesus is looking for: “I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.” —John 15:5

Crap

February 24, 2021

There are times when the more colorful language of some of my friends has just the right edge to communicate what I really want to say, but my upbringing still keeps a guard on my lips, if not always my thoughts. I suspect I’m not the only pastor caught in this bind, although I know some pastors whose language is often almost indistinguishable from my less fastidious friends.

Years ago, a close friend who was also a good storyteller told me about the time his brother rear-ended a car. The driver hastily exited his vehicle to confront the brother, who was quite a formidable hulk of a man. The gentleman whose car was hit threatened my friend’s brother, who promptly dropped him to the ground with a right cross. The smaller man jumped up and started dancing around like a boxer, shouting, “You...you...you,” whereupon the brother dropped him again, ending the incident. Turns out, the other guy was a pastor who either didn’t know the right cuss words, or didn’t dare use them. I know a few, but choose not to use them.

But sometimes... 

Last Sunday, the pastor spoke about Jesus’ parable of the Sower and came to the part where the seed was choked by the thorns. Jesus said the thorns represent the cares and worries of this world. The pastor said, “Life often throws a lot of crap at you.” (This is where I thought the more earthy language of my friends might have served him better, except for the people in the pews who would have been aghast). He continued, “When life throws crap at us, we often hold on to it. We need to let it drop to the ground, because the crap fertilizes the ground so it will bear a good crop.” 

I thought that was a pretty good word picture that would have had even more punch had he been free to use more colorful language. To tell the truth, I would have said it the same way, but you get my drift. And even with milder language, what he said rings true. When we hold on to crap, it only makes us stink. But when we let it drop, those very words spoken against us, the troubles that buffet us, the injustice hurled our way, enrich the soil of God’s Word in our hearts, and tilled in by the Holy Spirit, bring a fruitful bounty of love, grace, and endurance in our lives. 

It can be hard work dropping all that crap (or whatever you prefer to call it), but I’m grateful tonight that God wastes nothing, and the difficulties and challenges of life are piling up in his spiritual compost heap. When he forks it into the garden of our souls and tills it under, it will by the Holy Spirit produce a harvest of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness that can feed many a hungry soul.

 

Linda

 February 23, 2021

A little more than eight years ago, began writing about the things for which I was thankful. It turned out to be one of the most transformative disciplines in which I’ve ever engaged. The melancholy which had dogged my steps for most of my adult life slowly faded away, and has only occasionally reared its ugly head in the years since. When it does, I know how to send it packing: thanksgiving.

During these past eight years, I’ve given thanks, but my musings have also morphed into reflections on Scripture, the Creed, theology, and life itself. Tonight I return to simple gratitude. It’s my wife’s birthday, and apart from the gift of salvation in Christ, she is the best gift God ever gave me. I never could have imagined more than fifty years ago how one person could so completely fulfill another as she has done for me. It’s not always been easy; we’ve had our share of disagreements. After all, we are very different. For one thing, one of us is male and the other is female. If that isn’t enough, one of us is quiet, the other not. One of us is more musically minded, the other more sports minded. One of us likes to travel, the other would prefer to never get far enough from home that would require an overnight stay. 

Here’s what I know: my life would be infinitely more impoverished were it not for Linda being front and center in it. She has taught me more than anyone else about compassion, patience, people, grace, and love. She was the key to any success I had in ministry. I preached, but she has the pastor’s heart for people. Her love, forgiveness, patient endurance, sarcasm, and just plain goodness have blessed me beyond measure.

Before we were married, we talked about how we wanted to order our lives. One of the things that was important to me would get me branded as a hopeless chauvinist, but when we talked about a career, I told her we would need to sort out how that would work when the children started coming. I said, “I want you to raise our children; if I wanted someone else to do it, I would marry someone else.” She never thought of herself as good with children, but I could see what she couldn’t. She remains the wife of my dreams, the mother any child would be lucky to have, and the grandmother of all grandmothers. Thank you, Lord, for this woman you gave me. Thank you Linda, for the life you’ve given me. I love you and am so grateful you chose me, even if it was only for because you liked my eyes.

Weeds

February 22, 2021

The problem with weeds is that they’re so prolific. Vegetables or flowers or weeds, they all compete for the same water and minerals. According to the Biblical story, one of the results of Adam’s sin was the cursing of the soil. Where previously it brought forth abundantly, now, 

“Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat food from it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles for you, and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.””

—Genesis 3:17-19 NIV

Weeds always have a leg up, and we have a lot of work keeping them at bay so we can reap the harvest of beauty and nourishment. Weeds suck from the soil the nutrients needed by the plants you want.

What is true in the world around us is also true for the world within us. God has provided for us “everything we need for life and godliness through the knowledge of him who has called us...” (2 Peter 1:3). The soil of salvation is deep and rich, but the weeds of jealousy, greed, lust, hatred, pride, criticism, gossip, insecurity, and a host of others, suck from it the nutrients needed for the fruit of the Spirit to bear abundantly, the love, joy, and peace, the patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and self-control God intends us to have and share with others. 

The sins we hide and often cherish deep in our hearts don’t only hurt us, they cause the spiritual harvest God is looking for to be stunted and deformed. God has given us the tools we need to till the soil and pull the weeds, but it is up to us to take tools in hand and get to work. Prayerfully searching both Scripture and with it our hearts, corporate worship, service, and fellowship are all tools God provides us to tackle the weed problem in our hearts. Just as in gardening, the weeds will keep growing. It’s a never-ending battle, but must be fought if we want a harvest. My grandfather was quite the horticulturalist, and once gave me some sound advice for gardening and life. “Take care of matters early,” he said. “With weeds, quarter inch, quarter hour; half inch, half hour; one inch, all day.” Spiritual weeds are no different, so in our men’s Bible study tonight, we’re going to pull some weeds. I’m thankful for it. It’s one job I don’t like, and pulling them early sounds mighty attractive.

 

Hard Over Hurt

February 21, 2021

This morning I listened to a sermon that shed new insight upon Jesus’ parable of the Sower. I love it when that happens! As a refresher, the parable highlights four kinds of soil the sower encountered: the path, shallow soil, soil overgrown with weeds, and good soil. He compares each type of soil with how different people receive the Word of God. Four lessons stood out for me. The next few days will focus on these lessons.

Hard soil often comes from pain. Sometimes those who are most resistant to the Gospel have great pain in their lives. They cannot understand why they have had to suffer so, and often their pain comes out as a hard, crusty exterior that is their defense against being hurt again. We tend to see only the resistance, and not the pain, which prevents us from dealing with the real issue.

Some years ago, I a friend encouraged me to befriend someone on Facebook who liked to talk philosophy and religion. I did so, and this person began commenting on my posts, usually negatively. I enjoyed the repartee; being challenged is the only way we grow in our thinking and reasoning ability. Over time however, he became verbally abusive, not only to me, which didn’t bother me, but also to others who would chime in occasionally. One day, I posted something about raising children to know Christ. 

“Teaching children religion is a form of child abuse,” he exclaimed. When I countered by asking what made him an expert in childraising, since he had no children of his own, he came unglued. He raged venomously at me.

Turns out, he had been physically and sexually abused as a child. As a teenager, he started attending church, even making a profession of faith. Through all the years of abuse, his grandfather was his protector and model, and when he got sick, this young man prayed fervently for him. Grandpa died, and my Facebook nemesis turned his back on the God he believed had let him down. He wasn’t angry with me; he was angry with God. The pain of his childhood and the loss of his grandfather hardened his heart. 

Some of my friends who engaged him in online conversation did so with righteous indignation. They saw me being attacked and in spite of my pleadings to be gentle or even silent, came to my defense. They didn’t know the story, didn’t see the pain. 

When we are attacked, we instinctively try to defend ourselves, but sometimes no defense is the best defense. A wounded spirit is never healed with counterattack. Jesus spoke of himself as One who would not break a bruised reed (Matthew 12:20). The old adage is still true: “Hurt people hurt people.” Hurt people need healing, even when they present a hard, calloused demeanor. A callous is nothing more than a hard and thickened skin that protects a wound. Tonight, I am grateful for pastor Jason’s sermon and the reminder that hard is often just a covering of hard.

 

February 20, 2021

Breakfast with the grandkids is always interesting, but today more than usual. Somehow the discussion drifted to pronouns and the bewildering variety of them being foisted upon us by the uber-woke cultural assassins who aim to cancel anyone who disagrees with their pronouncements of what is or is not offensive. Our grandkids are being confronted with this gender indoctrination on a regular basis, and know something is amiss, but don’t always know why. So we talked.

Our post-Christian culture is obsessed with feelings and terrified of empirical and verifiable facts. One’s DNA is a fact. A boy can inject estrogen into his body, grow breasts, and have surgery, but his DNA still says “male,” and a hundred years after he dies, his skeletal structure will still have forensic archaeologists telling their colleagues that this was a male. When a man says, “I’ve always felt like a woman,” I want to ask, “How do you know? You’ve never been one!” 

The denial of reality is increasingly common in our world. Clever people manipulate data to convince the gullible that they aren’t seeing what is right before their eyes. We see it everywhere, but it is particularly pernicious when it comes to what we know about humanity. Scoffers ridicule Christianity and faith as “believing what you know isn’t true,” but Christian faith is reality-based, and nowhere more than in our belief in the significance of the human body. We are not spirits who happen to inhabit bodies. The creation story tells us that God molded together the dust of the ground, breathed into it , and the man became a living soul. In other words, body plus spirit equals soul, ie, the entirety of what it means to be human. The significance of the body is emphasized in the ancient Hebrew texts as well as in the Christian Gospels where the resurrection of Jesus is the foundation of our resurrection. The body is so important that without it, we have no identity. 

To declare that the reality of the physical body is of less importance than a person’s feelings is a rejection of objective truth, which is the reason behind such thinking. If there is objective truth, then we have to deal with what is instead of what we in our rebellious and self-centered thinking want things to be. If I can convince people that because I feel feminine I am therefore a woman, there is no end to how reality can be twisted to serve my purposes. The Bible tells us that Satan has blinded the minds of those who say such things. My grandkids see it because they are listening to a different Voice. The world they are inheriting, by their own words, “is a mess,” for which they can thank my generation. The best I can do is help give them the tools to think and reason, and the faith and courage to hold fast to the truth. I am thankful today for this morning’s conversation, it’s glimpse into their lives and thinking, and for the opportunities Linda and I are continually given to pour into their lives by example, instruction, and prayers.

 

God’s Will

 February 19, 2021

When I was much younger and still single, one of the burning issues for us was how to find “God’s perfect will for our lives.” It was particularly pertinent when it came to dating and marriage. “What if we missed God’s will and married the wrong person?” The problem with this approach is that it’s unsustainable. If it weren’t God’s will for me to marry Linda, then she too, missed God’s will, as did the persons we were supposed to have married. The domino effect never ends. I know people who are so afraid of missing God’s will that they are almost completely paralyzed when it comes to making life decisions. And Satan smiles.

In Colossians 1:9, Paul prays that the Colossian Christians know God’s will “in all wisdom and spiritual understanding.” Interestingly, he doesn’t follow that statement with any talk of specific actions they ought to take or avoid. instead, he speaks of “walking worthy of the Lord, pleasing him, being fruitful in good works, increasing in the knowledge of God, strengthened to suffer with joy, (something about which we know little), and giving thanks.” Not one of the consequences of knowing God’s will has anything to do with specific life choices; they are all concerned with our mindset, attitudes, and overall Christian behavior. Knowing God’s will has much more to do with how we respond to criticism, or whether we get caught up in the negativity and complaining that is so prevalent, then it does with deciding which job to take or which person to marry. 

As long as we do not violate the clear moral and ethical standards of Scripture, God gives us freedom to make our choices, blessing us in them.

For me, I need to learn what it means to endure with joy instead of with complaint, even in my prayers. Just this morning I had a conversation with someone that turned political. He spoke disparagingly about some of the things happening, and I fell right in line instead of countering with the hope of the Gospel. My words were not fruitful or worthy of the Lord. They weren’t bad; they just weren’t good. I don’t need God to decide what I have for breakfast tomorrow. I do need him to guide my thoughts, motives, words, and actions so that whatever I do, I am doing it with him and his character in mind.

Hope

 February 18, 2021

Hope is the last thing you’d expect a prisoner to write home about. Prisons are among the most hopeless places on earth, but from a Roman prison, Paul begins his letter to the Christians at Colossae speaking about God’s call on his life, grace, peace, thanksgiving, and hope. He doesn’t write of hoping for charges to be dropped, for a reprieve from the deprivation and hardships of his cell; unlike many of us who hope for healing, relief from suffering, cold, or heat, Paul’s hope isn’t located in anything this world can offer. His hope is “laid up...in heaven.” Because the world didn’t give it, the world can’t take it away.

Every four years, people hope for their candidate to win the election for presidency of the United States. They hope to enact laws and set a direction for the country that mirrors their own values. Every four years, some are ecstatic and others are despairing. Placing one’s hope in something as ephemeral as an election means that hope continually teeters on the edge of disappointment. Elections are exercises in a hope tethered to this world. Only a hope firmly grounded in heaven is adequate to sustain us here on earth, but such hope is only possible if we abandon our aspirations for this world. Every remnant of hope in this world is another thread binding us to it and blinding us to what God wants to reveal to us about heaven. We are not easily dissuaded from hoping in this world, so God often has to take us through hardships to loosen our grasp on those things that will inevitably fail and piercer our souls if we continue to lean on them (Isaiah 36:6).

It’s a paradox; we work to build a better world, all the while realizing that it ultimately comes only through the establishment of the Kingdom of God, which is another world altogether. Our hope in what we can see only through eyes of faith keeps us going in this present world which is unable to sustain that faith, and frequently dashes the hopes of those who trust in it. The old gospel song says it well: “My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.” Nothing less, and nothing more.

Lent

February 17, 2021

“That’s too Catholic!” My step-grandfather was by his own definition, “an old German square head,” by which he meant not only the shape of his cranium, but the stubbornness of his convictions. He was old school Baptist, and anything that smacked of liturgy, ritual, or vestments was strictly off limits as far as he was concerned. A man wearing a cross around his neck was over the edge in his book. I always listened carefully and considered his opinions with utmost seriousness, after all, it was he who led me to Christ.

So it was that I never observed Ash Wednesday and Lent until later in life, as a Methodist. the story of that transition is a long one best left for another time, but tonight I am thinking about the ashes on my forehead. We have just gotten home from our church’s Ash Wednesday service. It was simple—mostly sitting in silence as the pianist played softly. It was designed to be a rather reflective service, but I have a hard time focusing my thoughts when there is any sort of distraction, and for me, music is definitely a distraction. I spent a good part of the day assembling beehive frames, and my mind kept drifting to how I could do a better job of it. I had to expend quite a bit of mental energy corralling these thoughts that kept breaking loose and catapulting themselves across the landscape of my mind. It wasn’t until we got home and I was able to sit in silence that I could meaningfully reflect.

I’ve been reading some of the Orthodox fathers, and have been quite impressed at their attention to repentance and confession. I suspect I am not alone in struggling with these disciplines. How many times and in how many ways can I go over the same ground? I’ve been a Christian for many years; the more noticeable sins of life are for the most part behind me. At nearly 72, much of the allure of the flesh has faded, so what is there left to repent of? It is only in the silence that I remember my pride; like the Pharisee of old, “I am not like this publican.” I look at my callousness about other people’s salvation; how little I pray for people to come to Christ, and how often I am silent when God gives me the opportunity to witness. 

Why is it such a chore to spend an hour in prayer? Why is it that the sermons, books, and songs that stir others’ faith leave me flatlined? Why do I get so upset over the foolishness going on in Washington or Albany, and fail to see the blessings that surround me from one day to the next? Where is my gratitude?

I am grateful for Ash Wednesday and Lent. They offer me an opportunity to slow down, re-evaluate my habits, and reorient my life. In a world that thrives on almost ceaseless activity, seasons like this are gifts from a loving Heavenly Father that help keep my heart from sliding off what is a very slippery and narrow path. So I sit in solitude, thinking, praying, repenting, and seeking the forgiveness that is so freely offered in Christ. I trust I shall be ready for Holy Week, Good Friday, and Easter, my dull heart honed to a razor’s edge by this age-old discipline of Lent. Tonight, it begins, and I am thankful for it.

Where Are You?

 February 16, 2021

According to Genesis 3:9-10, after Adam had sinned he hid himself from God, who had come into the garden looking for him. God called out, “Where are you?” It wasn’t because God didn’t know where Adam was; Adam didn’t know where he was. Adam understood the question. It wasn’t a matter of location, but of condition. He had alienated himself from the God with whom he had had intimate, face to face communion. 

“I heard your voice in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked; and I hid myself,” was Adam’s response. The Voice that had instructed and empowered him was now a fountain of fear. The righteousness in which he had been clothed had been stripped away, and he not only saw the nakedness of his body, but also the nakedness of his soul. Notice the “I’s’ in this single sentence. Whereas before, his focus was on God and the tasks God had given him, now it was all about him: “I heard, I was afraid, I was naked, I hid myself;” I, I, I. 

God hasn’t lost us; he knows exactly where we are. We’ve lost ourselves, lost our way; we don’t know where we are, or who we are, so we hide, hoping God won’t notice our nakedness, our desperate depravity. But only when we answer that Voice and come out of hiding can we find redemption. Adam could have remained silent, hoping God would pass him by, but in spite of his fear, he answered. So can we. Only when I stop hiding, stop pretending things are OK, stop trying to patch together my own righteousness; only when I answer that Voice calling in my darkness, can I discover where I am and what I have become, and begin the journey home. And I only hear that Voice as I prayerfully engage the Scriptures. 

No wonder so many are still hiding. We are afraid, and don’t know where we are. God in his infinite mercy is looking for us, calling for us to see where we are so he can clothe us with his own righteousness and bring us home.

Simple Things

 February 15, 2021

It’s late, so the theological ramblings that have been wandering through my mind aren’t going to find their way to the screen tonight. Instead, tonight I am thankful for simple accomplishments. It’s the middle of February and the queen bees should soon start laying eggs for the spring buildup of the colony. The increased activity means they’ll be eating through their honey and pollen stores more quickly than when they were simply clustered, so I figured it is past time to insulate the hives. Last fall when we were cleaning out the church garage, I was given two sheets of closed cell insulation. I cut blocks to fit under my hive covers and installed them before the snow came, and today I made jackets to help keep the heat in for the queen and her brood. When she starts laying, the bees will keep the brood at about 95 degrees, so the insulation will help them get off to a good start.

Other projects finally being done, I started assembling honey frames and hive bodies, getting ready for the spring locust honey flow. The used pneumatic stapler I bought a couple months ago works like a charm, moving the project along much quicker than the old hammer and nails used to do. 

Topping it all off, I picked up from the church project a load of discarded lumber that I’m going to use to build a long hive. It will be interesting to see how a different setup will compare with the Langstroth stacking hives commonly used today. 

As I said earlier, a lot of theological stuff has been rattling around in my head, but it’s always good to also give thanks for the simple gifts scattered through our daily lives. It’s been a good day, and I am thankful to have been privileged to live it.

Valentine Wisdom

February 14, 2021

“You can’t be serious!” The look on my daughter’s face said it all. My valentine’s gift to Linda was, to be sure, a bit unusual, but I know my wife, and told Jess she would be delighted with it. 

I was not mistaken. Last night as she was getting her shower, I snuck out to the garage, retrieved her gift, and set it in the spare bedroom. Early this morning, having to leave early for worship team rehearsal, I set it in the kitchen, and before heading out the door, called her out to see it.

“I LOVE it!” she squealed when she saw it. Do I know my wife, or what? There is however, a backstory to this tale of love. It involves mice. Three of them, to be exact. They all still have their tails, so you know I’m not a farmer. A few days ago, unbeknownst to Linda, they had taken up residence in the plastic bin holding the sunflower seeds for our neighborly and piggy feathered friends. In the dark, she didn’t see them till they tumbled out of the scoop into the bird feeder. They made their presence known, and she made their presence known to me. Having chewed the lid of the bin, access to the seed was quite convenient and much appreciated, but unlike the chickadees, cardinals, and finches, their freeloading days are over.

Flowers and candy are for amateurs. Tonight, I am by all measures, the world’s best septuagenarian valentine, and am proud to display for all to see, the evidence of my love for my best and only love 

In Christ

 February 13, 2021

“To them God willed to make known what are the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles: which is Christ in you, the hope of glory. Him we preach, warning every man and teaching every man in all wisdom, that we may present every man perfect in Christ Jesus.”

Colossians 1:27-28 NKJV

Paul gives us a curious play on words as he speaks of Christ in us, and us in Christ—similar wording, but with very different emphases. Both point to an intimacy deeper than mere academic interest or even personal acquaintance. Christians often speak of “receiving Jesus into our hearts,” language not actually used in the New Testament, although the concept is present. Christ in us, as wonderful as it is, is only a small part of the story. The real significance is not Jesus in us, but us in Jesus.

Christ in you gives us a glorious hope, but our being in Christ is the source of the power and greatness of our salvation. One of Paul’s favorite phrases in all his letters is “in Christ;” appearing scores of times, it is central to his theology of salvation. Imagine being shipwrecked in the Pacific. Your ship is gone, you are clinging to a life raft, but lose your grip and start to drown. You are getting some of the Pacific into you, but the amount of ocean in you is minuscule compared to the magnitude that is the ocean itself. There is so much more to the ocean than the little bit inside you. So it is with Christ. Our being in him is so much more than his being in us. Being in Christ at the very least, is a reminder that we are not the center of salvation; Christ is. It is humbling, which is exactly what it ought to be, for God saves the humble, not the proud.

Words and Deeds

 February 12, 2021

We “were alienated in [our] minds by wicked works” (Colossians 1:21). We are conditioned to think that we need to watch our thoughts because they lead to actions. It’s true enough... sometimes. Around our house, we have what we call “stinkin’ thinkin’.” We are ruthless in calling out negative and destructive thought patterns because it is so easy to think our way into a funk. It’s particularly insidious in today’s toxic political climate. Even as Christians, we are susceptible to the negativity that is part of the air we breathe. I see what’s happening in our country and have to deliberately and decisively corral my thinking so it doesn’t poison my attitude and ruin my day. It’s particularly difficult when in conversation. People seem to need to vent their feelings frequently, and it’s hard to not get sucked into the negativity.

But there is another side to this that we often overlook. Not only do our thoughts affect our actions, but perhaps even more, what we do affects how we think. Because God has put a conscience within us (Romans 1:18), when we sin, we need to find a way to justify our actions, so our reasoning gets twisted. The logic of anyone who persists in sin will always be defective. Debating anyone whose behavior is contrary to the Gospel is fruitless. Trying to reason with those whose sexual lives are contrary to the Word of God will never succeed because their sin corrupts their minds. We would do well to pay attention to someone’s behavior before engaging in debate. If the behavior is sinful, no amount of reasoning will help. Instead of arguing, the only thing to do is to give Scripture and pray for the Holy Spirit to bring conviction and repentance. God promises to honor his Word (Isaiah 55:11). The Word of God is the sword of the Spirit. It needs no defense; in fact, it is the only offensive weapon we have. 

I’ve found that as much as I need to guard my thoughts, I need also to guard my actions. I don’t want bad habits to subtly infect my thinking and carry me away from Christ. Taking inventory of the things I’ve done through the day is a good way of keeping my feet on the narrow path of which Jesus speaks in Matthew 7. I am thankful tonight for the specificity of Paul’s writing; the detail that makes me pay attention and listen to the Holy Spirit. 

Silence

 February 11, 2021

Alison Krauss got it right when she sang, “You say it best when you say nothing at all.” Sometimes, the best argument is silence. Sometimes the most cogent words are those not spoken. I’ve too often been guilty of speaking when I really had very little to say, or when my contribution was more about me than about speaking truth with grace. And sometimes it’s best to be silent because it’s been such a busy day that we haven’t had time to think through what might come out of our mouths. Speaking for the sake of hearing ourselves talk is rarely wise. Anyone who has listened to the political rhetoric coming out of Washington knows this to be true.

Yesterday began with an early morning breakfast and prayer time with two pastor friends, following which Linda and I drove to Churchville to help my sister in law, brother, and sister finish packing up the remnants of our mother’s belongings along with some of my sister’s stuff. Mom is with Jesus, and my sister is moving to Tennessee to be nearer her daughters. There was plenty to do, and it took all day. In the evening, our granddaughter and her fiancee stopped over to see us, which meant bedtime was a little later than we’re accustomed to.

It was a good and productive day, but not particularly conducive to theological or any other kind of reflection, so silence was the best I could offer. Habakkuk did one better than Alison Krauss: “The LORD is in His holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before Him.” (2:20). Yesterday, I observed that ancient command. Maybe if I did it more often, I’d be better able to listen, and to have something more worthwhile to say when I speak. And if not, I would hope to be wise enough to heed the advice of Abraham Lincoln who noted that it is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.

Knowledge and Discernment

 February 9, 2021

“And this I pray, that your love may abound still more and more in knowledge and all discernment, that you may approve the things that are excellent, that you may be sincere and without offense till the day of Christ, being filled with the fruits of righteousness which are by Jesus Christ, to the glory and praise of God.” —Philippians 1:9-11 NKJV

Love must abound more and more in knowledge and discernment. Love without knowledge can be soft and weak.  Love without discernment can be dangerous. Knowledge tells us what love should do; discernment tells us how,when, and how much we should do it. No matter how loving I feel, it isn’t love to give someone a handout when they need a hand up. It’s not love to feed the body while letting the soul and spirit starve. Paul says love’s knowledge and discernment need to keep growing in us. If it doesn’t I won’t be able to approve things excellent. Instead, I may be giving my stamp of approval on things unworthy of it. And approving things unworthy of love will never lead to the glory and praise of God. 

So where does this love come from initially? Romans 5:5 tells us: “The love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.” When a person comes to Christ in repentance and faith, God immediately gives that person the gift of the Holy Spirit who then pours the love of the Father into him or her. It’s not necessarily something one feels. Feelings are very poor indicators of love. The Bible simply affirms that this love is poured into us through the Holy Spirit that was given to us when we believed. Once we have that love, it is our responsibility to grow in knowledge and discernment so this love can be displayed in helpful and appropriate ways. 

Lord, keep me learning and teach me to be discerning so you will be honored and glorified in all I say and do.

Peace

 February 8, 2021

St. Paul has an interesting turn of phrases in the fourth chapter of his letter to the Philippian church. In verses 7-9 he says,

“Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things. The things which you learned and received and heard and saw in me, these do, and the God of peace will be with you.”

When instead of worrying we pray with thanksgiving, the peace of God guards our hearts and minds. When we focus our minds on the good and honorable things of life, the God of peace comes to us. In other words, prayer brings God’s peace, but centering our lives upon that which is good brings God’s presence. Were I forced to choose between the two, I would choose the God of peace over the peace of God. It may seem a small difference, but the presence of God ensures not only peace, but protection, provision, and purpose. 

Bringing all things to God in prayer is good; bringing God into all things through what I choose to think about is better. Best is when I pray about everything and then direct my thoughts to the good things God is doing in answer to those prayers. Often, we miss seeing the answers because we aren’t looking for them. We pray, then forget to think, to meditate, and in so doing, isolate ourselves from the presence of the God who alone gives peace.

Setting the Table

 February 7, 2021

“So shall my word be that goes forth from my mouth; it shall not return to me void, but it shall accomplish what I please, and it shall prosper in the thing for which I sent it” (Isaiah 55:11). If there is any comfort and encouragement for the preacher, it is this. God’s Word will accomplish what he intends. Sometimes the spoken word has a power that is evident to all who hear; at other times, it seems like it leaves the mouth flat and goes downhill from there. If I do the work and give it my best, God promises to accomplish not what I intend, but what he intends. 

More than forty years ago, I sat through the only preaching course I was to take in seminary. Most of my seminary experience was less than memorable, but this class was worth the price of the admission. One of the things we learned was that any given sermon is a feeding; sitting at the table of the Word. Just as in the physical realm, we cannot ingest all our nourishment in a single setting; we must return to the table again and again. “Don’t try to give them everything you’ve got at a single setting. They’ll be back. Give them the spiritual meal they need for the day. Save the rest for next time. We grow a meal at a time.”

This morning, I set the table as best I could, and invited the congregation to feast upon the goodness of God. Together, we then shared the meal Christ set before us at the Communion Table. We sang, prayed, received, then prayed and sang some more. As at any meal, it’s possible that some didn’t like the peas or carrots, and passed on them. Others filled their plates. It isn’t the job of the chef or the waiter to make sure everyone fills up and then cleans up their plate. It’s our job to set the table. It’s now in the hands of God who knows our hearts and ensures the success of the Word he has spoken.

Dreams

February 6, 2021

The dreams vary; the themes don’t. I’m six years old and thoroughly embarrassed to be standing in the hall in first grade, wearing only my pajamas. Or I’m in high school, trying to remember my locker combination, or which hall it’s in. Or I’m in college, and cannot remember the syllabus or which courses I’m taking, what day they’re offered, or which building they’re in. I’m clearly in over my head; I’m lost and scared, wondering how I’m ever going to get out of this mess.

These dreams often woke me up on a Saturday night. The morning would find me standing in the pulpit, doing what I was called to do, as best I knew how, often with a stomach churning with anxiety. Pastors are called to do the impossible. We hold in our hands the life-transforming Word of God, but we ourselves are powerless to change a human heart. I don’t miss the tension, the anxiety, the sense that I’m on the verge of a calamitous disaster.

Today I officiated at a funeral; tomorrow, I preach in Cassadaga. I’m not completely out of practice, so it’s not a matter of preparation or knowledge of how to do it. It’s a matter of the heart. Jeremiah said it well: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.” Mine is no exception, and if I could be sure I were preaching from a holy heart, with the purest of motives, I could step into that pulpit with confidence. But there is always that nagging thought—“What makes you think you can do this? Just who do you think you are?” The fact is, I am unworthy (as John the Baptist said) to even untie Jesus’ shoelaces. The Message is pure and holy, and powerful to bring conviction and redemption. The messenger is none of those things, but he has a job to do.

Years ago, a tall lanky farmer and I stood one summer evening, leaning against his car by the side of the road in front of my house. He kicked at the gravel, looked up at the stars, and said, “You know Jim, God could raise better servants from the stones beneath our feet, but he chose us. Isn’t that amazing?” The amazement has never left me, and the task humbles me. Only Christ is worthy, but in an incomprehensible twist of grace, he saw this unworthy person and said, “he is worth it,” before coming to earth to die on a cross for my sins. If I were unsure of the efficacy of that one solitary death on a Roman cross, I wouldn’t dare attempt what I expect to do tomorrow. Though I am unworthy, he considered me worth it all, and to top it all off, has offered me the privilege of telling others. 

Maybe that dream will visit me again, but I’m not taking my cues from dreams. The Word of God is a much more secure foundation, so I’m building on the promises guaranteed by God himself. It’s going to be a good day.

 

Breathe

 February 5, 2021

Two events seem to have been on everyone’s mind over the past year. Many are still obsessed with them: The election, and COVID. I’m amazed by the number of people on both sides of the aisle who cannot get past the elections. I understand those who believe the election was stolen. Even though the courts and media have assured us that the elections were fair, it’s hard to fathom the contrast between the election results and the level of enthusiasm (or lack thereof) generated by the candidates last year. The near universal antipathy of the media towards our former president is something I’ve never witnessed before, and their kid glove treatment of our current president is startling by comparison.

What is strange to me though is the inability of many ordinary people on the left to detach themselves from Trump. Years ago, a woman came into my office in a rage. She had been divorced from her husband for a number of years, but he had done something that sent her into fits. He wasn’t stalking her, wasn’t harming her in any way; he was just doing what he had always done, and it was driving her crazy. After listening to her vent for about fifteen minutes, I broke into her diatribe.

“Do you want to get back together?” I asked somewhat meekly.

“NO! I NEVER WANT TO SEE HIM AGAIN!” Her voice could be heard a couple rooms over. 

“Then why are you carrying him around with you everywhere you go?” She quieted down.

It’s not uncommon for people to emotionally shackle themselves to the very person they want to be rid of. They’ve bound themselves with chains stronger than steel to the very source of their pain. I can understand this when a marriage breaks apart, but what pleasure does anyone get from binding themselves to someone they’ve never even met? 

The other event is the ongoing COVID debacle that has paralyzed the entire world and is often more crippling elsewhere than here. Which leads me to tonight’s musing.

I love Willie Nelson. His nasally voice and not too shabby guitar playing, coupled with lyrics and melodies that reach deep inside, have intrigued me for years. “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” is but one example of his mastery of a song. I’ve never been much of a concert-goer, but I’ve seen Willie numerous times, often with my daughter-in-law. I’ve never been disappointed. He recently recorded a song the lyrics of which I can’t remember, but the title is worth the price of the album. “Bad Breath is Better than No Breath at All.” 

Willie would not be my first choice as a theologian or philosopher, isn’t the greatest example of good behavior, but this phrase is a good reminder that as bad as we may believe things are, we are still here, and that’s good. I am thankful every day I wake up, thankful that I am alive, able to work, and have enough of my wits about me to appreciate and enjoy the life I’ve been given. If this past year has you down, try looking at it from a different angle. You might be pleasantly surprised to learn that for you too, bad breath is better than no breath at all.

Hearing Clearly

 February 4, 2021

I’m not hearing very well this evening. A couple weeks ago, my right hearing aid started snapping and popping, fading in and out, so I called my audiologist to see what could be done about it. After a couple fits and starts, I got a call today saying my replacement had come in. I immediately hopped in my truck and headed to town, but when I got there, I was told they wanted not just the right, but also the left aid so they could pair them properly. I wasn’t expecting that, but told that they should be able to do it before the end of the day, I reluctantly left both devices at the office. Let me add here that my hearing aids are rechargeable; a fact that is important to this narrative.

Needless to say, the hearing aids are still there, and everything sounds like I have a pillow over my head. Linda is quite understanding, repeating herself without disgust when I don’t hear what she’s saying. They told me my devices will be ready tomorrow. I hope so; I have work tomorrow for which I’ll need to be able to hear. 

It occurs to me that my physical situation is a reflection of my spiritual life. Sin leaves us all unable to hear the voice of God. Psalm 19 tells us that “The heavens declare the glory of God...Day unto day utters speech...there is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard.” God is speaking, but too often, we are deaf to his voice. In the Gospels, we read of Jesus opening the ears of the deaf, which are pictures of what he came to do in the realm of the spirit. When I confessed Jesus as my Savior and Lord, he opened my ears so I was for the first time in my life, able to hear his words of forgiveness, guidance, and correction. 

Sadly, there are times when I stop listening. God doesn’t stop talking, but deliberate sin, inattention, distractions prevent me from hearing what he has to say. His voice is muffled. When my spiritual hearing aids stop working, I have to pay special attention if I am to hear him. It’s much easier if I keep them charged each day. Like the little devices that fit into my ears, things happen that are outside my control, making it necessary to go back to the Maker to get things put right. Tomorrow, I hope to do so with my physical hearing aids. Fortunately, I don’t have to wait to get my spiritual hearing aids up and running. All it takes is repentance, confession, and prayer. God is always more ready to speak than I am to listen, so I know if I just give him the time and my attention, I’ll hear him, loud and clear. 

Coffee

 February 3, 2021

I’m listening to my friend Willie as he talks about coffee. He’s explaining how they process it

In Cuba, using ancient hand operated machines and time-honored methods. Cuba’s governmental restrictions coupled with the already tenuous Cuban economy has made life even more difficult for average Cubans, who are no strangers to hard times. Pray for Cuba. We are inconvenienced; they are desperate.

It’s the coffee itself that interests me tonight. Folklore tells us that coffee originated in Ethiopia, supposedly by accident, by a shepherd. I have often wondered what prompted someone to dry the beans, roast and crush them, dump them in boiling water and then throw away the grounds. Whatever the motive, I’m glad someone thought to do this. I love my coffee, the stronger, the better. 

It occurs to me that coffee is a lot like life. We have dry times, times when we go through the fire. We get crushed and ground almost to dust before being dumped into hot water. If it takes all that to bring out the flavor of the bean, it takes no less to bring out the best in us. Without all that, there’s no coffee. Without all that, we cannot give off the aroma and flavor of the life God has placed within us. It’s the difficulties, the trials that reveal the quality of the bean. I can’t say that I like the process, but I do like the end result, and am grateful that God never stops grinding, putting me through the fire, and tossing me into hot water. It’s the only way I can be the aroma that wakes someone up from the sleep of sin to the morning light of Christ.

Vicarious

February 2, 2021

“It’s not the same.” My friend Cameron and I were meeting for coffee for the first time in nearly a year. We used to meet at Starbucks, but when COVID hit, they shut down their indoor space, and with all the new regulations piled on top of regular ministry matters, he got real busy in a hurry. Today was to me like a draft of cold water to a man dying of thirst. He couldn’t spare the time we both really wanted, but as we caught up on our families, and how we were handling what has been dumped in our laps, we naturally talked about how Christian ministry has been impacted by it.

It’s not been all bad; difficulties help us recognize those parts of life and work that can or cannot weather storms. Often the daily routines mask weaknesses that are only revealed through stress. Any civil engineer understands that the steel components of a bridge need to be stressed to the breaking point so the project doesn’t collapse under normal use. This past year, the Engineer has tested us. We’ve learned what needs to be strengthened, and what needs to be cast aside.

We talked about virtual worship. When Linda and I were quarantined, we watched Park church’s service on TV. It’s not the same. God wired us to need one another. Staring at a screen, even singing along, cannot replace the camaraderie and fellowship of face to face gatherings, even if we must “mask up” and social distance. And yet this is what many are choosing to do. Some stay home due to health reasons. Some stay home for the health of others. Unfortunately, too many are staying home either because of fear or because it’s easier. They can lounge around in their pajamas, sipping their coffee, listen to the music and sermon, and call it good. But it’s not. The human soul was designed for an intimacy that cannot be obtained watching a screen. This may sound a bit radical, but vicarious worship via a screen is not far removed from vicarious sex via a pornographic website. It feels good, but isolates and hardens the soul.

I’m not trying to condemn anyone. There are legitimate reasons for staying home, but I suspect they are less common than what we’re seeing. Meeting today with my friend drove home to me once more how important our times together are. I drank deeply of Christian fellowship this morning, and am so thankful for it.

 

Holy Ground

 February 1, 2021

For me, it all starts with a text. “Pastor, would you be available for a service on...?” The names and dates change, but the reality is the same. Someone has died, the funeral director called, and once more I’ve been invited to step into a holy place. 

Being retired, and with the years that implies, I don’t get many calls these days to officiate at weddings or baptisms. It’s understandable; it’s a generational thing. There’s not so many of my generation tying the knot; for my generation, the knot of life has loosened, and it’s my job to pick up all the loose ends and weave them into a proper memorial, and to offer hope. It really is a sacred calling, and one I’ve never taken lightly. 

Funerals have always made me nervous. I search for the right words, the right stories, the right Scriptures that I hope will offer comfort, strength, guidance, and hope, as people navigate one of the most difficult challenges of life. In some situations, it’s easy to step into a minefield of conflicting emotions as people try to make sense of their loss. It’s not always that way, but these months of COVID restrictions have presented unprecedented challenges as families who last year made the difficult decision to place mom or dad in a nursing home now have to say goodbye to loved ones they haven’t been able to see or touch for months. They tried to do what is best, and have been robbed of months of even basic human contact.

This is the second time in a week I’ve gotten that text from our local director. My heart always sinks when it comes in, for most of them are people I’ve known for more than thirty years. These aren’t strangers, faceless numbers, but people I’ve talked with, shared meals with, prayed with. My mind is filled with vivid pictures of living, breathing people. The circle slowly shrinks, and I grieve too, those whose voice I’ll not hear again. 

Ultimately though, it’s not about me. It’s all about those left behind. I’ve often said at funerals that it’s the folks in the front row who are at the epicenter of the blast, and it’s up to those sitting further back to come to their rescue, to call and visit, and let them know they aren’t alone in this dark journey. It’s too easy to fade away from the graveside, leaving the family clutching handkerchiefs and dabbing at tears. After the service, it’s suddenly over, but not for those in the front row. So I remind myself to call. And pray. The One who gave his only Son understands, weeps too, and offers the comfort of his presence through the presence of people who love and remember.