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.