January 9, 2016
Being so familiar to us, the story is more amazing than we realize. It's no wonder that the message was rejected by its original recipients: that Jesus is the One through whom our sins are forgiven. One of the earliest recorded Christian sermons to people outside of Judaism was preached by the apostle Peter to the household of Cornelius, a Roman military officer. The blunt reality of the Christian faith is spelled out with stark clarity in Acts 10:37-43.
"You know what has happened throughout the province of Judea, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John preached—how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and power, and how he went around doing good and healing all who were under the power of the devil, because God was with him.
"We are witnesses of everything he did in the country of the Jews and in Jerusalem. They killed him by hanging him on a cross, but God raised him from the dead on the third day and caused him to be seen. He was not seen by all the people, but by witnesses whom God had already chosen—by us who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead.
He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one whom God appointed as judge of the living and the dead. All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name."
If I were to go around doing good, and even healing people and delivering them from spiritual, emotional, or psychological bondage, people might well call me a good man and praise me for the wonderful things accomplished. And if I were falsely accused, sentenced, and executed, people might think it a travesty of justice, but it would end there. The Christian message however, is that God raised from death this particular otherwise ordinary man and that some day this man will judge the living and the dead. But even more, he grants forgiveness of sins to those who believe in him.
You have to admit, that's a pretty wild story! It is not surprising to me that people have a hard time believing it. Sometimes I have a hard time believing it. There are times when I read it and say to myself, "Naw, this can't be real!" It stretches the imagination almost beyond credulity, seems like a science fiction or fantasy story. There's just one thing in it however, that keeps drawing me back: When (as Peter says) I believe, I have this strange inner conviction that I am forgiven, and that all that has been wrong and distorted and twisted inside me has been put right, not by some big act of penance on my part, but by God's mercy and grace. Even better, the guilt and shame I rightly and keenly felt simply evaporates.
Years ago I talked with a Spiritualist friend who told me, "We don't believe in vicarious atonement (ie. that someone else can pay for our sins). Each of us has to take responsibility for our own actions." While that sentiment is laudable, it also is impossible. There is no way I can undo the bad things I've done. Even if from this day forward I never committed another sin, but instead every single thought, word, and deed were for the benefit of others, I could not undo the selfish and hurtful things in my past. And no amount of penance could wash away the guilt. Only forgiveness can do that. And the magnitude of forgiveness I need is greater than any ordinary human can give. Which brings me back to Peter's sermon. This man Jesus went around doing good. But when he died, he didn't stay dead. God raised him up to show us that life isn't just (as some of my friends would say) a bitch, and then you die. Not at all! There is something very special about this man: He forgives my sins. And that changes everything. Am I thankful? You bet I am!
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Thursday, January 7, 2016
True Courage
January 7, 2016
When people think of down home music, they tend to think of Nashville or Austin, but I think of the Trinity Guitars Backroom Radio Hour, right here in Chautauqua County. Along with Rolling Hills Radio, they feature local artists in a radio studio setting, as host Bill Ward said tonight, "music without the noise of a bar." Until fairly recently, my schedule hasn't permitted my attending these shows very often, but I've marked it down in my calendar; it's worth making the time for it. The shows are pretty eclectic musically, with a bit of jazz, country, and folk, along with whatever else Bill happens to schedule. Each show they highlight a different local charity; there is no charge for the show, but we are encouraged to give a donation to the charity of the night.
Tonight's show featured John Cross, recently retired from 30+ years teaching music at Cassadaga Valley High School, and quite the virtuoso on clarinet and sax, along with Mike and Jen Quimby, worship leaders for the Church on the Rock, a local non-denominational congregation. The Quimbys were the primary focus of the evening, with John providing sax backup for their songs. I am grateful tonight for their transparency and vulnerability as they shared not only their music, but their lives.
Jen's father was killed in a plane crash near Buffalo in 2009, an incident that drew national attention to the lax regulations governing the smaller commuter lines. They had been dealing with infertility issues but by receiving frozen embryos they had twins born prematurely at 26 weeks, followed by three months in NICU. As it turned out, Mike was a closet alcoholic. They found themselves in a perfect storm that nearly destroyed their marriage and led to his leaving his position as worship leader at a large church in the area. They worked through their problems, and founded a ministry called HOPE, Helping Other People Endure, through which they encourage people who are going through problems without seeing any possibility of survival, let alone success.
It's not unusual for people to turn their tests into testimonies, but for someone in a Christian leadership position to openly confess substance abuse takes an incredible amount of courage. As it was, it cost him his livelihood. Christian ministry can be a wonderful experience, but it can also be very lonely, as being completely honest about one's struggles and failures is usually much more costly for a Christian leader than it is for anyone else. To have done so and suffered the consequences in the way they did, and still land on their feet together, and to take all that and turn it into good is testimony to their character and God's grace. Tonight in this secular setting, they gave clear testimony to the work of Christ in their lives, and in so doing, encouraged me, and caused me to give thanks for their faithfulness and God's mercy.
When people think of down home music, they tend to think of Nashville or Austin, but I think of the Trinity Guitars Backroom Radio Hour, right here in Chautauqua County. Along with Rolling Hills Radio, they feature local artists in a radio studio setting, as host Bill Ward said tonight, "music without the noise of a bar." Until fairly recently, my schedule hasn't permitted my attending these shows very often, but I've marked it down in my calendar; it's worth making the time for it. The shows are pretty eclectic musically, with a bit of jazz, country, and folk, along with whatever else Bill happens to schedule. Each show they highlight a different local charity; there is no charge for the show, but we are encouraged to give a donation to the charity of the night.
Tonight's show featured John Cross, recently retired from 30+ years teaching music at Cassadaga Valley High School, and quite the virtuoso on clarinet and sax, along with Mike and Jen Quimby, worship leaders for the Church on the Rock, a local non-denominational congregation. The Quimbys were the primary focus of the evening, with John providing sax backup for their songs. I am grateful tonight for their transparency and vulnerability as they shared not only their music, but their lives.
Jen's father was killed in a plane crash near Buffalo in 2009, an incident that drew national attention to the lax regulations governing the smaller commuter lines. They had been dealing with infertility issues but by receiving frozen embryos they had twins born prematurely at 26 weeks, followed by three months in NICU. As it turned out, Mike was a closet alcoholic. They found themselves in a perfect storm that nearly destroyed their marriage and led to his leaving his position as worship leader at a large church in the area. They worked through their problems, and founded a ministry called HOPE, Helping Other People Endure, through which they encourage people who are going through problems without seeing any possibility of survival, let alone success.
It's not unusual for people to turn their tests into testimonies, but for someone in a Christian leadership position to openly confess substance abuse takes an incredible amount of courage. As it was, it cost him his livelihood. Christian ministry can be a wonderful experience, but it can also be very lonely, as being completely honest about one's struggles and failures is usually much more costly for a Christian leader than it is for anyone else. To have done so and suffered the consequences in the way they did, and still land on their feet together, and to take all that and turn it into good is testimony to their character and God's grace. Tonight in this secular setting, they gave clear testimony to the work of Christ in their lives, and in so doing, encouraged me, and caused me to give thanks for their faithfulness and God's mercy.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Political vs. Real Life
January 6, 2016
Our president kept his promise and signed his executive orders on gun control. I could comment at length upon it, but it wouldn't be any more productive than those orders will be to curb gun violence. There will be court challenges, and already a frenzy of Facebook posts, Tweets, and whatever other media are out there, each side preaching to their respective choirs, getting more deeply entrenched, convincing no one. I guess I have to apologize. It's pretty easy to get caught up in it all, in spite of my decision three years ago to eschew political and negative postings. Bloomberg and the Democrats vs. the NRA and the Republicans and Libertarians; it's going to be an interesting year. But whether our Constitution is revered or revised, I keep coming back to the Gospel and where I live my life.
We had invited our pastor and his family for dinner tonight. Linda spent a fair amount of the day preparing both the meal and the house. The time came, and we sat down to home cooked pork roast, mashed potatoes, corn, green beans, and applesauce, and topped it all off with her homemade apple crisp over ice cream. Their oldest daughter Ashley loved Linda's applesauce, and even took a picture of it and sent it to our granddaughter Abi, who is ordinarily our most prolific consumer of it. Before long, Abi was at our door. Shortly afterwards, our daughter Jessie and her three kids stopped by. Before it was all over, the three Pascoe girls, Ian and Eliza, and Abi were engrossed in a cutthroat game of Switchboard, followed by Nines. Jessie and pastor Joe went for a couple rounds of Speed (card game, not illegal substance) in between conversations about church and life, and ended with a rousing game of hide and seek with little Gemma. It was a delightful evening, some of it planned, much of it spur of the moment.
I'm pretty much an introvert, but I must admit that today was a banner day just because of the people in it. This afternoon we received unexpected guests when two friends popped in one after the other, one to give Linda some shampoo and conditioner for Abi, the other to borrow my chop saw. I made a trip to the local builders' supply to pick up a can of foam insulation and sealer and to order a new weatherstrip for our front door. Dealing locally instead of a big box store has its advantages. I talked with Rod who remembered selling me the front door last summer, and in a couple minutes had tracked down the sale record for the manufacturer of the door. He's ordered it by now, and in a week I'll have it installed. Even an introvert like me can see the value and blessing of personal relationships. In small town America, even business is a matter of friendships. We know one another by our first names, root for each other's kids in local sports, grieve together in times of tragedy. And we spend time together. Compared to Donald Trump on the right, and Hillary Clinton on the left, I don't have much of a bank account, but when it comes to life, I'm guessing they are paupers compared to me. I wouldn't trade places with either of them, and will lay my head on my pillow tonight with prayers of gratitude and praise.
Our president kept his promise and signed his executive orders on gun control. I could comment at length upon it, but it wouldn't be any more productive than those orders will be to curb gun violence. There will be court challenges, and already a frenzy of Facebook posts, Tweets, and whatever other media are out there, each side preaching to their respective choirs, getting more deeply entrenched, convincing no one. I guess I have to apologize. It's pretty easy to get caught up in it all, in spite of my decision three years ago to eschew political and negative postings. Bloomberg and the Democrats vs. the NRA and the Republicans and Libertarians; it's going to be an interesting year. But whether our Constitution is revered or revised, I keep coming back to the Gospel and where I live my life.
We had invited our pastor and his family for dinner tonight. Linda spent a fair amount of the day preparing both the meal and the house. The time came, and we sat down to home cooked pork roast, mashed potatoes, corn, green beans, and applesauce, and topped it all off with her homemade apple crisp over ice cream. Their oldest daughter Ashley loved Linda's applesauce, and even took a picture of it and sent it to our granddaughter Abi, who is ordinarily our most prolific consumer of it. Before long, Abi was at our door. Shortly afterwards, our daughter Jessie and her three kids stopped by. Before it was all over, the three Pascoe girls, Ian and Eliza, and Abi were engrossed in a cutthroat game of Switchboard, followed by Nines. Jessie and pastor Joe went for a couple rounds of Speed (card game, not illegal substance) in between conversations about church and life, and ended with a rousing game of hide and seek with little Gemma. It was a delightful evening, some of it planned, much of it spur of the moment.
I'm pretty much an introvert, but I must admit that today was a banner day just because of the people in it. This afternoon we received unexpected guests when two friends popped in one after the other, one to give Linda some shampoo and conditioner for Abi, the other to borrow my chop saw. I made a trip to the local builders' supply to pick up a can of foam insulation and sealer and to order a new weatherstrip for our front door. Dealing locally instead of a big box store has its advantages. I talked with Rod who remembered selling me the front door last summer, and in a couple minutes had tracked down the sale record for the manufacturer of the door. He's ordered it by now, and in a week I'll have it installed. Even an introvert like me can see the value and blessing of personal relationships. In small town America, even business is a matter of friendships. We know one another by our first names, root for each other's kids in local sports, grieve together in times of tragedy. And we spend time together. Compared to Donald Trump on the right, and Hillary Clinton on the left, I don't have much of a bank account, but when it comes to life, I'm guessing they are paupers compared to me. I wouldn't trade places with either of them, and will lay my head on my pillow tonight with prayers of gratitude and praise.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Postponed Prayers
December 5, 2015
Prayer can be a strange discipline. In it, we talk to a God we cannot see, who may or may not answer as we wish. Some people see prayer as accessing some sort of celestial vending machine; put the prayer in and get the answer out. I've not known it to work that way. Sometimes we get the answers we want almost immediately; sometimes never. When I was a teenager, I was taught that when we read the Bible, God speaks to us; when we pray, we speak to God. Unfortunately, that way of seeing prayer is somewhat truncated. Prayer is not a one-way street; it's a dialogue, more of a way of cultivating a relationship involving listening as well as speaking.
Of course, it does include asking and receiving. Jesus said as much. But it is much more than that. It is one of God's means of changing us into the persons he in his forethought and grace intends us to be. Sometimes that only happens when the answers are delayed, which is why Jesus also teaches us to pray without ceasing. Sometimes when we are asking for something, God is more intent on developing his character in us through the perseverance of prayer than he is in giving us what we are requesting. And sometimes, there are other people and factors that God is orchestrating towards a greater good than we can imagine.
Last year, a good friend suffered a stroke that robbed him of the use of his right side and his ability to speak. At most, he has been able to utter a couple single syllables while gesturing. Always the same syllables. Last summer I had a dream about him in which when I walked into his room, he greeted me with full conversation. The Scriptures say that young men shall see visions and old men shall dream dreams in the power of the Holy Spirit. I guess that says all there is to say about how God sees me. I told my friend about my dream and that I was praying for it to become reality. Nearly every time I visit him, I remind him of my dream and my prayers.
Today when I visited him, he started counting, one through five, trying to tell me something. He was reminding me of his birthday coming up next month. What excited me was the five words he spoke, the most he has put together in one group in more than six months. I wish God would hurry up with the full answer to my prayers, but for now, I am grateful for the firstfruits. I think my friend is, too.
Prayer can be a strange discipline. In it, we talk to a God we cannot see, who may or may not answer as we wish. Some people see prayer as accessing some sort of celestial vending machine; put the prayer in and get the answer out. I've not known it to work that way. Sometimes we get the answers we want almost immediately; sometimes never. When I was a teenager, I was taught that when we read the Bible, God speaks to us; when we pray, we speak to God. Unfortunately, that way of seeing prayer is somewhat truncated. Prayer is not a one-way street; it's a dialogue, more of a way of cultivating a relationship involving listening as well as speaking.
Of course, it does include asking and receiving. Jesus said as much. But it is much more than that. It is one of God's means of changing us into the persons he in his forethought and grace intends us to be. Sometimes that only happens when the answers are delayed, which is why Jesus also teaches us to pray without ceasing. Sometimes when we are asking for something, God is more intent on developing his character in us through the perseverance of prayer than he is in giving us what we are requesting. And sometimes, there are other people and factors that God is orchestrating towards a greater good than we can imagine.
Last year, a good friend suffered a stroke that robbed him of the use of his right side and his ability to speak. At most, he has been able to utter a couple single syllables while gesturing. Always the same syllables. Last summer I had a dream about him in which when I walked into his room, he greeted me with full conversation. The Scriptures say that young men shall see visions and old men shall dream dreams in the power of the Holy Spirit. I guess that says all there is to say about how God sees me. I told my friend about my dream and that I was praying for it to become reality. Nearly every time I visit him, I remind him of my dream and my prayers.
Today when I visited him, he started counting, one through five, trying to tell me something. He was reminding me of his birthday coming up next month. What excited me was the five words he spoke, the most he has put together in one group in more than six months. I wish God would hurry up with the full answer to my prayers, but for now, I am grateful for the firstfruits. I think my friend is, too.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Poppa's Saw
January 3, 2016
My maternal grandfather was quite a man. He stood over six feet three at a time when the average man's height was about five foot ten. He ran away from home and an abusive step mother when he was sixteen and joined the Navy. His language could be coarse, but he was a wonderful grandfather to my brother, my sister, and myself. Not so much to my cousins. When my mother's sister married my Uncle Ray who was a Roman Catholic, my grandfather disowned her, never so much as speaking to her again. The story has it that when he was a little boy, someone did the family dirt, leaving them quite destitute. This somebody happened to be Catholic, which was all he needed to harbor a grudge that hurt his own flesh and blood who never did anything to deserve such treatment.
But to us, he was a wonderful grandfather. He was a milkman by trade, delivering bottles to houses all across the city until his heart attack forced an early retirement. Not one to let ill health stop him, he bought some land from his sister, tore down the barn that was on it, and built himself a house. From rough framing to building his own cabinets, he had his hands on every piece of wood, every nail, every window, door, and shingle on that house. To do this, he had to have tools, so he bought a table saw, band saw, drill press, planer, and shaper. I still have the Pinewood Derby car we made using those tools when I was a boy. Better yet, I have the memories of using them with his help. When Poppa Henthorn died in 1963, my dad inherited his shop. Somewhere along the line, dad decided to sell the shaper and planer, but kept the others.
Somehow, I inherited the table saw, band saw, and drill press when dad decided he couldn't use them anymore. These are not the cheap stuff that clutters the market these days. They are cast iron and steel, with not a single piece of plastic to be found. I've used them for years, finally giving the band saw and drill press to my son Matt to use in his knife-making business. I kept the table saw, for which he had no use, and which still was functional for various projects I've tackled. Unfortunately, the last time I fired it up, it screamed in protest. A bearing in either the motor or the blade pulley has apparently decided it's time to call it quits.
Linda remedied the situation by buying me a new table saw for Christmas, but I still hated to get rid of this old friend with all the memories it held, even though there's no logical reason to keep it. Enter my friend Eric, one of the handiest men I've ever met. He and his wife Tracy were over for dinner today, and I happened to tell him of Linda's gift, and of the old saw. "Can I see it?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, as we headed to the garage. Eric looked it over and asked, "How much do you want for it?" I told him he would be doing me a favor to take it off my hands. I didn't want to scrap it, and had pretty much decided to give it away in hopes someone could use it. Eric will have it up and running in no time, and I know my grandfather's saw is in good hands. It's a small thing really, but it gives me a great deal of satisfaction to give it to someone I know who will care for it even better than I would. That saw is probably sixty years old, and will soon be running strong.
It really is a parable of God's work in us. When we were ready to go on the scrapheap of life, all broken down and used up, God saw the possibilities in us, and said, "I can fix this and make you just like new." Instead of cast off, we are chosen, redeemed, and given new life and purpose. Thank you, Eric, for doing this with my grandfather's saw. Thank you, Lord, for doing this with me.
My maternal grandfather was quite a man. He stood over six feet three at a time when the average man's height was about five foot ten. He ran away from home and an abusive step mother when he was sixteen and joined the Navy. His language could be coarse, but he was a wonderful grandfather to my brother, my sister, and myself. Not so much to my cousins. When my mother's sister married my Uncle Ray who was a Roman Catholic, my grandfather disowned her, never so much as speaking to her again. The story has it that when he was a little boy, someone did the family dirt, leaving them quite destitute. This somebody happened to be Catholic, which was all he needed to harbor a grudge that hurt his own flesh and blood who never did anything to deserve such treatment.
But to us, he was a wonderful grandfather. He was a milkman by trade, delivering bottles to houses all across the city until his heart attack forced an early retirement. Not one to let ill health stop him, he bought some land from his sister, tore down the barn that was on it, and built himself a house. From rough framing to building his own cabinets, he had his hands on every piece of wood, every nail, every window, door, and shingle on that house. To do this, he had to have tools, so he bought a table saw, band saw, drill press, planer, and shaper. I still have the Pinewood Derby car we made using those tools when I was a boy. Better yet, I have the memories of using them with his help. When Poppa Henthorn died in 1963, my dad inherited his shop. Somewhere along the line, dad decided to sell the shaper and planer, but kept the others.
Somehow, I inherited the table saw, band saw, and drill press when dad decided he couldn't use them anymore. These are not the cheap stuff that clutters the market these days. They are cast iron and steel, with not a single piece of plastic to be found. I've used them for years, finally giving the band saw and drill press to my son Matt to use in his knife-making business. I kept the table saw, for which he had no use, and which still was functional for various projects I've tackled. Unfortunately, the last time I fired it up, it screamed in protest. A bearing in either the motor or the blade pulley has apparently decided it's time to call it quits.
Linda remedied the situation by buying me a new table saw for Christmas, but I still hated to get rid of this old friend with all the memories it held, even though there's no logical reason to keep it. Enter my friend Eric, one of the handiest men I've ever met. He and his wife Tracy were over for dinner today, and I happened to tell him of Linda's gift, and of the old saw. "Can I see it?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, as we headed to the garage. Eric looked it over and asked, "How much do you want for it?" I told him he would be doing me a favor to take it off my hands. I didn't want to scrap it, and had pretty much decided to give it away in hopes someone could use it. Eric will have it up and running in no time, and I know my grandfather's saw is in good hands. It's a small thing really, but it gives me a great deal of satisfaction to give it to someone I know who will care for it even better than I would. That saw is probably sixty years old, and will soon be running strong.
It really is a parable of God's work in us. When we were ready to go on the scrapheap of life, all broken down and used up, God saw the possibilities in us, and said, "I can fix this and make you just like new." Instead of cast off, we are chosen, redeemed, and given new life and purpose. Thank you, Eric, for doing this with my grandfather's saw. Thank you, Lord, for doing this with me.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Leftovers
January 2, 2016
A GIFT INSIDE, OUTSIDE, AND ON A PLATE
Sometimes when Linda and I get to going in two different directions, suppertime gets interesting. Last night we had Izzi, Jo, and Eliza stay overnight with us. Izzi and Jo were "bored," so I figured we could remedy that, which we did. Linda had planned on taking Abi for her Christmas shopping today, so I said I would take the other girls to do some shopping they wanted to get done. Izzi had no interest in it, so she went home this morning while I took Jo and Eliza to the mall. Two pre-teen girls and a mall are as perfect a match as can be found on earth, and they made the most of it. Having their own money, they were pretty careful in what they spent, and in my estimation, did pretty well. They even had enough to get their nails done, although I sweated it out just a bit, thinking that they had misunderstood the Chinese gentleman who ran the shop. They said, "Six dollars," and I thought, "There's no way they can get their nails done for six bucks!" But they did! I was relieved that I didn't have to bail them out, and they were two happy campers.
We got home just after noon, but Linda and Abi took a bit longer. I made a sandwich for lunch, paid a visit to Bills' Gun and Saddle Shop, practiced my bassoon, and waited for Linda. Fast forward to supper time. Neither of us was particularly hungry, and having been in different places all day, neither of us had thought much about what to have for supper, so we checked out the leftovers. And that is the point of my story. When before in human history did anyone except royalty have such a thing as leftovers? Deprivation and hunger are a far more common human experience than leftovers. Linda cleaned out the refrigerator on New Year's Eve, and threw out stuff that had sat a tad too long. How blessed is that? We can sometimes live on leftovers for a week! There wasn't much variety on my plate, but it was there, more than I could eat in one sitting.
My mother has told how when she and her sister were growing up during the Great Depression, her parents often went to bed hungry so their girls would have enough to eat. My mother spent summers on the farm with her grandparents because there wasn't always enough at home. I've never known deprivation of that sort, let alone the kind where entire families and villages starve to death due to war or their government's genocidal policies.
If it weren't enough that we have leftovers on our plates, the spiritual feeding we receive week after week is so abundant that the real danger for American Christians is being overfed and underexercised. Our national physical obesity problem makes headlines; our spiritual obesity nobody notices. We clean our spiritual plates, but don't exercise our faith and obedience. We are long on the feeding and short on the faith. So I am grateful tonight for plates of leftovers, a reminder of blessings and a challenge for faithfulness. May we never experience a famine of the Word (Amos 8:11), but may God deliver us from self-induced spiritual obesity. May our hearts and our faithfulness be as full as our plates!
A GIFT INSIDE, OUTSIDE, AND ON A PLATE
Sometimes when Linda and I get to going in two different directions, suppertime gets interesting. Last night we had Izzi, Jo, and Eliza stay overnight with us. Izzi and Jo were "bored," so I figured we could remedy that, which we did. Linda had planned on taking Abi for her Christmas shopping today, so I said I would take the other girls to do some shopping they wanted to get done. Izzi had no interest in it, so she went home this morning while I took Jo and Eliza to the mall. Two pre-teen girls and a mall are as perfect a match as can be found on earth, and they made the most of it. Having their own money, they were pretty careful in what they spent, and in my estimation, did pretty well. They even had enough to get their nails done, although I sweated it out just a bit, thinking that they had misunderstood the Chinese gentleman who ran the shop. They said, "Six dollars," and I thought, "There's no way they can get their nails done for six bucks!" But they did! I was relieved that I didn't have to bail them out, and they were two happy campers.
We got home just after noon, but Linda and Abi took a bit longer. I made a sandwich for lunch, paid a visit to Bills' Gun and Saddle Shop, practiced my bassoon, and waited for Linda. Fast forward to supper time. Neither of us was particularly hungry, and having been in different places all day, neither of us had thought much about what to have for supper, so we checked out the leftovers. And that is the point of my story. When before in human history did anyone except royalty have such a thing as leftovers? Deprivation and hunger are a far more common human experience than leftovers. Linda cleaned out the refrigerator on New Year's Eve, and threw out stuff that had sat a tad too long. How blessed is that? We can sometimes live on leftovers for a week! There wasn't much variety on my plate, but it was there, more than I could eat in one sitting.
My mother has told how when she and her sister were growing up during the Great Depression, her parents often went to bed hungry so their girls would have enough to eat. My mother spent summers on the farm with her grandparents because there wasn't always enough at home. I've never known deprivation of that sort, let alone the kind where entire families and villages starve to death due to war or their government's genocidal policies.
If it weren't enough that we have leftovers on our plates, the spiritual feeding we receive week after week is so abundant that the real danger for American Christians is being overfed and underexercised. Our national physical obesity problem makes headlines; our spiritual obesity nobody notices. We clean our spiritual plates, but don't exercise our faith and obedience. We are long on the feeding and short on the faith. So I am grateful tonight for plates of leftovers, a reminder of blessings and a challenge for faithfulness. May we never experience a famine of the Word (Amos 8:11), but may God deliver us from self-induced spiritual obesity. May our hearts and our faithfulness be as full as our plates!
Friday, January 1, 2016
Hear This!
January 1, 2016
Often one doesn't really know what to expect. From "This is guaranteed to change your life" to "If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor," we've all gotten sucked into situations that didn't live up to their hype. But occasionally we stumble upon those things that exceed our expectations and actually do transform our lives. Three years ago I began what has turned out to be exactly what it was made out to be-a journey of joy. In my desperation, I was grabbing at straws and happened to grab hold of a strong life rope thrown to me by God's grace. It was in the form of a calendar or schedule of gratitude. I took the challenge, and it saved my life.
The challenge was simple-three suggestions each day of things for which to be grateful. I did that for a year, then branched out to things of my own choosing. It has been enlightening for me, but too often, I would come to the end of the day not having actually taken much time or effort to ponder the blessings I've been given. When evening came, I would often find myself scrambling to think of what for which to give thanks that day. Too often, the results were in my opinion, pretty shallow and contrived. So I've decided this year to return to following the calendar suggested on the website aholyexperience.com. Still needing to finish my reflections on the Apostles' Creed, I won't be particularly OCD about it, but will use the calendar like the lectionary, as it offers a structure for my gratitude. Also, I won't always come up with three items. So with that introduction, it's time to begin.
3 GIFTS HEARD
The fact that I can hear at all is gift enough for me. My family has a history of hearing disorder that I have unhappily inherited. My paternal grandmother was so profoundly deaf in her last years that not even being able to hear her own voice, her speech degenerated into a meaningless mumbling. Both my parents have used hearing aids for years, and about fifteen years ago, I was first fitted for them. Without the assistance of these technological wonders, I would not be able to understand my grandchildrens' speech, and general conversation would be extremely difficult for me.
I was not yet a teenager when I first noticed what would develop into full-fledged full-time tinnitus. As a little kid, I can remember lying in bed on a summer's evening looking out the window at the stars and hearing an intermittent beeping. I thought perhaps aliens were trying to contact me, but to my knowledge, they never did. Or maybe they did, but in a presaging of Linda's occasional complaint, maybe I wasn't really listening. At any rate, this high pitched squealing in my ears is a constant companion, day and night, never ceasing, always there. I've read of people who have been driven to madness or suicide by their tinnitis, but while it can be irritating, it's nothing for which I am willing to give my life, and if it's going to drive me to madness, it's going to have to get in line. It could be a very short trip.
In reality, although I wouldn't be unhappy to have it suddenly disappear so I could hear the birds sing without it sounding like there is this continual electronic feedback screeching inside my head, I am somewhat grateful for it, because it makes me aware as I would not otherwise be of this amazing gift of hearing we have. It is amazing to think that sound waves striking the eardrum and transmitted through three tiny little bones to nerves inside the inner ear which send signals to the brain which then interprets those signals as sound. Even more is the ability to distinguish different sounds and tonalities, such as my bassoon or bass, or a clarinet or trumpet, and even more amazingly, the vowels and consonants that make up human speech. Even with the ringing in my ears, I can pick out the different instruments in an orchestra and revel in the timbre and tone, the melodies and harmonies of classical, country, and jazz music. Best of all is the soft sighing I hear as my wife slumbers beside me. That is truly music to my ears!
Often one doesn't really know what to expect. From "This is guaranteed to change your life" to "If you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor," we've all gotten sucked into situations that didn't live up to their hype. But occasionally we stumble upon those things that exceed our expectations and actually do transform our lives. Three years ago I began what has turned out to be exactly what it was made out to be-a journey of joy. In my desperation, I was grabbing at straws and happened to grab hold of a strong life rope thrown to me by God's grace. It was in the form of a calendar or schedule of gratitude. I took the challenge, and it saved my life.
The challenge was simple-three suggestions each day of things for which to be grateful. I did that for a year, then branched out to things of my own choosing. It has been enlightening for me, but too often, I would come to the end of the day not having actually taken much time or effort to ponder the blessings I've been given. When evening came, I would often find myself scrambling to think of what for which to give thanks that day. Too often, the results were in my opinion, pretty shallow and contrived. So I've decided this year to return to following the calendar suggested on the website aholyexperience.com. Still needing to finish my reflections on the Apostles' Creed, I won't be particularly OCD about it, but will use the calendar like the lectionary, as it offers a structure for my gratitude. Also, I won't always come up with three items. So with that introduction, it's time to begin.
3 GIFTS HEARD
The fact that I can hear at all is gift enough for me. My family has a history of hearing disorder that I have unhappily inherited. My paternal grandmother was so profoundly deaf in her last years that not even being able to hear her own voice, her speech degenerated into a meaningless mumbling. Both my parents have used hearing aids for years, and about fifteen years ago, I was first fitted for them. Without the assistance of these technological wonders, I would not be able to understand my grandchildrens' speech, and general conversation would be extremely difficult for me.
I was not yet a teenager when I first noticed what would develop into full-fledged full-time tinnitus. As a little kid, I can remember lying in bed on a summer's evening looking out the window at the stars and hearing an intermittent beeping. I thought perhaps aliens were trying to contact me, but to my knowledge, they never did. Or maybe they did, but in a presaging of Linda's occasional complaint, maybe I wasn't really listening. At any rate, this high pitched squealing in my ears is a constant companion, day and night, never ceasing, always there. I've read of people who have been driven to madness or suicide by their tinnitis, but while it can be irritating, it's nothing for which I am willing to give my life, and if it's going to drive me to madness, it's going to have to get in line. It could be a very short trip.
In reality, although I wouldn't be unhappy to have it suddenly disappear so I could hear the birds sing without it sounding like there is this continual electronic feedback screeching inside my head, I am somewhat grateful for it, because it makes me aware as I would not otherwise be of this amazing gift of hearing we have. It is amazing to think that sound waves striking the eardrum and transmitted through three tiny little bones to nerves inside the inner ear which send signals to the brain which then interprets those signals as sound. Even more is the ability to distinguish different sounds and tonalities, such as my bassoon or bass, or a clarinet or trumpet, and even more amazingly, the vowels and consonants that make up human speech. Even with the ringing in my ears, I can pick out the different instruments in an orchestra and revel in the timbre and tone, the melodies and harmonies of classical, country, and jazz music. Best of all is the soft sighing I hear as my wife slumbers beside me. That is truly music to my ears!
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