Laughter and Leeches

June 15, 2016

Retribution is very real. Yesterday I had wrongly accused our resident frogs of eating all the baby goldfish. It turned out that those little critters were just being sly and secretive, hiding in the murky labyrinth of dead leaves and muck. All seventy-five, plus or minus a few. We netted them all, tucked them in for the night in a tote and two washtubs, awaiting the cleaning and sealing of the pond today.

At risk of another round of false accusations, it appears that our friendly neighborhood raccoon thought we had set up a sushi bar. This morning when I went out to check on them, there was a solitary adult goldfish in one of the tubs and a few goldfish parts scattered around the area. Said raccoon is somewhat of a connoisseur, eschewing the single mottled goldfish in preference for the solid orange ones.

On a brighter note, this afternoon we had three young girls busy scrubbing the pond in preparation for its eventual sealing. Izzi, Hailey, and Taylor hosed, scrubbed, and gabbed for about three hours till the cement almost sparkled. I was cleaning the bricks I plan to use for our new patio, listening to the non-stop chatter emanating from the pond, grateful for their help and the joyful spirit with which they worked. Having them here was worth every dollar we paid them.

They were pretty grubby by the time they finished, so they decided to pay our swimming hole a visit, which ended surprisingly quickly. I could hear them all the way from where I was working by the house, as they came back up the lawn loudly informing me of the various leeches that they accumulated as they were sliding down the rocks, and of the snake that decided to join them for a swim. It's never dull around here, for which I am thankful tonight.

Judging Frogs

June 14, 2016

It's always a mistake to pass judgment before you have all the facts. Things after all, are not always what they seem to be. I could easily launch into a political rant on the basis of those words. Our leaders and would-be leaders are notorious for doing just that, or even worse, having the facts, but misleading us according to the spin they desire. But I'm not talking about politicians; I'm talking about frogs. Fortunately, misjudging frogs is less consequential than judging people.

Our little fish pond has been in need of a serious cleaning. No matter how I've treated it, the algae bloom has turned the water a deep, cloudy green so that it is almost impossible to even see the resident five big goldfish. And the frogs. I can't figure out where they came from. I've never seen any in the creek, but they showed up in our pond like party crashers. I didn't do a head count, but there were at least six or seven of them, all apparently over-sexed, judging from the number of polliwogs we netted. The "we" was our granddaughter Izzi and her friend Haley, who for some odd reason didn't know what I was talking about when I called them polliwogs. Tadpoles, if you will.

Early in the spring when the water was clear, I could see dozens of little goldfish darting in and out of the debris at the bottom of the pool. They are hard to spot, camouflaged in debris-matching brown until they begin to mature at about six months. As the pond warmed, the frogs appeared, the water turned green, and the baby fish (usually called "fry," a term we'll forego due to its association with traditional Friday night meals) disappeared. I attributed the latter to the frogs which I figured had eaten them.

But as we drained the pool and began netting the big fish, we began to catch the little ones, too. Right now, I have two galvanized wash tubs and a huge tote filled with fish. They are hard to count, flitting about as they do, but from the looks of it, I've got about seventy-five of them in those tubs. What am I going to do with all those goldfish?

If I were being judgmental of people, repentance would be in order; I'm not so sure it's necessary for my having passed faulty judgment on the frogs. Either way, it's a good reminder to be careful about jumping to conclusions. It may just be a rather short hop from frogs to people.

Juxtaposition

June 13, 2016

Life can be full of paradox; those juxtapositions of contrary events that have no business being together, nevertheless are. While our nation is in mourning for the victims of the massacre in Orlando, and politicians and opportunists use this tragedy to push for their varying agendas, Linda and I had the delight of celebrating with some dear friends as their adoption of two little girls was finalized. Sorrow and joy side by side, as the Scriptures say, we we weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice,and give thanks.

Theodicy

June 12, 2016

I began tonight's post months ago, but just couldn't pull it together. This morning's news fo the mass shooting in Orlando nudged me to finish what I had started.

Theodicy: the problem of evil. It's a problem only for people in the Judeo-Christian tradition. The atheist has no philosophical problem with evil. If there is no God, evil is merely a fact of life; a construct of the human mind. Who's to say what is good and what is evil if there is no ultimate reality, no Supreme Being? If I rob and kill, my victims may not like it, but without God, might makes right. But I am a Christian who believes in an all-powerful, good God. Therein lies the problem. It's been classically stated in this way: "If God were all-powerful, he could prevent evil; if he were good, he would prevent it. Evil exists; therefore God either is not all-powerful or he is not good."

The problem of evil is the subject matter of the Bible. God's action on behalf of his erring people is the subject of the story from beginning to end, but right in the middle of the Bible is perhaps the most comprehensive treatment of the mystery of suffering in the entire Holy Writ. It's the story of Job, who suffered grievously and in that suffering, questioned the justice of God. Smarter and more educated men than I have wrestled with this epic poem and come up with commentary and interpretations that frankly, leave me unsatisfied. I'm not sure my musings are any better, but it seems to me that Job presents two different responses to the problem of evil.

In the first, Job's misfortune is the result of a cosmic wager between God and Satan in which Job is merely a pawn, the unfortunate recipient of undeserved evil brought on by God's desire to prove a point. From this perspective, Job's insistence on his innocence not only makes sense, it has merit. God is presented as somewhat cavalier in his treatment of his prize subject. Even more, from Job's perspective, not having the insight we have in reading the story, one could argue that had he discovered the behind the scenes action, he would be justified in accusing God of injustice. I've never understood why so many Christians are satisfied with this explanation. In my opinion, this unsatisfactory explanation merely sets the stage for the ultimate conclusion in which God challenges Job with the mystery of his majesty.

Ultimately, evil is a mystery with which we must deal. God essentially tells Job that there are things in life too big for him to understand, and though he will wrestle with them, he is not capable of threading that needle. When God asks Job who he thinks he is to accuse God of injustice, it isn't primarily accusatory, but simply a statement of fact, a revelation Job needs to see.

The story however, doesn't end with Job. It climaxes in Jesus Christ, who entered into human life with all its depravity and evil, experienced its voracious appetite, and through his death and resurrection set the stage for its final defeat. There will be unending commentary in the media, with each side accusing the other of stonewalling what they consider the best way to deal with the problem of violence and terrorism. Christians will get caught up in the frenzy of blame, and sooner or later, it will happen all over again. No one seems to realize that no matter how hard we try, we don't have the definitive answer to evil. What we do have is the example of Jesus who called his followers to overcome evil with good. That doesn't mean we merely turn the other cheek and hope those who revel in evil will somehow be chagrined by our meek submission; evil must often be confronted with righteous strength.

Public figures will debate and decide. Activists will activate. People will wring their hands and hearts, Christians and other people of faith will pray while agnostics scoff at such futile exercises. But even they have no answer to evil. We pray, console, and walk with one another through their darkest hours, and struggle at times to give thanks for life itself, believing that what is inexplicable to us God will somehow weave into the tapestry of his plan to eradicate evil once and for all in the final judgment.

Pre-Recital

June 11, 2016

Tonight I am thankful for Eliza's piano recital. Her teacher explained that this was a "pre-recital," where her students were learning how to perform before an audience, the etiquette of responding to applause. They might make some mistakes, but because it was a learning experience, a wrong note here or there was OK. Before each presentation each student was asked what they learned that their choice of music highlighted, and before their second presentation, they were interviewed about the composer of their particular piece.

Tonight's recital was a pretty good example of what Sunday morning worship is all about. Each Sunday is somewhat of a pre-recital where we learn how to present ourselves to the Majesty of our Lord. Corporate worship is not a concert performance where the worship leaders entertain the congregation; it's where the congregation learns the etiquette of heaven, how to be in the presence of God. We don't get it perfect, as a matter of fact, whenever we think we've gotten it right is when we probably have missed the mark completely. We are still sinners redeemed by grace, coming humbly before the glorious Creator and Redeemer--how can we presume to "get it right?"

As in tonight's recital, there is no room for a casual, lackadaisical approach to this pre-recital; we must prepare ourselves for worship, ready to be questioned by God himself as to how well we know the composer of life. It isn't necessary to get everything right, but it is necessary to practice, to prepare so that the recital doesn't degenerate into a cacophony of discord. Tomorrow we gather for the new week's pre-recital. May our daily practice be evident as we worship in the beautiful harmony of love.

The Power of Choice

June 9, 2016

Gratitude is not merely the natural result of something good that happens to you. The world is full of people whose outlook on life is negative and critical despite the fact that life is generally pretty easy for them. It takes little effort to find things that displease us, circumstances about which we complain, people who get under our skin. But our circumstances have little connection with our happiness. I know people whose life circumstances are absolutely terrible, who are filled with joy and gratitude, while others who have been blessed with health, family, and resources, who are miserable. It's a choice to look at life in a certain way, to focus on the blessings instead of the bumps.

I began thinking of gratitude this afternoon on the way into town. Our dishwasher had sprung a leak, the plumber came out and discovered what I could have found out myself had I taken the time to simply think things through, so after paying him for his friendly visit, I headed to town for a drain hose and a few other items. I wasn't feeling particularly happy, nor particularly sad; I was just hovering in a vacuum of emotion when I decided I didn't want to remain there. I began considering some of the small blessings for which I could give thanks, and my attitude improved. Which leads me to believe that most of the time we miss out on God's blessings simply because we go through each day without attuning our hearts to what really matters. It takes a decisive effort to do this. If I allow myself to drift with the current of whatever emotion surfaces at any given time, things will not end well. It is that decision to choose gratitude that has the power to take a very ordinary day and turn it into an extraordinary one. Today I am thankful that I've learned the power to choose my attitude. It's in my hands, and I choose life.

Four Generations

June 8, 2016

How quickly we are forgotten. Linda has often said that the only thing she fears about death is that she will not be remembered. For the famous and infamous, that may not be a problem, although if the present trajectory of our awareness of history is any indication of the future, even the famous soon will fade and disappear like the wisps of smoke from a summer campfire. Job says as much, declaring that "as the cloud is consumed and vanishes away, so he who goes down to the grave shall come up no more" (7:9). In Psalm 49:10-14 declares that the future of rich and poor alike lies in the grave to which they both shall go. Linda's fear is echoed in the repeated plea of God's people that he remember and have mercy upon them.

We've spent the day with my mother, giving my brother and sister in law a much needed vacation with friends. Mom correctly protests that she doesn't need someone to watch over her, but I suspect she enjoys having the company, and it's no problem for Linda and me other than we're not used to just sitting around. A few weeks ago we planted a flower garden for mom to enjoy, and Linda thought it needed just a few more flowers to brighten it up a bit, so we went for a drive, purchased a few seedlings at a nursery, and came home to plant them. On the way home we passed the first home I remember growing up, a small bungalow at the corner of Elm Grove and Spencerport Roads in Greece, NY. The corner used to boast a Texaco station where I remember waiting for the school bus and making a little girl cry by scraping my fingernails down the old steel sign that hung by the road.

On the opposite corner, the old Methodist church has since been converted (imagine the irony in that!) into a hardware store, but the graveyard behind the building holds the earthly remains of four generations of my ancestors. My dad lies there, waiting for mom to join him. My maternal grandmother lies in another cemetery next to her first husband, my poppa Henthorn, but her mother Josephine Hafner, her aunt Stahlecker, my great grandfather and grandmother Wink all rest beneath the sod, awaiting the resurrection. It's those four generations that command my attention today.

The Bible says that God visits people's sins upon them to the third and fourth generation, but his mercy is to a thousand generations. Why three and four? I believe it's because that's the limit of our personal remembrance. I remember well my great-grandmother Hafner, but only the faintest memory of my great-great-grandparents the Winks remains. When my father died on Father's Day 2012, my boys and my brother's boys were among those who spoke eloquently of his influence in their lives. That's the third generation. My boys remember my grandfather Bailey who died before they reached their teens, but they couldn't tell any stories of that fourth generation removed. One's influence rarely outlasts others' personal recollections.

Scripture repeatedly tells us that God remembers us, but not our sins (Isaiah 43:25). "How can I forget you?" God asks his people in Isaiah 49:15. He cannot, and will not. Our Christian hope is unlike that of any other people, for whom the grave is the only future they see. We are resurrection people, who look beyond the grave to the Christ who conquered it and promises to return to receive us unto himself. The world may not long remember even the most famous of us, but God will not forget. Four generations. Ordinary lives counted out in years of struggle, success and defeat, sin and grace. Most is already forgotten except to God to whose grace we commend our lives in confidence that he will never forget his covenant of love to those so desperately in need of it.

On that note, I honor the memory of my late father in law who was born on this day in 1912. His legacy of faith and faithfulness, like my own father's is etched deeply into the hearts and lives of his children and grandchildren. But like generations before him, those memories will fade. What lasts is the legacy of faith that we hold, but it only lasts if we hold it firm and share it boldly. I am grateful for the reminder of the shortness and frailty of life, but also for the significance it has when daily it is entrusted into the care of God, the only Wise and Eternal One, revealed to us in Jesus Christ, his Son, our Savior.