Serenity

 October 8, 2020

It’s been a pretty quiet day here in the country. I woke up around 3:00 am, and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up, read my Bible, deleted old emails, and finally dozed off on the couch for a couple hours. It’s funny how different Linda and I are; when I was actively pastoring, occasionally couples would come in for marital counseling. I frequently had to stifle laughter when they inevitably told me how incompatible they were, after all, one was male and the other female; you can’t get much more incompatible than that! For Linda and myself, incompatibility is our middle name. She likes baking in the sun; I’m a shade guy. She hates to travel; for me, there are so many places yet to see. She lives by her emotions; I usually don’t even know what mine are. And if she wakes up at night, her thoughts are racing so fast she has to turn the tv on to shut her mind off. I can’t sleep with its sound or light in the room. And when I wake up, I can’t think enough even to pray. I just lie there. But I digress.

Once the day got underway, it was pretty serene. I worked some more on the remodeling project, we had dinner, and went to our granddaughters’ swim meet. I have more projects waiting in the wings than I have time to do them, and we’re keeping options open, not knowing what the future holds for my mother. 

All of which leads me to my observation for today: life is always personal. Big issues are swirling all around us like a wildfire, and people are getting caught up in the updrafts, swept off their feet, and allowing current events to consume them. I have to admit, I constantly have to fight the temptation to get sucked in, and don’t always win. But while my life is affected by what happens in Albany and Washington, and in all the places where unrest and rioting are occurring, my life is not defined by any of these places or people. Spending time with family, going out of my way to be kind and helpful to others, or just sitting and watching my mother sleep—these are the people and circumstances that form the frame for my life. I’m quite content with it. I had my day in the sun, leading a congregation. I’m sure I could have done better; I know I could have done worse. But that chapter of my life is over, and though life is quite busy, it’s not rushed, and I’m not stressed. The good, bad, and the ugly are all in God’s hands, and he knows how to sort it out. Fortunately for me, he does so with grace and mercy.

Hope

 October 7, 2020

“Vindicate me, O God, And plead my cause against an ungodly nation; 

Oh, deliver me from the deceitful and unjust man! 

For You are the God of my strength; 

Why do You cast me off? 

Why do I go mourning because of the oppression of the enemy? 

Oh, send out Your light and Your truth! Let them lead me; 

Let them bring me to Your holy hill And to Your tabernacle. 

Then I will go to the altar of God, To God my exceeding joy; 

And on the harp I will praise You, O God, my God. 

Why are you cast down, O my soul? 

And why are you disquieted within me? 

Hope in God; For I shall yet praise Him, The help of my countenance and my God.”

Psalm 43:1-5 

This psalm was our springboard for prayer with my pastor friends this morning, and apropos it is! The writer looks around him and seeing ungodliness, deceit, injustice, and oppression, it sends him into an emotional and spiritual tailspin. His strength was gone; it felt like God had abandoned him, and he was depressed—in mourning. I can’t think of a more accurate depiction of what is happening in our country today. Looking around us, things seem pretty bleak. 

It’s that look around us that is at the heart of the matter. Hope is in short supply these days; the shelves of optimism are nearly bare, and unless we ask the same question this psalmist asked, we’ll not find our way out of despondency. The question is simple: “Why do we let the oppression of the enemy drag us down?” The Enemy of our souls is an oppressor; he came to “rob, kill, and destroy,” according to Jesus. Incessant looking around at the state of the world will rob us of our joy, kill our contentment, and destroy our hope. 

The writer doesn’t leave us in despair, however. Instead, he prays, “Send out your light and your truth. Let them lead me...” Instead of looking within, instead of dwelling on past sins and failures, instead of looking around at the state of the world, he looks up; he goes to God, his exceeding joy, and praises him in song. Joy cannot be found in the things of this world; it is found in God alone. Interestingly, he notes that Truth always leads to the worship of God. Our world is dying for the Truth it refuses to acknowledge, Truth that offers hope because it leads us into the presence of the Living God.

Boomerang Blessings

October 6, 2020

She waved me over with a smile. I put down the package I was holding and walked around the back of the car to where she was standing, towering over Linda. “I want to pray for you,” she said quietly, and as we bowed our heads and hugged, she began, asking God  on our behalf for comfort and wisdom in days ahead. 

We had been visiting my mother, who by all appearances, will not be with us much longer. Our granddaughter drove over to spend a few precious minutes with us before having to leave for an birthday appointment with her roommate. Countless are the times we prayed over our grandchildren on Friday nights when they would spend the night with us, and now the blessing we have given is returning. From what I can see, it is a rare gift to have grandchildren praying over their grandparents, but we’ve experienced it before, a fulfillment of Jesus’ promise that if we cast our bread upon the waters, it will return, “pressed down, shaken together, and running over.”

Tonight, our blessing basket is all of that, and we stand amazed at the goodness of our God to allow us to experience this gift today.

 

Baptists and Methodists

 October 5, 2020

The bees I removed from a barn cupola this morning needed to be transferred from the cooler in which I had captured them to a regular beehive, and since the rest of the day was taken up with hanging drywall, I sandwiched the move in between worship team rehearsal at 6:00 and the Ready, Set, Dream class at 7:00. I knew I was playing it close, and I was late for the class, arriving just as Thomas was telling a story. Most of what happens in these groups stays there, but Thomas’ story is revealing.

While talking with a pastor in Dunkirk, Thomas had asked if him if his church had shut down during the pandemic. When the pastor said they had not, Thomas’ response was as classic as it was without guile: “Well, you must be Baptist!” 

Our entire group convulsed with laughter at this. Thomas had struck a nerve.

We are Methodists, and yes, we closed down in response to directives from higher up. There is an important lesson here: one’s own tribe doesn’t have a corner on the market of Truth. I was raised Baptist, and not just any old Baptist; we were fundamentalists, but not separatists. Baptist tradition, unlike Methodism, is independent and Calvinist; staunch rebels against religious and secular authority. Methodism began as a renewal movement within the Anglican Church, but was forced out, becoming its own denomination shortly after the death of its founder, John Wesley. In the fledgling United States, it grew with the frontier, scattering churches all across the country. It has been said that there isn’t a single county in the country that doesn’t have a Methodist church of one sort or another. 

But this history of growing with the frontier means Methodism often identified with the growth of the country itself, becoming in some ways, the religious soul of the nation, reflecting instead of challenging the national ethos. We are seeing this more and more, as the Mainline church echoes the cultural values of the progressive Left. Baptists are not immune to this, but the independent spirit inherent in Baptist theology doesn’t often make good bedfellows with the wider culture. Though a Methodist, I am grateful for my Baptist roots, and for my Baptist friends who stubbornly resist the steady encroachment of our decaying culture upon the Church. Yes, they were Baptist, and they stayed open.

Seasons

 October 4, 2020

“While the earth remains, 

Seedtime and harvest, 

Cold and heat, 

Winter and summer, 

And day and night 

Shall not cease.” —Genesis 8:22 

One of the oldest promises in the Bible, this assurance of the continuity of the seasons is the foundation for life on earth. There are certainly times of drought, of blizzard and flood, time when planting and reaping hang by a thread, but without the assurance of this regularity, there would be no sense in sowing, no hope of harvest, and only the spectre of death and destruction. 

In 1972, spring was cold and rainy. Linda and I planted our garden in May only to have it wash away in an unusually heavy rain. We planted again the beginning of June, just before the remnants of hurricane Agnes brought flooding to the Southern Tier of New York. Our garden ended up somewhere down the Ohio River. Elsewhere however, the cycle of the seasons produced crops that continued to feed us. 

We are fortunate to live in a part of the country where we can enjoy the changing of the seasons. I love visiting Cuba in February, but if I lived there permanently, I would miss the beauty of our white winters. The endless hues of springtime green reflected in the grass, the willows, maples, locust, and ash are a delight to the eye, while the hazy mirages of summer’s heat dance on the pavement as we drive. Crispy snow crunching beneath our feet as we fill the bird feeders for Linda’s cardinals, finches, and chickadees fill the ears while the sparkle of the snow delights the eye and the aroma of the fire burning in the stove fills the nostrils. 

Almost overnight, the trees have donned garments of red, orange, and yellow against the dark green of the firs and spruces, and the leaves have covered the lawn’s green with a brown carpet. The fragrance of the honey emanating from my beehives combines with the apples in the garden shed, telling the same story of an abundance many never see. Hopefully, this week I’ll be able to begin processing the grapes ripening on the vines and ready for harvest, and next week, we’ll begin pressing cider. The butternut and Hubbard squash are laid up, the wood is split and stacked. We are ready for winter.

This afternoon I saw another sign of the season as son Nathan and neighbor Bob helped lift 14 sheets of drywall up on the roof and through the window to son Matthew’s house before installing a new window in Madeline’s bedroom. The finish line is still a ways off, but I can see it; she will soon be sleeping in a remodeled bedroom thanks to young men working together once more. Time and time again, they’ve come to the aid of each other, living out the promise of Christian fellowship and service. Like the promise of the seasons, they can depend on one another, and this often chaotic and uncertain life is given a bit more order and certainty.

Capturing Ruminations

 October 3, 2020

“Poor soul; his mind never ceases from political ruminations. Eventually, he snapped.” William Wilberforce spent nearly his entire political career fighting against the British slave trade. He was a devout Christian, and uttered the above words in reference to a colleague who never took time away from his work. Wilberforce knew as many do not, how important a day of rest is to the human soul. “Everything eventually turns political,” was a comment made in a conversation today in reference to certain individuals who cannot seem to step even for a moment away from all the turmoil in our nation. 

It’s not a malady reserved for professional politicians. I’ve noticed how even preachers will post and comment about political matters more than matters of faith. It is a trap into which I myself have fallen more times than I care to recount. On the way home from caring for my mother today, I had nearly two hours to pray, and to be honest, didn’t get much actual praying done. I was constantly fighting the battle of my mind wandering onto the political minefield, coming up with responses to imaginary conversations with people whose persuasions are different than mine. No sooner would I drag my thoughts back to Scripture than I found another one wandering off like a heifer bolting for the open pasture after being rounded up into the corral. 

2 Corinthians 10:5 tells us to “bring every thought captive to Christ.” It can be hard work. Our thoughts don’t like to be captured, and will run all over the back 40 to avoid the Gospel lariat. I suppose there is a sort of victory in repeatedly chasing them down, but I do wish I had been able to actually pray for those hours. I know this much: I don’t need to attend every argument to which I’ve been invited, and I dare not abandon the fight to bring my thoughts captive to Christ. Continual rumination on those matters that irritate or agitate us is a sure path to spiritual and emotional unrest, and even unraveling. So tonight, I will engage that spiritual battle of my spirit taking control of my soul, for the sake of my soul, and in obedience to Christ.  

She Sleeps

 October 2, 2020

Just four weeks ago, she did laps around the room to raise money for the Options Care Center, carefully measuring each step as she shuffled behind her walker. She was just shy of her 98th birthday, which has since come and gone. Tonight, she sleeps...as she has for most of the day. She’s worn out; her breathing is labored, punctuated by coughing spells brought on by her congestive heart failure. 

We talked for a few minutes as I helped adjust the blankets around her feet. When I looked up, she was weeping. “I can’t do anything,” she sobbed. 

“That’s why our salvation is by grace,” I responded. “It’s hard to simply receive and not have anything we can do.” While true, my words sounded hollow to me. I like to be active; I have more projects going on than I have time for, but wouldn’t have it any other way. God gave us one day out of seven to rest, because he knows our penchant for ceaseless work; we can’t imagine how life will get along if we aren’t pushing. Our workaholism is evidence of our unwillingness to trust God. 

On the other hand, God gave us six days in which to work, and when we are unable or unwilling to do so, we refuse the purpose and plan God himself gave us to care for this world and all within it. Life is a balance between work and rest; we easily veer to one side or the other. But there are those for whom the choice has been denied—the infirm, the very young, the aged. And for those used to a life of labor, the inactivity can be devastating. As mom and I were discussing computers yesterday, we recalled her secretarial days, hammering away at a manual typewriter. As we talked, she closed her eyes as her fingers traced the alphabet on an imaginary keyboard. For a moment, the years melted away, but they returned with a vengeance today, tethering her to her bed and her dreams. 

So most of the day has been quiet as I’ve sat and watched her sleep. Some might think I’ve wasted the day, but I don’t see it that way. I’m investing in whatever small way I can in this woman who invested so much of herself in me so many years ago. It’s payback time, and I do it gladly tonight.