Warts and All

October 8, 2021

This morning’s reading was from 1 Kings 13, the story of a prophet who delivered a politically incorrect message to a renegade king. He faithfully and bravely faced the king and barely escaped with his life. God had told him that after delivering his message he was to go straight home, not stopping even to eat. 

An older prophet learned of this brave encounter and set off to meet him, inviting him home for a meal. The original man of God refused until the older prophet told him that an angel had appeared to him with the message that it was permissible for the other to turn aside and have a meal. But he lied. There had been no such visitation, and when the original prophet yielded, the older man gave him the bad news that he had been disobedient and would be killed by a lion on his way home. 

When that happened, the older prophet claimed the body, and mourning, had him interred in his own tomb. 

It is a strange story with perhaps a lesson about obedience to God in spite of pressure to do otherwise, but it’s the part where the older prophet lies that bothers me. The punishment seems a bit harsh for believing a man of God who turned out to be a shyster. This story does have an unusual redeeming feature however. It leads me to believe the veracity and integrity of the Bible. I can’t think of any other ancient writing that would include such a convoluted story, revealing the foibles and failures of its heroes. Usually, the ancient records endlessly magnify and glorify their protagonists. The Bible presents them as they are, warts and all. If there is any reason to believe this Book is what it claims to be, stories like this do the job for me.

Walking the Lines

October 7, 2021

Hal Borland was an author and editorialist for The NY Times from 1937 until his death in 1978. He was somewhat of an anomaly, writing for a big city newspaper with stories about the slower-paced country life on his farm in rural Connecticutt. In 1969, he published Homeland, chronicling the four seasons of the years 1963-1968, reflecting on the events of the day from a countryman’s perspective. It is a marvelous work that even years after first reading it, speak deeply to my soul. Allow me to whet your appetite with the dedication to his wife:

When I must leave, I pray it will be May,

For I’d remember earthly things this way:

An apple tree in bloom, the breath of dawn,

An oriole’s ecstasy, a dappled fawn,

A whippoorwill at dusk. I would heareafter

Remember now in terms of your sweet laughter.

In one of his chapters, Borland spoke of walking the lines, ie. the boundaries of his Connecticut farm. “It gives one a sense of belonging,” he wrote. I understand his heart. Our property can hardly be called a farm; it’s only about 2 1/2 acres of lawn, a few towering Douglas fir, some ash, maple, and oak. The ash are dying from ash borer infestation, but the other trees are pretty healthy.

I walked the lines this afternoon, checking my bees, and watching Emma splash in the creek. Earlier, I planted another apple tree; that makes four, which if all goes well, will in a few years give us more apples than we will know what to do with. Lord willing, I’ll live long enough to enjoy a few seasons of their bounty, but I didn’t plant them for myself only. A younger generation will reap the most benefit from them.

Growing up as I did in the suburbs, the idea of belonging to the land never occurred to me. A quarter acre lot in a housing development doesn’t lend itself to that kind of thought. I wasn’t introduced to this mindset until I met Linda, who grew up on the 75 acre farm her grandparents had tilled. It was a sad day when both her parents were gone and the homestead got split up among the grandkids. There wasn’t anywhere to belong any more. 

Fortunately, by then we had bought these 2 1/2 acres and begun to make it our own. Well…sort of. Actually, it’s the other way ‘round. This small shareholding doesn’t so much belong to us as we belong to it, as Borland would say. I know as the old gospel song puts it, “this world is not my home; I’m just a-passing through,” but even in his wanderings, Abraham had certain pleasant places where he put down stakes for awhile. This is that pleasant place for me, and I pity those who have never had the pleasure of sitting on the front porch in the evening, listening to the peepers while the sun sinks behind the ridge behind our home. 

Someday, what is left of these mortal bodies will be planted on the brow of the cemetery overlooking our place. I jokingly tell my kids I want a periscope put in the coffin so I can keep an eye on the place. I hope whoever winds up with it enjoys it as much, and treats it as kindly as we have tried to do, and that the day will come when they too, will transition from it belonging to them to them belonging to it. Thank you, Hal, for walking the lines those years ago.

 

Battle to Blessing

 October 6, 2021

There seemed to be a heaviness in the room. Pastors were gathered to pray together as they have done for more than 25 years. When started by pastor Dayle Keefer those many years ago, the gathering was devoted to praying for revival in our area. We still do that, but other issues, social, political, religious, have often taken center stage. It’s hard to stay on focus when prayers go seemingly unanswered, and it’s even harder to stay enthusiastic. The oppressive atmosphere was almost palpable.

It’s not surprising. After all, prayer is not merely sitting casually together, bathing in the glory of God’s presence. It is also confronting the powers of darkness arrayed against God and his kingdom work. If we expect prayer to be all sweetness and light, we haven’t even begun to plumb its depths. 

Reading some of the giants of faith from years gone by, they almost unanimously speak of the futility of trying to bring about genuine change by programs and organization alone. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Holmes to discern the massive failure of human institutions and efforts to make this world a better place by good intentions, precise organization, and hard work alone. We cannot do impossible work in our own power. Making the impossible possible requires the power of the Holy Spirit, which is accessible only in prayer—fervent, focused, godly prayer. 

Perhaps the heaviness I sensed was part of the spiritual struggle against the darkness. If so, an incident later in the day proved the efficacy of those prayers. On my way home, I stopped by a local gift shop just to see if there were anything there that Linda might like. A month or so ago, I had stopped by only to learn that the owner was retiring and selling the business. The For Sale sign was gone, so I pulled in and introduced myself to the new owner, asking how long they had been open. “Today is our first day; you are our third customer,” she responded. They had coffee and cookies for their opening, and before I left, she pressed me to take a scented votive candle as a gift. I couldn’t do that without buying something, so though there wasn’t much that particularly caught my eye, I bought a decorative dish towel, which Linda actually liked.

I had driven about five miles towards home when God nudged me. “You should have prayed for them and blessed their new business,” he said. I resisted for a couple miles before turning around. “It’s me again,” I announced to a rather surprised proprietor. “Would it be alright if I prayed for you and your new business?” She agreed, and I blessed them. I don’t know what their spiritual status is, but my prayer was that their store would be a place of peace and tranquility in the name of Jesus. I don’t know what they thought, but the prayerful spiritual battle of the morning I believe was the foundation of the spiritual blessing of the afternoon.

Late Lunch

October 4, 2021

While sitting at *Jitters, a beautiful young woman walks by and smiles at me. The last time that happened, I was ushering the third base line at Jammers Stadium. I turned and looked high up into the stands behind the plate to see this attractive young woman smiling and waving madly. I knew I was getting old when my first reaction was to turn around to see who was behind me that she could be waving at. 

This time however, I just smiled back and waited as she came inside and right over to my table, greeting me with a big smile and a hug. No, it wasn’t some young thing making a pass at an old man. I had driven to North Chili to buy snow tires advertised on Craig’s List, and was meeting my granddaughter for a late lunch. “Hi, Beepa,” she smiled. Her words were like honey to my ears. 

Usually when the grandkids are around, Linda is the hub of their conversation. She’s a natural at small talk. “Chatting,” she calls it. “You don’t know how to chat,” she tells me, and I have to agree. I run out of things to say pretty quickly, so when the whole crew is around, I tend to fade into the background while she asks questions and listens to their hearts. This afternoon, Linda wasn’t there; she would be proud of how well I chatted. And listened. Hearing a grown, married granddaughter talk of life, work, and love filled a place inside me I didn’t even know was empty. When it was time for her to go to work at her second job, I left saddened that it was over so quickly, but full of gratitude for the relationship we’ve been able to have for all these years. When she was a baby, Linda and I watched her and her older sister most weekends, just because they lived nearby and we could. Those formative years forged a bond that persists today, having returned to us as the Scriptures say, “pressed down, shaken together, running over.”

*a local coffee shop in North Chili, NY.

 

Liquid Gold

 October 3, 2021

Yesterday was a perfect day for the task at hand…a sunny 68 degrees, no wind. Most of the girls were pretty calm, considering that I was invading their home and messing with their carefully constructed order. One of the colonies has the brood necessary to get through the winter, but not much honey and pollen; another has plenty of the latter, but none of the former. One colony looks to be queenless, but one was bursting with bees, brood, and honey.

I’m not in it to make money, so leaving them the reward of their labor isn’t a problem. I want to do everything I can to ensure the survival of the colonies. It is pleasing however, to see comb fully drawn out, filled, and capped over. I could barely lift one of the supers (boxes that hold the frames), so I know they’ll have plenty for winter, even after me robbing them of fifty pounds of honey. 

People who know a lot more than me would probably do better at managing these colonies. One that was going gangbusters in mid-summer is barely limping along today. I have lots to learn, and am eager to do so, which is a parable of my life. Having been a Christian since I was 12, one might think I know a few things about following Christ. I know a few, but there is so much more to learn, so much deeper to go. Along the way, I get to taste the sweetness of God’s grace and mercy, even while I keep learning and hopefully growing. Psalm 34:8 says, “O taste and see that the LORD is good: blessed is the one who trusts in him.” Tomorrow I’ll extract the honey and dip my spoon into its liquid gold; then I’ll learn a bit more about this craft I’m pursuing. I’ll do the same as I extract gold from the pages of God’s Word, and give thanks for both blessings.

Silence

 October 3, 2021

Do you know how hard it is to be silent? My wife might think I’m aiming this question at her, but actually it’s my own dilemma. Silence is not merely a matter of not speaking. real silence is when I can shut down all the voices and thoughts that keep racing through my head. I’ve been working hard at meditating on God’s Word, but find that my mind so easily slips back into rehashing whatever issue irritates or worries me at the moment. Just about the time I get things under control, a different issue pops into my head, and away go my thoughts. No wonder St. Paul told the Corinthian Christians they needed to “take captive every thought to Christ.” It often feels like I’m herding kittens.

Today I was determined to silence all the noise inside my head. Let me tell you, it has been a major struggle that I lost more than won. It began with this morning’s reading from Psalm 62. Twice David wrote, “My soul silently waits for God.” I don’t think he was speaking about not praying audibly, but rather this inner silence that would enable him to hear from God. I wonder if the busyness of my life sometimes is my soul’s attempt to drown out what it needs to, but doesn’t want to hear from God. All the technology, all the busyness and activity can be good, but it can also be a way of avoiding an encounter with a holy God who knows me and wants me to know myself. Tonight, I’m going to slow down and do my best to silence the noise so I can hear the still, small voice of the Holy Spirit.

Meditation

 October 1, 2021

“Sorry, there’s no visitors.” The lady behind the mask was apologetic, but adamant. It wasn’t her fault; she was just following orders from above…all the way to the governor, president, and all the bureaucracy behind them. I walked out saddened that I couldn’t visit and pray with someone I’ve grown to love. It seems that our culture no longer acknowledges the soul, only the bodies. Our funeral director cares for bodies too, but also for the souls of those grieving. We are living in dangerous times when a person’s life can be compartmentalized till there’s nothing left worth keeping the body alive. 

With this little tale, my dilemma begins. This morning’s reading was from the first psalm. Let the words that challenged me challenge you, too: 

“Blessed is the man 

Who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, 

Nor stands in the path of sinners, 

Nor sits in the seat of the scornful; 

But his delight is in the law of the Lord, 

And in His law he meditates day and night. 

He shall be like a tree 

Planted by the rivers of water, 

That brings forth its fruit in its season, 

Whose leaf also shall not wither; 

And whatever he does shall prosper.”

Psalm 1:1-3

Upon reading this today, I determined in my heart that this is the kind of man I want to be—planted by rivers of water, fruitful, strong even in the drought of life. Being that kind of man doesn’t happen automatically or easily; delighting in God’s law and meditating on it day and night is the price we pay for the strength and character we desire. “Meditate”—the word is descriptive of a cow chewing its cud, getting every bit of nutrient the hay has to offer. Cows are in no hurry to do this; they eat and drink, and spend a great deal of time just laying around and chewing. If there were such a thing as bovine time management experts, I suspect most cows would fail utterly. I was going to say “underly,” but this is where they actually succeed. All that unproductive time is the source of their gift to us. 

I had determined to meditate on the Word of God this morning, but when confronted with another example of the absurdity of modern life, found myself chewing the cud of my disappointment, regurgitating the resentments, and rehearsing the reasons I am so suspect of so much of what is going on in our society. Instead of sending my roots deep into the solid ground of salvation and drinking deeply from the well of the One who is the Living Water, I was grinding away at that which only serves to bring distress to my soul.

So tonight I confess my failure and sin. My meditation on the Word faltered when I started rehearsing in my mind the grumblings of my old self. I am thankful that God doesn’t give up on me and the Holy Spirit brought to mind what I was doing and convicted me of my need (again) for grace and forgiveness. So, before I lay my head on my pillow tonight, it’s time for a reset. I cannot change what the government does, but I can change how I respond to it. tonight I choose to meditate upon the Word and respond with praise to my God who is greater and more grace-giving than any governor or government.