Rebellion

October 7, 2016 

The battle to bring every thought captive to Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5) is waged not only on the killing fields of lust, greed, anger, or pride. Perhaps the hardest fighting takes place in the swamps, the muck and mire of sorrow. I’m not speaking of the depression and despair that focuses on one’s inner feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy, but on sorrow for this sad world we inhabit. The past three days I’ve sat with a young man who found his mother dead in her home last week, a man who just recently finished his treatments for non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, and his wife now battling leukemia and the devastation the chemotherapy has wrought on her intestines, and then this morning with a dear friend who just weeks ago seemed the picture of health and now is gaunt and wearied by the cancer he is fighting so valiantly. I’m no Jesus, but I know a little of what he felt standing by the tomb of his friend Lazarus, weeping.

I’ve had many a battle with Mr. Melancholy, but learned that he slinks away in defeat whenever I turn my thoughts from how I’m feeling to how I can bless others. Studying one’s navel is never a good strategy for joy. But what I’m feeling tonight is no kin of depression or melancholy. It’s a sadness that borders on anger. Anger over a world so broken that it devours the best of its citizens. Anger that I have so often myself been complicit in the cycle of sin that fuels that brokenness. Anger at my helplessness to change it. 

Many of my Christian friends will encourage me to prayer, and they are correct in doing so. I pray because if I don’t, I would end up in a nihilistic spiritual fetal position,  just waiting to die. I pray because like Peter when Jesus asked if the disciples were going to follow the crowd which was abandoning him in droves, responded, “Where can we go? You have the words of life.” Prayer is the lone thread that tethers me to sanity and hope; prayer rooted in Scripture, prayer that often is reduced to mere “groanings which cannot be uttered” (Romans 8:26).

When John was in prison, he sent disciples to ask if Jesus really were the Messiah. Jesus’ response? “, the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the Gospel is preached to the poor. Blessed is he who isn’t offended because of me.” (Luke 7:22). Not a word of comfort, not a whisper of deliverance. I wonder how John took that reply. Jesus calls us to a life from which we might easily shrink back in fear. I wish I could pray like some of my friends pray, calling down angels, commanding demons, speaking with loud and bold confidence. I pray for healing, but I must confess to having a hard time seeing with the eyes of faith and ignoring what these earthly eyes behold.

Life is a wonderfully mysterious gift. And even in the difficulties and the challenges and the sickness and the pain and sorrow and tears it is a gift and I cherish it because I’ve been able to share it with so many wonderful people. The tears flow only because the love is real and deep, and though my clout in heaven often seems diminutive, the heart from which those prayers ascend is not, so in the midst of my sorrow for my brothers and sisters, I pray, giving thanks for each one of them who have enriched me in ways they cannot imagine, and trusting that these feeble prayers are heard and will be like arrows in the bullseye of this world’s brokenness. I take some comfort in my favorite definition of prayer: Rebellion against the status quo. If that be true, come what may, behind this nondescript facade, I am a rebel to the core.

Bassoning for Life

October 6, 2019

It’s just a wooden tube with holes drilled into it and bent back on itself, one of the most diabolical instruments ever invented. As if the fingering itself weren’t hard enough, that wicked double reed’s only purpose is to thwart every effort made to produce sonorous sounds. Most of the time when I play the bassoon, I am relieved that I haven’t attracted a lovesick moose or goose. The sounds that emanate from my instrument are more at home in the wilds of Alaska than in the refined settings of a concert hall.

So today when listening to the Buffalo Philharmonic I heard just a few solo bassoon lines, I was again in awe of the beauty that can be coaxed out of such an instrument. The difference of course, can be credited to the better instrument the professional bassoonist plays. We all know that’s a lie. He may have a more expensive instrument, but the real difference lies in the hours he has devoted to his craft, compared to the haphazard and halfhearted attention I give the instrument. There is no substitute for practice. One cannot play with skill and ease in public if one has not put in the daily grind of hard work behind the scenes where no one sees. 

That’s the way life works. I’ve had people tell me how lucky we are to have the children we have. My response never varies: “It’s not luck. It’s a lot of hard work and a lot of grace.” The problem with most of us is that we see the performance that looks so effortless and imagine we could do the same. We might be able to if we put in the same amount of time and work the professional has invested. Instead, we imagine we can perform with aplomb apart from the unseen blood, sweat, and tears of practice. 

Someday, we each will be called upon for the performance of a lifetime before the Lord of Life. If we want to offer a life of melodious harmonies, soaring melodies, and intricate rhythms, we must put in the practice that no one will ever see, but which will result in a standing ovation from the saints and angels who are even now straining to hear notes which may be faltering in the practice room of this life, but which will echo with resounding beauty when performed before the Lord, the Maestro of the music of our lives. I am thankful to have heard today music which encourages me to be a better musician myself, but even more, to be a better man. Maybe someday, with practice, that diabolical instrument will sound just a bit more divine.

Tsogii

October 5, 2019

“We are first generation Christians. We don’t know how to be good husbands and fathers.” I had been invited to Mongolia by the Mongolian national director of Every Home for Christ, but kept rebuffing his invitation until he could identify a reason for my going. I didn’t want to just be a tourist. Tsogoo Khorloo had come to Christ only a few years prior when working as a translator for a Christian missionary, and was now overseeing the evangelization of his nation. I learned from him that Mongolia was the second-oldest Communist country in the world, having declared itself such only two years after the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, and continuing until the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989. The Gospel had only come to Mongolia in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet empire.

I couldn’t think of much I had to offer these new Christians until Tsogoo spoke those words to me. “That I think I can do,” I responded, and the decision was made. Linda and I, along with two other couples and the international assistant to the director of Every Home for Christ flew to Beijing and then to the capital city of Ulaanbaatar in the spring of 2003. Tsogoo and his team of national workers met us at the airport. 

Tsogoo is a rather diminutive young man, but his co-worker Tsogii is anything but. Standing six foot two, and built like a linebacker, Tsogii had come to Christ in prison. His wife Tsengel spoke quite fluent English, but Tsogii knew as much English as I did Mongolian. In spite of the language barrier, we got along famously, I taught about Christian family life, and by the end of our time together, he was calling me his spiritual father.

Fast forward fourteen years. Tsogoo had moved to the United States where he still resides. Baaska took over the leadership of EHC, and Tsogii had fallen out of the picture. He and Tsogoo had disagreed over how the ministry was to continue. We lost touch for quite awhile until the miracle of the internet allowed us to reconnect. Tsogii is once more preaching the Gospel, not only to the few and scattered outposts on the steppes of Mongolia, but also to large gatherings of his countrymen. We’ve prayed for Tsogii and Tsengel for these past sixteen years, and have had the joy of watching from a distance as they’ve grown in their faith and are reaching far more people than I’ve personally had the privilege of reaching. Every chance I get, I invest in them, and am grateful tonight to have the privilege of being a small part of their success. I cannot preach Christ in Mongolia, but I can help Tsogii do so, and I am looking forward to someday meeting those who have come to Christ from his preaching and my giving. It will be a glorious day!

Shuffling

October 4, 2019

He shuffled up the sidewalk, slowly making his way to the corner where he would stop, wait for the light before continuing on his journey to who knows where. With shaggy grey hair sticking out in all directions and a scraggly beard on his chin, his demeanor was matched by his appearance as he made his way along, dressed in outsized jeans, a dirty wrinkled shirt, and worn sneakers. 

I wondered where he was heading, but even more, where he had been. He looked perhaps to be in his early sixties, but might have been quite a bit younger. Hard roads take their toll on a body. Once upon a time, he was a tiny baby cradled in a mother’s arms. He played as children do, chasing a friend in a game of tag, pretending to be a hero, laughing a child’s laugh, crying over a skinned knee. I wonder—Did he ever know his father? Did he have a grandmother who told him stories, spoiling him when he visited? Did he ever know love? Was there someone waiting for him at the end of his day’s trek?

Our city streets are populated by these invisible people who make their way through alleys and across boulevards on their way to a future without any future. At times, they congregate together, talking and smoking, perhaps passing a bottle before once more shuffling off alone to nowhere in particular. It’s easy for those of us who were blessed with family, whose lives are filled and even overfilled with people we love and who love us, to forget that not everyone has been dealt a winning hand in life. Sure, some cheat their way through the game, some bluff and bluster, and some are just plain lucky. But there are those too, who simply play to the best of their ability the hand they were dealt. Their chips are almost gone, they’re not holding anything of value, but they refuse to fold.

It’s likely I’ll never see him again. I don’t know his name nor his story. But a story he does have, as have I. Tonight I am grateful for the people who populate my story, for parents who not only loved me, but taught and corrected me; for a pastor and Sunday school teachers, youth leaders, friends, and a wife who has made me a better man, husband, and father than I would otherwise be. I have been given much, enabling me to walk with purpose to a goal set before me by God himself, for which I am thankful tonight.

Morning Psalms

October 3, 2019

Five a.m. isn’t my favorite time of day unless my eyes are still closed and my body prone. My ears aren’t good enough to hear the alarm, so when it goes off, Linda pokes me and I groggily roll over and put my feet on the floor. It’s Thursday; at 6:00 a.m. I join four or five other men to pray for an hour. Really—all we do for an hour is pray. 

My friend Harry started this tradition three years ago. Our time together begins with the reading of a psalm which becomes the launching pad for our prayers. We end with the Lord’s Prayer and the singing of a hymn. Though not my favorite time of day, and though there are times I’d rather turn over and go back to sleep, missing this time together would be too much of a loss for me to skip. Today’s psalm was 144 which starts out, “Blessed be the LORD my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle—my lovingkindness and my fortress, my high tower and my deliverer, my shield and the One in whom I take refuge.” These are a strange combination of words for us—“war, battle, and...lovingkindness?” They don’t seem to belong together. We forget that we are in a battle that has raged ever since the serpent questioned Eve, “Has God really said...?” Left to myself, I sink in the quicksand of my own opinions, feelings, biases. I am influenced by what others say, the opinions of people I don’t even know, most of whom live in rebellion against God, not having come to repentance and faith in Jesus Christ. Only when I take shelter in the Rock of Christ and in the fortress of his Word am I able to fight the spiritual battles that rage unseen all around me. Only in Christ do I find my lovingkindness. This prayer continues with the plea for integrity and truth for the sake of our children and peace in the land. 

Praying through the Psalms widens my prayer vocabulary. And when we pray together, one man’s response to the psalm often informs and and expands the scope of my prayer vision. By the time the sun has risen upon us, we exit the prayer room ready to face the day with faith, courage, and wisdom. Our souls have awakened to the unseen spiritual realities that swirl around us, and we are equipped to fight the good fight and live the good life that was bought for us at the price of Christ’s blood. It was a good start to the day that set my feet on solid ground, corrected my often wandering heart, and opened my eyes to the path Christ laid before me. Truly there is much for which to give thanks tonight.

Expert Advice

October 2, 2019

“When you’ve paid that kind of money for a consultant, you might want to listen to what he has to say.” Those words came back to haunt me today. It was some twenty five years ago; we had hired a financial consultant to help us raise money for the new church building we so desperately needed, had signed a contract with him and paid him half his fee. His first order of business was to ask for the giving records of everyone in the church for the past three years. He wanted to know the dollar amount people gave. His reasoning was sound—you don’t want someone leading a financial campaign who hasn’t yet demonstrated financial commitment to the church. 

Some squawked. “That’s confidential information! The pastor shouldn’t know who gives what!” That latter comment amused me. They were willing to trust me with their eternal souls, but not with the record of their giving. Apparently they thought I would give preferential treatment to the big givers. In reality, some didn’t want me to know how little they were doing. Their talk was bigger than their walk. 

In the end, my little speech won the day. We got the information we needed, and with it, avoided a major disaster. The person we thought would be best to lead the campaign turned out not to have quite the commitment we imagined. Some left the church over the whole matter, but we took the advice of our advisor, and the rest is, as they say, history. We’ve been in that building for nearly twenty years, and are now on the verge of an even bigger financial challenge for a major expansion.

“When you’ve paid that kind of money for a consultant, you might want to listen to what he has to say.” Why do I remember those words tonight? Why are they accusing me so vociferously? This morning I saw my doctor about pain in my left thumb. He checked me out, manipulating the thumb and asking questions before recommending giving it a rest from any activity that caused pain. I’d been flexing it when it hurt, trying to work out the pain. Apparently, that is a bad idea. He wants it immobile whenever possible. And he prescribed wearing a splint to accomplish that immobilization, which I had no intention of doing.

So what did I do when I got home from band rehearsal? I was a good husband, peeling apples for two hours for my wife to make into applesauce. By the time we were done with this first batch, my thumb and wrist were on fire! I used to have a sign on my desk that read, “Take my advice. I’m not using it.” I guess tomorrow, I’ll have a slice of humble pie and go get that splint. And while I’m giving thanks for my doctor and for the insurance to cover the splint, I’ll do my best to forget any advice I ever gave about listening to the experts. 

Deer

October 1, 2019

October morning sun is the best. Peeking above the treetops to the east, its rays set the cut cornfields on the hillside to my right ablaze with light, while at the same time the valleys smoldered in early morning fog. The ride into town was pleasant; perfect weather for three wheels as once more I reveled in the beauty around me. 

After breakfast with some pastor friends, I rode over to Options Care Center to sand drywall again. It’s slow going, feathering the edges of the joints, doing our best to make them seamless. I expected to see my friend already at work when I got there, but instead there was a text message: “Late start today, Jim. Patrol car flying past the house hit a deer and deer flew into our vehicle early this morning. Of course it was the new vehicle. Sheriff’s suv was totaled.” He wasn’t even on the road. His brand new car was sitting in the driveway. 

It’s that time of year. I love the fall; its beauty, aromas, and bounty. Part of that bounty is the deer that populate our woods and fields. Many of them will end up in area freezers as hunting season gets under way, but way too many of them will end up lying at the side of the road after having jumped in front of cars and trucks...and motorcycles. My greatest fear in riding is hitting a deer. If a deer can total an SUV, imagine what it would do to a motorcycle, and to the rider who would certainly have an unpleasant encounter with the road. I love to ride, and am grateful to have not had the misfortune of a close encounter with Odocoileus virginianus while on my bike. I hope to keep it that way.