This past Friday morning I overheard one half of a cell phone conversation as I entered the office on 222 Second Avenue . The speaker was dressed as a quintessential divorce attorney; shod in Prada, clothed in Karan, wrapped in Burberry cashmere, she lugged a cart full of files. Chirping into her blackberry she offered this to the person on the other end:
I know it's awful, I know it's hard, people get divorced everyday, it's all going to be fine.
She had the truth until the latter phrase. Ask a dear one you know that has travelled the road of divorce. Ask em if it is all fine. See what they say.
God have mercy; heal our hearts.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
On Death and Fury
Weeks back, a friend was laboring over whether to attend a funeral; the reasons were complex, and my friend's heart was vexed. As he related his conflict, grief and dismay, I remembered a conversation I had with another friend on another day, several years ago.
This other friend and I had attended a funeral of a mutual friends' father. We'd come out of the chapel, reflecting on feelings and thoughts evoked for us by the pleasantries and superficiality during the visitation portion of the ritual. The phrases like well, he's in a better place now and don't he look good in that fine, navy blazer mock the fierce quality of death. On that hot summer day with my friend, the natural light was a true welcome, having been pent up under fluorescent lighting as celebrants of death, I longed for fresh air. We stood on the hot pavement and mused what it might be like if someone were to erupt in fury over the lunacy of this custom-the polite dance around the horror of death. I proposed the best time to do so would be right there, in the midst of gathered friends and loved ones; there it would have impact. I have such a tale in my life's history.
In 2002, a dear friend, my Protestant god-mother, I liked to call her, succumbed to the clutch of death. In life she had been vibrant, a mother of four boys, and friend to countless, and was my mother's closest friend for over forty years; she and her family were knit with ours, so much so that the offspring of each clan call the others' parents 'aunt' and 'uncle'; though we share no known bloodline, save for that family into which we are grafted by grace*. Simply put, her death devastated me. There is more of that story to be told, I digress.
On the eve of her burial, we all, family, friends, old business partners, acquaintances and neighbors assembled at Roesch-Patton funeral home to literally rub elbows and chatter ever so hopefully while a very dead friend lay in the adjoining room. (The words funeral home themselves are worth the energy of another post-what contrast!)
The crowd was overwhelming. Eventually, we adult children, my sister, and the three remaining boys of this woman now gone, collected ourselves to view the body-a strange pagan custom that smacks the vitality of the resurrection in the mouth, but, that's what this little narrative is about...so...
There we stood, shoulder to shoulder, dressed to the nines, in fine woolens and cottons. Peering into the fancy box of walnut or cherry that held her frame, I scanned what I could see of her neatly arranged corpse. How strange, how breathtaking, were thoughts I kept to myself. The longer we stood silent, we held onto one another for support, and for hope's sake. Tears welled up. We shook with sorrow.
I was praying this dreadful vigil would end when one of the boys spoke up, sniffling: She looks good, doesn't she? There was palpable silence. Rankled to near violence, the youngest brother fumed through clenched teeth: Good..??? She looks good?!?? Goddamn it, she's dead, she doesn't look good."
And so the prophet had spoken. Stabbed awake by the awfulness of death, we stared aghast at the speaker, and then back at her decaying body. There was nothing more to say on that strange night, so we departed in silence.
Be it an awkward attempt to comfort, or protective flight from sorrow, we all, at one time or another, speak when a sobbing silence might be good wisdom- painful, but good. On the other hand, this story exists because of precipitant words. And so there is, thank God, grace.
The family of grace* I mentioned earlier....the Church triumphant, can afford to scream in the face of death, as the younger brother in this story. Not by any merit we ourselves have won, or by irreverent fury for pain inflicted, no, only by the finished work of our Redeemer in both his blessed sacrifice and glorious defeat of death on the third day.
Soli Deo gloria.
This other friend and I had attended a funeral of a mutual friends' father. We'd come out of the chapel, reflecting on feelings and thoughts evoked for us by the pleasantries and superficiality during the visitation portion of the ritual. The phrases like well, he's in a better place now and don't he look good in that fine, navy blazer mock the fierce quality of death. On that hot summer day with my friend, the natural light was a true welcome, having been pent up under fluorescent lighting as celebrants of death, I longed for fresh air. We stood on the hot pavement and mused what it might be like if someone were to erupt in fury over the lunacy of this custom-the polite dance around the horror of death. I proposed the best time to do so would be right there, in the midst of gathered friends and loved ones; there it would have impact. I have such a tale in my life's history.
In 2002, a dear friend, my Protestant god-mother, I liked to call her, succumbed to the clutch of death. In life she had been vibrant, a mother of four boys, and friend to countless, and was my mother's closest friend for over forty years; she and her family were knit with ours, so much so that the offspring of each clan call the others' parents 'aunt' and 'uncle'; though we share no known bloodline, save for that family into which we are grafted by grace*. Simply put, her death devastated me. There is more of that story to be told, I digress.
On the eve of her burial, we all, family, friends, old business partners, acquaintances and neighbors assembled at Roesch-Patton funeral home to literally rub elbows and chatter ever so hopefully while a very dead friend lay in the adjoining room. (The words funeral home themselves are worth the energy of another post-what contrast!)
The crowd was overwhelming. Eventually, we adult children, my sister, and the three remaining boys of this woman now gone, collected ourselves to view the body-a strange pagan custom that smacks the vitality of the resurrection in the mouth, but, that's what this little narrative is about...so...
There we stood, shoulder to shoulder, dressed to the nines, in fine woolens and cottons. Peering into the fancy box of walnut or cherry that held her frame, I scanned what I could see of her neatly arranged corpse. How strange, how breathtaking, were thoughts I kept to myself. The longer we stood silent, we held onto one another for support, and for hope's sake. Tears welled up. We shook with sorrow.
I was praying this dreadful vigil would end when one of the boys spoke up, sniffling: She looks good, doesn't she? There was palpable silence. Rankled to near violence, the youngest brother fumed through clenched teeth: Good..??? She looks good?!?? Goddamn it, she's dead, she doesn't look good."
And so the prophet had spoken. Stabbed awake by the awfulness of death, we stared aghast at the speaker, and then back at her decaying body. There was nothing more to say on that strange night, so we departed in silence.
Be it an awkward attempt to comfort, or protective flight from sorrow, we all, at one time or another, speak when a sobbing silence might be good wisdom- painful, but good. On the other hand, this story exists because of precipitant words. And so there is, thank God, grace.
The family of grace* I mentioned earlier....the Church triumphant, can afford to scream in the face of death, as the younger brother in this story. Not by any merit we ourselves have won, or by irreverent fury for pain inflicted, no, only by the finished work of our Redeemer in both his blessed sacrifice and glorious defeat of death on the third day.
Soli Deo gloria.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Irony
There are plentiful examples of irony out there, but I stumbled on a good one today. While watching some coverage of the Hudson River plane ditching and rescue, I was awed by the coordinated efforts, the stunning videos. I had exhausted pretty much all there was to see when I noticed an advertisement out of the corner of my eye on CNN. Apparently you can buy T-shirts with CNN headlines on them; you can 'sport' the news on your chest. One such T-shirt available for purchase says " Obama elected the 44th president ". For all the grousing the mainstream media does about big business greed, I think their creative genuis is rich irony.
On many levels, the election of a president is news. It's not just news anymore. You can buy it. It is for sale. Not just once, but many times over. Check this out, I kid you not.
On many levels, the election of a president is news. It's not just news anymore. You can buy it. It is for sale. Not just once, but many times over. Check this out, I kid you not.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Walls Have Ears
Maybe it is because I had little sleep last night- or maybe it is because I am genuinely paranoid; I took some comfort in this-
Knowing that, even if it is true, I can laugh.
borrowed from: http://xkcd.com/525/
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Dire Need
“As a race we are not even stray sheep or wandering prodigals, we are rebels with weapons in our hands. Our supreme need from God, therefore, is not the education of our conscience but our redemption.”
- Peter Taylor (P.T.) Forsyth
with acknowledgement to http://gospelreminders.com/ a site with daily reminders of the Gospel.
- Peter Taylor (P.T.) Forsyth
with acknowledgement to http://gospelreminders.com/ a site with daily reminders of the Gospel.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
We were made for Him
Lest someone think me too fond of Joe Pa, (see previous post, The Lame Lion) I sure as heck do not want to elevate him to being worshipped. But at the risk of you thinking I do, watch this sweet montage with vocals by Brandi Carlile as she wails part of her hit song, The Story.
The Story
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
.....It's true...I was made for you
Repeat.
God knows what kind of pain or joy, or both that made Brandi Carlile the outright perfect soul to sing this song that aptly suits this montage. I have no clue. Her voice, in itself, (like Paterno's face,) tells a story that makes one want to sit up and listen.
I did no research and just stumbled upon this video/song. One thing I know. The line: It's true, I was made for you would, for years, have meant to me that I was made for the soul of another. What I hear tonight is a hymn to God. I was made for him. And so were you.
And so was Joe Paterno.
The Story
All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
.....It's true...I was made for you
Repeat.
God knows what kind of pain or joy, or both that made Brandi Carlile the outright perfect soul to sing this song that aptly suits this montage. I have no clue. Her voice, in itself, (like Paterno's face,) tells a story that makes one want to sit up and listen.
I did no research and just stumbled upon this video/song. One thing I know. The line: It's true, I was made for you would, for years, have meant to me that I was made for the soul of another. What I hear tonight is a hymn to God. I was made for him. And so were you.
And so was Joe Paterno.
The Lame Lion
This afternoon, the Penn State Nittany Lions will meet the University of Southern California Trojans in the Rose Bowl. A glorious football event to be sure. There are two great teams in the contest, but I am here to talk about one fellow.
What of Joe Paterno? He's at least a living legend. The eighty something year old coach has been leading the Nittany Lions his entire career. He has been at the helm since the mid-sixties.
from USA Today: Penn State has had one football coach since 1966. The rest of major college football has made 837 coaching moves — and counting.
With all due respect to that good-looking fellow who coaches for USC. Wow.
Who'll win? Probably USC. I hope Penn State wins, I can't explain my affinity for Paterno, but he's the entire reason I cheer for the Nittany Lions. Just look at Joe Paterno. Watch him stand still, watch him holler,watch him grimace. He ain't pretty, and he's all banged up, but he is a god among earthly leaders. Check out this ESPN video from today.
I wouldn't be posting this if Paterno weren't a winning coach, but that is still beside my point. What draws me to this joyful curmudgeon of a man only intensifies as he ages. In October of 2007, he got tackled inadvertently on the sideline of the Wisconsin game, and suffered an injury that would've ushered retirement for a lesser man. He's still at it today.
"Joe Pa" as fans have come to call him is attractive for reasons that confound reason. He's old. He's wrinkled. He's lame.
Something I daresay Joe Paterno knows is that we were not made for this world. Our bodies do wear and tear. As fit as we can be, we are still lame and in great need. Let us look forward to aging, let us be in the midst of it with grace and vigor like Joe Paterno.
Go Lions.
What of Joe Paterno? He's at least a living legend. The eighty something year old coach has been leading the Nittany Lions his entire career. He has been at the helm since the mid-sixties.
from USA Today: Penn State has had one football coach since 1966. The rest of major college football has made 837 coaching moves — and counting.
With all due respect to that good-looking fellow who coaches for USC. Wow.
Who'll win? Probably USC. I hope Penn State wins, I can't explain my affinity for Paterno, but he's the entire reason I cheer for the Nittany Lions. Just look at Joe Paterno. Watch him stand still, watch him holler,watch him grimace. He ain't pretty, and he's all banged up, but he is a god among earthly leaders. Check out this ESPN video from today.
I wouldn't be posting this if Paterno weren't a winning coach, but that is still beside my point. What draws me to this joyful curmudgeon of a man only intensifies as he ages. In October of 2007, he got tackled inadvertently on the sideline of the Wisconsin game, and suffered an injury that would've ushered retirement for a lesser man. He's still at it today.
"Joe Pa" as fans have come to call him is attractive for reasons that confound reason. He's old. He's wrinkled. He's lame.
Something I daresay Joe Paterno knows is that we were not made for this world. Our bodies do wear and tear. As fit as we can be, we are still lame and in great need. Let us look forward to aging, let us be in the midst of it with grace and vigor like Joe Paterno.
Go Lions.
The Old Story
How many times have you Christians heard it? The gospel of Jesus Christ our Lord. The subject of many of the posts here. The old story is the one I long to hear, again and again. If you are reading this and have yet to confess Christ as Lord, ask now to receive him. Do not wait.
Whatever keeps you from it is the same thing that kept anyone who ever hesitated-a belief that being good enough will sustain you. A belief that other little gods are plenty. A belief there is no such thing as sin. A belief there is no such thing as truth. There's much more, yet all these beliefs point to at least two things: that one must believe to be, (whether or not one believes in God) and that there is truth. And from this, a standard of truth, an inference must be drawn that truth has a Teller.
A great American statesman, Daniel P. Moynihan said something on the order of:
"Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, not their own facts"
Thus begins the battle:
Who are you to say that this way is the truth? Good question. Who am I?
A sinner, saved by the grace and mercy of my Lord Jesus. There's more. The gospel's offense is that no one is spared. You, my friend, are a sinner in need of saving too. ( Romans 3:23).
You simply cannot wiggle around it. You cannot do it. Nor can the articulate teachers and politicians. No feel-good sermon is going to be adequate; it is not about felt boards in Sunday School. It is not about being an ethical person. It is not about being religious. The crux of it is that God so loved the world. So loved. that he gave his only son, that he gave. that he gave. he. gave so that whoever would believe on him, Jesus, the son, would inherit eternal life. (John 3:16)
We, mankind, fell in Eden. (Genesis 3:1-24) We mankind, are sin-soaked. In that state, we are condemned to hell. Strong language. Strong truth. God's holiness demands righteousness. Though we, mankind, have tried since near the beginning to get righteousness right on our own, God himself had to make a way.
John Piper says that God is the gospel. Not you. Not me. Not your gods, or mine. Not your righteousness, or mine. God. He did for us in Christ what we could not do. To think that our Triune God, the Creator of the universe has so loved us first by providing a way to him, is astonishing. (Genesis 3:21 & Paul's letter to the Romans 3:21-25)
A friend sent me this quote the other day, give it due consideration:
If we needed an education, God would have sent us a teacher. If we needed prosperity, God would have sent us an economist. If we needed therapy, God would have sent us a psychiatrist. If we needed healing, God would have sent us a physician. If we needed technology, God would have sent us a scientist. If we had needed knowledge, God would have sent us philosopher. But what we needed most was redemption, so God sent us a Savior!
My response to this quote is a good illustration of just how dire my need. I thought when I read it- how terribly simple! And my next thought, almost too terribly simple I also thought, God himself knows I've needed a mental health professional. And, in his great mercy has seen fit to orchestrate that good on my behalf. And he knows I've needed (and still do need) healing. And in his same great mercy that never wavers, he ordained some healing into his plan. The crux of this quote, just like the very simple gospel of Jesus, is that first we needed to be saved. Saved not from the edge of the precipice of doom. Doctors and psychiatrists can assist with that. Nor need we to be saved from economic despair. We, here, now, in this time, see the comedy and the tragedy in that. No educational plan or politician's motive can rescue. Not your favorite teacher, philosopher or entertainer. Socrates and Plato-they are fine purveyors of great truths and thought, but impotent to save you from your dark heart, and me, mine Not Martha Stewart. Not Oprah. Not Milton Friedman. Not William F. Buckley. Not Freud, Rogers, Maslow, et. al God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob may appoint who he deems fit to work out his sovereign plan, and will do so. Though all these folk have offered some good, none, not one, is equipped to redeem us from sin.
Jesus, the God-man speaking:
I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one comes to the Father but through me.
- John 14:6
That old story. The gospel. I love to tell the story.
Whatever keeps you from it is the same thing that kept anyone who ever hesitated-a belief that being good enough will sustain you. A belief that other little gods are plenty. A belief there is no such thing as sin. A belief there is no such thing as truth. There's much more, yet all these beliefs point to at least two things: that one must believe to be, (whether or not one believes in God) and that there is truth. And from this, a standard of truth, an inference must be drawn that truth has a Teller.
A great American statesman, Daniel P. Moynihan said something on the order of:
"Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, not their own facts"
Thus begins the battle:
Who are you to say that this way is the truth? Good question. Who am I?
A sinner, saved by the grace and mercy of my Lord Jesus. There's more. The gospel's offense is that no one is spared. You, my friend, are a sinner in need of saving too. ( Romans 3:23).
You simply cannot wiggle around it. You cannot do it. Nor can the articulate teachers and politicians. No feel-good sermon is going to be adequate; it is not about felt boards in Sunday School. It is not about being an ethical person. It is not about being religious. The crux of it is that God so loved the world. So loved. that he gave his only son, that he gave. that he gave. he. gave so that whoever would believe on him, Jesus, the son, would inherit eternal life. (John 3:16)
We, mankind, fell in Eden. (Genesis 3:1-24) We mankind, are sin-soaked. In that state, we are condemned to hell. Strong language. Strong truth. God's holiness demands righteousness. Though we, mankind, have tried since near the beginning to get righteousness right on our own, God himself had to make a way.
John Piper says that God is the gospel. Not you. Not me. Not your gods, or mine. Not your righteousness, or mine. God. He did for us in Christ what we could not do. To think that our Triune God, the Creator of the universe has so loved us first by providing a way to him, is astonishing. (Genesis 3:21 & Paul's letter to the Romans 3:21-25)
A friend sent me this quote the other day, give it due consideration:
If we needed an education, God would have sent us a teacher. If we needed prosperity, God would have sent us an economist. If we needed therapy, God would have sent us a psychiatrist. If we needed healing, God would have sent us a physician. If we needed technology, God would have sent us a scientist. If we had needed knowledge, God would have sent us philosopher. But what we needed most was redemption, so God sent us a Savior!
My response to this quote is a good illustration of just how dire my need. I thought when I read it- how terribly simple! And my next thought, almost too terribly simple I also thought, God himself knows I've needed a mental health professional. And, in his great mercy has seen fit to orchestrate that good on my behalf. And he knows I've needed (and still do need) healing. And in his same great mercy that never wavers, he ordained some healing into his plan. The crux of this quote, just like the very simple gospel of Jesus, is that first we needed to be saved. Saved not from the edge of the precipice of doom. Doctors and psychiatrists can assist with that. Nor need we to be saved from economic despair. We, here, now, in this time, see the comedy and the tragedy in that. No educational plan or politician's motive can rescue. Not your favorite teacher, philosopher or entertainer. Socrates and Plato-they are fine purveyors of great truths and thought, but impotent to save you from your dark heart, and me, mine Not Martha Stewart. Not Oprah. Not Milton Friedman. Not William F. Buckley. Not Freud, Rogers, Maslow, et. al God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob may appoint who he deems fit to work out his sovereign plan, and will do so. Though all these folk have offered some good, none, not one, is equipped to redeem us from sin.
Jesus, the God-man speaking:
I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, and no one comes to the Father but through me.
- John 14:6
That old story. The gospel. I love to tell the story.
I Love to Tell the Story
I love to tell the story of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love;
I love to tell the story, because I know ’tis true,
It satisfies my longings as nothing else would do.
I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
I love to tell the story, more wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies of all our golden dreams;
I love to tell the story, it did so much for me,
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.
I love to tell the story, ’tis pleasant to repeat,
What seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet;
I love to tell the story, for some have never heard
The message of salvation from God’s own holy Word.
I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest;
And when in scenes of glory I sing the new, new song,
’Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.
Of Jesus and His glory, of Jesus and His love;
I love to tell the story, because I know ’tis true,
It satisfies my longings as nothing else would do.
I love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
I love to tell the story, more wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies of all our golden dreams;
I love to tell the story, it did so much for me,
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.
I love to tell the story, ’tis pleasant to repeat,
What seems each time I tell it more wonderfully sweet;
I love to tell the story, for some have never heard
The message of salvation from God’s own holy Word.
I love to tell the story, for those who know it best
Seem hungering and thirsting to hear it like the rest;
And when in scenes of glory I sing the new, new song,
’Twill be the old, old story that I have loved so long.
Friday, December 26, 2008
...Because of what you are not
A Man may be of value to another man, not because he wishes to be important, not because he possesses some inner wealth of soul, not because of something he is, but because of what he is – not. His importance consists in his poverty, in his hopes and fears, in his waiting and hurrying, in the direction of his whole being towards what lies beyond his power. The importance of (a Christian) is negative rather than positive. In him a void becomes visible. And for this reason he is something to others: he is able to share grace with them, to focus their attention, and to establish them in waiting and in adoration.
- Karl Barth
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
The Birth of God
I suspect the very words the birth of God are offensive to some. Isn't God self-existent, and therefore not subject to a beginning?
Perhaps this connundrum is part of the weight of the Gospel. God dared enter time by actually being born in the flesh, putting on our nature so to save us. (Philippians 2:5-11)
I rambled in my journal last year about the concept. This year, I was privileged to hear friend Tricia Walker sing an Andrew Peterson song on the birth of God at Daystar's Evening in December. The hearing of it startled me. I thought to my self-absorbed self: I wrote that song, that's mine. Quickened, I winced. Only one of countless examples of my dire need. Yes, God really did come in the flesh, to save me (and you). Here's what I what believed Andrew Peterson stole from me:
Birth of God
I’m wondering several things: if the birth of Jesus was on a damp Bethlehem night, as this one is here, in the Cumberland Basin of Tennessee. Did the rain fall cold? Were the gathered creatures in the stable disarmed by the intrusion of the lonely travelers?
The mother was a child herself; perhaps her labor prompted cries of such volume the sheep grew tired of their antiphonal wailing; maybe they stood by in silent contentment to watch what, for their kind, was not uncommon. Maybe other animals were not so quiet. Mournful cattle bellowed and doves perched atop the stable cooed as darkness enveloped them all.
Joseph gathered his tunic at his waist, knelt in the straw and fastened a calloused hand on the knee of the girl, now in full labor. Expectant, and alive, this earthly father must have been astonished at what was taking place, recalling what the Angel of the Lord said. (Matthew 1:19-25)
Mary gave one last cry of agonizing hope as Eternity thrust himself into time. Tears spilled from the girl as her opening stretched to accommodate the boisterous newborn; no pain had been as sharp, no pain would be until that Friday.
Exhausted, and exuberant, Mary received her son, as Joseph‘s bloody hands passed the tiny screaming lad to her. Was it coincidence the birth of God to have been awash in blood? Though they had been told, could they have apprehended that God himself was with them? (Matthew 1:23, Luke 1:26-33)
When God appoints the time, the time has come, and so it was, the ugly, glorious, birth of God.
Perhaps this connundrum is part of the weight of the Gospel. God dared enter time by actually being born in the flesh, putting on our nature so to save us. (Philippians 2:5-11)
I rambled in my journal last year about the concept. This year, I was privileged to hear friend Tricia Walker sing an Andrew Peterson song on the birth of God at Daystar's Evening in December. The hearing of it startled me. I thought to my self-absorbed self: I wrote that song, that's mine. Quickened, I winced. Only one of countless examples of my dire need. Yes, God really did come in the flesh, to save me (and you). Here's what I what believed Andrew Peterson stole from me:
Birth of God
I’m wondering several things: if the birth of Jesus was on a damp Bethlehem night, as this one is here, in the Cumberland Basin of Tennessee. Did the rain fall cold? Were the gathered creatures in the stable disarmed by the intrusion of the lonely travelers?
The mother was a child herself; perhaps her labor prompted cries of such volume the sheep grew tired of their antiphonal wailing; maybe they stood by in silent contentment to watch what, for their kind, was not uncommon. Maybe other animals were not so quiet. Mournful cattle bellowed and doves perched atop the stable cooed as darkness enveloped them all.
Joseph gathered his tunic at his waist, knelt in the straw and fastened a calloused hand on the knee of the girl, now in full labor. Expectant, and alive, this earthly father must have been astonished at what was taking place, recalling what the Angel of the Lord said. (Matthew 1:19-25)
Mary gave one last cry of agonizing hope as Eternity thrust himself into time. Tears spilled from the girl as her opening stretched to accommodate the boisterous newborn; no pain had been as sharp, no pain would be until that Friday.
Exhausted, and exuberant, Mary received her son, as Joseph‘s bloody hands passed the tiny screaming lad to her. Was it coincidence the birth of God to have been awash in blood? Though they had been told, could they have apprehended that God himself was with them? (Matthew 1:23, Luke 1:26-33)
When God appoints the time, the time has come, and so it was, the ugly, glorious, birth of God.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
"Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming"
1 Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming from tender stem hath sprung! Of Jesse's lineage coming, as those of old have sung. It came, a floweret bright, amid the cold of winter, when half spent was the night.
2 Isaiah 'twas foretold it, the Rose I have in mind; with Mary we behold it, the Virgin Mother kind. To show God's love aright, she bore to men a Savior, when half spent was the night.
3 The shepherds heard the story, proclaimed by angels bright, how Christ,the Lord of glory, was born on earth this night. To Bethlehem they sped and in the manger found him, as angel heralds said.
4 This flow'r, whose fragrance tender with sweetness fills the air, dispels with glorious splendor the darkness ev'rywhere. True man yet very God, from sin and death he saves us, and lightens ev'ry load.
5 O Savior, child of Mary, who felt our human woe; O Savior, King of glory, who dost our weakness know, bring us at length, we pray, to the bright courst of heaven and to the endless day.
German, 15th c.
translated by Theodore Baker
Monday, December 15, 2008
Advent
A prison cell, in which one waits, hopes ... and is completely dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened from the outside, is not a bad picture of Advent.
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer,German pastor and philosopher (1906-1945)
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer,German pastor and philosopher (1906-1945)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
The Promise
It was almost twenty years ago in in Mentone, Alabama where I learned, for the second time, how to tie my shoes. You know when the first way seems right to you, of course, until you learn a more efficient way? This is that story, and then some.
I had these god-awful cheap hiking boots of brown and green suede with gortex. The laces were nylon, and any friction they endured in the wearing process caused them to come untied quickly. There was no point in my asserting any level of stylishness on hikes, or to win over my companions, when I had to stop and re-tie my laces every fifty yards or so. I was non-plussed and feeling self conscious (though I did not know the extent to which at the time).
In my hour of dire need, John Walter Green came to my rescue. I sat fiddling with the good-for-nothing laces, cursing them when he walked across the cabin floor and asked if I’d like some help. He crouched in front of me to a chair and patted his knee-"put your foot here" he said.
He assessed the way I had tied them and said "that’s what I thought..." I interrupted- "I need a double knot, don’t I?"
"Nope" he said, "you need a simple knot that will not give way".
"Here, let me show you" he began as he untied his own giant shoe.
"You take the laces and wrap them like so, one over the other, to secure them. Ok, now, tie the knot like you learned in kindergarten; pull one side out, as if to untie it, loop it over and tie it again"-
"There," he said, satisfied.
He then looked me square in the eye. "I promise you, it will not budge."
Folks, I only have a couple pair of shoes that require lacing up; every time I gather the nylon or cloth laces, I can hear John’s confident guarantee; what joy it gives me to say it is to this very hour, a promise kept.
I had these god-awful cheap hiking boots of brown and green suede with gortex. The laces were nylon, and any friction they endured in the wearing process caused them to come untied quickly. There was no point in my asserting any level of stylishness on hikes, or to win over my companions, when I had to stop and re-tie my laces every fifty yards or so. I was non-plussed and feeling self conscious (though I did not know the extent to which at the time).
In my hour of dire need, John Walter Green came to my rescue. I sat fiddling with the good-for-nothing laces, cursing them when he walked across the cabin floor and asked if I’d like some help. He crouched in front of me to a chair and patted his knee-"put your foot here" he said.
He assessed the way I had tied them and said "that’s what I thought..." I interrupted- "I need a double knot, don’t I?"
"Nope" he said, "you need a simple knot that will not give way".
"Here, let me show you" he began as he untied his own giant shoe.
"You take the laces and wrap them like so, one over the other, to secure them. Ok, now, tie the knot like you learned in kindergarten; pull one side out, as if to untie it, loop it over and tie it again"-
"There," he said, satisfied.
He then looked me square in the eye. "I promise you, it will not budge."
Folks, I only have a couple pair of shoes that require lacing up; every time I gather the nylon or cloth laces, I can hear John’s confident guarantee; what joy it gives me to say it is to this very hour, a promise kept.
Truth is Truth
I found this sign the other night in Madison Tennessee on the way to a "holiday" party. The words on it put the truth in perspective for me. I need a saviour all the time. Glory be to God he saw fit to come to earth as man to save his people from their sins.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
December 7, 1941
Sixty seven years ago today the world reeled after Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, killing, maiming and terrorizing the U.S. military and civilians. Surviving soldiers and citizens alike were, for a time, traumatized-struck dumb and powerless. History books and teachers dramatized it and told the American story of how we gathered courage and fought the good fight. I do not dispute that conquering the Japanese and other Axis forces was a work of ultimate good, but I also submit that war is as close to hell as we can come on earth. It is a complicit pact made with evil to assert what man was not meant to accomplish. I give thanks to God in Christ this day for the supremacy of Christ over all things:
over sin, death, war, pestilence, famine, poverty, abuse, harm, brokenness, mediocrity, complacency, dispute, hatred, envy, strife, jealousy, molestation, violence, deceit, cynicism, and all other manner of shortcomings and abject evil. Indeed Christ is supreme over good, temporal beauty, over poetry, over the logic of thought, over the pursuit of freedom, over the determinism of capitalism, over every ideology. To Jesus I bow. Let me recall that vow as I submit my will daily, hourly and moment by moment to the sovereignty of God, even in the face of secular dissent.
over sin, death, war, pestilence, famine, poverty, abuse, harm, brokenness, mediocrity, complacency, dispute, hatred, envy, strife, jealousy, molestation, violence, deceit, cynicism, and all other manner of shortcomings and abject evil. Indeed Christ is supreme over good, temporal beauty, over poetry, over the logic of thought, over the pursuit of freedom, over the determinism of capitalism, over every ideology. To Jesus I bow. Let me recall that vow as I submit my will daily, hourly and moment by moment to the sovereignty of God, even in the face of secular dissent.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Blue
Today marks the first time I've included an original poem on this site. I chose this one since it is in keeping with the theme of the blog, as other posts seldom touch on the subject of lameness, I thought the verse here, and the introductory remarks following a good fit. See what you think.
Susie is an elderly woman who was a member of a poetry group I was invested in November 2006. She is a visual artist and a published poet. Her voice is distinctly refined and articulate-a southern drawl to die for. Something else makes Susie’s voice unique: she has Parkinson's disease. Her speech is slightly affected, but it’s her hands that shake like leaves.
Susie's manifest courage in group one night birthed the poem that follows, entitled Blue. Our instructor Victoria, gave us an in-class assignment. She asked us to take out a piece of paper and writing instrument. She said, clear off everything else from the table but the paper and the pen. Now, take the writing instrument in your non-dominant hand. My heart pinched and fell. As much as I looked forward to these assignments, I felt defeated in that minute like never before. Had it been an assignment we were to take home, I would have had the perfect cover and could have simply said I did not feel like participating (which, I suppose, I still could have said) but there and then, in that moment, I was challenged in a new way; in the presence of the others I was compelled to decide whether to get up and excuse myself or whether to give it a wobbly go.
Now, draw a picture with that non-dominant hand- yes, go ahead, you can do it. I watched Susie, the woman afflicted by this dreadful debilitating disease, awkwardly clasp her pen in her fist and strike the white paper with erratic blue lines.
After you've finished your drawing, I want you take your drawing home and collaborate with the drawing to write a poem. I was still stunned. But it was witnessing Susie persevere and the words collaborate with the drawing that spurred me to try it.
I patterned my steps toward clasping the pen as Susie had. I fixed the pen in my surprised left fist and began to draw the outline of a head and body. A first. Something I'd not ever given myself permission to try, I did because I watched Susie do what I did not think possible.
Two things struck me about Susie and prompted this short verse One: she can use neither of her hands the way in which she was once accustomed. And two: her husband died in early 2006. The loss nearly devastated her and she decided to grapple with grief by writing more and by coming to poetry group. Her courage lifted me. Her passion for writing, inspired me then and does to this day.
Blue
Shaking lines bleed blue
on fiber bleached, then sold,
so her words have a home-
yes, a home, and a place
to leap for joy.
Susie is an elderly woman who was a member of a poetry group I was invested in November 2006. She is a visual artist and a published poet. Her voice is distinctly refined and articulate-a southern drawl to die for. Something else makes Susie’s voice unique: she has Parkinson's disease. Her speech is slightly affected, but it’s her hands that shake like leaves.
Susie's manifest courage in group one night birthed the poem that follows, entitled Blue. Our instructor Victoria, gave us an in-class assignment. She asked us to take out a piece of paper and writing instrument. She said, clear off everything else from the table but the paper and the pen. Now, take the writing instrument in your non-dominant hand. My heart pinched and fell. As much as I looked forward to these assignments, I felt defeated in that minute like never before. Had it been an assignment we were to take home, I would have had the perfect cover and could have simply said I did not feel like participating (which, I suppose, I still could have said) but there and then, in that moment, I was challenged in a new way; in the presence of the others I was compelled to decide whether to get up and excuse myself or whether to give it a wobbly go.
Now, draw a picture with that non-dominant hand- yes, go ahead, you can do it. I watched Susie, the woman afflicted by this dreadful debilitating disease, awkwardly clasp her pen in her fist and strike the white paper with erratic blue lines.
After you've finished your drawing, I want you take your drawing home and collaborate with the drawing to write a poem. I was still stunned. But it was witnessing Susie persevere and the words collaborate with the drawing that spurred me to try it.
I patterned my steps toward clasping the pen as Susie had. I fixed the pen in my surprised left fist and began to draw the outline of a head and body. A first. Something I'd not ever given myself permission to try, I did because I watched Susie do what I did not think possible.
Two things struck me about Susie and prompted this short verse One: she can use neither of her hands the way in which she was once accustomed. And two: her husband died in early 2006. The loss nearly devastated her and she decided to grapple with grief by writing more and by coming to poetry group. Her courage lifted me. Her passion for writing, inspired me then and does to this day.
Blue
Shaking lines bleed blue
on fiber bleached, then sold,
so her words have a home-
yes, a home, and a place
to leap for joy.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Fire
I thought of Elijah tonight-the prophet who wished to die. Fear not not dear readers, I am not wishing for death (mine or anyone else's). I built a fire because my poor privileged feet were cold and would not be consoled or warmed throughout the day. As I settled by the fire, I intentionally picked to be quiet; I did not turn on music, I did not put my laptop on the place for which it is named. I simply sat. As the fire grew in strength after considerable stoking, my feet thawed. Then something curious happened. It was not my sense of touch or sight that next stirred. The sound of flames captured my attention; I closed my eyes and tried to think of what they mimic. (It was the fire itself, not the popping sound of burning wood.) In my mind's eye, and heart's ear, I could sense the flapping of wings, yes, wings. A quiet fire made sound as a flock of mute geese...
Mine and Elijah's God was not in the wind, the earthquake or the fire (I Kings 19).
Instead, it was the still small voice that arrested the prophet and me. How many times have I talked over the voice of God with a yes, but or a not now, there's much to be done. Thankful that he bid me to sit and wait by the fire this night.
Good night's rest and only God's peace,
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Untitled gratitude
The holiday season is literally around the corner; the time of year we juggle schedules begins-all over again. I run out of steam often, but at the holiday season, raging guilt and self-contempt escalate. The very time of year in which I could take inventory of blessings is shawdowed by penumbra of winter; I stare into a cluttered room and stifle weeping. I. me. my.
It is this for which I give thanks: Thank you God, for my ineptitude, my inability to make life work. Let thanks be to him who made me desperate-who created me to long for him, without whose intervention I would have no hope. I need a savior-all the time.
All praise and honor to him: who made provision for my weaknesses, who, in his wisdom, grace and mercy, appointed his only son to step into time, put on flesh for his own glory and for our sakes; whose wrath was satisfied by the same one and only son who took our place. The gospel's everlasting resonance is that after all this- the giving up of heaven, the putting on flesh, the sinless life before the Father, the grueling death on a tree, the only son conquered the scourge of death by his resurrection, bodily, from a sealed tomb. Our God did for us what we could never, ever do for ourselves. My cup runs over indeed.
Soli Deo gloria.
It is this for which I give thanks: Thank you God, for my ineptitude, my inability to make life work. Let thanks be to him who made me desperate-who created me to long for him, without whose intervention I would have no hope. I need a savior-all the time.
All praise and honor to him: who made provision for my weaknesses, who, in his wisdom, grace and mercy, appointed his only son to step into time, put on flesh for his own glory and for our sakes; whose wrath was satisfied by the same one and only son who took our place. The gospel's everlasting resonance is that after all this- the giving up of heaven, the putting on flesh, the sinless life before the Father, the grueling death on a tree, the only son conquered the scourge of death by his resurrection, bodily, from a sealed tomb. Our God did for us what we could never, ever do for ourselves. My cup runs over indeed.
Soli Deo gloria.
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