An Odd Kind of Jealousy

     I suppose it was only right that the day was dreary and filled with rain.  We were on our way to the funeral of Aunt Helen, the last remaining daughter of the thirteen children that comprised my dad’s family; a natural heaviness hung over my brother, cousin and I as we made the two hour journey.  We were doing our best to not let the gloom of the situation overtake us, and then….

     The call came some 20 minutes before we reached the cemetery, informing us that Uncle Roy had passed on earlier that morning. As the saying goes, “And then there was one.”  Thirteen siblings, and only one remains. By the time we arrived at the service almost everyone was aware that another service would occur before the week had passed.

     Yet, as I stood among the mourners and sat at lunch with the family, I discovered that my real sadness went beyond the fact that we had lost more cherished family, that children and grandchildren would no longer be able to pick up the phone and hear a comforting voice, that family meals would now be held at someone else’s home and prepared by other hands. No, my heart ached with an odd kind of jealousy. 

     I was jealous because Helen and Roy, these dear loved ones, were in the presence of Jesus. They were where I long to be. I guess I didn’t realize how intense my desire was until that moment.

     How do you tell a grieving child (Helen’s children are my age) that I am thrilled she has graduated to her eternal reward and I can hardly wait to join her? Realistically, you can’t say those words. Instead, you express your sorrow for their loss and promise to pray for the peace of God to comfort their hearts and minds. And I performed the task as required.

     But inside I wanted to scream for Jesus to come gather the rest of us also.  Why should we have to continue enduring this fallen world with its wars, disease, corrupt leaders and an ever increasing antagonism toward Christ and His followers? Were Helen and Roy called home because they were both aged, suffering recent physical ailments and recently bereft of their life-long partners?  No, others pass from this world who don’t meet those qualifications.

     Needless to say, my journey home was filled with soul searching and a questioning of my own attitudes.  What I discovered is that I am not at all dissatisfied with life; quite the contrary – I find more joy in where I am and what I am allowed to do than ever before in my life. I also discovered, however, that the more I have come to know Jesus, to experience His presence in my life and to understand the process of sanctification, the more I want to be with Him in all His glory.  This desire was the source of my jealousy.

     As this reality became apparent to me, I began to pray that more and more believers would experience this increasing friendship with Jesus that intensifies our desire to be with Him.  Are you jealous of those who have gone before you to meet Him?

Preparing for What?

     Have you noticed that it seems we are always preparing for something? Runners are always preparing for their next race.  Newlyweds are preparing for life together.  We have a million and one things we are preparing for: a new house (or improvements to the one we are now in), a new job, a new car, a new child, holidays, reunions, graduations, parties, vacations, etc… . And when you reach that certain age of life you begin to plan for things like retirement, visits from grandkids and joint replacements.

     I believe it is a good thing to prepare for the events of life. Some are simple to deal with while others require much thought, time, energy and, sometimes, money.  I have a dear couple in my congregation who are preparing for the adoption of a child from another country.  It is not something that can be undertaken haphazardly. There is a great deal of preparation involved in such a venture – some of which involves other people. The mountain of paperwork; applications to fill out, asking people to write references, home inspections, government agencies from two countries to contend with and satisfy – not to mention the large amount of money involved.

     My wife and I have been in the process of preparing to send our son off to college in the fall. Not nearly the undertaking of adoption but filled with time consuming paperwork, much decision making, and about the same amount of money.  It takes preparation to do it right and do it well.

     As a pastor it is not unusual for me to hear people share about such life events.  And I want to be properly supportive in each and every situation.  Yet, in over 30 years of ministry I have yet to have anyone tell me they are actively preparing for the most important thing any of us can prepare for.  That is right; no one has come up to me and proclaimed, “I am preparing to meet Jesus!”  Perhaps I should clarify that: no one who is vibrant and healthy, with the expectation of life still to be lived has shared that with me. Apparently, only the elderly or infirm are expected to make those kinds of plans.

     I do not want this to sound morbid, but what value is this life if it is not spent in preparing to die well?  And the only way to die well is to live with the anticipation of meeting Jesus.  I am afraid that we have become so wrapped up in preparing for the events of this life – and we are to prepare for them and enjoy them as the good gifts they were intended to be – that we have failed to adequately prepare for the one event each and every one of us will share in common.

     I have chosen to spend each waking moment preparing for the day I stand before my Lord and Savior.  No matter what else I may have accomplished in life, it will have been worthless if I do not hear Him say to me, “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your reward!”

     So, what are you preparing for?    

Teller Of Tales

   Riding freight trains.  Working sawmills.  Picking cotton.  Felling trees.  Pouring molten steel.  These were just some of the stories my Grandpa told.  He didn’t tell them in a dry, matter-of-fact way either.  Like Mark Twain, he made even the most mundane thing sound like an adventure that many people would pay to experience.  As a small child, I was convinced that every word Grandpa said was the absolute truth.  As I grew older, I began to think they were outrageous tales told only to amuse.  By the time I got into my twenties, I discovered, by talking with numerous relatives, that each adventure was indeed factual.  I began once more to see Grandpa with the eyes of a child enthralled by the adventures of his life. 

   Perhaps you, too, have met someone who allowed you to explore depths of adventure through his life story.  He allowed you to vicariously see and experience things you might never have seen or done otherwise. Granted, to some his stories were nothing more than tales, fables or fabrication.  But to you, because you have eyes that see beyond words and a heart that believes, his stories are the very fabric of life.

   I sometimes wonder if this was not the difference between those who followed Jesus and those who didn’t – eyes that saw beyond words and a heart that believed.  Without doubt, to those who did not possess such ability, Jesus could easily have been considered nothing more than a teller of tales.  The very idea of God taking the form of humanity, walking among us, taking our sin upon Himself, dying in our place and being resurrected three days later is the stuff of tall tales – unless it is true. 

   Two thousand years of history bear witness to the truth of what Jesus said and did.  He came exactly as the prophets predicted.  He did the very things they said He would do.  He was verified to be a truth-teller in His life, His death and the profound impact He has had on the world since.  Indeed, throughout the generations since Jesus walked the earth, countless individuals have given their lives in support of the Truth He spoke.  Only a crazy person willingly dies for a lie.

   There are still those, like the Pharisees of old, who think the story of Jesus being the God-man is the fabrication of a deranged mind.  He was, if He existed at all, nothing more than a teller of tales.  But as I discovered with Grandpa, sometimes the most outlandish stories are the most true.  And they are the ones that will impact your life to the greatest degree – if you have eyes that see beyond words and a heart that believes.  

Christmas Quilts

Most writers are inherently selfish with the space their words occupy - they do not like to share. Today, however, I am pleased to share some words written by my daughter, Elizabeth (who happened to be named after her great-grandmother).  I share not just because she is my daughter but because I believe they are poignant and powerful words.  They spoke to my heart and reminded me how tender her heart is. I pray her words speak to you as well.

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It’s Christmas time again.  I’m sitting on my bed wrapped up in a quilt while the radio sings, “And so I'm offering this simple phrase, to kids from 1 to 92, all though it's been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you..  I remember always having problems with that song when I was a kid. I was worried that the guy singing it wasn’t wishing a “Merry Christmas” to people over 92, and I had great-grandparents who were over 92.

My great-grandparents, or Grandma and Grandpa as everyone called them, were some of the most special people I had the privilege of knowing.  Their presence was an integral part of the fabric of my childhood. I was blessed to know them as long as I did. I spent many hours at their house when I was growing up. I can still remember going to their house every Friday night for dinner with all of the family who lived nearby. We would put all the leaves in their kitchen table then gather around. Grandpa was always at the head of the table. Dinner itself varied from week to week--sometimes pizza, others KFC, and others my dad would grill hamburgers and hot dogs. The conversations those nights would vary, but some of the same general topics would come up--religion, politics, world events, things going on at school or church, almost anything and everything under the sun.  Many hours were spent around that table laughing and talking.  Friday nights became the highlight of my week and I never wanted to miss out.

Grandma was a retired school teacher, and would always be teaching me things, even up to her last days. I can still remember the trick that she taught me to remember my 9’s multiplication facts. Grandma also loved to cook. My brother and I would help her cut up hot dogs to put on our frozen pizza and add lots of extra cheese.  Even though I don’t remember it, I have been told by my parents that we would also help Grandma put broccoli on our pizzas.  My mom cleaned house for them, and while she cleaned upstairs, we would go downstairs and play and watch TV--usually things like “Mr. Roger's Neighborhood”, “The Big Comfy Couch”, “Between the Lions”, and whatever else might have been airing on PBS at the time. Spending time at Grandma and Grandpa’s house was in integral piece of my childhood.  

Grandma also spent many hours at her sewing machine putting together blocks to make quilts. Everyone in our family has at least one quilt, if not more, made by Grandma. When I was in second or third grade, Grandma was diagnosed with a form of leukemia. By this point, she and grandpa had both lost much of their independence and required walkers to get around their house. I can remember her having to go to the hospital every so often to get blood transfusions. I was old enough then to understand that Grandma was sick, but I didn’t fully understand what was making her sick. The summer before my fourth grade year, Grandma died. My mom told me that Grandma was probably up there playing basketball with Jesus, which made me smile even though I was sad. Our church was packed when we celebrated her life at her memorial service, everyone that knew Grandma came.

I’m sure Grandma’s death must have been hard on Grandpa, but he continued on. After over sixty years of marriage, I can’t imagine losing your spouse not being hard. It wasn’t long after Grandma died that Grandpa became wheelchair bound. One of the things I remember about Grandpa was his love of Jesus. He would tell anyone and everyone about his personal Savior Jesus Christ. Before Grandma died, he wrote his own gospel tract and everywhere that the two of them went he would leave copies of the tract. I remember going along once when my mom took them to a doctor’s appointment and Grandpa left several of his tracts on the table in the waiting room. Every morning he and Grandma would read their Bibles together and would pray for people--they had a very long list of people that they prayed for daily. After Grandma died he still read his Bible every morning but also started going through the phone book and would send each and every person a letter explaining what he was doing, enclosing a tract, and then prayed for the person who he was sending the letter to. Because he was home-bound, this was his way of spreading the gospel. Grandpa’s health continued going downhill, like everyone in their 90's. When his daughter, my grandma, and I would go grocery shopping for him, there were a couple of things he would always want us to buy for him--Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches, braunschweiger, and sharp cheddar cheese. When looking at his diet, it is amazing that he lived as long as he did. He died December of my freshman year of high school.  That Christmas was especially sad. We held his memorial service just two days before Christmas.

Like everyone who has ever lost a loved one, Christmas time is hard without them. Yes, time helps, but their memories are always there. Most years for Christmas, I would receive a quilt Grandma had made. To this day, I still sleep under the quilts Grandma gave me. As we approach this special time of year, let us not forget the memories of those who came before us and continue to make new memories with those that we love. 

Choice Words

I have never eaten an awesome meal. I’ve never driven an awesome car or taken an awesome vacation. I haven’t danced to an awesome song or streamed an awesome video. I do, however, know an awesome God.

            My history with the word awesome goes back to my childhood, when my father –an amateur linguist and professional theologian – gently corrected my early attempts to apply that word (lit. “inspiring fright”) indiscriminately. In our family, we reserved the adjective for the One whose name is great and awesome (Ps. 99:3).

             My dad’s point was not that awesome itself was some sacred incantation only for the divine (the lover in Song of Solomon, for example, ascribes awesomeness to his bride). He simply wanted me to acknowledge with my words that, in both character and magnitude, God is different from deep-dish pizza.” [Megan Hill, Christianity Today online, October 2014]

            Such words give me pause to reconsider my use of words; not just in my preaching but in all my conversations – spoken and written.  I confess that I am prone to be lazy in my use of language.  As the author quoted earlier goes on to say:

      We live in a culture of inflated language. Our text messages and e-mails explode with exclamation points and smiley faces… Our everyday language swells in an era where immediate eclipses thoughtful, where the objective meaning of words is questionable, and where affirmation is prized. … And our social media statuses daily attract hundreds of thumbs-ups. As they sing in The Lego Movie: “Everything is awesome.”

            But if everything is awesome, nothing is.

            How often do we use words we don’t really mean?  Do we attach meanings to words for the sake of convenience rather than clarity and preciseness? Scripture speaks often about our use of words. For instance:

Proverbs 25:11  The right word at the right time is like precious gold set in silver.

            Our Lord even says that there are consequences associated with our words:

Matthew 12:36  And I tell you this, you must give an account on judgment day for every idle word you speak.

            Even those words of mine which do not harm another person can very easily be the wrong words. Indeed, I may not have harmed them, but did I build them up?  Were my words an encouragement to them? Further, by failing to carefully choose my words I can easily give an impression of something that is not entirely accurate; I can lead someone to believe something of me (or another) that is unrepresentative of who I am or what I think or feel.  I have come to realize that in this culture of emoticons, exclamation points and overworked clichés, until I have chosen the correct and accurate words for the situation at hand, it may well be best for me to say nothing at all.  To quote Megan Hill again: “If you don’t know our God, you might think a movie is awesome, but if you meet Him, you’ll understand what awesome truly is. Careful language testifies to the world as it reflects our truth-telling God.”  

The Right Things for the Right Reasons

     Between the weather and my schedule, I don’t always have the opportunity to get outside for the exercise I need.  For this reason we have a treadmill in our basement. It has a whole host of gizmos and gadgets attached to it.  It will measure your distance, speed, heart rate and calories burned.  You can program it for various types of workouts and tell it how much energy you want to expend.  Now, no matter what the conditions outside or the time of day, I have no excuse for not getting in at least a few miles of walking or jogging.  At least I shouldn’t have – but truth be told, I still don’t get on there as often as I would like and definitely not as often as I should.

     Yet, there is another type of treadmill that I am most pleased to no longer be spending time on: the performance treadmill.  Yes, there was a time when I was logging countless hours and miles – literally wearing out myself – and getting absolutely nowhere.  I was worse than a dog chasing its tail: I stayed extremely busy but didn’t get anywhere or accomplish anything of worth.  But unlike the dog, I didn’t know when to stop.  And while the dog did what he did for enjoyment, I was doing it all in an attempt to find approval.

     That’s right; I felt the need to earn the approval of others – even people I didn’t know.  My estimation of my worth was inherently tied up in earning the favor of others through my good deeds, my kind words, my compassion and generosity.  And unlike the treadmill in my basement, I had no control of this one.  Once I got on, it was as though it had a mind of its own; I couldn’t program it or slow it down and there was no way to get off (so I thought) without doing damage to myself.  Does any of this sound familiar to you?  Is this an experience you can relate to?  If so, there is good news.  You can get off the performance treadmill.  Even more, you must get off if you desire to experience the joy and abundant life promised to those who love and seek after God.

     Consider these words of Paul (who himself once struggled with performance issues):  for in Him we live and move and exist [Acts 17:28]. This is what we must get into our heads and hearts: God loves us as much on our bad days as He does on our good ones. Really? How is that possible? Because His acceptance is based on our position (in Christ) not our condition (in the flesh).

     This truth should be extremely liberating! Why? Because now we see that our worth is not based on what we do, but on who we are in Christ. God actually assigned value to you by allowing Jesus to die for you. “But I cannot believe that God does not care about what I do?” You are right! God wants you to do good works – but He does not want you to depend on them; He wants you to do them out of love for Him. Once you understand your position, who you are in Christ, you can get off the performance treadmill and begin doing the right things for the right reasons. From experience I can tell you, life is so much more enjoyable off the performance treadmill…now if only I could find my way onto that other one a bit more often!

     

Sacred?

     In their song, 'Fast Paced World' , The Duhks lament:

We've forgotten what is sacred

In this fast-paced world

We take and keep taking

Without thinking of what we are giving

Oh, nothing is sacred in this fast-paced world

Not love, not culture, not family or nature. 

     Indeed, they make a good point.  Have we forgotten what is sacred?  Does our culture even understand the distinction between what is sacred and what is profane? A few minutes of broadcast television or a bit of time reading the lyrics of many rap/hip-hop artists (yes, I admit I struggle deciphering the words in real time) - among other things - will lead you to believe that nothing is out of bounds; there are no 'sacred cows' beyond the reach of ridicule and verbal assassination.  

     There was a time (yes, in the dark ages of my childhood and adolescence) when certain things were so taboo that only the very lowest segment of society would dare to violate them; now it is not only admissible but considered art to desecrate the symbols representing what the Church holds inviolate. It appears to be perfectly acceptable to use in public places the most crude, vulgar language imaginable - even in front of women and children (and why not, since many of them are speaking the same words?). There was a time when the older generation among us was revered and honored, when children (born and unborn) were protected above all else, when dignity and respect was afforded those who served to protect our freedom and rights.

     Consider a few synonyms of the word 'sacred' and you will understand my point: hallowed, unassailable, untouchable. Is there anything left in our culture to which these words still apply?  I have heard it stated that our problem is that we have become a self-absorbed, narcissistic people with little concern for the needs or feelings of others.  Don't get me wrong, I am not advocating a return to the days of "Leave it to Beaver" or "Ozzie & Harriet." I am merely wondering where common decency, concern for our fellow man and esteeming some things as off-limits may have gone?  Is there nothing sacred in our culture? 

    

Missing Home

     Some of the greatest joys are also filled with sadness.  Case in point is the extended family meals we share on Friday evenings.  It is a custom that began over 20 years ago with my wife's grandparents.  It was a standing invitation for their daughter, son-in-law, their children and their families to gather in love, laughter, encouragement and support of one another.  To one who grew up in very a dysfunctional setting, those Friday night meals have been a great joy to me. Grandma and Grandpa have gone on to be with the Lord but the tradition continues with 10-12 of us gathering on an almost weekly basis.

     While I can't think of a better way to culminate a week than sitting around a table filled with so much love and laughter, there are times (thankfully few) when it is a struggle for me.  When the family begins to share -as they inevitably do - the memories that evoke uproarious laughter and adamant denials of deeds done, I often begin to feel a touch of loneliness.  In listening to them re-tell stories that someone either denies ever happened or, with great laughter, blames on one of the others, it dawns on me that, even though I am counted as a full member of the family, I am still an outsider when it comes to these moments.  I cannot share fully in the experience because I was not there when they occurred; the memories and everything associated with them are mine to share only abstractly - and that is a far cry from reliving them with the loved ones who were there when they happened. 

     It is true, because of these wonderful evenings together, that I periodically long to return to the town of my birth, to gather around those with whom I can share the experience of laughing at stories that begin with "and remember when.." Sometimes the longing to be with those who shared such experiences with me is almost overpowering. Be it with family or those from the neighborhood with whom I shared so much, sometimes I feel compelled to return to them, to look upon their faces and share laughter and remembrances.  It is called missing home.
     Yet, that is not the only time I miss home.  Often, as I read the pages of Scripture, I find myself feeling incredibly homesick. As I read the wonderful descriptions of that place that awaits me when this world we now inhabit ceases to be and, though I have yet to spend any time there, I find myself longing with my entire being to be found there. I find myself homesick for that place where evil, pain, heartache and discouragement do not exist. A place where neither young nor old suffer from abuse, hunger, or debilitating disease and every individual is seen as prized and highly valued.  I long to be in the presence of the One whose love is so unconditional and full that, though He knows me fully (warts and all, as the saying goes), He could love even me.
     Yes, some days I miss home. Until my time here is finished, there is nothing I can do about missing my Heavenly home. I am, however, going to make a visit to my hometown soon!

Slow-motion Suicide

           I don’t know if other countries do it or not, but here in the USA we take a day each year to honor fathers.  We extol their virtues, we reflect upon their hard work and dedication to always provide for the family.  In other words, we honor them.  But what if your dad wasn’t a man of great virtue?  What if your dad didn’t sacrifice himself for the good of his family?  What if your dad was a man with major flaws and was so disappointed with life that, over the course of many years, he committed what I call slow-motion suicide?

If your dad was this kind of man, take heart (if you can) in the fact that you are not alone.  I speak from experience. My dad was one of those who committed slow-motion suicide.  It took over 50 years for the cigarettes, alcohol and depression to take its toll, but almost 7 years ago it did finally catch up to him.  While I could easily describe the things which others chastised him for, the rebellious attitude he so often displayed, and the anger he showed during his times of drunkenness, I will not.  They were not entirely his fault. 

Part of the blame for my dad’s undoing rests squarely upon the Church he attended when he married.  You see, my dad loved the Lord as a young man.  He married young and had 2 sons by the time he was nineteen.  Then, due to a host of things no one in the family is completely sure about (at least they will not speak to me about it), dad and mom divorced.  This was the beginning of dad’s long slow journey downhill.

You are probably asking where the Church fits into this, after all, many people have gotten divorced.  How is the Church at fault?  Wasn’t he afforded over the years the opportunity to hear the Truth of God’s Word and change the direction of his life? I am sure that he was most likely given those opportunities.  However, I believe the Church holds a portion of responsibility in that, after the divorce, dad sought out the counsel of those he believed to be wise and Godly men.  Unfortunately, they informed him that because of his divorce he had lost his place in the Kingdom of God.  Needless to say, he was devastated.  Thus began his downward cycle of self-destruction.  The joy of life was gone and he became persuaded it would not – could not – return.  He became thoroughly convinced of his eternal condemnation and began to live accordingly.

None of this is to say that my dad did not have good qualities or that I did not learn valuable life lessons from him.  Indeed, he loved children; when he worked he worked extremely hard and on those rare occasions when he laughed, it was the type of laughter that brought joy to those who heard it.  He understood what it meant to be a true friend and would do anything for his friends – unfortunately, they were very few in number.

There is so much of life that he missed, and so much of him that the world missed, because someone in the Church said some irresponsible (and un-Biblical) things to a young man already in pain from a divorce.  I have no idea how many people have committed, or are in the midst of committing, slow motion suicide.  Even one is a tragedy. 

Even with all that he was, I miss my dad this Father’s Day.  Even more, I miss all that my dad should have been.   

Wrong Side of the Hill

As far as this part of the country goes, it was a great morning for a run.  The sun was preparing to make its presence known on the eastern horizon as I got out of my car and began to stretch (at my age, you just don't rush into anything - especially physical activity!) The air was still cool and the humidity, in spite of recent rains, was relatively low. I felt good and had high hopes for my run.  Of course, it has only been a few weeks since I began meeting the day with miles. Still, I have been making progress and enjoying the feeling of having my body active again.  

I started as I always do - slow! It wasn't long, however, that I began to feel the pace increasing...and it felt good!  I surprised some deer on the verge of the road and was reminded of the joy that running in nature brings. I had chosen a route that allowed me views of the sunrise, prairie grass and the morning dew on wildflowers. As often happens, my mind began to wander and I found myself reflecting back to my days in college when running fast was one my greatest joys. And for a couple of miles that is exactly what I was doing (at least it was fast for my station of life).  I was infused with great joy and happiness!

Then it happened.  I realized that I had forgotten to take one of the cut-offs I had planned.  No, I wasn't lost. But I was in a place I hadn't intended to be.  You see, up until this point I had managed to stay on relatively flat terrain.  Now I found myself on the wrong side a hill that must be traversed if I were to make it back to the car at my appointed time.  Not what I had hoped for. Seeing the hill looming large before me, I realized I had been pushing myself much harder than intended; indeed, harder than had I pushed myself in a number of years. I felt spent and began to wonder if I had what it would take to make it up that very long climb.

Isn't this how life sometimes goes?  Don't we often find ourselves moving along at a pace that brings us joy, partaking all the pleasures that surround us - feeling good about where we are and what we are doing - and then, BAM! We find ourselves on the wrong side of the hill. Only then do we realize that we must expend resources we no longer have available if we are to overcome the obstacle in front of us.  

Such are the times when we must take inventory of ourselves. Such are the times when we discover what we truly are made of. Admittedly, lacking the resources to meet the needs of life (be they emotional, relational, physical or financial issues)  is a far different situation than needing to run up a hill.  No matter what  the cause, finding yourself on the wrong side of one of those hills can be a debilitating, humbling and frightening experience.  But the options are the same as I encountered at the bottom of my hill: admit defeat and allow the circumstances to overtake us; or find a source of strength beyond ourselves to help us overcome.

Which will you choose?

As for me, I began to recall verses of Scripture that encouraged me not to give up hope; this enabled me to set my sights on top of the hill, ignore the pain and discomfort, and keep moving up. I can't say my pace would shatter any records - even for my age group - but I made it to the top.  And there is great joy in having scaled your way up the wrong side of the hill.

Let us run with endurance the race set before us. [Hebrews 12:1b]