Gulp
I stumbled across this old bit from Soren Kierkegaard this week. I’d read it before (in Provocations), but preferred to forget it–especially when dealing with a text like Luke 18.
The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obligated to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined. How would I ever get on in the world? Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church’s prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close. Oh, priceless scholarship, what would we do without you? Dreadful is it to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament.
Augustine on Creation
Preparing for Sunday’s sermon on Genesis 1, I stumbled upon this little gem from Augustine of Hippo (written @ 1500 years ago).
Often a non-Christian knows something of the earth, the heavens, the motions and the orbits of the stars, and this knowledge he holds with certainty from reason and experience. It is thus offensive and disgraceful for an unbeliever to hear a Christian talk nonsense about such things, claiming that what he is say is based on Scripture. We should do all we can to avoid such embarrassment, which people see as ignorance in the Christian and laugh to scorn. (From The Literal Meaning of Genesis)
Lectionary Text
I stumbled across this poem by Debra Rienstra today in her (very good) book, So Much More. It’s called “Lectionary Text” and is about what happens in her household the week before her husband has to preach. My wife will testify that she gets at least the first two paragraphs right. I pray the third will be accurate as well.
Lectionary Text
Once you invite me in, beware:
I toss you from your favorite chair,
I snip the daily news to shreds
And interrupt you in your bed.By week’s end you wish me away–
I drag around your thoughts all day.
You wrestle me down, chop and twist,
But I, with ancient art, resist.Come Sunday, sweet as Spirit’s dew
I gentle fall on folks, through you.
A Maddening mystery? Thus your part
To sink a word into a heart.
The Love of Jesus
Sleepless in Seattle was on again last weekend. And I’ll admit–I watched it.
I’m not really sure why. I’ve probably seen it (or bits and pieces of it) three or four times before. Plus, I’ve seen You’ve Got Mail a time or two, and that’s more or less the same movie. So I knew the plot line, knew the jokes, knew the happy ending. But I watched it anyway. I blame my wife and mother-in-law.
Towards the end of the movie, the Sam Baldwin (Tom Hanks) character wakes up one morning and discovers that his house is empty–his eight-year-old son, Jonah, has run away. Somehow, the little boy managed to board a plane and fly to New York (by himself!) where he must navigate the bustling streets–alone.
I don’t remember what my reaction to this scene was the first (or second, or third) time I saw it. Probably deep skepticism (how could that kid even find his way to the airport?!). But this time, I couldn’t help but clutch my wife’s arm and hold my breath as the desperate father (Hanks) boards his own plane to New York and then sprints through the streets of the city in search of his son. And I couldn’t help but let out a huge sigh of relief when that Father finds his son–when he’s able to pick him up in his arms and squeeze him tight. I was captivated by it all in a way that I never had before–because before, I was not a father. Before, it had not fully occurred to me just how terrible it would be to lose a son.
I suppose it’s stating the obvious to say that I love my son–a lot. I imagine I would do anything necessary to protect him and keep him safe. And I’m glad to know that I’m not the only one.
That hit me when Adrian baptized this summer. I recall being deeply moved when Pastor Joy pronounced the blessing over him. Adrian Paul, for you, Jesus came into the world. For you he took on flesh. For you he lived. For you, he died. For you he rose again… The words hit me someplace deep inside and I suddenly understood–with new clarity–that there is someone who loves my son even more than I do. The love of Jesus for my son (for me, for you) is more profound and perfect than any earthly father’s could ever be. I find that fact to be wonderfully assuring.
But there’s a flip side. It’s not just the way Jesus loves my child. It’s the way I love Jesus back.
One of the lectionary readings for this week is from Matthew 10:34-39. It includes these words:
Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves his son or daughter more than me is not worthy of
me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy
of me.
I do not like those words. At all. I want Jesus to love my son more than I can. But how can I love Jesus more than I love my son? My son–whom I can see and touch and hold? My son–whose soft cries float down the stairs, even as I type this? My son–for whom I would give up my own life? It seems like too much to ask. I fear that it is impossible.
But I pray that God would make it possible for me. I pray, not that he would make me love my son less, but that he would make me love his Son more.
Counting the Cost
Several months ago, Jill and I bought a new computer for our home. I was looking forward to it–at first. When the man from DHL dropped off the boxes on our front porch, I hefted them into the house and ripped into them like a child on Christmas morn. And for the first, say, thirty seconds, it was great fun.
But then reality hit. Soon, I was up to my neck in cords and manuals and speakers and video cards and virus software. Now understand–it’s not that a Luddite (at least not that much of one). I can handle some basic computer set-up without injuring myself or anybody else. The trouble is that I am not a patient person. I wanted to be surfing the Internet and organizing my check book and cropping my photos–I wanted my computer–and I wanted it now. As I looked at the mess of the cords, I couldn’t help but mutter under my breath. Why did it have to be so complicated? Why did it have to take so long?*
Forty minutes later–with cardboard boxes and broken bits of Styrofoam now cluttering my office–I finally turned the machine on. I rubbed my hands together and sat on the edge of my seat as the little machine began to purr for the first time. I was ready to go. And I figured that the new computer would be as well.
Of course, it was not. Once I got my initial log-in screen set up, I was greeted by what seemed like a ridiculous number (dozens? hundreds? thousands?) of user agreements. Windows XP. Microsoft Office. Norton Antivirus. Qwest Internet. Microsoft Live. Dell Customer Support. Picasa Photo. iTunes Music. All of them demanded that I check a box indicating that I had read and agreed with their fifty page user agreement. Which I, of course, did not do.
At least not the reading part. I checked the box and signed on whatever line they indicated–but there was no way I was going to read all that legal jargon. I was ready to get to work (and play); ready to enjoy the benefits of my new machine. Terms and conditions could wait for another day.
Afterwards, it occurred to me that I had taken a risk by skipping the fine print. The folks at Microsoft and Qwest and Norton could have slipped all sorts of fees in–and I would have been none the wiser (until a bill showed up in my inbox). I assumed I knew what I was getting into when I checked the box and signed on the line–but the truth is that I had no clue.
I wonder we have the same tendency as Christians–to check the box and sign on the line for Jesus–and never really slow down to consider (or share) what the cost might be. At least that was my thought while reading some of the lectionary passages for this week. In one (Mark 1:4-13), Jesus–freshly anointed with the Holy Spirit and heralded as God’s own beloved Son–is driven out into the wilderness where he receives no food for forty days and there is no one to keep him company but wild animals (and eventually, the Devil). In another (2 Corinthians 11), Paul rattles of his resume–which includes prison, severe floggings, lashes, beatings with rods, stonings, shipwrecks and other “dangers” (the word is used eight times in a few verses). Put the two together (and toss in a few other quotes by Jesus) and it’s hard to dodge the conclusion–Jesus didn’t live an easy life, and those who follow him can’t expect to either.
But it seems to me that’s not something we like to talk about much. We’d rather skip all that (it’s such a downer!) and talk about prosperity for the present and bliss for eternity. We’d rather focus on the benefits–some of them real, others not–and get people to check the box and sign on the dotted line. After all, if we really told people what they were getting into when they signed on with Jesus, who would bother? Wouldn’t church attendance dwindle? Wouldn’t evangelism inevitably fail? Why would people ever be drawn to a suffering Savior–especially when he might call them to suffer, too? As Paul himself says somewhere else, from where some folks are standing, it all sounds like foolishness.
But then again, honesty–counting the cost–may very well be the best policy here, too. Especially when one considers the alternative. The alternative (at least the one tried by nearly every generation) is to promise that Jesus will make a person healthy, wealthy, and wise. And though it sounds much more attractive, most people recognize it as the bill of goods that it is. Most people realize that that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.**
But if we were honest–even about the cost–maybe people would find our claims more compelling. If we tell others about the need to shoulder a cross–or better yet, show them how it’s done–perhaps our claims of truth might seem gain new traction. After all, if the good news that we bring is so good that we think it’s worth suffering for–it must deserve serious consideration.
*Friends have told me–repeatedly–that I should have shelled out the extra bucks for a Mac. Apparently, the fine folks at Apple include Fairy Godmother who waves her magic wand and makes everything work perfectly in the blink of an eye.
**The note able exception being the gospel of grace, of course.
Forget Not
Praise the Lord, O my soul,
and forget not all his benefits.
Ps. 103:2
The florescent lights in the nursing home cafeteria buzzed and flickered. Sleigh Ride or Holly Jolly Christmas or some other such jingle played in the background. Dishes clattered as the girl in blue scrubs slid leftover beef stroganoff and crumpled napkins and half eaten dinner rolls and bits of jello-salads into her bin. And my dear old friend, Jon, slumped in his wheel chair, picked at the table cloth, and muttered something I could barely make out. Work to do. Mother is at home. Put that over here.
We were there to offer him the sacrament–the body and blood of our Lord. But we didn’t know how it would go. Before arriving, I had been optimistic. But I was becoming less and less sure by the minute. Jon seemed rather baffled by the three men sitting before him. He couldn’t remember the name of his son–never mind his pastor and his elder. When I tried to explained that we were there to celebrate communion and set a small crystal tray of cubed bread on the table, Jon reached for one and put it into his mouth–as if it were just some leftover morsel from his lunch that he hadn’t gotten to yet.
As Jon nibbled on his bread, I began to think that it was all a silly idea–the old form from the back of the Psalter Hymnal, the little cup of juice, the zig-zagging conversation. What good would it be? How could these things be meaningful for a man who couldn’t even remember that his wife of seventy-some years had been dead for months?
I had my doubts. But even so, I began to read my photocopied notes. And as I did, something changed in Jon.
As I went through the old form–the institution from 1 Corinthians, the explanation of what was being proclaimed and remembered, the prayer for the blessing of the Holy Spirit–Jon became suddenly aware. He interrupted–only occasionally–to offer the reference of the scripture passage, or to request a favorite Psalm (139). When we got to the Lord’s prayer he said every last phrase–clearly. When it came time to say the words–Take, eat, remember and believe–Jon held on to his bread and juice until the appropriate moment. And then offered his thanks. To me, perhaps. But mostly, I believe, to Christ.
After we had swallowed our bread and sipped our juice, I began to read the traditional thanksgiving Psalm–103. It didn’t take long–two verses–before the words caught in my throat and tears threatened to spill down my cheeks. Praise the Lord, says the Psalmist, and forget not all his benefits. When I read those words, I nearly lost it–right there in the nursing home cafeteria. I nearly lost it because I knew that of all the things that Jon has forgotten–the name of his son, the place he attended church for ninety (or more) years, the death of his wife, what year he was living in–Jon has not forgotten Christ and all his benefits. He was able to take, eat, remember, and believe. Dementia has taken so very much from him–but by God’s grace, it hasn’t taken that.
Praise the Lord, oh my soul. Praise the Lord.
Great Taste During Lent
No joke: I saw this sign in Taco Bell a few weeks ago. There are too many levels of irony to comment on here, but suffice it to say that I’m not so sure that the folks who came up with the concept really “get” Lent. Even so, they helped me “get” it a little better.
I’ve still got John 4 (the Samaritan Woman at the Well) on the brain. I’m still thinking about why Jesus goes about unraveling this woman’s past. The obvious answer (which is usually the best answer when it comes to Scripture interpretation) is that he wanted to help her see how she’d been looking for love in all the wrong places. Jesus wanted to open her eyes to the way that she’d been trying to quench her deepest thirsts and hungers (for intimacy, meaning, security) in all the wrong places. He wanted to show her how she’d been filling up on cheap substitutes that could never leave her satisfied. He wanted to show her just how thirsty (and hungry) she was for Him, and what he could offer her.
It seems to me that Jesus wanted to show her that she was trying to fill up on Taco Bell when what she really wanted was Him.
That, of course, is one of the great questions we ask ourselves during Lent. Who (or what) do we look to to satisfy our hungers and quench our thirsts? Have we been duped into filling up on cheap substitutes and lost our appetites for the real deal?
Recently, a friend of mine posted this quote on her blog:
I love her insight for it’s honesty. But I also love it because it helped me see that sometimes, the things that we need to give up–those artificial substitutes–often aren’t bad in and of themselves. What’s keeping us from drinking deeply from the well of Living Water might not be something obvious: pornography, or gossip, or promiscuous relationships–those favorite sins of preachers. It may be something that is good in it’s proper place–when our loves are properly ordered (as Augustine said)–but that has slipped out of place. It may be that we’re filling up on books, family, work, hobbies. It may be that these good things that have become dangerous because we’re too full of them to be full of Him. If you’ll let me push the analogy–it may be that we’re taking what’s okay on occasion (Taco Bell?) and filling up on it all the time.
Of course, it doesn’t have to be that way. Jesus says he’s got something better than Grilled Stuffed Burritos for us. He says that we “he has food we may know nothing about (vs. 32) and that “…those who drink the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”
The next time you’re tempted to pull through the drive-thru at Taco Bell, think about that! He is the one who satisfies!
“ Do not be surprised, therefore, when you have yielded your service, given your affection, and poured out your heart to that pleasure of yours, your idol, your own lust and mischief–do not be surprised, then, if you have no appetite for Christ, or for that heavenly food.”
–Robert Bruce
Wisdom: A Sneak Peek of Daniel 4
Working on Daniel 4 this week, I was reminded of the opening line of John Calvin’s Institutes.
“Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true and sound wisdom, consists of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves.”
Hopefully, we’ll take a few steps in the direction of that “true and sound wisdom” this (and every!) Sunday morning.
Obedience
On Sunday morning, I quoted Sietze Buning’s (Stanley Weirsma’s) poem Obedience. However, I left out what I think may be the best part (the last few paragraphs). So for your pleasure (and pondering), here it is in full:
Were my parents right or wrong
not to mow the ripe oats that Sunday morning
with the rainstorm threatening?
I reminded them that the Sabbath was made for man
and of the ox fallen into the pit.
Without an oats crop, I argued,
the cattle would need to survive on town-bought oats
and then it wouldn’t pay to keep them.
Isn’t selling cattle at a loss like an ox in a pit?
My parents did not argue.
We went to church.
We sang the usual psalms louder than usual–
we, and the others whose harvests were at stake:
“Jerusalem, where blessing waits,
Our feet are standing in thy gates.”
“God be merciful to me;
On thy grace I rest my plea.”
Dominie’s spur-of-the-moment concession:
“He rides on the clouds, the wings of the storm;
The lightning and wind his missions perform.”
Dominie made no concessions on sermon length:
“Five Good Reasons for Infant Baptism,”
Though we heard little of it,
for more floods came and more winds blew and beat
upon that House than we had figured on, even,
more lighting and thunder
and hail the size of pullet eggs.
Falling branches snapped the electric wires.
We sang the closing psalm without the organ and in the dark:
“Ye seed from Abraham descended,
God’s covenant love is never ended.”
Afterward we rode by our oats field,
flattened.
“We still will mow it,” Dad said.
“Ten bushels to the acre, maybe, what would have been fifty
if I had mowed right after milking
and if the whole family had shocked.
We could have had it weatherproof before the storm.”
Later at dinner Dad said,
“God was testing us. I’m glad we went.”
“Those psalms never gave me such a lift as this morning,”
Mother said, “I wouldn’t have missed it.”
And even I thought but did not say,
How guilty we would feel now if we had saved the harvest.
The one time Dad asked me why I live in a Black neighborhood,
I reminded him of that Sunday morning.
Immediately he understood.”
Sometime around the turn of the century
my sons may well bring me an article in The Banner
written by a sociologist who argues,
“The integrated neighborhoods of thirty years ago,
in spite of good intentions,
impaired Black self-image and delayed Black independence.”
Then I shall tell my sons about that Sunday morning.
And I shall ask my sons to forgive me
(who knows exactly what for?)
as they must ask their sons to forgive them
(who knows exactly what for?)
as I have long ago forgiven my father
(who knows exactly what for?)
Fathers often fail to pass on to sons
their harvest customs
for harvesting grain or real estate or anything.
No matter, so long as fathers pass on to sons
another more important pattern
defined as absolutely as muddlers like us can manage:
obedience.
Seitze Buning, in Purpaleanie and other Permutations
The Middleburg Press, Orange City, IA. 1978.
The Revealer of Mysteries: Take 2
I encountered what could only be referred to as irony in my sermon preparation this week. I’ve been doing my best to write a compelling, relevant, biblical sermon on Daniel 2–and on the “Revealer of Mysteries” that is so frequently referred to there. But in the meantime, I’ve felt enshrouded in mystery myself. For some reason, I can’t seem to see this text with the clarity I would like. I’ve found myself keeping company with Nebuchadnezzar–tossing and turning at night as I try to understand what God is trying to “reveal” to us in all of this.
Come Sunday (barring major a major revelation in the next 48 hours), I’ll be talking about how God’s knowledge of the future assures us of his control of the future. But I’ve also thought–more than once–that this text might take us a different direction.*
It seems to me that old Nebuchadnezzar is on a quest for truth in this passage. He’s looking for a kind of truth that doesn’t come about through human intuition, or the standard Babylonian ways of knowing that he had long depended on. This methods of knowing the deeper mysteries of life are ultimately insufficient and not dependable. Nebuchadnezzar needs something more. He needs a revelation from God. (That’s why he ups the ante with his court astrologers and has them tell the dream–because he wants to know that they can be trusted).
The parallel is less exact than I’d like (and that’s one of the reason’s I didn’t preach this) but it seems to me that there may be a very strong Christ connection in this passage. After all, Paul frequently refers to Christ as the “mystery of God” (do a search–it’s rather fascinating. Or start with Col 1:25-2:5, 1 Cor. 15)**. The question for us then becomes how we can know the truth about the mystery of Christ.
There are plenty of places to start when we’re searching for the “meaning of the mystery” that is Christ. Apologetic arguments, intuition, the words and witness of passionate believers. But in the end, our conviction of the truth of this mystery will not come from our normal sources of understanding; it will not come from our quest to discover and discern Christ. Ultimately, it will come from God’s movement toward us. It will come from his act of revelation. And if we take Daniel’s actions as a cue, it will only come when we step out in faith and enter a relationship (prayer) with him.
I think it’s something worth considering. I know some folks (some readers here?) who are curious about the Christian faith, curious about Christ, but don’t know how they can know for certain. To them, I’d say–step out in faith. Pray that God will reveal this truth to you (or to your loved ones). Or if you’re a person who struggles with day to day doubts, with the plausibility of what we confess to be true as Christians (which most of us who think about these things will do at some point)–pray to God to reveal the mystery to you. Ask him to give you true wisdom and insight into the certainty of life with Christ.
*More than one, actually. If I get around to it, I’d like to jot down a few things on the politics of Daniel 2.
**A connection can also be made with the “wisdom” idea that comes in Daniel’s Song (Chap 2.20 ff)–God gives wisdom, and the wisdom of God is the foolishness of the world–the cross of Christ that we know through the Spirit. Cf. 1 Cor 1
