I made the mistake of replying to a friend’s post today, believing I was helping her feel better about her state of mind regarding the upcoming election. Before I knew it, I was defending my position to someone I don’t know. I would say a total stranger, but she is a follower of Christ. That means she’s family.
I didn’t get angry. She didn’t get angry. We both made two or three replies, parting on amicable terms. I’ll pray for her. She’ll pray for me. Blessings.
Still, I’m not pleased with myself. Tonight, I can’t help wondering why we, the Family of God, are wasting our time arguing/discussing/disputing about things as unimportant as who is to be the next president of our country. Or, whether our Governor has the right to make us wear a mask.
Unimportant?
Yes. Unimportant.
I know someone will say it. So, I’ll say it first:
“But, we’re in a battle for the soul of our country!”
I don’t disagree. But, if we’re in a battle for our country’s soul, why aren’t we fighting with weapons that have a chance to win the soul?
Why aren’t we in our closets praying? Why aren’t we at the prisons and jails visiting? Why aren’t we in the neighbor’s back yard working side by side with them? Why aren’t we on the main roads and back roads, compelling them to come share our table?
Where are the cups of cool water? The literal ones for the heat and the figurative ones that slake the thirst with Living Water.
I promise you, we won’t win the soul of our country by shouting at every person foolish enough to expose their opposing viewpoint. It won’t be won by posting nasty, hateful memes that demean and belittle folks with whom we disagree. It won’t be won by shouting about our rights and repeating our claims day after day.
Someone suggested earlier today that we should stop doing these things because the people we were demeaning and clashing with might be fellow believers. I think the bigger concern is, what if they’re not?
What if they’re not?
What if the very people we are fighting here are the ones we have been called to love? (They are.)
What if the very people we are calling names and demeaning are the ones we’re supposed to be telling of God’s grace and mercy? (They are.)
They are!
How is this who we have become?
How do we dare to throw the love of Christ back in His face and defy Him to do anything about it?
The Apostle Paul, in prison for the very cause we claim, begged us to walk in a manner that is worthy of our calling. Begged us.
It’s time for us to start. Doing that.
That walking worthy thing.
Today. This week. This year.
Now.
You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5:14, NIV)
I’ve written with increasing frequency about unhappy subjects of late. Like a flood of epic proportion, they have overtaken me — and, it seems, most of us. Death, sickness, natural disasters, and so much more.
I want to quit dwelling on the negative things before me.
I have, just tonight, realized anew that I have been standing — figuratively — at the water’s edge, watching the level rise. Mesmerized by the current and its power, I have awaited its inevitable surge above flood level.
And, watching the flow, I suddenly hear music.
No, really. Music.
Away, I’m bound away, Across the wide Missouri.
I suppose it’s no coincidence the words to the old folk tune Shenandoah are coming from the speakers on my desk right now. No, I didn’t select the song; it just came up in the playlist the streaming music service delivers while I sit at my computer.
When I say no coincidence, I mean I probably needed a nudge in the right direction.
I can take a hint; I’ll head that way momentarily.
Many times, I’ve compared our existence here to a journey — a life-long expedition to see what is around the next bend and over the next hill.
We are strangers in a strange land, headed for a different home.
They do not belong to this world any more than I do. (John 17:16, NLT)
Having said that, I also realize I have stopped here beside the rushing waters and taken shelter a little ways above the river’s edge in a place of safety.
I’ve stopped here for too long.
Much too long.
Too long, staring at the intimidating water. Too long, wondering when the awful flood will recede. Too long, waiting for rescue.
The road goes on up the mountain on the other side of this cataract of white water. I can see it from here if I have the strength of will to tear my eyes away from the terrifying flood and lift them to the hills.
The painting you see above hangs in my home. It is one of my favorites. Although not necessarily from the brush of the most skillful of artists, the picture tells the story amazingly well.
The violent torrent roars and tumbles down the mountain rift with horrible menace. Nothing in its path could withstand for long the overwhelming power it wields. And yet, mere feet above the white water, on a rickety and cobbled-together wooden bridge, seemingly unconcerned and unfazed, a man stands resting.
The Lovely Lady and I jokingly refer to the piece of art as our Simon & Garfunkel painting, a none-too-clever reference to the duo’s song, Bridge Over Troubled Water.
A century old, the painting depicts nineteenth-century life in the Canadian Yukon Territory. The best word I can think of to describe living in that rugged wilderness? Hard.
Hard, and yet (dare I say it?) triumphant.
Here, amid the most unfriendly environment man could imagine, a bridge spans the cataract of water. In safety, where there was no safety, anyone can traverse the dangerous valley.
Someone had to build that bridge. Over the troubled water.
Over it.
While the river rushed and roared below them.
And still, I stand beside the flood and consider. It’s likely, you know, that if a bridge can be built over this river, there will be another one needing to be built up ahead, and another one, and another.
Rivers don’t run in a straight line, either. I might even have to build another bridge over this very same cascade, further on where it runs even wilder and more furiously.
Funny. As I stand here thinking, I seem to hear the voice of the red-headed lady who raised me.
“We’ll cross that river when we get to it.”
She is right. She always was.
But right now, I’m at this river.
Today, the rushing water directly ahead needs a bridge over it.
I have no choice but to follow the road ahead. And, it leads up the hill across this particular river. This wild, untameable flood.
It’s time to get building. It’s a good thing I know a Carpenter who is only too happy to teach the craft to any who ask.
After all, He built the greatest bridge of all time. Out of wood and nails.
Away, I’m bound away…
I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. (Psalm 121: 1,2 ~ ESV)
A bridge can still be built, while the bitter waters are flowing beneath. (Anthony Liccione)
The university campus looks different this school year. A lot different. Face masks with social distancing are the rule of the day. Outside classes. Meals in the quad. Tents under the trees and a stage thrown up in the large grassy area.
A lot of work has gone into the preparations for the resumption of school in this time of uncertainty. All are hoping the unseen enemy may be held at bay by the weapons and schemes being utilized.
Time will tell.
On a recent afternoon, I walked up to collect the Lovely Lady, who works there. It’s not a long walk. I don’t wear any protective gear—no helmet, no gloves, no goggles—since it’s not usually a dangerous walk.
I may have to reconsider now.
On that recent afternoon, I strode onto campus from the crosswalk at the four-way stop, assuming I had navigated the only iffy spot and would be home-free until I had her safely by my side. I glanced at the pavement ahead of me.
The westward border of the university grounds shares its walking right-of-way with the city’s fitness trail, so I’m never surprised if I meet a cyclist, speed-walker, or jogger there.
Still, the sight that met my eyes that day was a little perplexing. Nevertheless, I continued on my way, straight toward the individual coming at me. It was a college-aged young lady, out for an afternoon ride on her bicycle.
She was prepared. She had even donned a helmet, an accoutrement notably absent from the wardrobe of most college riders I see daily. She was also wearing a face mask properly, over both the mouth and nose, fastened behind her head.
She had another necessary tool with her, one I never go out on my own bike without. The cell phone is invaluable to me, giving me a map, should I need one. More than that, it links me with the Lovely Lady at home via the GPS function which will let her know where to send the EMTs, should I fall into a ditch or ravine.
But, that’s where the preparation thing unraveled. The young lady was pedaling down the trail toward me at a fairly high rate of speed, with no hands on the handlebars of her bicycle! Not one!
I was further astonished to see that she was holding her smartphone in front of her body, both thumbs moving a mile a minute as she tapped out a text.
No hands and no eyes!
I’m not lying when I tell you I don’t think she ever saw me. It is possible she was aware of my presence, but I’m certain she would never have recognized me should the need to identify a body arisen. And, that was appearing more likely by the second.
I moved off of the right side of the trail to give her a wide berth. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or to yell at her. I did neither and, of course, since I’m still here to relate the story, she sped right on past, with no necessity to identify a body afterward.
I have some thoughts about the event. Why certainly, I’d be delighted to share them!
Preparation without execution is meaningless.
Or, as the Preacher would have said, vanity. Useless and void.
All the training completed ahead of time and any amount of protective equipment donned is without purpose, if there is no follow-through. If we don’t keep our eye on the goal—if our attention is drawn away—failure is nearly assured.
In this battle we (society) and the university are in right now, the enemy is invisible. Oh, the enemy’s consequences are clear, but if they are visible to us, it’s too late.
Somehow, the young lady has reminded me of important lessons I believed were learned in my younger days. It is certain that, if I ever really learned them, I have forgotten them again.
Everywhere we turn these days, we see the result of spiritual battles. Across the world, we see them. Sometimes, just across our tables, we see them. Results.
Disastrous results.
Hate. Apathy. Despair. Racism. Violence.
I forget, again and again, that my enemy has never been a human being. Never.
The Apostle who loved to write letters was so very clear on that point, reminding the believers at Ephesus exactly who their enemy was—the unseen and terrifying power at work all around them.
For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens. (Ephesians 6:12, NET)
If the one we’ve called enemy has a beating heart, blood running through their veins, and is breathing air, we have identified the wrong suspect.
It doesn’t matter what the person’s position is, what organization he or she represents, and what heinous (or pedestrian) transgressions they stand accused of in our judgment.
If we claim to be followers of Christ and hate them, we lie.
We lie.
All our lives, we have prepared. We have studied; we have discussed. We have tried on the protective gear, turning it this way and that, getting comfortable in it.
Photo by Maria Pop on Pexels
For this reason, take up the full armor of God so that you may be able to stand your ground on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13, NET)
Why is it, when we have all the preparation down—all the defensive and offensive tools—why is it we take our hands off the handlebars and text our Moms?
It’s not only the college kids and us, either.
The sons of Ephraim were ready with their bows. But they turned away in the day of fighting.(Psalm 78:9, NLV)
Fighting men, they were. Well trained. Well equipped. But, in the day when they were put to the test, they turned tail and ran. Or maybe, they just lost focus. Perhaps, it didn’t seem so important anymore.
I know many in both groups. Many are paralyzed by fear. I know some in this group who are turning tail and running. Just when the preparation they’ve done would be the most help, they’ve decided they want no part of the battle.
And then, there are those who have lost interest. Apathy (or is it despair?) has them in its grip and they have turned their attention elsewhere. On the day of battle, they’ve got better things to do.
I don’t want to be in either of those groups.
There is no reason for us to live in fear. God is with us. Always.
If we turn away, the battle is lost.
So, why does it feel like we’re boxing with shadows?
Perhaps, it’s because we are. Only, like that old Pink Panther cartoon I viewed recently, the shadows are fighting back.
Ah, but do you know what defeats shadows? Every time? Of course, you do.
The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5, NIV)
No shadow can lay a glove on us when we walk in the Light.
Prepare.
Execute.
Stand.
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1, KJV)
If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else. (Yogi Berra ~ Athlete, Coach, Philosopher)
The troubled young man reached out his hand as I prepared to leave. We had been speaking of serious matters. I expected nothing from him, but here he was, obviously with something to offer.
I took the small object and turned it over.
“An arrowhead?” I mumbled, confused.
I thought he might have found an ancient keepsake out on the hillside, but wasn’t sure why he was giving it to me.
“I made it myself,” the man said proudly. “For you.”
We spoke of the work it had taken to produce this gift for a few moments. Then I thanked him and tucked the flinty object into my pocket as I headed for home. I regretted the decision to tuck it away there more than once as it dug into my leg when I moved my foot to the brake and the accelerator.
We all make poor decisions. I removed the arrowhead immediately upon arriving home. Still, it’s been a bothersome object nearly constantly since that day.
You see, I could easily pull it out of my pocket. It’s not so easy to get it out of my brain.
Am I the only one who has this sort of problem?
That arrowhead has been jabbing and pricking at my subconscious for weeks now. Every time I see it or the man again, something tugs at my thoughts. I’ve been trying to puzzle it out. I’m still not sure I’ve quite grasped it.
Perhaps, just a start here will help to firm up the shadow of the reality I know is lurking close by, just waiting to be seen in clear view.
Somehow, I find myself jumbling thoughts of stones, lots of them, banging against each other, together with reminders of bad choices and a lack of direction. I even find myself thinking about old Goliath and that stone that hit him in the middle of his forehead.
Odd, isn’t it?
Puzzles are like that — all confusing shapes and nearly-recognizable images — until one takes the time to sort the pieces out, sliding a little bit of sky here, squeezing some leafy trees in over there, and maybe even completing the border before ever considering the rest of it.
Perhaps we should start with the border
Border pieces. The ones that go around the scene, holding it together.
Pieces that can’t go anywhere other than at the top or bottom, far left and far right; all of them framing the rest of the picture.
Border pieces —let’s see…
What I know is this: in nature, rocks bang against other rocks, sometimes creating chips and edges, but most often smoothing each other. Over time, a bunch of rocks, randomly rubbing against others of their kind, become generally smooth and rounded.
Pleasant and rather benign, these stones are.
If they’ve been immersed in a creek or river, the process is faster and more efficient. I see them frequently when the Lovely Lady and I trek down to the river banks to look at the old bridges we love. There, on bars and little peninsulas, I’ll bend over and pick up stone after stone, spinning them back over the top of the water. After skipping along multiple times (if I’m lucky) they’ll drop back into the river’s flow, down to the rocky bottom to continue their polishing and grinding a while longer.
But, they can be used for more serious purposes, too. I’m fairly sure the stones I pick up by the river, to skip along the water’s surface, are not any different than the five smooth stones little David picked up by the brook’s edge back
Goliath didn’t find that first stone so benign. It was delivered with purpose.
Who knows? I may have actually skipped one of those four David didn’t need across the Illinois River. It’s possible.
The border pieces are coming together
And this, the idea of physical stones that grind away at each other, polishing and smoothing, is the analogy leading to the spiritual truth of the outside pieces to our puzzle.
As followers of Christ, we live in community, as our God intended. But, contrary to what many seem to believe today, it wasn’t only for our emotional comfort that He gave us to each other.
It’s true. Smooth edges, gleaming — with hardly a chip to be seen anywhere —they’re comfortable. And, generally useful.
It even helps to fulfill the directive found in the book of Hebrews.
And let us take thought of how to spur one another on to love and good works… (Hebrews 10:24, NET)
The real reason we need to be together is so we can help our family do good, not just feel good.
We smooth off the rough places that keep us from loving others.
We help each other become useful to our God for His purposes.
Finally, the jumbled pieces begin to make some sense
As I think about these edge pieces, the frame around this puzzle, the other pieces begin to come into focus for me.
I realize that the stone I’m holding in my hand, this arrowhead, is very different than those described above, even though they are all shaped by stone-on-stone contact. The thought hits me hard. Really hard.
We are not all the same.
Oh, before our God, we are equal. His Word is clear regarding that.
There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female — for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28, NET)
His grace and mercy are extended equally to all who come to Him through Jesus. We all are on the same level before Him.
That said, the apostle (my namesake) had more to say about our individual responsibilities. To God and to each other.
In a memorable passage to the folks at Corinth (1 Corinthians 12), Paul spoke of how the body works. Naming off the body parts, he describes the big and the small, the pretty parts and the ones we cover up. It’s a long passage, but it can be summed up with one verse.
The Native American culture has many symbols. Not surprisingly, the arrowhead carries strong symbolism to them. It speaks of direction. Of alertness and purpose. To carry out that symbolism, the stone is shaped for a specific function.
Unlike the stones in the river, the arrowhead is treated roughly, with edges being broken off, and flakes chipped away from across the face. There is a specific process, which requires expertise and experience. And a good bit of common sense.
I’m not sure the young man who made my arrowhead has arrived at that point yet. I’ll treasure it because he made it for me, but the good quality ones belie the process, their smooth sides and straight edges almost leading one to think the process is not violent at all.
“Flint arrowhead artifact (Granville, Ohio, USA) 2” by James St. John, lic. under CC BY 2.0
It is, though. The flint knapper — the process is called knapping — must know the quality of stone he’s working with and must be able to see the spot at which the flakes will split off evenly. Tapping with his shaping stone at exactly the right place, he is rewarded by a single tiny chip popping loose.
Again and again, he breaks the stone, with the goal of having a complete and perfect tool for his purposes when the breaking is ended.
Broken, made beautiful.
I said earlier the realization that we are not all the same hit me hard. Here’s why:
We’re not all arrowheads.
Some of us are skipping rocks. Or, stacking rocks. Or even Goliath-stopping rocks. And, that’s good. Our Creator knew we’d all be needed. And used.
There’s more:
We’re not all flint knappers.
And, this is a difficult thing for many of us to accept. You see, one wouldn’t know we’re not all experts at shaping stones by scanning our social media feeds.
No one would know it by reading our replies to online articles or even our everyday communication with each other in the coffee shops and watering holes.
Often, it’s not evident in our homes, with spouses and children, in-laws and guests.
We know what’s wrong with people and we’re on a mission to fix them.
Give us a little information, let us read a Bible passage and check a commentary, and we think we should shout from the rooftops the solution for every other human being’s problems.
Except one. Our own.
Before we can shape, we have to be shaped.
Before we can teach, we must be taught.
Before we can love, we must learn what it is to be loved.
More delicate stones have been shattered by the stones around them than can ever be counted. Simply because we thought having a tool in our hand gave us the right to wield it.
I look behind me and see the carnage.
I did that. With my hammer of stone and my unbridled zeal, I did that.
Broken stones. Everywhere.
My fingers cease their movement on the keys, frozen in place, as my sight is dimmed with tears of regret. I don’t like the way this puzzle is going together at all.
What terrifying power we have at our command! And, how casually we employ it against each other.
Our Creator has placed us carefully — surrounding us with family and friends, along with neighbors and acquaintances — for His purposes, not ours.
I wonder when we will begin to serve His purposes. Will we ever look at each other with new eyes, seeing the potential instead of the problem?
Just stones. Shaping other stones. Stones that, like us, live and breathe — and serve.
Because we are following The Living Stone. (1 Peter 2:4–5)
Maybe today, we’ll start.
Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check. (James 3:1, NIV)
We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them. With cautious skill, tap by tap — a small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day — so would we work… (Gimli the Dwarf, in The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)
To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. (Anonymous, sometimes attributed to Mark Twain)
From my workbench in the back room of the music store, I heard her exclamation of dismay.
Just moments earlier, the Lovely Lady, knowing I had over-promised and was likely to underperform if I didn’t have some relief, had suggested that she would take care of any new business until I could complete the jobs due that afternoon. It was a good plan. My work was going well and it appeared deadlines might actually be met.
Then I heard her unhappy outburst.
She would be calling me anyway, so I headed for the front. The sight that met my eyes was, to a lover of fine musical instruments, a sad and disastrous horror.
The young man wasn’t smiling either, as he stood beside the broken and splintered guitar. But, I remembered a few months before, when I had installed an electrical pickup system in the aging acoustic Martin, giving him a new facet to its usefulness.
He had had a smile on his face as he carried the instrument out on that day. He had been sure the beautiful guitar, one he had acquired while still in high school, would be the only one he would ever need.
It took a single moment—just a few seconds of forgetfulness—to dash that belief forever.
An afternoon at work, good intentions, a momentary distraction, and the guitar was under the wheels of the huge truck. Completely destroyed.
Lifetime plans dashed. Instantly.
As the young man spoke to me, he gently touched the fragments of wood. I could see the pain in his face—could feel it in his voice. But, there was something else in his voice—indeed, something different written on his face. He had come in for a purpose, and it was not to commiserate over the fate of the beloved instrument.
Purpose! That was what I heard in his voice. Purpose and resolve.
He would not dwell on the past. He was ready to move on.
“Let me show you my new guitar!”
The instrument he drew out of the new case was a beauty to behold. A custom guitar, handmade by an artisan from a nearby town, it simply begged to be played. The young guitarist gave in and sat for a few moments to demonstrate the capabilities of his new love. The crisp, clean lines of the instrument were matched by the music that poured out of it.
The clarity and warmth of tone that emanated from the polished spruce and rosewood box were surprising and anticipated, all at once.
When he finished playing, we spoke for a few moments about how happy he was with the new tool he held in his hands. He means to play this guitar for a lifetime, as well.
There was more. He was ready to leave the old broken guitar in the past, but he wanted a favor from me.
“Is it possible that the pickup system from the Martin will fit in this one?”
It made sense. He had spent hard-earned dollars on that system—quite a few of them. We might just as well salvage it and keep it in use. It would do the job just fine.
He was simply being practical. But, then again, perhaps there was a little sentiment in the request.
The need to move forward was clear. The old guitar would never, never play another note. But, part of it might be incorporated into the new one. The old would aid the new to achieve the vision the young man had always had for his future.
It would be a bridge, of sorts, between the past and the future.
I could help him cross the bridge.
I anticipated seeing the smile on his face again, just as I had the last time he carried a guitar out of my shop.
The future awaits. Up ahead.
As I sat thinking about what I would write tonight, my thoughts were naturally drawn to bridges. It really is almost unavoidable. You see, I am surrounded by paintings of bridges in the room in which I sit. I have given in to the urge to write about them often before.
I have written of the past and the future, using a bridge as a metaphor for the place where we stand, gazing first behind, and then ahead. Looking back, we see the events of the past clearly. Looking forward, we can just make out an uncertain future.
I have insisted that I must cross boldly to the future, encouraging my readers to do the same. But, tonight I’m wondering.
What do we do when the things we must leave behind were what we loved most in life?
I know folks who have stood at the approach to the bridge for weeks, months, even years, never moving. Gazing back at what is, even now, lost in their past, they still see nothing across the bridge to coax them to set the first foot on the platform.
Like the Children of Israel in the desert, they receive the sustenance of their God who promises them a place far better than any they left behind, and yet they pine for the food they ate when they were slaves. (Numbers 11:4-6)
Too harsh?
I also have stood in cemeteries and looked at the piles of freshly-turned dirt, reluctant to turn my back. I’ve watched dreams disappear into the air, like the morning mist in sunlight.
The disappointments and tragedies pile up behind me, as they do for every human who has ever walked this earth.
We can cling to them, like so many splintered guitars, for everything we’re worth.
There will never—ever—be another note of music from that source. The voices of the past are forever mute—in this world, anyway.
The human spirit is, however, designed by its Creator to be resilient and nearly impossible to crush. Like my young guitar-playing friend, it hears the call from the future and must answer.
We’ve stood at the bridge for long enough, looking back. The past cannot be retrieved, but what we’ve learned in it may be incorporated into the future.
Our memories are woven—hopelessly intertwined—into the fabric of our lives; we will never lose them.
I like the young guitarist’s way of thinking.
True, there is great sadness in the past. There was great joy as well.
Both will be found again.
In front of us.
And one day—one glorious day—the last bridge will be before us. Nothing awaits on the other side, but great, great joy. No sadness. No pain.
Joy. Across the last bridge.
I’m still walking. Still feeling. Still trusting.
There will be sweet music again. Of that, I’m sure.
Sweet music.
I’m not saying that I have this all together, that I have it made. But I am well on my way, reaching out for Christ, who has so wondrously reached out for me. Friends, don’t get me wrong: By no means do I count myself an expert in all of this, but I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back. (Philippians 3:13-14 ~ MSG)
Oh, my dear little librarian. You pile up enough tomorrows, and you’ll find you are left with nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to make today worth remembering. (from The Music Man ~ Meredith Willson ~ American playwright ~ 1902-1984)
You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. (Matthew 5:14, NIV)
