The rain is falling outside, an answer to prayer for some—an annoyance for others.
I’m in the former category.
No, I’m not worried about wildfires, as my friends and family in the American West are. Fire has devastated, and continues to devastate, the landscape out there right now. Homes are burning. Livelihoods are scorching. Nature is being tortured. They are praying for rain. With good reason.
In my home area, we’ve had summer rains along during the hot months, not as often as we’d like, but often enough. The lawn still needs mowing, even now, as we approach Autumn.
No. My reason for desiring the rain is a bit more intangible and less weighty. Or, perhaps not. Less weighty, that is.
My soul is thirsty.
It is.
Oh, not in the sense that I’ve missed the source of the Living Water that the woman at the well craved. That fountain has satisfied my spirit for many years.
And yet, in this, the most desertlike of seasons many of us living today have seen, I find myself wanting—something I can’t quite put my finger on.
I know others feel it, too.
Cups of cold water are fine to quench the thirst when you’ve run a few miles in the heat, but over the course of the marathon, the body wants more.
Ah, that hits the spot doesn’t quite do it when the body is caked with dirt and grime, smeared over the pores with salty sweat. When exhaustion bears the body down as if carrying the weight of all the world, a swig from the water bottle just doesn’t satisfy.
But, a summer shower or downpour, bounty from the skies—or more to the point, from the One who rules the universe—now, that quenches the body’s thirst!
I like metaphors. The reader may have noticed that in my writing before.
Metaphors. Mirrors that reflect a picture of truth.
Life is full of them.
Our faith is full of them.
“The rain and snow come down from the heavens and stay on the ground to water the earth. They cause the grain to grow, producing seed for the farmer and bread for the hungry. It is the same with my word. I send it out, and it always produces fruit. It will accomplish all I want it to, and it will prosper everywhere I send it.” (Isaiah 55:10-11, NLT)
Don’t tell me our Heavenly Father doesn’t love a good metaphor!
What a picture!
What a fabulous mirror of His love and provision! For our physical needs. For our spiritual life in Him.
Rain. From heaven.
Listen to the sound!
Rejoice in His certain love for His people.
And then, let our presence in the world today be the mirror of His certain love for everyone we meet.
To a world that increasingly views followers of Christ as aggressors and self-centered misanthropes, I pray we will show the face of our God.
Let it rain! Mirror His love and grace.
Be His metaphor to your world.
He does love a good metaphor.
The seventh time the servant reported, “A cloud as small as a man’s hand is rising from the sea.”
So Elijah said, “Go and tell Ahab, ‘Hitch up your chariot and go down before the rain stops you.’”(1 Kings 18:44, NIV)
The soul’s deepest thirst is for God Himself, who has made us so that we can never be satisfied without Him. (F F Bruce ~ British theologian & scholar)
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)
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)
The red-headed lady who raised me was the first person I heard say those words. I suppose it’s not unusual to learn truth from your mother. Her truths came mostly in short, easy-to-remember maxims and sometimes, in long run-on sentences with Bible verses thrown in for good measure.
Those truths, I remember. Some, I even still live by. Especially these days, I remember often that you can’t believe everything you read.
I never expected to learn anything from a fortune cookie. It’s probably a good thing.
We’d been cooped up in the house for weeks on end, waiting out the virus. Restaurants were closed; drive-through lanes, the only way to get food we didn’t have to cook ourselves. We finally gave in one evening and bought Chinese.
The meal was wonderful, the flavors a nice departure from the familiar menu of the kitchen at our place (not that I’m complaining about home-cooking at all). It didn’t take long for the Lovely Lady and me to clear our plates of the rice and various chicken recipes that accompanied it.
What about the fortune cookies?
Oh yes, all that was left were the fortune cookies. One for her. One for me. I don’t have any inkling of what hers said. I suppose that’s normal.
For some reason, we think the little pre-printed piece of paper inserted into the fold of the hard, crunchy cookie material is only meant for the one who happens to crack it open and pull it out.
I suspect, if we’re silly enough to think the phrase or sentence contained on the paper is of any importance, we might as well believe it was specifically intended for the person who opens it. It is, after all, a fortune cookie, is it not?
Still, the fateful words in my cookie were a little shocking.
“The truth will be important to you for the next month.”
The first thought in my head was, and what about the day after the month is over? I want to be sure of my options, you understand.
Right about then though, another thought took my brain captive: The truth hurts! No, literally! It hurts!
As I read the fortune, I had bitten the cookie, expecting it to crunch into little crumbs on my tongue. Instead, the sharp edge sliced into the roof of my mouth, drawing blood immediately. Every time I ate solid food for the next couple of days, I remembered that the truth hurts, because of the very real pain I felt.
Yes. It was another of that red-headed lady’s truths. Short and not-so-sweet. The truth hurts. Once again, she was right.
Truth is essential
Okay, I’m over the pain now and I want to talk about that fortune. I’d like to know why the truth is going to be important for me, but only for the next 30 days.
I’m certain the truth is always essential. Full-stop.
To a follower of Christ, truth is not an on-again, off-again option but is an ever-present tenet of our faith. His Word is filled with instructions that are clear and unmistakable. For example:
The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy. (Proverbs 12:22, NIV)
Why then, do His followers so often deal dishonestly? Why do we lie to those we love? To those we barely know?
On a recent afternoon, as the Lovely Lady and I sat around the table with friends and family, the conversation turned to lies told us by our parents. Several at the table told of untruths they learned about either late in their parents’ lives or after they had died. I don’t exaggerate when I tell you there was emotional devastation for those left to deal with the consequences of some of those lies.
When we tell a lie, we bind ourselves to that lie. Until the day we confess it and finally tell the truth, we are shackled to it. Again and again, lies are required to prop up the original untruth. Lie upon lie, compounded until the guilt must be unbearable.
And yet, Jesus told his followers (in front of His detractors) that there is freedom in the truth.
To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” (John 8:31–32, NIV)
Truth is freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from shame. Freedom from a dishonest past that ties us up in knots of failure and terror of discovery.
Truth doesn’t always hide in plain sight
Boy, that’s an understatement! We live in a day of truth-twisting like none before, public officials who build cases from half-truths and generalities, people groups who purposely blend lies with myth and call it truth, individuals who spread information they know to be inaccurate, defending their actions with excuses and slander. More than a few on that list above claim the title of Christian.
Did I say it’s a day of truth-twisting like none before? I’m sorry. That wasn’t quite accurate.
We complain today that we no longer know what is truth and what isn’t. An influential man, in about 33 AD, said the same thing.
“What is truth?” retorted Pilate. With this he went out again to the Jews gathered there and said, “I find no basis for a charge against him.” (John 18:38, NIV)
Sound familiar? The political/religious leaders had fabricated a case against Jesus, using witnesses who actually reported words He had said, twisting them to make Him appear treasonous. Then, when the entire group was in agreement, they took that information to the Roman governor.
After speaking with the accused, Pilate tried to square the “truth” from the priests with what he heard from Jesus. His response to the confusing dichotomy was that phrase we hear repeated again and again today. Two thousand years later, we still are seeking the answer.
What is truth?
Confusion reigns right now
We have a virus that won’t be pinned down to any recognizable modus operandi, with no response that can be agreed upon. There is massive racial unrest that has fractured even the most conservative and liberal organizations in our country, with slogans and accusations hurled in the name of truth from all directions. Our government is in disarray — every voice claiming the high ground of truth, with no sign of any resolution.
When we employ the truth for our own ends, we almost always wrap it in exaggeration and innuendo, the final result being something that resembles the truth not at all.
And yet, we must strive for the truth, searching it out, stripping away the falsehoods and non-essentials. If we don’t, we will be bound in this confusion indefinitely.
I’m reminded of a conversation between two characters in The Lord of the Rings story. Eomer, confused by events beyond his comprehension, wonders how one should decide what is right in such a time. Aragorn tells him nothing has changed. Nothing.
Nothing has changed
Truth is still essential. We are still called to be ambassadors of truth. It can still be found. Though not easily, I’ll grant you. And, when it is found, it will not be our servant, lending itself to our selfish causes. But it will be found.
I wonder if we don’t search in all the wrong places for truth. Perhaps, if we focused on the basics, we might find a way to walk in truth, to live the truth in our lives.
Basics? Where can we find those?
For us, who claim to follow Christ, we simply need to start there — following Christ. His claim is to be the Way, the Truth, and the Life.
If we’re following Truth, really following it in the spiritual sense, I have a strong suspicion that truth, in the practical, physical sense, will become clear to us.
When we participate in the truth-twisting, divisive conversations of the world, we are not following truth.
The basics are that we are to love God (who is truth) with everything we have in us.
The basics are that we must then love people, wanting the same good things, the same advantages, we claim for ourselves. Our truth-telling is to be done in that same love, building them up and not making them less.
The basics are that we are to focus on good things, truthful things, things that are honorable, and worthy of admiration. It’s a focus I’m not seeing all that much these days, even in myself.
So, here’s what I’m going to be doing
For the next month, I’m going to stop listening to the lies. For the next month, I’m going to stop telling the lies. For the next month, I’m going to focus on the good and true things that are all around me.
Then, after next month, I’m going to do the same thing for the month after that, and the month after that, and the… Well, you get the idea.
I could use some company. Then, if the truth hurts, we’ll be able to comfort each other.
Truth does that sometimes. Literally and figuratively. It’s still better than the alternative.
For the next month. And then some.
Eomer said, “How is a man to judge what to do in such times?” “As he has ever judged,” said Aragorn. “Good and evil have not changed since yesteryear, nor are they one thing among Elves and another among Men. It is a man’s part to discern them, as much in the Golden Wood as in his own house.” (from The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkien)
Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ. (Ephesians 4:15, NIV)
I sent my friend a birthday greeting recently. It wasn’t anything special, just two sentences on a popular social media site. Still, he was kind enough to return a note of thanks, with a little something added.
I wasn’t sure I wanted the little something.
You see, some words are light and carefree. There is no expectation and little need to consider further action. Words like, “Thanks for thinking about me.” Or, “I had a great day, thanks!”
Unfortunately, he didn’t choose light and carefree.
These words were compelling. They not only made a statement; they left the reader—me—with an expectation of fulfillment.
These words had weight. Really. It was weight that I felt.
I still feel it today.
After his thanks, my friend added this,
“You have a gift of gentleness, and I am grateful for it. Thank you for being a great example to many men!”
I want to be happy—or proud—or even embarrassed.
What I am, is conflicted. And, challenged.
I don’t know if I can live up to my friend’s vision. The man I see every day in the mirror isn’t gentle. He’s not a great example to others. He isn’t even a so-so example to others.
Perhaps I should tell him he has me all wrong. Maybe my children could tell him. The Lovely Lady could give him a hint or two (could she ever!). The customer care supervisor at the phone company—the one I called a couple of weeks ago—could really give him an ear full.
Why, even the dogs in the backyard might (if they could talk) set him straight. I know the female, who’s been digging holes where I just planted grass seed last week, would disabuse him of any illusions that might linger.
Gentleness? Me?
Hardly!
image by Rudy & Peter Skitterians on Pixabay
But the words have weight. Gravitas, even. Serious weight.
My friend meant them. He has observed me living life among others and he has reason to believe there is gentleness in how I comport myself.
I suppose now I will need to make it so. After all, the apostle—my namesake—left instructions that all of us should make it our lifelong practice.
Wait. How did that second sentence get in there? This is between me and the people I meet every day. I’ll do my best to show gentleness. I’ll attempt to make it evident to them. That’s all.
Why does it matter that the Lord is near? Why can’t I just do my part and they do theirs?
I suppose part of the answer to that question lies with my responses up above. I have known all my days that I should treat others with gentle hands, and voice, and heart. And yet, on my own, I cannot fulfill my responsibility.
I blow up. I respond with sarcasm. I rip into them.
Oh, most of the time, I can feign gentleness. I can talk a good game, and act the part. But when I stand in front of the mirror at the end of the day and look into the face I see there, I know.
I know.
But God is near. He is. Jesus Himself said it would always be true.
You can see it for yourself. I am always going to be with you, wherever you go, however long you live, until time is no more. (Matthew 28:20, my paraphrase)
He is there to remind. To prick my spirit. To give strength.
There’s a reason gentleness and self-control are gifts of the Spirit. I’m expected to put them into practice in His presence. Again and again, until they are as much a part of my daily routine as breathing and eating.
And yet somehow society has come, over the eons, to believe that aggressiveness and demonstrations of power are signs of strength—of character.
Don’t believe me? Look around you today. Who are our idols, our heroes? Are they kind and caring? Or, are they argumentative and combative?
In all our media—in conversations overheard on the public transport—in public messages from pastors and politicians, activists and artists—all around us, we see little self-control and certainly few gentle spirits. And, we seem to revel in the lack of such things.
We—the ones who claim to be close to God—appear to have no interest in gentleness. None.
Recently, on a social media site I frequent, a Christian friend posted a picture of a man with a brightly dyed beard, wearing a woman’s swimsuit, walking along what appeared to be a fashion runway.
The question posed with the photo was, “Can someone tell me what this is?”
The vitriol and hate spattered the page below the photo. I didn’t know all of the folks who replied. I’m making an assumption when I say they probably all claim to be followers of Jesus Christ.
May I tell you one thing of which I’m certain? Positive, even.
God doesn’t hate the person in that photo. He doesn’t.
That person—and every other person who has ever drawn breath on this spinning ball of dirt—is so precious to our God that His Son gave up His body and breath for them.
Every one of them. Us.
We will never look in the eyes of a human who isn’t loved by God.
And yet we claim the right to treat these, whom our God loves beyond all reason, hatefully and without mercy.
While He is near, we do it.
A few years ago, a popular song suggested that God is watching us, a not unlikely concept, but the next phrase claimed His oversight was from a distance. And, sometimes it can feel like that.
But, feelings aren’t facts. It turns out God is watching us. While He walks beside us. While His Spirit lives in us.
How we treat folks around us matters. To Him, it matters. It matters to them.
And, in the end, it will matter to us. More than we know, I think.
It is. It’s high time I become what people believe me to be. Or, at least make a start.
The red-headed lady who raised me always told me I should be a gentleman. She wasn’t wrong. She rarely was.
A gentle man.
God is near.
Be kind to each other. It is better to commit faults with gentleness than to work miracles with unkindness. (Mother Teresa of Calcutta)
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, NIV)
It’s not a complimentary word. There’s a reason for that.
It was a lifetime ago. The highlight of summer camp was always the time we spent riding horses. For this kid, anyway. Swimming was good; archery, too. But horseback riding? The pinnacle of every day was the time spent in the saddle.
Before we rode, we actually had to saddle the beasts. It was no small accomplishment to wrestle those heavy western-style leather saddles up above our heads, but the wranglers wouldn’t do it for us. Then there was the bridle—with a bit.
Some horses didn’t care much for that process. I’m remembering that, as a 10-year-old boy, I didn’t either. Those teeth were larger than I was comfortable with. A few of the beasts didn’t mind nipping with them, either.
I learned.
Well? It was either learn or go do leather-craft.
After the bit went into the mouth, the bridle had to go over the ears. And it had to fit. Not too tight. Not too loose. Too tight, and it could injure the horse. Too loose and it could injure the rider. That’s right. The rider.
I found that out the hard way. One day, as we were riding the trail—the one with the barbed-wire fence on one side, and the mesquite trees and prickly-pear cactus on the other—the wrangler noticed the straps of the bridle on my horse were slack over his head. He made a comment about it but decided we could wait until we were back at the corral to readjust the strap. In hindsight, it wasn’t a great decision.
Mere moments later, the skittish horse jerked his head and, chomping his teeth down on the bit that was hanging a little too low, took off running. At first, it was just a trot, but within a few feet, the gait turned into an all-out gallop.
I stuck in the saddle like a sand-burr on a sock, but the headstrong pony soon left the trail. Fortunately for me, he headed into the cactus and mesquite instead of the other direction. I’ve seen what happens when a horse runs his rider into a barbed-wire fence. Still, I was terrified.
Ducking below the low-hanging branches of the stunted trees and pulling my legs up as high above the cactus as I could, I sawed on the reins, but to no avail. With the bit lodged where my mount was in control of it, nothing I could do affected him in the slightest.
It might have been all of 20 seconds (it seemed much longer) before the wrangler caught up to us and, pulling his horse in front of mine, reached over and grabbed the cheek strap of the bridle, turning my horse gently in a circle and then to a stop.
I got off and tightened up the bridal strap.
Then I pulled some prickly-pear spines from my leg. The ones I could get to. There would be more pain later.
Headstrong. It’s a good word to describe a horse with the bit between its teeth. Somehow, it seems, the word might be used to characterize more than just horses.
But I don’t want to leave the horses just yet. I’m remembering another time when we were riding all those years ago.
It wasn’t all barbed-wire fences and cactus out there. At one point the trail led through a mowed field, with grass on either side. The wrangler who was with us suggested we might like to learn what it was like to sit astride a galloping horse.
“Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Give him his head.”
It was beautiful. Beautiful and frightening. But mostly it was beautiful.
My mount, given permission to run, took the opportunity and stretched out. Like sitting in a rocking chair, it was. Sort of. Nothing like that wild dash through the bush and cactus had been, anyway.
As we neared the perimeter of the meadow, all it took was a gentle backward pressure on the reins in my hands, and the cooperative beast slowed to a trot and then to a walk.
It was the same horse. Both times.
No. They didn’t take the animal out and shoot him after he had run me through the cactus and mesquite, bit held firmly in teeth. They knew what he was capable of. Good and bad.
There was still hope for him.
For days, I’ve been thinking about the Scripture reading I did during Holy Week. Just last week, on Thursday night. It doesn’t seem to fit much with an old man’s memories of summer camp, but stick with me a little while longer.
I read about something Jesus said on the same night in which He was betrayed. (1 Corinthians 11:23 ~ KJV)
How many times have I heard the words? The pastor stands before his congregation, the communion table behind him and reads again the familiar passage.
But, did you know the Savior did—and said—other things on that fateful night besides eating the last supper?
On that same night, the night on which He was betrayed, He told Peter, the headstrong disciple, that he would deny his Teacher, not once, but three times.
He knew the man.
Knew how impetuous he was. How stubborn. How inclined to go his own way.
He had already prayed that Peter’s faith wouldn’t fail. And, these—these—are the words He says to Peter:
“When you have turned back to me, strengthen your brothers.” (Luke 22:32 ~ NET)
Before Peter denied being His follower, He was assured of restoration.
Before!
Chew on that a minute.
Peter would turn around (repent). He would spend his last breath and his last reserve of strength serving and encouraging his brothers.
But I am just now digesting, just now getting the slightest glimmer of comprehension of the love of this Savior who came for us.
He will never let go of us!
Headstrong though we are—and that, we are—He restores us again and again.
What I am declaring is this: The One we serve, the One who holds us in His hand, is able to hold us until we stand before Him in Glory.
His forgiveness knows no limit, His mercy has no boundary.
I have been the headstrong horse, again and again, taking the bit between my teeth and going my own way. At a gallop, going my own way.
Still, He calls me back. From the brambles and from the desert, He restores me to the green pastures and cool waters.
Sometimes—in His good time—He even gives me my head.
I’d like to run along this path for a while. There’s room for more than one here.
It’ll be beautiful and frightening. Mostly, just beautiful.
Are you coming with?
I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee… (Luke 15:18 ~ KJV)
I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand. (John 10:28 ~ NIV)
And does Jesus, our Messiah, hold forever those He loves? (He does) (from Is He Worthy ~ Andrew Peterson/Ben Shive)
We call this Holy Week. The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.
I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles. The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.
It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.
And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday. The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples. They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.
Me? I looked at a painting on my wall. That’s it up above. A still life, they call it.
As if.
I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago. I thought that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Somehow, the painting won’t keep still. Not in my mind, anyway.
I first saw this particular piece of art hanging on the wall of an old saint. I’ve written of her before. Miss Peggy was a faithful servant of her God all the days of her life. But, this story isn’t about her, although she did leave the painting to me after her passing.
The artist is also a friend, another faithful servant of God. Sam is a native of China, having come to this country in the 1980s as a student. There were other reasons for him to leave his native land, but I’d just get the details wrong if I told it, since it’s not my story.
Besides, this story isn’t really about him either.
In a way, it’s about me, stuck here in still life. You know, the life prescribed for me by the medical experts of the day, along with the political powers, who are endeavoring to fight an invisible enemy by dividing and conquering.
Still life. Perhaps, the story is about a reader or two, as well. You’ll know if it is.
Most artists choose their subjects based on aesthetics. Do the colors coordinate; do they clash just enough to draw the eye? Are the objects balanced in their placement? Do the items demonstrate the ability of the artist to capture light and shadow, or texture?
This painting ticks those boxes. It appeals to the eye. It even causes me to admire the talent of the artist.
But, I know Sam. He’s not interested in my praise. Or, yours.
This still life is meant to capture the heart of the observer, to squeeze the soul, and to cause us to walk away with a new vision of who we are.
The bowl is not for food, but for water. A basin, intended to wash away the dust and grime of the world. Perhaps, something like the basin our Savior used as He washed the feet of those who would use those same feet to walk away from Him that very night. (John 13:5)
The kettle and teacup represent comfort and calm. From a culture that views tea as much more than a drink to start the day, but as a celebration of life, the pouring out of this precious liquid quiets the turbulent spirit and brings peace.
Like cups of cold water that meet much more than a physical need, we share the necessities of spiritual comfort with our fellow travelers. (Matthew 10:42)
The meaning of the medicine bottle, along with the mortar and pestle, is clear. Healing comes as we minister and are ministered to. Using the tools at hand, gifts from our Great Healer, we help to heal the hurts and ease the pain of this world.
The crying prophet is assured that there is medicine enough, and there is a Physician, but wonders why they haven’t been applied. (Jeremiah 8:22)
It’s still a good question today.
Washing. Comfort. Healing. How well we know the necessity of all three in this time of sickness and separation.
As I write, Good Friday is upon us. It is the day when we remember the incredible sacrifice made for us. A sacrifice made to heal our great sickness.
His torment was the result of our rebellion; our deeds caused Him to be crushed. His pain was to heal our hurt; His wounds have made us whole. (Isaiah 53.5 ~ my paraphrase)
Perhaps, especially on this day, our contemplation in this still life we’ve become part of could be a place to begin. Before we walk away, will our hearts be captured, our souls squeezed, and that new vision be ours?
For weeks now I have been meditating on still lifes, The tumble of plums and pears, the overturned goblets And the sundry bouquets of flowers, the skulls and flutes. I have grown bored with their quaintness and simplicity And, well, their stillness, which lacks the narrative power Of Christ’s agony in the garden or the sublime Force of Turner’s slave ship, and alp or a starry night. I tire of the repetitions of subject matter, The endless spill of quinces, grapes, and pomegranates— Though, child of time that I am, caught up in the thunder And motion of history, I sometimes find comfort In the calm seductions of pitcher and vase, shadow And light, the modest raptures of the ordinary.
(Morri Creech ~ American poet)
No, but hum a few bars and I’ll catch up with you.
We never know when illumination will come, do we?
I find it’s often in the moments when I myself am not going to be presented in the best light.
It happened in the Chinese restaurant a night or two ago. Well, in the restroom of the Chinese restaurant, to be more precise.
In the present climate, with so-called social distancing being the order of the day, one might wonder why the Lovely Lady and I would wander out to eat with friends at all, but at least I had the presence of mind to wash my hands before I returned to the table.
I even remembered to sing the Happy Birthday song in my head while I did it. But it seems that may be where I went wrong.
I was doing fine until I got to the phrase, “Happy birthday, dear .” And then the wheels started to come off.
I couldn’t think of who I wanted to sing to. My hands stopped moving. Still, no name at all came to mind. In the absence of inspiration, the singing just trailed off. In my head, I mean.
I looked at the man in the mirror for help, but he just had a confused look on his face.
Finally, getting back on track, I washed my hands for a while longer and headed back out to join my dinner partners. Yes, I’m pretty sure I washed for at least twenty seconds. At least, I think I did. I hope I did.
Now, if you’re wondering how I’ve gotten along with washing my hands up till now without getting stuck, I’ll tell you. I’ve thought about this a good bit in the time since the unfortunate incident. Really, I have.
I never tried to sing the words before.
I just hummed.
You don’t have to remember the words when you hum. At all. You just have to know the melody.
You’ve heard the old joke, haven’t you?
Why do hummingbirds hum? They don’t know the words.
I said it was an old joke; I didn’t say it was a funny one.
Back to the subject at hand, I’m thinking the singing and handwashing thing was a failure. Perhaps I’m not as intelligent as I’d like to believe.
I can’t even sing and wash my hands at the same time.
But, then I remember. This is where the illumination comes into play.
I can hum and wash my hands at the same time. I know I can. I’ve done it before. Successfully.
I’ll do that the next few times.
So, how is that illumination? Here is what I learned:
Frequently, the best we can do is not the best we’ll ever do.
That’s a good thing. But we don’t let it stop us from doing the best we can manage today.
Don’t let the embarrassment of yesterday keep you from stepping up again tomorrow.
A lady of my acquaintance told me about being asked to pray at a meeting the other day. She doesn’t pray in public — says her tongue won’t move the right way and the words come out wrong.
She did it anyway. When she was done, she said amen and the meeting went ahead. I’d call that a success. She’s not sure.
Now she wonders if she should sit in a less conspicuous place next time.
I think she should sit where she’ll be called on again. And again.
Sooner or later, if you keep trying to sing the song, you get the words right.
Joseph, he of the multi-colored coat, started out carrying food and water to his brothers in the field, moving to being a trustee in a prison, before becoming a ruler in Egypt and savior-of-sorts to his people.
My namesake, the Apostle, attempted to serve God by throwing His followers into jail. Paul eventually got it right, becoming one of the first missionaries in the early Church and the most prolific writer of the New Testament.
Thomas Edison had thousands of failures before getting a light bulb that would function. Albert Einstein failed his college entrance exam. Walt Disney was fired from his newspaper job because he lacked imagination and had no good ideas.
They all kept doing the best they could — and they got better.
I’m going to keep humming (and working up the suds). Someday the words will come. My hands will stay germ-free in the meantime.
I’m sure I heard a fellow come out of a restroom the other day singing the words, “And many more.”
I wanted to shake hands with him and congratulate him on finishing the task, but I didn’t.
The day is coming when I’ll be that good, too.
You just wait and see.
Hope means to keep living amid desperation and to keep humming in the darkness.
(Henri Nouwen ~ Dutch Catholic theologian ~ 1932–1996)
Draw near to God and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and make your hearts pure, you double-minded.
(James 4:8 ~ NET)
