Wednesday, April 29, 2020

There is a Balm

"And their father Israel said unto them, if it must be so now, do this; take of the best fruits in the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present, a balm, and a little honey, spices, and myrrh, nuts, and almonds."  Genesis 43:11

Ten years ago last week, I spent the better part of the week in North Conway, NH, for the annual spring Atlantic Union Conference Office of Education Administrators' Council. It was a productive time; it also was a restful time. Each spring, one the six conferences in the Atlantic Union take turns hosting these meetings and the conference educational personnel go out of their way to make them worth the trip and the time. The spring of 2010, Northern New England Conference hosted and we met at a hotel nestled in the shadow of the Presidential mountain range of the White Mountains. The views from the conference room where we met, while foggy and rainy, and even snowy, were still breath-taking.

One of the traditions of these spring meetings is that the host conference provides each team member with a gift bag full of items representative of the host conference and, more specifically, state. That year's bag was full of comfort items—including kettle corn, maple taffy, and a tin of soothing balm for either sleep, muscle soreness, or healing. In addition, the superintendent of education and her secretary made beautiful welcome cards with a lovely fringed gentian along with the above text (Genesis 43:11) on the cover and the wonderful negro spiritual "There is a Balm in Gilead" on the inside.  Trudy (the superintendent) read the lyrics out loud to us as part of her welcome, expressing her hope that our time together would be a balm in the midst of our Gileads.

As I listened to the words of that hymn, I felt overwhelmed with the power and comfort of its message:

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead
To heal the sin-sick soul.

Sometimes I feel discouraged
And I feel my work's in vain.
But then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again.

There is a balm in Gilead...

My friends attending and facilitating the week’s meetings little realized how much I needed that reminder, and I didn’t enlighten them at the time.  It was enough that something (a few things, actually) broke the tension that had been threatening to break me if I didn’t catch my breath somehow.  The kind words, the thoughtful, soothing gifts, and the healing words of an old hymn sufficed.

Sometimes that’s all it takes to bring healing to a hurting heart.  Sometimes we don’t even need all that.  Maybe it just takes a note, a text letting someone know we are thinking of them, that we are there for them if they need us.  At the end of each of my online classes, I always tell the students to reach out to me if they need anything.  “I’m here all day long,” I tell them. I’ve been on the receiving end of a few notes thanking me for that, commenting that even if they don’t need help with school, it helps knowing someone is there, ready to sooth and comfort if needed. 

There is another in our lives who is a balm in the Gilead of our trials and tribulations.  That other, Jesus Christ, is always there for us, and not just in the daylight hours.  There are no limits to His time or His presence.  Isaiah 43:2-3 New Century Version describes it this way:

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.
    When you cross rivers, you will not drown.
When you walk through fire, you will not be burned,
    nor will the flames hurt you.
This is because I, the Lord, am your God,
    the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

We are all in need of the soothing balm that can only come through a relationship with Jesus. May I recommend Him to you?  He will revive your soul today.

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

No God, Only Chaos

"All this talk about God was just a childish evasion—desperate lies from a frightened, lonely mortal to himself out in a cold, dark, eternal night."

I read a book several years ago about the Impressionist artist Vincent Van Gogh. It was a fascinating study about an artist who had interested me for nearly thirty years, ever since I’d read Irving Stone's riveting biography, Lust for Life. Stone's book tells the story of the great Dutch artist who went as an evangelist to the miners of the Borinage in Belgium when he was in his early twenties. Vincent was enthusiastic and energetic as he began his ministry, eager to bring Christ to the miners who were as ignorant and illiterate as heathens. The mining conditions were deplorable, the wage/hour ratio outrageous, and what's more, there was no hope of any sort of improvement—ever. The owners turned deaf ears to all pleas. "It is the unsatisfactory lay of the couches," they said. "And that condition we will have to blame on God!" It was a hopeless vicious circle.

When Vincent went to the manager, all he would do was shake his head and say "that is
what turned me from a firm, faithful Catholic to a better atheist. I cannot understand how a God in Heaven would purposely create such a condition and enslave a whole race of people in abject misery for century after century without one hour of providential mercy!"  Stunned Vincent left without a word. But he persisted in his attempts to bring God's comfort to the miners.  Someway, he felt he could help them by giving them the peace of mind that comes in knowing God--in having Him as Friend and Protector. And he succeeded—for awhile. The miners were starved for something like this and they listened with all their hearts.

Then one day a terrible accident occurred in the mines, killing 30 men--among them the foreman, the only man, besides Vincent, the miners trusted.  They asked Vincent if he would go again to the owners and beg, on their behalf, for some sort of assistance and improvement in the working conditions. He did, but there was nothing he could say to persuade them to change.  The owners refused to make any improvements, and if the miners didn't work they said, the mines would be shut down. "Then God only know what will happen to them."

Vincent was defeated.  "God only knows," the owners had said.  But—did He really know? And if He did, why didn't He help them? Why didn't He make the owners change their minds?  Vincent had tried to bring God to the miners as a hope, a protection from the hideous conditions in the mines. He had tried to give them an opiate of religion, if you please. And he had failed. What could he say when the enemy was not the owners after all, but God Himself—the very opposite concept from what he had been preaching? Suddenly Vincent realized that "all this talk about God was just a childish evasion—desperate lies from a frightened, lonely mortal to himself out in a cold, dark, eternal night. There was no God only chaos; miserable, suffering, cruel, tortuous, blind, endless chaos."

Vincent never preached another sermon again. From that moment on, he, too, was an atheist. God had failed him as well as the miners.  Or had He? This story disturbed me as I read it. I recognized a lot of my own thinking when I have been severely disappointed or let down in something I had believed in—maybe even prayed about. Too often I am so sure I am right, that I am doing what God wants me to—and to suddenly discover that I am wrong, or for something terrible to happen seemingly out of the blue, can be a shattering experience. If I am not truly and firmly grounded in my Christian experience, I am apt to lose my perspective, my faith in God. I begin to believe He doesn't care; if He did, He wouldn't have let me down, He wouldn't have let "this" happen. 

It is in times like these that it is hardest for me to remember that God does know best, that He does care for me and is doing all He can for me. When it seems like there is nowhere left to turn, no answers, no hope, it is almost impossible to remember that I am not to live eternally here. But there is an end to the misery, and a chance for a new beginning—one with no dead ends.  As a Christian, I know this.  I have heard it countless times.  But as a human being, I don't always feel this. It is so easy to forget—to blame God for not helping me--instead of realizing that it is the sinful way of the world that makes it seem as if God's hands are tied—for the moment. It is this tendency that disturbs—even frightens—me. At the same time, it is the realization of this tendency that strengthens me. Ellen White tells us in ˆ, volume 9, p. 286 that "All that has perplexed us in the providences of God will in the world to come be made plain. The things hard to understand will then find explanation. The mysteries of grace will unfold before us.  Where our finite minds discover only confusion and broken promises, we shall see the most perfect and beautiful harmony.  We shall know that infinite love ordered the experiences that seemed most trying. As we realize the tender care of Him who makes all things work together for our good, we shall rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory."

There are many things that we don't understand here on earth. Sometimes it seems as if nothing is going right. And we ask God to help us—expecting Him to answer the way we want.  Sometimes He does, but sometimes He can't. In those times—when we feel like throwing our faith away because it isn't giving the desired opiate effect—we need most to hold on.  Maybe if Vincent had been able to hang on to his faith, he might not have lost his mind.  After he left the mining community, Vincent turned to painting. He spent years trying to find recognition and success as an artist, but mostly met with disappointment and rejection.  Eventually, he suffered a breakdown, cutting off his own ear in his desperation. He was in and out of asylums, trying to find peace, but never finding it.  Maybe he might not have had to spend his life searching for something to fill the gap that was left when he abandoned God. If he had held on, especially in the dark moments, he would have known that without Him, there is nothing.  Only chaos; miserable, suffering, cruel, tortuous, blind, chaos.

Monday, April 27, 2020

Know Thyself

“The only good is knowledge and the only evil is ignorance.” This, from the same man who said the most important thing was to “Know thyself.” Socrates was the man, and knowledge was not just his profession and hobby, it was his life.  I’ve been thinking about Socrates’ words lately. I guess it’s been triggered by a few things, some direct, some more indirect. A dozen years ago this past summer, I spent time in Athens, Greece, home to Socrates. I walked the streets he walked, stood on the steps of the buildings he haunted, gazed out across the Mediterranean the way I’m sure he must have. I was reminded of the way he had of encouraging his followers to think, to dig deeply inside, to think for themselves.  I’ve never forgotten how it felt to walk in his footsteps—literally and figuratively.  I felt like I knew myself a little better, just for walking those streets.

The other night I stumbled across an episode of Rick Steves’ Europe about Athens.
Seeing again the places Socrates had walked and talked put me in mind of a get acquainted exercise I like to play with my students at the beginning of the school year, an exercise I learned at an interdenominational prayer service while visiting Wake Forest University when I was in college. You pair off with someone you don’t know and
ask each other three questions, alternating with each other: Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? The exercise isn’t as simple as it might seem. With each successive question, you have to dig deeper to give an answer. You start off with your name and where you are from. But the next time you have to say something less superficial. You have to say something about who you really are, something about what is meaningful to you.  By the time you get to the third question, you are reaching into your inner core,
looking for something strong and positive to say about yourself, looking for something
that says something about you that will make an impression, a good one. By now, you know yourself a little better, and so does your partner.

My last brush with Socrates came from an Oprah interview with the author of a book entitled What are You Doing with the Rest of Your Life? The title caught my attention, as did the list of questions and activities Oprah, the author, and the audience were going to focus on for the next hour. “What is your life’s mission?” Oprah asked. “If you were to die today, what would you have given to those left here on earth?” “If you had only one month to live, how would you put your life in order? What would you have to do? What would you want to do?” Sobering questions.  Deep questions. Difficult questions. But questions which must be addressed if we are to know ourselves, and if we are to be happy and satisfied with the life we have. And questions that seem especially apropos to us today.

Paula Harden, the author of the book, suggested that we need to recognize that life has a pattern, and that it is important for us to examine our lives, see where we are amidst that general pattern, and then determine what we have to do in order to be happy. She said that we need to get serious about life, that we need to live every moment intentionally—with purpose and power.  Recognizing that such knowledge, such recognition doesn’t come easily, she had the audience do several activities to assist them in their assessment. First, she had them fill four sheets of paper, each with a different heading: “What I want to do,” “What I want to be,” “What I want to have,” and “What I want to give.” Money, time, or ability were not to be objects. The sheets were to be filled with every possibility and dream, bar none.  Ms. Harden then had the audience write their own obituary. That’s right. Their own obituary. The important thing was not when or how they had died, of course. But how they had lived. What had they accomplished with their life up to that point? What good had they done—for the people around them, for themselves? Had they realized their potential? Were they even close? What direction were they traveling in at the moment of their passing? 

Morbid as this activity seems, I’d like to recommend it to you all the same. In reality, it’s not looking at the end of your life. It’s looking at your life’s progress to this point (in much the same way a child’s academic progress report looks at their academic progress). It’s an objective examination of the things you’ve accomplished in the time you’ve been given thus far.  The value in this research should be obvious. By so knowing your past self, you are better able to approach and discipline your present self, so you can make plans for your future self. By so knowing yourself, you are better able to find your way to a happier life. By being honest with yourself in this exploration, you are more likely to find the success you are hoping for in your future.

There is another who walked the streets of Athens who also had a lot to say about knowing ourselves, and about the legacy we leave behind us when our time on earth is done.  Paul the Apostle famous compared our life’s journey to a race.  In his second letter to Timothy, he encouraged him to leave a strong and positive legacy behind when his race is finished.  He encouraged him to live so that at the end, he would say, like Paul, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.  Now, a crown is being held for me—a crown for being right with God.  The Lord, the judge who judges rightly, will give the crown to me on that day—not only to me but to all those who have waited with love for Him to come again”(II Timothy 4:7-8).

“Know thyself.” How well do you really know yourself? Who are you anyway? Are you something more than a father, mother, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, grandparent, child, friend, church member? Are you something more than a supporter of Christian Education? Are you something more than the sum of your friends, than the product of your parents? Are you something more than the shape you have been given at home, at work, at church? “Know thyself.” Socrates was right. We cannot live until we know who we are, where we have been, and where we are going. Do you know?

Sunday, April 26, 2020

I'd Rather Have Jesus

One day when, as a young man, George Beverly Shea was struggling to find his way in the world.  At a loss for direction, he sat down at the piano.  There, he found a poem that touched his heart.  Shea’s mother, knowing he was searching, had left the poem on the family piano, hoping he would find it and be touched by its words. He did. He was. Within minutes, he was singing it to a tune he composed on the spot. As he read the poem over and over, he was moved to put his emotions to melody.  His mother overheard him singing and asked him to sing it for church the next Sunday.  At the time, he was intending a career in popular music, but he sang the hymn for his mother, which led, eventually, to an opportunity to work with Billy Graham’s evangelistic team.   For the next seven plus decades, Shea lifted his voice, and that hymn, in praise to millions the world over. 

I’ve been thinking about what it takes to find your passion, your calling. The key, I think is listening.  And letting go. Listening for God to reveal His plan to you and letting go of your own plans and expectations.  A number of years ago, we had a Week of Prayer speaker at the academy I worked at (not TAA).  The young man, a former student of mine who was now CEO of a luxury yacht-making company, had a passion for making a difference and encouraging others to do the same.  A graduate of the first school I ever taught at, he proved to be a humble and wonderful ambassador for Jesus.  In fact, he shook our thinking up about “finding your calling” when he told the students the second morning that they didn’t need to wait until sometime in the future to serve God. “God needs you now,” he said. “He can use you right now, where you are. There are so many opportunities for you to serve if you will ask Him to show you what they are.”

I thought of it again when I heard George Beverly Shea recount (on a YouTube documentary) the story of how his career as a gospel singer got started. He simply let the Spirit move him, and let God use him right then and there.  The Week of Prayer speaker talked about how we, as Christians, are all called to lead. “But,” he said, “in order for God to use you, you have to be open in your heart. He puts you eye-to-eye with a need, but you must be ready, willing, and able to serve when the time comes.”  That’s exactly what Shea did when read that poem on the piano.

In 2005, my friend was called on to put his boat-building skills to use for God in an unusual way when he was asked to design a floating church for the Adventist community that lives on the floating islands of Lake Titicaca high in the Andes Mountains of Peru.  He and his company craftsmen and women volunteered their time to design and then build a floating church that was also a boat that could navigate the lake waters from island to island to serve the natives living there.   Several of workers, including my friend and his family, put their lives and careers on hold to travel to Peru to see the project through to the end, a project that took more weeks than they’d planned on (it turned out to be quite an engineering feat).  “God can do the extra-ordinary with the ordinary,” he told us, “but we must be willing, more willing to make a difference than to be indifferent.” 

How about you? Are you ready to serve God where you are? Are you willing to do what He needs you to do? Are you able to walk away from the material things in front of you and say...

I'd rather have Jesus than silver or gold;
I'd rather be His than have riches untold;
I'd rather have Jesus than houses or lands.
I'd rather be led by His nail pierced hand 

Chorus:
Than to be the king of a vast domain
Or be held in sin's dread sway.
I'd rather have Jesus than anything
This world affords today.

I'd rather have Jesus than men's applause;
I'd rather be faithful to His dear cause;
I'd rather have Jesus than worldwide fame.
I'd rather be true to His holy name [Chorus]

He's fairer than lilies of rarest bloom;
He's sweeter than honey from out the comb;
He's all that my hungering spirit needs.
I'd rather have Jesus and let Him lead [Chorus]

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Practicing the Presence of God

My King is full of mercy and goodness. Far from chastising me, He embraces me with love.  He makes me eat at His table. He serves me with His own hands and gives me the key to His treasures.  He converses and delights Himself with me incessantly, in a thousand and a thousand ways.  And He treats me in all respects as His favorite.  In this way I consider myself continually in His holy presence.
~ Brother Lawrence, 1895

Sometimes, when I'm looking for a book to read, I wander the aisles at Barnes &
Noble looking at covers (I've been known to choose a book for its cover) and titles (I especially love clever titles). Sometimes, though, I go to my own crowded bookshelves and look for old friends. There is a particular joy in reacquainting yourself with words that have made their mark on you in the past. You are, after all, a different person each time, even if the words are the same.  You have new experiences, new insight to bring to the reading, and you'll see and understand more each time to you read. I've been re-reading Brother Lawrence's The Practice of the Presence of God this week. It's been a part of my personal library since I was in college, at least.  It's a small book, with an unassuming cover. But the words and ideas inside are life-changing.  Published after his death in 1691, the little book is a collection of conversations and letters shared between Brother Lawrence and several friends towards the end of his life. In fact, he died a few days after the last letter was written. They chronicle how this legendary French monk found peace as he walked and talked with God for more than 40 years. And they have inspired me on more than one occasion to slow down, take stock, be still and know.

Born Nicholas Herman in 1610, he fought in the Thirty Years War where he received an injury that left him crippled and in severe pain for the rest of his life.  He took on the name of Lawrence after the parish priest who encouraged him as a young boy in his spiritual walk. In between his life as a soldier and the time he became a monk, he spent some time living in the wilderness and was in service as well. He described himself as a "footman who was clumsy and broke everything."  Finally, he entered a monastery in Paris where he served as cook for 15 years before moving to the sandal repair shop. During all this time, Brother Lawrence was learning about God through his daily walk.

The introduction to the Light Heart edition of the book says that "In times as troubled a today, Brother Lawrence, discovered, then followed, a pure and uncomplicated way to walk continually in God's presence.  For some forty years, he lived and walked with Our Father at his side."  While this sounds interesting and inspiring, what is most interesting and inspiring to me is reading about Lawrence's evolution in his understanding of the character of God.

In the early years of his intense effort to get to know God he spent many hours dwelling everything that was flawed in his own character. In his second letter, he writes "For the first years, I commonly employed myself during the time set apart for devotion with thoughts of death, judgment, hell, heaven, and my sins. I continued, for some years, applying my mind carefully the rest of the day, and even in the midst of my work, to the presence of God, whom I considered always as with me, often as in my heart."  He goes on to say, though, that this kind of meditation caused him a great deal mental anguish.  "It seemed to me that all creatures, reason, and God, Himself, were against me and faith alone for me."

After 10 years, he figured out that all the negative dwelling he'd been doing didn't give him the truest picture of God. So he shifted his approach. "Finally," he writes. "I considered the prospect of spending the rest of my days in these troubles. I discovered this did not diminish the trust I had in God. In fact, it only served to increase my faith. It then seemed that, all at once, I found myself changed. My soul, which, until that time was in trouble, felt a profound inward peace, as if she was in her center and place of rest. 

“Ever since that time I walk before God simply, in faith, with humility, and with love. I apply myself diligently to do nothing and think nothing which may displease Him. I hope that when I have done what I can, He will do with me what He pleases."  Notice the subtle shift of attention from the negatives of his life to the positives of God in his life. Instead of feeling weighed down by his sins and transgressions, he is buoyed up by God's love. "My King is full of mercy and goodness. Far from chastising me, He embraces me with love. . . . He treats me in all respects as His favorite. In this way I consider myself continually in His holy presence."

As I re-read this slim volume this week, I was inspired to aspire anew to practicing the presence of God. May that be the experience of us all.

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

An Attitude Adjustment

I’ve been talking with students this week about attitude. This distance learning isn’t as easy as you might think.  Teachers are spending scores of hours online working with their students either individually or in groups.  Students are having to discipline themselves to stay focused without the aid of a teacher by their side.  And, parents are stressed in trying to get their children focused so the schoolwork is accomplished.  With the older students, they don’t get as much parental attention, so for some of them this experience is overwhelming.  The problem for so many of them, though, is that they limit themselves before they start, simply with their attitude.

One of the most common things I heard this week (and it’s only been two days so far) is “I can’t.” I can’t do this, I can’t do that.” “I can’t find the assignment.” “I can’t get my Chromebook to work.” “I can’t take the test today.” “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” Whenever I heard a “can’t” statement, I challenged the speaker to add two letters to it and say “I can try” instead. Those two letters, if acted on, can change up everything. If someone says “I can’t,” there is nowhere to go from there. If a person says “I can try,” all kinds of possibilities open up, most of them good.

While it was dozens of times in two days that I heard that phrase from my students, the truth is that it’s not just students who use that phrase.  We all do at one time or another.  At least I know I do.  Not only that, but the phrase has been around longer than any of us have been.  I remember as a child hearing the “Uncle Arthur” story about a boy who always said “I can’t.”  I don’t remember all the details, but I remember the part where Uncle Arthur said all he had to do was “knock out the T” and say “I can!”  Made sense then, and it makes sense now.

Charles Swindoll—a Christian author, educator, pastor, and radio preacher who founded Insight for Living, a radio show that airs on more than 2,000 stations world-wide in more than 15 languages—says this about attitude:  "The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company, a church, a home, [ a school].  The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past and we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. . . . I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it. And so it is with you.  We are in charge of our Attitude."

How right he is! Our attitude towards the things we need or have to do makes all the difference in the world. If we think we can’t do something, then we won’t. But if we think we can at least try, then all manner of doors open to us. If a student is struggling with an assignment, and gives up, there’s really nothing a teacher can do to help the situation. But if a student struggles and tries, actually puts something on paper, then there’s something to work with. If there is effort, there is possibility.

The same goes for any of us.  My conversations with students this week have made me take a look at my own life and the struggles I face personally and professionally. Over and over, I’ve challenged my students to eliminate the word “can’t” from their vocabulary. As I’ve heard myself say that out loud, though, I’ve thought about the times I, too, say that word, and I’ve vowed to make an effort to eradicate it from my vocabulary as well. It’s not easy. But it can be devastating to allow that attitude to prevail. So, as I’ve encouraged my students, I encourage you, alongside myself, to make an effort to say “I can try” instead of “I can’t.” I also urge you to claim the promise, one that is a favorite here on the Thunderbird campus: “I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.” Philippians 4:13. We are in charge of our attitude, but it is only through His strength that we can make the attitude adjustments we need to enjoy a happy and successful life.

Monday, April 20, 2020

God's Great Poet

At 17 years old, John Milton knew what he wanted to do with his life. Brought up in a home where his prosperous father was a church musician, among other things, John was well-educated. By the time he was twelve, he was already studying several languages, both modern and classical. By the time he entered Christ’s College, John knew that he would be a poet. But not just any poet. He wanted to be a “great” poet. Even more, he wanted to be “God’s” great poet. Today, more than 400 years after his birth, we are still reading and studying John Milton’s poetry. His long poem about the fall of man, Paradise Lost, is considered the greatest epic poem written in the English language. God’s great poet indeed!

Milton’s decision as a teenager to be the best he could be for God is an amazing one to me. Every time I share his story with the seniors, I am inspired to rededicate my own life, re-explore my own determination and purpose for life. What interests me even more is the lengths Milton went to prepare himself to accomplish the goal he set for himself as a young man. After obtaining his M.A., he returned to his father’s house and spent the next six years continuing his studies, reading everything then known in ancient and modern languages (imagine!). He then embarked on a two-year Grand Tour of Europe that was, unfortunately, cut short by political turbulence back in England. Still, by the time he began his work as a writer, he was very well prepared, quite able to fulfill his life’s purpose.

I love that Milton’s plan was to not only be great, but great for God. I love that the plan, while seemingly ambitious, was doable, and that education, both formal and personal, was integral to the success of the plan. And I love that the plan blossomed into fruition. No doubt that prayer and meditation went hand in hand with study. No doubt there were days when John questioned himself. Certainly, he questioned God when, at age 44, he went blind. He even wrote a sonnet lamenting the fact that he would no longer be able to serve God the way he was used to. The turning point of the poem, though, is where he realizes that God didn’t really need him, He just needed him to be willing and ready to serve if need be. “They also serve who only stand and wait,” John concludes. And yet, he found a way to keep creating, keep serving. It was after that devastating loss of sight, that he wrote what became his greatest work. 11,000 lines of poetry, composed in his head at night and dictated to his daughter and other helpers in the morning, Paradise Lost was an instant success. Critics were amazed; even John Dryden, a contemporary and sometime literary rival, is reported to have said, "This man cuts us all out, and the ancients too."

Even more interesting, especially for today as we are dealing with the Coronavirus pandemic, is that the year was 1665, in the midst of London's Great Plague.  Milton fled the city with his wife and daughters and it was during this time of exile from home that the great English epic was born.  Not only that, but its sequel Paradise Regain’d was also inspired during this Plague quarantine.

John Milton realized that being at the ready for God is the greatest possible service to Him. He got ready by getting the best possible education. He got ready by determining to accept nothing but the best from himself. He got ready by saying out loud that he was going to be God’s best poet, and then finding a way to make that happen. What about you? What are you doing today? Are you the best at your job? Are you the best at your job? Are you God’s best at your job? My prayer for each of us today is that this may be so.

Sunday, April 19, 2020

No God, No Peace. Know God, Know Peace.

          People from the beginning of time have been looking for peace.  Remember how, in Bible days, they always greeted one another with "Peace be unto you and your house?” You and I are no different.  You and I are looking for peace, too. Peace of mind.  Peace of heart.  Peace of God.
            We're looking, because whether or not we want to admit it, we need this peace—especially this peace of God.   It's hard to acknowledge this need sometimes, particularly when were young (and I'm not sure I mean this just in age.  Experience and vision have a lot to do with it too).  Too often we fail to listen to the inner longings of our soul. Many times, it’s because we're so busy dealing with all our surface needs and demands.  Other times it's because we do not want to be dependent on anyone or anything—even God.  Whatever the reason, we neglect that inner calling much too many times.
            When I was younger, we used to sing a song, "I've got the Peace that passeth understanding down in my heart."  Remember it? Have you ever thought about the words? Do you know what they mean, that peace that passeth understanding?  For the longest time I didn't.  All I knew was that it was a tongue-twister line and we usually ended up laughing through the verse.  How could something so good be beyond understanding? For the implication is that this peace is good, is it not? Well, I didn't really know.  And at the moment, I didn't want to bother trying to figure it all out.
            About the same time I was singing that song with all my friends, my parents gave me a Bible for my birthday.  Each wrote a text in the front—one they thought would offer a lifetime of comfort and strength.  My mother wrote Isaiah 26:3:  "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee because he trusteth in Thee."  The Living Bible puts it this way:  "He will keep in peace all those who trust in Him, whose thoughts turn often to the Lord."
            I've never forgotten that verse.  Again, I wasn't sure then just what was so important about that promise.  I was young, un­touched by, and unconcerned about, the chaos and turmoil that is often life.  But I learned the verse anyway.  And now I know.  I know what that peace can mean in a hectic and fractured life. And I know, too, why that peace—if you have it—passes all understanding.   It cannot be defined. Neither the need nor the solu­tion.  It's just something that is.
            No God.  No peace.  Know God.  Know peace.  It's not only that simple, it's that important.  Unfortunately, it's also that easy a thing to ignore.  C.S. Lewis has a chapter in his book Mere Christianity which he calls "The Shocking Alter­native."  In it, he says that there is no possibility for happiness and peace of mind, heart, and soul without God because we were designed to run on God.  “It’s just no good” to try to find it without God in your life he says.  I have often used that essay in writing classes as an example of not only excellent technical writing, but also persuasive writing.  I like to read it out loud because without fail, when we finish hearing that essay, if we didn’t believe before, we unequivocally do then.  I love seeing the recognition in people’s eyes when we get to the end of that essay and hearing them say, "Yes!  That's it!  There is nothing more to say!  I get it now!”
            Remember this.  No God.  No peace.  Without Him in our lives, there is absolutely no possibility for peace.  No possibil­ity for openness and acceptance.  No possibility for inspiration or joy from God, others, or creation.  None.  We were not created that way.  The philosopher Aristotle wrote that "my soul is restless until it rests in God." And Hans Christian Anderson thought that "In every human life, whether poor or great, there is an invisible thread that shows we belong to God."
            Unless we have personally invited Christ into our life, unless we have spent time with Him—personal time—time that is apart from the corporate worship and study provided by the institu­tions, we will not know that peace beyond all understanding.  There are countless promises in the Bible which tell us "He will give His people strength.  He will bless them with peace" (Psalm 29:11).  And Jesus told His disciples—and, vicariously, us too—"I am leaving you with a gift--peace of mind and heart!  And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives.  So don't be troubled or afraid" (John 14:27).  But it can't be ours unless we believe, and make it ours.
            Know God.  Know peace.  It's that simple.  And that solitary. But once the invitation goes out, once the invitation is accepted, once the house is cleaned and ready for the guest, once He appears on the doorstep to our heart, once we feel His presence, once we KNOW PEACE, there is no loneliness, no coldness, no emptiness, no need for other things to fill that void.
            Know God? Know peace. A peace that passes all understanding. A peace that is for now.  And for eternity.  It takes time, and, the Psalmist says, it is even work.  "Work hard at it," he says. But if you know relationships, you know that the time invested is not only worthwhile but necessary.  And there comes a point where we cannot manage without.  Then, all our activities and priorities revolve around that relationship.  That's how it must be with us and God.  That's when we know not only God, but peace, a peace beyond all else we have ever known.
            May the God of peace give you the courage to take Him into you Heart today and keep Him.  May the God of peace find rest in your soul.  And you in His.

Thursday, April 16, 2020

Seeing God

Psalm 16:11 “You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

            When I think of God, it is often as a father—a deeply-loving, ever-caring, continually-giving, yet all-the-while-firm father.  One just like my own earthly father.  Our relationship was a special one, and because of him, I have a clearer picture of my Heavenly Father.  My dad loved me so much, and knew me so well, he only had to hear my voice over the phone to know if I was hurting.  And he only had to say "I love you, Rondi," for me to feel him put his arms around me once again as he used to do when I was a little girl at home.  I think God is like my dad—knowing me, loving me, encouraging me, strengthening me, guiding me.
            But I think God is also like my mother.  Now, she is one of my very best friends, but when I was growing up, she was feeding me, clothing me, teaching me, playing with me, and—all too often it seemed then—disciplining me.  I remember her saying every time she spanked me, (which wasn't often, of course) "this hurts Mommy more than it does you."  And in truth, it probably did, for I did not meekly yield myself to the paddle.  By the time she was finished, we would both be crying.  "Rondi, I'm doing this because I love you," she'd say.  Then she would hold me on her lap and cry with me.  I couldn't quite understand that kind of love when I was little.  I couldn't see why, if she loved me so much, she had to make rules that didn't make sense, and then punish me for breaking them.  As I look back on it now, it all makes sense.  And I know God is a lot like my mother—so patient, so gentle, so tender.  I know, too, that God was there for her then, doing what she was—and still is—doing for me:  showing me a clearer vision and understanding of true love, a love that keeps on loving under every circumstance.
            But God is more to me than a parent—loving and disciplining, caring and providing.  He's a creator, an artist, a musician.  He's serious about what He does, but He enjoys it and wants others to enjoy it, too.  I can imagine Him in the early springtime, hiding behind a newly budding tree, grinning with excitement as someone delightedly discovers the first cactus bloom or a delicate golden daffodil braving the still-cool March winds.  I can imagine Him in the summer, basking in the sun at the beach, His eyelids drooping lazily, a smile playing at the corners of His mouth as He hears the shrieks of laughter from children jumping the waves.  I see Him scuffling His feet through the leaves in autumn and drinking deeply of the crisp, clear fall night, gazing at the myriad of stars overhead.  I see Him in winter, delighting in each perfect, tiny snowflake—perhaps even pausing to throw a few snowballs.  I see Him marveling at the skill and agility of the skier flying down the slope; hear Him sighing with satisfaction at a winter sunset.  And I see Him looking around and smiling upon discovering that He's not alone in admiring the beauty—His beauty.
            I see Him in the orchestra pit, waving His arms enthusiastically alongside the conductor.  I see Him in the horn section, playing for all He's worth.  I hear Him in the choir, His mellow baritone blending and soaring with the rest of the voices.  I see Him in the audience, standing, with tears in His eyes too, listening to the triumph of the Hallelujah Chorus.
            I see Him on the ball field, running hard and fast into the end-zone, or making a flying leap to catch a would-be home run.  I see Him on the basketball court making a three-point jump-shot from the outside corner.  And I see Him in the crowd—watching from the edge of His seat, and cheering.
            I see Him in the work place, standing beside each one and encouraging them to give their best to their task.  I see Him taking His place behind the desk, taking care with every detail.
            I see Him in the church sanctuary, perhaps sitting beside a discourage worshipper, or thinking about those in and out of the church.  I see tears come into His eyes as He feels and understands the hurt in the hearts of so many.  But I also see through those tears a love that does not quit, a love that only gives more because it receives less.
            I see Him at every corner, watching, waiting, reaching out to those going by.  I see the longing in His eyes to take your hand and mine and hold on—through the good times and the bad.  I see Him.  I feel Him nearby.  Do you?

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

The Person You Can Be

            Discipline.  Pressure.  Tension.  What feelings do these words bring to you?  Good?  Bad?  Indifferent?  For me, they used to bring bad feelings--ones which got in the way of many things, including success and happiness sometimes.  I haven't always dealt well with these three beasts, but over the years, I've learned the truth about a statement that now has a place of honor in the upper corner of the mirror in my room:
 "You will never be the person you can be
if pressure, tension, and discipline are taken out of your life."
NEVER?  NEVER be the person I can be?  I learned this most vividly one summer a few years ago (well, more than a few).  And, since I suspect that you are not unlike me, and that your lives are not unlike mine—rather full—I thought you might find my discovery a little helpful.
            I got my Masters degree in English from Andrews University.  That meant I had to spend summers there taking classes.  If you've ever been in Berrien Springs in the summer, you will understand why I say this was NOT where I wanted to be in June, July, or August.  But, there I was this particular summer—struggling with three-hour-long classes, two-hour-long tests, hundreds and hundreds of pages of reading—daily, 15-20 pages research papers (there were four to do in the eight-week semester).  Yes, all that and much more, while trying, somehow, to maintain some sort of balance in my life.   It wasn't easy.  In fact, I thought it would be impossible.  There was so much else I would rather have been doing—anything but reading and writing and researching . . .
            It didn't help much, either, getting letters from friends who were telling me about their vacations spent at beaches, in Maine, swimming, waterskiing, sailing, hiking—having all sorts of fun—fun that I could not, would not, have that summer.  Even an 8-hour a day job sounded better than spending hours and hours sitting in class during the day and hours and hours pouring over my studies at night.  There were days when I just wanted to stay in bed and never get up.  But there was always some deadline hanging over my head.  And missing a day of summer school is like missing a week of regular school—something that just doesn't work.
            Sometimes I felt angry and depressed because what I was studying had nothing to do with what I was doing with my "real" life (sound familiar?!).  It bothered me that I had no real choice about what classes I was taking, or their content.  I began to hate my classes, and resent my teachers for putting me through things which I thought were so unnecessary, so inconsequential to my life.  And, I hated myself for hating everything that I was having to do.  It became a vicious circle.  And an unhealthy one.
            It came to the point where I had to make a decision about how I was going to face my days.  It really was no good to expend energy on hate of something that would still be there to do, regardless of my feelings and attitude.  I realized, sooner rather than later, luckily, that I would have to make a change in my attitude if not my feelings.  And so I started looking for the positive, for the purpose, for the one point that would make a difference for me moving forward.  Some days this was harder than others.  But the truth was that those days always went better if I gave them a chance.  As the summer wound down, I found myself valuing my classes and my teachers more and more.  Today, the lessons I learned that summer are lessons that I still use, that I have shared with students of my own now for more than 3 decades.  Finding purpose in everything you do changes up everything you do.  Even the act of looking for it changes your attitude and your vision.  And that always makes a difference. 
            The Bible has some advice for us about our attitude in Philippians 4:8-9: 
8-9 Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies” (The Message).  In other words, cultivating a positive attitude about whatever you have to do gives you the opportunity to be the best person you can be.

Monday, April 13, 2020

Solid . . . as a Rock

A winter's day
In a deep and dark December.
I am alone
Gazing from my window
To the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow

I am a rock.
I am an island.

I am enclosed
In a fortress steep and mighty
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship.
Friendship causes pain.
Its laughter and its longing I disdain.

I am a rock.
I am an island.

Don't talk of love.
Well--I've heard the word before.
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber
Of feelings that have died.
If I'd never loved
I never would have cried.

I am a rock.
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me.
I am shielded in my armor--
Hiding in my room,
Safe within my womb.
I touch no one.
No one touches me.

I am a rock.
I am an island.
And a rock feels no pain.
And an island never cries.
~ Simon & Garfunkle

            So--what is it for you?  Boyfriend, girlfriend, parents, friends, teachers, students, school, home, job, religion?
            Love--caring about someone or something--is a risk.  Love is a razor that cuts, a river that drowns.  Love hurts.  Care about people--thereby giving them the power to hurt you--and they will surely use it.  A child, for instance, naively loves and trusts his parents, only to be devastated when they divorce each other.  If the child had never loved, he never would have cried.  A teenager dates someone three or four times, and just when the feelings are beginning to develop, the drop slip comes--over the phone, through a friend, or in a note . . .         "But a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries."  A teacher gives his/her whole life to educating young people--spends hours planning, studying, slaving--only to be criticized, ignored, treated disrespectfully . . ."If I'd never loved, I never would have cried . . . I am a rock, I am an island."
            A frequent reaction to hurt, to being burned by caring for someone, is, of course, to force oneself to become hard emotionally--to build walls around our feelings, to shove the emotions to the back of the closet until they're needed at some later time.  This defense mechanism is used as a means of mental survival by children of divorced parents, dumped teenagers, frustrated adults, people who are dying; by kids on the street, men and women in prison, and the elderly forgotten in rest homes.  "I touch no one and no one touches me . . . I am a rock . . ."  Yet--ironically--or perhaps not so ironically--the very term "rock" that symbolizes invulnerability to man has been applied time and again to Christ, who throughout eternity has been anything but invulnerable:
            "On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand."
            "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee."
            "The wise man built his house upon the Rock."
            Of course, the difference should be--is--obvious.  As human beings, we can throw ourselves on the rock of isolation.  We can harden ourselves to emotions, to people.  And it'll feel safe--for awhile.  But in time, that rock will become hard and cold and lonely.  And we'll long for companionship--even if it means risking hurt.  Again.
            Yes--love can be a razor that cuts, or a river that bleeds.  Love can cause pain.  In God's case, it definitely has.  Ellen White tells us in The Desire of Ages that "The plan for our redemption was not an afterthought, a plan formulated after the fall of Adam. . . . From the beginning, God and Christ knew of the apostasy of Satan, and of the fall of man . . . God . . . foresaw [the existence of sin] and made provision to meet the terrible emergency.  So great was His love for the world, that He . . . [gave] "His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.""
            God did not wall up His emotions after getting burned.  He did not become a rock or an island.  Instead, He made us anyway, and provided us with the surest way to happiness and love possible.  Solid.  As a rock.

Sunday, April 12, 2020

Where Jesus Waked

One of my favorite Psalm is Psalm 139 where it says that God knows everything about us, everywhere we go, everything we do.  For some, that thought might be quite disconcerting.  Some might not necessarily find it comforting to know that God goes wherever we go, knows whatever we do.  And I might agree…if that were the only thing the Psalm said.  But listen to the first ten verses:
 1 You have searched me, LORD,
   and you know me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
   you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down;
   you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue
   you, LORD, know it completely.
5 You hem me in behind and before,
   and you lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
   too lofty for me to attain.
 7 Where can I go from your Spirit?
   Where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
   if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
   if I settle on the far side of the sea,
10 even there your hand will guide me,
   your right hand will hold me fast
I love this Psalm for many reasons, but one of them is that it’s perfect for a traveler.  Now if you know nothing else about me, you know I’m a traveler—sometimes on my own, sometimes with family or friends, and sometimes with groups.  As a result, I’ve been to many states (49), countries (45), and continents (4) and have seen many of the world’s famous sites.  Of all the places I've been to, though, nothing has reached my heart and soul the way a garden in Jerusalem did when I was there with the New England Youth Ensemble one June morning almost 30 summers ago.  I learned some­thing important that day, and it is that which I want to share with you here.
         
As you might imagine, Jerusalem is crammed full of places connected with Christ—His birth, His ministry, His death—and we went to all those sites.  To be sure, they were all interesting, and sometimes I was awed at the thought that “this was the place,” but more times I was appalled at the commercialism of the places.  Vendors and hawkers of relics were constantly besieging us, hoping to swindle us out of the money they were certain all Americans had. 
         
Because of this, I became discouraged after awhile.  None of those places really gave me a sense of Jesus in the same way I've sensed, say Emily Dickinson in her home in Amherst, MA, or Martin Luther in his secret mountain-top hideout in Germany where he translated the Bible.  I just couldn’t find Him in the crass merchandizing, the crowded spaces that wanted my money, rather than my heart.  Then, just before noon, we found ourselves at the Garden of Joseph of Arimathea.  Our tour guide was an older gentleman from Scotland who had been working in the Garden for about three months.  He took us through, pointing out various things he thought would interest us along the way, until we reached a clearing in front of a cave‑like opening.  There were benches some feet away and he invited us to sit down.  “This,” he said, pointing to the opening, “is the Garden Tomb where Jesus lay for three days.”  At that point, some of the group (we were a choir and orchestra numbering over 100 musicians) immediately broke into that beloved hymn “In the Garden…” 
         
Hearing that, he realized he didn't have to tell us the story so he told us instead why he was nearly 100% certain that this was the spot.  There were a number of reasons, and when he was done, we were convinced as well.  But before he let us go inside to look at the place where Jesus had lain, he said he wanted to share one more thing with us—something he hadn't told any other group.
         
He told us that he imagined we had probably been to a lot of places in the last few days where Jesus had walked and talked.  He said we had probably sat on the hillside where Jesus had delivered the Sermon on the Mount and where he had multiplied the loaves and fishes.  We had. 
         
He said we had probably seen the field where the angels sang to the shepherds and the Mount of Olives where Jesus had prayed before He was taken away.  And we had. 
         He said we were probably like a lot of other Christians coming there to find something of Jesus.  And, in varying amount­s, we all were.  He said he had done that too when he had first come to Jerusa­lem.  And that he had been frustrated because he hadn't found what he was expecting.  Try as he might, he just didn’t find Jesus in all those “Jesus” places the way he thought he would.  It wasn't until he had stood in front of that Garden Tomb a few times that he realized a most wonderful thing—a thing which made all the difference in the world to him and he hoped it would to us, too.
         
“Do you remember what the angel told the disciples when they came early to the tomb?” he asked us.  We responded appropriately: “He is not here.  He is risen.”  “That's right,” he said.  “He is not here.  He is risen.  He is risen and is walking among us again—even now.” 
         
You know, that man was so right!  We don't have to go 1/2 way around the world to find some piece of Jesus.  We don't have to stand in the grotto marking His birthplace to feel His presence in our lives.  He is not there in the hills of Judea.  He is not there in Beth­lehem.  He is not there in Jerusalem.  At least not exclusively.  He is wherever we are, He goes wherever we go.  He was at our birthplace, and will be at our resting place.  He is here in this place, too.  He is with us, beside us right now—offering to lead us, guide us, and love us so completely.  How can we turn Him down?
         
I’ve been lucky.  I've walked where Jesus walked in Jerusalem.  But more impor­tantly, I am walking where He is walking right now.  Right here, walking everywhere you and I walk every day.  Right here.  Right now.  Walking amongst us, even as I write.  He is standing beside each one of you, holding out His hand, inviting you to walk with Him. He wants to make a world of dif­ference in our lives, and He will—if we let him.  I invite you today to put on your walking shoes and walk with Jesus.  It will be the greatest journey of your life to walk with Jesus—not only where He walked, but where is walking right now.