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What are You Reaching For?

Thursday, February 18th, 2010

I had been eying the iridescent green bottle on the top shelf of the linen closet for days. It was out of reach … and therefore desirable. To my three-year-old eyes, the glass bottle of Bactine looked fascinating.

So it was one day, with my mother otherwise occupied, I made the ascent from base camp to summit, clawing upward past blankets and towels toward the prize at the top.

It looked even better in my hand. But every little tike assumes the best things in life come via the mouth. So, of course I drank the whole bottle. My mother found me wandering the hallway looking green and worried.

There was no 911 service available in those ancient days — we didn’t even have a telephone. So we took a not-so-leisurely drive to the doctor’s office where, up on the exam table, I vented the remaining fumes with a long, sonorous BURP, a practice I have since refined.

End of story: I experienced no other negative (or positive) effects from my experience. You might think the internal dousing of antiseptic would have immunized me against all future infections. No such luck. Nor was I immediately deterred from other questionable objects of desire.

In fact, a year or so later, curiosity again won out in Cradle Roll. Singing a little song about wonderful things God had made, the teacher brought around a plate with different sorts of fruit for us to hold during the song. Coveting was not officially permitted in Sabbath School, but I had nonetheless been honing for weeks a long-term attraction to a luscious-looking pear on that plate. Like the unfortunate cripple at the Pool of Bethesda, someone had always got to it first. But not this time. And while the teacher had her back turned, I took a surreptitious bite, and discovered (duh!) … a wax pear no doubt handled by dozens of chubby hands over decades. It was awful, nasty and an abrupt education.

Early on I learned perceptions can be skewed. What you think you see is not always what you get. What you reach for can be a snare. What you want is not always best. The Bible is replete with examples.

Eve got her apple. Esau got his lentils. Moses got his water. David got Bathsheba. But they all lost so much more in the “getting.”

If, as Ellen White observes, God’s ideal is “higher than the highest human thought,” perhaps their problem and our problem is in allowing misguided desire to limit our reach. God’s word comes ringing down through the ages, still true: “Why do you spend money for what is not bread, and your wages for what does not satisfy?” (Isaiah 55:2, NKJV)

What are you reaching for?

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Blessed are the Untidy

Thursday, February 18th, 2010

While parents have preached and kids have groaned, the message has not changed much through the decades: Cleanliness is next to godliness. With that mantra, parents have thrown down the gauntlet, hoping guilt will somehow motivate little hands to pick up dirty socks, clean behind ears and brush teeth.

Thankfully my parents tolerated a balanced approach. In a large backyard with an endless supply of dirt, I built roads and cities, crawled through mud, climbed trees and captured bugs until evening. When mother called, I brought the outside inside. Dusty feet padded across the floor, grass and leaves sifted down, and bugs in the pocket were provided safe keeping for the night — in my dresser drawer. Then came bath time. Clean toes feel ever so much better under the covers.

Conscientious parents dream of little boys and girls with shining faces, unscuffed shoes, pressed clothes and combed hair representing self-confidence, good breeding and unrestrained potential. Wise parents know there is much, much more to developing character that shines from deep beneath the surface. I’m grateful for parents who let me explore in between bath time scrubbings.

I still struggle to keep a semblance of order. Things I file in good faith often end up in the mythical realm populated by missing socks, long lost receipts and Jimmy Hoffa. So I have formed a truce between the extremes.

A Monk-ish obsession with tidiness can become a barrier to better things. Some would like our church to be more tidy — everyone spiffed up, looking the same, marching in lockstep. But that runs counter to the creative energy of the Spirit to whom we have been entrusted until the end. The tidiness our Lord longs for is not just an external appearance of order. It’s paramount in Jesus’ admonition: “You Pharisees make the outside of the cup and dish clean, but your inward part is full of greed and wickedness,” (Luke 11:39). It’s echoed in David’s heartfelt request: “Create in me a clean heart, O God. And renew a steadfast spirit within me,” (Psalm 51:10).

The church militant is unified, but not uniform. It is all about others and not about self. Those who spend their time down in the dirt among the trenches are incalculably more beautiful than those obsessed with the magnifying glass or mirror.

The mother who, putting housework, business or self aside, sits down and really listens to her children, has got it right. The father who foregoes 15 minutes of sports talk on his drive to work, to lift his kids in prayer, has figured it out.

The One in whom there was “no form or comeliness,” who was “despised and rejected by men,” sees and understands. He knows our tendencies to notice outward things, and instead looks beyond the untidy, past the appearance and places His fondest attentions upon the heart.

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Almost

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

“Almost” is the galvanizing moment in a compelling story as the words of Paul the apostle cut straight to the heart.

The one who listens is Marcus Julius Agrippa Herodes II. The Bible simply refers to him as King Agrippa, the last of the Jewish Herods. The first generation tried to kill the infant Jesus; the second murdered John the Baptist. His own father put the Apostle James to death and imprisoned Peter. Now, in the fourth and final generation, the truth hits home. Another apostle stands in shackles as yet another Herod is confronted with the life-changing power of the gospel.

The Herod family tree is replete with contradictions—a litter box full of assassinations, marital infidelity and political favors. Agrippa himself is living in incest with his own sister, Berenice, who’s there in the hall, too, listening. Later she’ll leave him for a scandalous liaison with the emperor Titus—the same Titus who eventually leads Roman troops in the destruction of Jerusalem and the Jewish temple.

But that’s still more than a decade off. Agrippa is oblivious to his uncertain future. At this moment he ponders the words of Paul. Regardless of whether his response is serious or sarcastic, his reply rings down through the ages to us: “Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian” (Acts 26:28).

The word “almost” has haunted us ever since. The song, “Almost Persuaded,” backed by the ubiquitous Hammond organ tremolo, has colored many an altar call. It harkens to the rich young ruler, who was convicted, but went away sorrowful. Another “almost.”

Think of good things made meaningless by the simple word “almost”:

We almost stop at the traffic light.

We almost put on our clothes.

We almost volunteer at the community service center.

We almost spend quality time with our children.

We almost help a worthy student.

We almost are faithful to our spouse.

We almost tell the truth.

“Almost” is a politically correct word for “not.” Almost giving is the same as not giving. Almost persuaded is the same as refusal. Judas almost repented when Jesus washed his feet. Lot’s wife almost didn’t look back. “Almost” didn’t work out so well for either of them.

In nearly every case, conviction, when left to simmer, is just another item chalked up to almost—just another thermostat that stops at lukewarm.

I wonder what sort of story the author of Acts could have written if Agrippa had instead said “amen.”

I wonder how our lives, how our church, would change if we refused to stop at “almost.”

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An Encouraging Word

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

Bruce was a failure. That’s what he’d overheard the fifth-grade teacher say. Another strike against him. Times were rough at school and home. His mom, attempting to raise three kids alone on a nonexistent budget, was barely coping with an emotional breakdown. “What future is there for a kid who’s a failure,” he thought.

So you can understand if Bruce approached the next school year, and a new teacher, with apprehension. As he entered the foyer of the school and turned left down the corridor, he saw her. She was standing at the door greeting each student. She reached out, shook his hand, and with a smile asked, “And who are you?”

“I’m Bruce,” he said.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she exclaimed. “And I know you’re going to be a wonderful student.”

At that moment something very simple changed Bruce’s whole outlook. He’d earned enough money during the summer to buy a bright blue shirt with a zipper on the breast pocket. He was really proud of that shirt. While she spoke, his new teacher reached out, clasped the little chain and zipped the zipper open and shut. A small gesture, but it struck Bruce like an electric shock. “She accepts me,” he thought, “and maybe she’s right. Maybe I can be a good student.”

Under the mentoring of this wonderful Christian teacher, Bruce’s low self-esteem gave way to a brighter outlook. What had she added? Significance. He was significant. He could make a difference. By the end of the sixth grade, Bruce was at the top of his class.

But years passed, and with times still hard, Bruce faced an uncertain future after high school graduation. With no guarantee of financial support, he determined one early morning to hitchhike to Walla Walla College. But by the end of the day, he was only 30 miles from home. Discouraged he gave up and returned to his starting point near a gas station where he had sometimes worked for the Adventist manager. “I guess God doesn’t want me to go to Walla Walla,” said Bruce when the manager saw him coming. “Oh yes He does,” was his friend’s quick reply, “and tomorrow I’m going to take you there myself!”

So Bruce Johnston went to Walla Walla College, became a college professor, missionary pilot, international evangelist and visionary who in turn encouraged hundreds of others along an upward pathway to success.

Our students need encouragers. Like Bruce, they need a faith community that refuses to let them fall through the cracks–before, during or after graduation.

Afraid to invest your money in today’s uncertain economy? Try a different angle: Invest in a student. You may help another Bruce Johnston take flight.

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When Angels Sing

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

We were a motley crew of summer camp counselors and staff — picked for our characters, not our musical talents. But we’d been asked to provide a special vesper service in the church bowl in Yosemite Valley.

There, in the outdoor granite cathedral, the vesper crowd was transient — family campers, curious rock climbers, bikers. I have very little recollection of the program we put on, except for the climactic musical ending. The song had gone quite well in practice back at camp. That evening in the valley it did not. In fact, as I recall, it was rather chaotic. Basses disappeared, sopranos sharpened, altos wilted and tenors flattened.

But as we slunk back toward the camp van and merciful escape, a hand reached out, gripped my arm, and stopped me in my tracks. In the dim firelight, I could barely make out a scruffy young man with a backpack over one shoulder. “Hey man,” he said, “I liked that last song. It really made me think.” And just that quickly he was gone.

That song? I thought about it on the way back to camp, and decided I had missed the angels there that night.

Every time we think our performance is amazingly good, or horrifically bad, we have to remember the angel choir. We have to remember there are divine forces at work on behalf of humankind who bridge the gap between the seen and the unseen, the heard and the unheard.

Good King Jehoshaphat couldn’t fight on the enemy’s terms, but he listened carefully to the prophet’s exhortation: “Do not be afraid or dismayed … the battle is not yours but God’s,” (2 Chron. 20:15). So he mustered a choir instead and marched to meet the foe, believing in the power of the heavenly host.

And there on the Judean hillside an angelic choir accomplished what religious leaders had failed to do — announce the coming Savior, to a star-struck group of shepherds.

Scriptures remind us even when we pray, even in our most intimate moments with God, our words are inadequate. Paul in Romans 8:26 describes how the Holy Spirit “makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.” It’s that sort of partnership which brings about the familiar promise two verses later: “All things work together for good.”

The Holy Spirit and angelic host stand ready to work together for good, to bridge the gap when our best efforts fall short.

If you’re a performance freak, if you’ve been taught anything short of perfection is not good enough, remember that. If you’ve been pushed down and put down, insecure and unsure you can do anything right, remember that.

In even the most mundane of daily events, stop, look and listen. Maybe, just maybe, you will hear the angels sing.

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Who’s At Your Door?

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

In the dead of the night, a knock at the door jarred me awake. I lay still, uncertain of what I’d heard. Then it came again, more persistently.

Groggy with sleep, I stumbled across the room, jerked open the door, and was nearly bowled over by an assertive little chap who strode in as if he belonged. He scurried over to a foot stool near the window and sat down with a grunt. He clearly meant to stay.

Dumbfounded I pushed the door closed, gave myself a sharp pinch to make sure I was really awake, and turned to observe my uninvited guest.

He sat looking straight at me. In fact, as I scrutinized him, I got a bit of a start. He looked remarkably like me — only smaller. I was mystified.

The little fellow gave an abrupt snort. “You don’t recognize me, do you? Years ago, you and I got together quite often.”

Still groggy, I mumbled about how busy I’d been, while racking my brain for any fuzzy memory of this impertinent fellow.

“Oh yes, you’ve been busy,” his visitor replied tartly. “You couldn’t even stop for a few minutes to see Mrs. Jones at the hospital on your way to work this morning.”

My mouth gaped. How he knew was anyone’s guess. I’d gotten a late start, was pressed for time getting to a teleconference at the office, so opted to skip the side trip to see Mrs. Jones. I figured I’d send her a card, maybe an e-mail — I didn’t think she was into Twitter.

“Interesting bumper sticker you’ve got on your car,” he continued. “‘For all you do … His blood’s for you!’ I wonder how the guy you cut off on the freeway exit this afternoon liked it? At least you gave him a good chance to view the message right up close.”

I could feel my face getting a bit hot. Not only had my uninvited guest hit a sore spot, he was beginning to really chafe my bunions.

Yet he wasn’t through. “And when you had a chance to speak up in support of Jack Horner at church board tonight, you kept silent. You chose to be politically correct … and you should be ashamed.”

My emotional radiator boiled over. “Get out,” I shouted. “Get out, and stay out!” I roughly pulled the impudent runt to the door and pushed him out into the dark night.

Slamming the door shut, I stood for a moment, letting the heart rate subside. Finally I trudged back to bed. There lay a business card. Crawling under the covers, I held the card up to the light. It read simply, “With regards — Your Conscience.”

I gazed at it for a long moment. Then, flicking off the lamp, I turned over and tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep.

Adapted with apologies to Mark Twain

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The Project

Sunday, January 10th, 2010

When our front porch began to exhibit characteristics of the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa, I saw an inestimable opportunity to learn a new skill.

Boards, saws and all other tools of the carpentry trade have never been my first love, nor supportive of my spiritual gifts — other than that of “patience.” But I am a naturally thrifty person, and, spying a chance to save some cash, I succumbed to the question that has been the shipwreck of so many myopic men before me: “Why not do it myself?”

Two weeks of vacation time stretched before me — plenty of time, I reasoned, to accomplish a project so small. As I figured it, it could be accomplished in three short steps: 1) Tear the old porch down. 2) Acquire the materials. 3) Build the sparkling new replacement.

Steps one and two went by in a flash, proving only my competence at demolition. “That was easy,” I thought. But the house now resembled a four-year-old child missing two front teeth. And thus began “the vacation that never was.”

Those two weeks were filled with repeated challenges to pride. In spite of dusty applications of geometry and physics theorems, more than once I caught myself muttering some variation of, “I cut it twice, and it’s still too short!”

When I was nearly flummoxed, a close friend saw my dilemma and brought an expert over to give me a few pointers. Someone who had done it before — time and time again — made it seem so simple. Without his plan, my project would have been lost.

Without the Creator’s touch, our lives would be lost. Our best reasoning, finest logic, greatest wisdom might indeed be foolishness to someone who has done it before — time and time again. When the Creator came to this formless project, the Bible says simply “He spake and it was done.” Why, then, do we often ascribe our highest accolades to those whose judgment countenances little room for faith or divine intervention.

C.S. Lewis pointedly remarks: “Ancient man approached God … as the accused person approaches his judge. For the modern man, the roles are reversed. He is the judge: God is in the dock. He is quite a kindly judge: If God should have a reasonable defense for being the god who permits war, poverty, and disease; he is ready to listen to it. The trial may even end in God’s acquittal. But the important thing is that man is on the bench, and God is in the dock.”

I want God “on the bench.” I’ve come short too many times in my life to think I know better. I believe what the Creator miraculously began millennia ago; He is well able to finish in a manner beyond my ken. Sure, it’s a matter of faith. But what prize of eternal value isn’t?

And, oh, the porch? It’s done — as is my “vacation!”

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