The Forerunners

Memory, reason, and judgment forsake us as we age. George Herbert makes that point in a hard-to-decipher poem entitled “The Forerunners.” Here is one stanza:

 

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; 

white is their colour, and behold my head.

but must they have my brain? must they dispark,

Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred? 

Must dullness turn me to a clod? 

Yet have they left me, Thou art still my God.

 

Herbert found that age had addled his brain, clever thoughts eluded him and compromised his ability to think and to write. He laments: “Must they dispark (divest of the character of a lovely park), those sparkling notions, which therein (in his brain) were bred?” The “harbingers” had marked him and turned him into a clod. 

 

In Herbert’s day travelers often sent forerunners ahead to find lodging. When the harbingers found a suitable inn or house they would mark the door with white chalk. Age now has marked Herbert’s hair white. Must aging and dullness strip him of his ability to write?

 

It’s a comforting thought to realize that no matter how much of my mind I lose, age cannot take God’s love and affection from me. Wisdom and artistry reside in one thought: “Thou art still my God.”  

 

That’s all I need to remember.

 

David Roper

The Village Parson

“We ask you, brothers, to respect those who labor among you and are over you in the Lord and admonish you, and to esteem them very highly in love because of their work.” 

—1 Thessalonians 5:12,13

 

Carolyn and I have been watching a series of murder mysteries on BBC featuring a stolid, plodding chief inspector and his long-suffering partner. Each segment takes place in a different village in his district.  Since we’ve began watching the series there have been been 214 murders; eleven accidents, ten suicides and six deaths from natural causes. 

 

The series is well done, but it carries with it an unsettling sub-plot: In each segment in which the Church of England appears, the clergy are depicted as either corrupt or crazy and sometimes both. Those who are not church–goers are the only sane and just people in town. It’s become painfully obvious to us that the writers have a burr in their britches.  

 

I can’t speak for the village pastors in England, though I know a few there that belie that theme. They are good shepherds who are standing against the tide of secularism and spiritual antipathy that has engulfed Great Britain in the last 100 years. 

 

And I can speak for the village pastors that Carolyn and I know in Idaho, many of whom are laboring in small communities where the spiritual environment is as hard and as cold as the physical environment in which they serve. Most of them are overworked, under-paid, and unappreciated, yet they labor on year after year. They’ll never make the big time; hardly anyone knows they’re there. But they are our heroes.

 

As I think about these men and women this morning I’m struck by the fact that most of them don’t shimmer and shine, or float six inches off the ground. They’re plain, ordinary, down-home people, filled with the Spirit of the living God. 

 

Jesus made it clear that the best work is done by simple, humble folks who love Him and his people, live the truth, proclaim it plainly and pray. This, and not bells and whistles, is the power that touches the addled, the addicted, and the afflicted that gather around them. 

 

A recent survey suggests that most people are disgruntled with their pastors because they don’t like their style. Commenting on the survey David Hubbard, former president of Fuller Theological Seminary, wrote, “I suppose they mean by this that they don’t think their pastor has a powerful personality. But Paul puts emphasis on his work, not his personality.”

 

The question is not, “Does my pastor light up the sky?” but, “Is he or she doing the work”? Is he a visible expression of the invisible Christ, expounding and explaining God’s Word to us, and devoted to prayer? Does he lovingly care for his flock? Is he leading us into deeper love for our Lord? 

 

The fact that our pastor isn’t scintilating in the pulpit and rarely shines his shoes has nothing to do with his work. So he isn’t polished and articulate, the most artful guy in town. Those traits have no bearing on the worth of his ministry. Esteem him very highly in love because of the work he has been called to do.

 

David Roper

1.21.21

 

Looking Up

My voice You shall hear in the morning, O LORD;

In the morning I will direct it to You,

And I will look up. —Psalm 5:3

"Poor little bird, you can't fly!"   

"No, but I can look up!" —George MacDonald

My morning routine has been the same for years: I complete my morning ablutions, snatch up a cup of coffee and my iPad and get my news brief for the day. Then I settle in to meet with the Lord.

No longer. I'm learning—first thing—to "look up.”

Looking out and about is unnerving: our country is circling down the drain. Pundits and prophets report the end of civilization as we know it and the scene on the ground confirms it. The world’s in a hand basket, as the old folks like to say, and we have a pretty good idea where it's going.

Given the spin we're in, it's better to "look up," to lift up our voices first thing in the morning and "direct" our thoughts to the LORD; to take the worries off our minds, where they have no business being, and put them into his hands where they belong. 

And then, with hearts at rest we can sally forth to meet the day, or shelter safely at home.

There's an old saying: “To make a beginning is the whole," and prayer is the best way to begin. Perhaps I can do little more—my sphere of influence is very small—but I can certainly do nothing better. 

David Roper

1.19.20

Holy Laughter

"The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the LORD and against his Anointed, saying, 'Let us burst their bonds apart and cast away their cords from us.' He who sits in the Heavens laughs..." (Psalm 2:2-4). 

When Martin Luther taught young pastors this text he delivered it as a rousing sermon: "It is not just ourselves the world is so bitterly against," he declared, "but God himself. Instead of being afraid, we should be laughing at this crazy effort of the world to think it can fight against God."

And so it is: God's enemies plot to frustrate his plan to bring salvation to the earth and holy laughter rends the skies... 

We, on the other hand, seem to have lost our sense of humor. 

Anxious eyes, furrowed brows and worry lines cloud our faces. Like Chicken Little we swear that the sky is falling. But the enemy's efforts to topple the Church can't really be taken seriously; they rather deserve a guffaw. 

The arrogance of God's opponents is, of course, the laughing matter and not the suffering it engenders. The damage to human souls is incalculable. We weep for ourselves and for those who weep. 

And, of necessity, we must respond to assaults on the gospel with faith, truth, love, prayer and personal righteousness—the mighty spiritual weapons that God has placed at our disposal.

But we can do so in good humor, for we know the end of the story: the kingdoms of this world will become the kingdom of our Lord and Savior. Jesus Christ, and the sorrows of this life will become the eternal laughter of Heaven. "Life goes on and we haven't seen the best of it," Carlo Carretto said. We rejoice even now in things to come.

So when the world, the flesh and the devil plot mischief this year, don't fret. Just chuckle. God is laughing and so should we. 

David Roper

1.14.21

Post hoc...

It has always amused me that while Israel's prophets considered idolatry (the worship of idols) the essence of evil they poked fun at idols. They describe pagan worshippers spending prodigious amounts of money and expending great effort to find the right tree and choose the right artisan to carve the idol and embellish it with gold leaf and silver. But then they have to nail its feet to the floor lest it tip over! (Isaiah 40,18-20). They even made up humorous, albeit indelicate, names for idols, one being gilluliym—"little balls of dung” (Ezekiel 30:13).

True North

 

One thing have I asked of the LORD,

that will I seek after:

that I may... gaze upon the beauty of the LORD

 

“There’s something about north, something that sets it apart from all other directions” (E.B. White).

 

I’ve always loved E.B. White’s children’s stories and Stuart Little (not to be confused with Chicken Little) is my favorite. (Charlotte’s Web is another.)

Stuart Little, as you probably know,  was a mouse. Well, sort of. White never said he was a mouse, but only that he “looked very much like a mouse in every way.” I believe Stuart Little is Everyman.

 

I thought of Stuart again a few days ago when I read a review of the book in The Wall Street Journal. The reviewer wrote, “When I first read E.B. White’s, 'Stuart Little' as a child, the ending disturbed me. The title character has left his New York City home in search of a bird, Margalo, whom he loves dearly. Does Stuart find her? We never find out. All we learn is that ‘he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.’” 

 

The reviewer was disappointed that the story had no conclusion, but White himself explained in an essay in the New York Times that being “headed in the right direction," is the conclusion. When asked to clarify, he stated that "He was searching for beauty." 

 

I believe the book is what some would call a muthos, a myth that enshrines truth, goodness and beauty, an example of the only literature Plato permitted children in his republic to read. Having seen “truth” in myth, he reasoned, they would recognize it later on. (That was C.S. Lewis’ rationale for writing the Narnia Tales: He hoped that children, as they read the myths, would come to love Aslan and so would love Jesus when they encountered him.)

 

At one point in Stuart’s journey he meets a repairman who muses: “There’s something about north, something that sets it apart from all other directions. A person who is heading north is not making any mistake, in my opinion.” “That’s the way I look at it,” said Stuart. “I rather expect that from now on I shall be traveling north until the end of my days.” “Worse things than that could happen to a person,” said the repairman.

 

There’s something about north, something that sets it apart from all other directions. For George MacDonald it is a beautiful place “at the back of the North Wind,” where there is no sorrow or loss, where “everyone is happy and looks like they will be even happier tomorrow.” North is the invisible realm of reality, above and beyond us, "where Christ is" (Colossians 3:1). 

Stuart, like the rest of us, was traveling north to find beauty, that for which his heart ached. Those who seek will find it, or better yet, they will find a man—Jesus. “No soul that seriously and constantly desires joy will ever miss it,” C.S. Lewis wrote. "Those who seek find” (The Great Divorce).

If you’re traveling north this year, you’re not making a mistake. Worse things than that could happen to a person.

David Roper

1.5.21