Twin Forks

 "I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight (upright) paths” (Proverbs 4:11).

One day Saint Francis and his sidekick Brother Masseo were itinerating through the Italian countryside looking for a place to preach. They came to a fork in the road, one path leading to Florence, one to Siena. "Which way shall we go?" Masseo asked. "The one that God wills," answered St Francis.

"And how are we to know the will of God?" Masseo replied, whereupon, Francis had Masseo spin around until he got dizzy and fell down. When he got up he was facing Siena. "That's the way," Francis said.

When they got to Siena they had no opportunity to preach, but did succeed in reconciling two warring clans and bringing peace to the region. Having finished their work they traveled on.

What's my point? Well, most of our choices throughout the day are willy–nilly. Will we wear this or that? Do we turn left or right? Yet Wisdom is always directing our steps. Certainly we should ask for God's counsel through the day, but, I must say for myself, I forget.

So then, it's up to God to get us to the right place at the right time-to do whatever it is he wants us to do.

Anyway... Who am I to think I can discern the right way? No, my business is to walk with God throughout the day and enjoy his love. He'll take it from there.

Carolyn says God's will is not so much the right way as the upright way. I think she's got something there.

DHR

On suffering for the sake of the gospel...

It was on a winter's morning 
In the days of old, 
In his cell sat Father Henry,
Sorrowful and cold.

"O my Lord, I am aweary," 
In his heart he spake, 
"For my brethren scorn and hate me 
For Thy blessed sake."

"If I had but one to love me 
That were joyful cheer—
One small word to make me sunshine 
Through the darksome year!"

"But they mock me and despise me 
Till my heart is stung—
Then my words are wild and bitter, 
Tameless is my tongue." 

Then the Lord said, "I am with thee; 
Trust thyself to Me; 
Open thou thy little casement (window)
Mark what thou shalt see." 

Then a piteous look and wistful 
Father Henry cast 
Out into the dim old cloister 
And the wintry blast.

Was it that a friend was coming 
By some Angel led? 
No! a great hound wild and savage 
Round the cloister sped.

Some old mat that lay forgotten 
Seized he on his way—
Tore it, tossed it, dragged it wildly 
Round the cloister gray.

"Lo, the hound is like thy brethren," 
Spake the Voice he knew; 
"If thou are the mat, beloved, 
What hast thou to do?"

Meekly then went Father Henry, 
And the mat he bare 
To his little cell to store it
As a jewel rare.

Many a winter and a summer
Through those cloisters dim, 
Did he thenceforth walk rejoicing, 
And the Lord with him.

And when bitter words would sting him, 
Turned he to his cell, 
Took his mat, and looked upon it, 
Saying, "All is well."

"He who is the least and lowest
Needs but low to lie; 
Lord, I thank Thee and I praise Thee 
That the mat am I."

On the cold and footworn pavement 
Lies it still and flat,
Raves not if men trample on it, 
For it is a mat."

Then he wept, for in the stillness 
His Beloved spake,
"Thus was I the least and lowest, 
Gladly, for thy sake."

"Lo, My face to shame and spitting 
Did I turn for thee; 
If thou art the least and lowest, 
Then remember Me." 

Heinrich Suso  (14th century Dominican)

“Rejoice with those that rejoice; weep with those that weep” (Romans 12:15).

In “The Divine Comedy” Dante and his guide Virgil descend into the lower regions of hell where they come upon a vast cemetery. Here the souls of heretics—specifically those that have denied the resurrection—are kept. (Having believed that their souls will die with their bodies, their souls are now forever buried with their dead bodies.)

As Dante stares at one of the coffins a figure rises, Farinata, who complains: "Your family has been bitter enemies to me, and to my fathers, and my friends.” Dante explains that his family tried on at least three occasions to redress every wrong, “but they could never get it right."

At that point Dante and Farinata are interrupted by Cavalcante, a friend of Dante’s who lifts his head above the edge of the same tomb and asks about his son Guido who was married to Farinata's daughter, Beatrice. Dante, using a past tense verb in referring to Guido, gives Cavalcante the mistaken idea that his son is dead. Cavalcante cries out: "What did you say? Is he not still alive? Does he not still carry the light of life in his eyes?" And falls back into his tomb, grief–stricken and weeping.

Farinata, oblivious to Cavalcante’s sorrow, without missing a beat, picks up his complaint where he left off: “… and if they do not ever get it right that hurts me more than this wretched bed…”

Oh my…

I think of those occasions when someone reached out to me in sorrow and I, preoccupied with myself, told my own sad story instead of listening and asking questions to draw out the other person’s grief—and missed an opportunity to weep with them.

Or those occasions when someone shared a moment of triumph with me and instead of sharing that persons’ joy and enthusiasm I trumped their story with a joyous moment of my own—and missed an opportunity to rejoice with them.

The wise man said, “If you start talking before you listen intently, you’re a fool and a boor!” (Proverbs 18:13).

Whoa!

David Roper
8/20/15

Is This All the Thanks I Get?

“Then I said to them, ’If it seems good to you, give me my wages; but if not, keep them.’ And they weighed out as my wages thirty pieces of silver.”—Zechariah 11:12

For several years Carolyn and I, like Job, sat in a Nash heap—a 1959, porcelain–white, Nash Rambler station wagon that looked for all the world like an inverted bathtub on wheels. (If turned up side down I could have clamped an outboard motor on the rear bumper and raced the thing in Vancouver’s annual Nanaimo Bathtub Regatta.)

I still remember the day we began visiting car lots to replace it. We looked at a number of shiny new cars and finally decided on a purchase. Unfortunately, the payments were more than we could carry.

We dickered for a while with the salesman—his price and ours—but concluded that the twain would never meet and hastened to make our departure. On the way out of his office, the salesman gave us his best shot: “Hey, you guys deserve this car,” he shouted. In my heart of hearts I responded: “Indeed we do!”

Entitlement has always been one of my soft spots. “My accomplishments deserved unending praise,” I say, which is why I get my nose out of joint when others fail to fully appreciate me.

Then, one day I happened upon God’s word to Zechariah about a shepherd who would be dedicated to the good of his people, who would encourage peace, prosperity, and bring tranquility and harmony to his flock. He, however, far from being appreciated, would be despised and rejected, valued at thirty pieces of silver, the price of a slave. Should I expect more?

One of the things I’m learning, as I’ve grown older, is not to expect too much from people. It’s possible to pour a good deal of energy and love into a friend or family member and see no growth, or receive no gratitude for our efforts.

It’s good, in those times of disappointment to look into our motives: do we have an unholy sense of entitlement, or a passion to be seen and applauded for our efforts? Can we give freely and allow others to take responsibility for their own responses?

We should never expect to gain from others what only Jesus can give. To do so is to be utterly unrealistic. Our task is to give— “full measure, pressed down, running over”—and leave the outcome to our Lord.

There are grateful men and women in this world and we may hear from them, but if the statistics in Jesus’ story of the ten lepers means anything at all they suggest that only a small percent of those we love and serve will ever thank us. The others will be silent at best. Some may even become hostile.[i]  We should take note that even one remembered and was thankful, remembering that God alone enables us to do good things for others.

If the love of a grateful heart

As a rich reward be given,

Lift thou the love of a grateful heart

To the God of Love in Heaven.”[ii]

David Roper

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[i] A social worker I know commented recently that, in his opinion, the insatiable demands of those who feel “entitled” and their bitter resentment when their demands are not met, more than any other cause, produce care-giver burnout—the fatigue and depression that plague so many of his colleagues.

[ii] George MacDonald, “Lessons for a Child”

His Will

Oh Lord, I want to be as beautiful 
as gold, as strong as steel. 
These traits stand out 
and draw me close with their appeal.  

But then I always shy away 
from awful burning heat. 
I'd far, far rather just forget—
and sleep.  

Gently though, I start to hear 
Your garden prayer 
and see that He heard You, 
and even still 
brought on that fiery, bitter cup—
His will.  

And then the Spirit takes
Your agony and pain 
and pictures in my mind 
the only way to gain. 
The longed-for gold and steel 
come only to the slain.  

Lord, I still don't like the 
Bitter, fiery cup. 
But I too, kneel down and 
then, to drink, rise up 
knowing You will surround 
with angel-strength divine. 
And that I'll walk on more beautiful—refined!  

Luke 22:40-46 and Hebrews 5:7 

Carolyn Roper

Taking it Easy

The sacred weeks, with unfelt pace,

    Hath borne us on from grace to grace.

—John Keble

My father and I used to fell trees and buck them with a 5’ two-man crosscut saw. (It now adorns one wall of our son Josh's patio.) Being young and energetic I tried to force the saw into the cut. “Easy does it,” my father would say. “Let the saw do the work.”

I think of Paul's words; "It is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure" (Philippians 2:13). Easy does it. Let Him do the work.

C. S. Lewis explains the process this way: “Put right out of your head the idea that…Christians are to read what Christ said and try to carry it out—as a man may read what Plato or Marx said and try to carry it out. They (the Gospel writers) mean something much more than that. They mean that a real Person, Christ, here and now, in that very room where you are saying your prayers, is doing things to you… gradually turning you permanently into a different sort of thing; into a new little Christ, a being which, in its own small way, has the same kind of life as God; which shares in His power, joy, knowledge and eternity”^[1]

Turning us into “a new little Christ,” takes time—actually a lifetime—but God can begin the process right now. Sit at the feet of Jesus and His Apostles and take in what they have to say. Say your prayers. "Keep yourself in the love of God"^[2] by reminding yourself all day long that you are His beloved child, resting in the assurance that he is “gradually turning you permanently into a different sort of thing.”^[3]

Just go for walks,

live in peace,

let change come quietly and invisibly on the inside.^[4]

Change comes to us quietly, invisibly, but inexorably. God will "complete" us in due time (Psalm 57:2).

Thou sayest, "Fit me, fashion me for Thee."  

Stretch forth thine empty hands, and be thou still;  

O restless soul, thou dost but hinder Me  

By valiant purpose and by steadfast will.  

Behold the summer flowers beneath the sun,  

In stillness his great glory they behold;  

And sweetly thus his mighty work is done,  

And resting in his gladness they unfold.  

So are the sweetness and the joy divine  

Thine, O beloved, and the work is Mine.^[5]

The sweetness and the joy are ours; the work is His. Easy does it. There is no hurry. We will get there some day.

David Roper

8/3/15

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^[1] C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (1952; Harper Collins: 2001) 191-192

^[2] Jude 20,21

^[3] “Shouldn’t we hunger and thirst for righteousness?” you ask. I answer: “Doesn’t the desire for goodness come naturally?” Even the worst of us longs to be better. An analogy comes to mind—a small child in Toys “R” Us, holding up his hands, reaching for a wondrous gift high on a shelf just beyond his reach, his eyes glittering with desire. His Father, sensing his desire, retrieves the gift and brings it down to him.

^[4] Thomas Merton, Woods, Shore, Desert: A Notebook, May 1968, Santa Fe: University of New Mexico Press, 1982, p. 48

^[5] Gerhard Ter Steegen

Stage by Stage

”These are the stages of the people of Israel, when they went out of the land of Egypt by their companies under the leadership of Moses and Aaron. Moses wrote down their starting places, stage by stage, by command of the Lord, and these are their stages according to their starting places" —Numbers 33:1-3.

And then there follows a long list of place–names tracing Israel's pilgrimage from Egypt to the Transjordan. Note the emphasis of the text: "Moses wrote down their starting places, stage by stage, by command of the Lord."

Why these records? No adventurer can retrace the journey on a map or on foot, for most of the locations are lost to history. Yet clearly God intended these  places to be recorded and remembered forever.

Could it be that the list exists as a framework upon which Israelites could retrace the journey in their thoughts and recall God's goodness at each location?

“I remember Rephidim. We were dying of thirst, but God directed Moses to take his staff and strike a slab of flint—and to my amazement water gushed out of that hard, impervious stone! 'He turned the rock into a pool of water, the flint into a spring of water' (Psalm 114:8). I’ll never forget that day!” (cf., Numbers 33:14)

Try it: Think through the starting p[laces and stages of your existence and remember the ways in which God showed you his unfailing covenant love. Count your blessings; name them one by one. And it will surpsise you what the Lord has done!

David Roper

7/22/15