Psalm 2

The kings of the earth set themselves,

and the rulers take counsel together,

against the Lord and against his Anointed (Christ) 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

Third century Roman emperor Diocletian set up two large pillars in Spain, one of which reads: "Diocletian Jovian Maximum Hercules Caesares Augusti, for having extended the Roman Empire in the east and west, and having extinguished the name of Christian..." 

The other: "Diocletian Jovian Maximum Hercules Caesares Augusti, for having everywhere abolished the superstition of Christ..."

Some years later Diocletian abdicated—the only emperor to do so— emotionally distraught by the realization that the empire was crumbling. Deep in despair he committed suicide on December 3, AD 311. 

According to historian Edward Gibbon, the Roman Empire ceased to exist in 476; Christ's followers exist and thrive today in every part of the world.

Peter Waldo, an early reformer, represented the history of the Church with a picture of an anvil with many worn-out hammers lying around it. At the bottom of the picture was this inscription: “One Anvil — Many Hammers.”

So, don't panic as you consider current events. Certainly, kings and rulers "have set themselves against the Lord and against his Christ," but God is not rattled. His throne is surrounded by a "sea like glass" (Revelation 15:2). Not a tossing wave, not a ripple there!

God is working out his purpose, 

in spite of all that happens here;

Lawless nations in commotion, 

restless like a storm–tossed ocean,

He controls their rage and fury, 

so his children need not fear.

Let our hearts then turn to heaven, 

where Christ bides his time in peace.

Giving him our heart’s devotion, 

until the present troubles cease. 

—author unknown

David Roper

1/2/16

PIE CRUST PROMISES

"Will you stay if we promise to be good?"

"That's a pie-crust promise. Easily made, easily broken!"

-Mary Poppins

I'm usually unsatisfied with my behavior no matter what time of the year it is. Nevertheless I make no resolutions for such promises, easily made, are easily broken. David learned that lesson well when, on one occasion, he resolved to hold his tongue...and couldn't do it.

David was angry with God, yet he knew he shouldn't vent his anger in the presence of God's enemies. (It's always wrong to speak against a friend, especially in the presence of his antagonists.) So he resolved not to speak. "I will watch my ways and keep my tongue from sin," he vowed. "I will put a muzzle on my mouth as long as the wicked are in my presence."

For a short time he was able to restrain himself, but "the fire burned," David fumed, erupted...and lamented: "Show me...my end, and the number of my days. Let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath." Thus failed resolve leads us to consider the brevity and frailty of our existence. 

We are eternal creatures with perfection in our hearts, and the perennial desire to move toward that perfection. Yet we exist in time and space as imperfect, flawed human beings, utterly unable to keep our promises. "The Spirit is willing, but the flesh (our unaided humanity) is weak." That's why our resolve breaks down and we fall back to old habits and patterns of behavior.

There is but one way to make any real progress toward goodness: it is to know how frail we are. So David prays, "Cause me to know my end," literally, "my boundaries" (vs. 4). Change begins with humility and the awareness that our resolve is mere "breath" (vs. 5). We voice our resolutions and they dissipate like breath into thin air.

Enduring change does not come by vows, decrees, New Year resolutions and strong resolve, but solely by the grace of God. Our part is to earnestly desire righteousness and to pray for it. God's part is to bring it about in His own time and in His own way. "Man proposes; God disposes, an older generation of Christians used to say.

This David learned: "Now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you. Save me from all my transgressions... (Then) I was silent; I did not open my mouth, for you did it!" (vss. 7-9).

There is an echo in Paul's promise: "The one who calls you is faithful and he will do it!" (1 Thessalonians 5:24).

David Roper

Logos

“The lion was pacing to and fro about that empty land and singing his new song... Polly was finding the song more and more interesting because she thought she was beginning to see the connection between the music and the things that were happening. When a line of dark firs sprang up on a ridge about a hundred yards away she felt that they were connected with a series of deep, prolonged notes which the Lion had sung a second before. And when he burst into a rapid series of lighter notes she was not surprised to see primroses suddenly appearing in every direction. Thus, with an unspeakable thrill, she felt quite certain that all the things were coming (as she said) “out of the Lion’s head.” When you listened to his song you heard the things he was making up: when you looked round you, you saw them” (C.S. Lewis Magicians Nephew p.126).

Plato, the Greek philosopher, reasoned there must be an “idea” (or “form”) in the spiritual world that stands behind every object in the material world, one that preceded its existence. And if that idea exists, there must be a mind that conceived it and spoke it into being. These three transcendent realities—a divine mind, an idea, an utterance—Plato combined into one absolute and named it the “Logos” (the Word).

Plato was very near the truth, so near, in fact, that early Christians referred to him as “one of our own.” But though he caught a glimpse of “the true Light that gives light to every man coming into the world” (John 1:9), he did not fully comprehend it. Something more was needed, something tremendous, something yet to come, something the wisdom of man could not conceive: “The Word (Logos) became flesh and dwelled among us …” (John 1:14). The divine Logos and a mortal man together bore one name: Jesus. This is what Christians call The Incarnation, the final, irrefutable proof that God really, really cares.

American Theologian Frederick Buechner had this to say: “We all want to be certain, we all want proof, but the kind of proof that we tend to want — scientifically or philosophically demonstrable proof that would silence all doubts once and for all — would not, in the long run, I think, answer the fearful depths of our need at all. For what we need to know, of course, is not just that God exists, not just that beyond the steely brightness of the stars there is a cosmic intelligence of some kind to keep the whole show going, but that there is a God right there in the thick of our day-to-day lives who may not be writing messages about himself in the stars, but who in one way or another is trying to get messages through our blindness as we move down here knee-deep in the fragrant muck and misery and marvel of the world.  It is not objective proof of God’s existence that we want, but whether we use religious language for it or not, the experience of God’s presence.  That is the miracle we are really after, and that is also, I think, the miracle that we really get” (Secrets in the Dark, p.16).

All through the Old Testament we read that God has been doing his best to get next to us, humbling himself, condescending to make himself known, but nothing can match what happened that night in the little town of Bethlehem. It was there that the Logos became the little Lord Jesus, a helpless infant with unfocused eyes and uncontrollable limbs, needing to be breast–fed, swaddled, cuddled and cared for, “the infinite made infinitesimally small,” G. K. Chesterton said. That is indeed the miracle we’re really after and the miracle that we got: The Logos become Immanuel: God with us.

John speaks of the Logos in a most personal way: “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled—(this was) the Word (the eternal Logos)!” (1 John 1:1).

John was astounded by the thought that he had heard and seen Plato’s Logos, and held him in his hands.[1] The one who made up the universe “out of his head” and spoke it (or sang it) into existence was “pleased as man with men to dwell.” Why did He do it?

It was love—pure and simple.

David Roper

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[1] The Greek word translated “handled” suggests something more than a tentative touch. It has the thought of familiarity and affection—perhaps a hug.

The Baby

"O come let us adore Him: Christ the Lord."

I was making my way through a department store last week and thought of an old Doonesbury cartoon: Michael J. sits ensconced in his easy chair watching TV. After loud shouts and the sounds of gun fighting the announcer says, “This concludes our regular broadcast day. Stay tuned for film clips of the Marines, a story from the life of Jesus and our National Anthem.” Doonesbury gets to his feet and joins in the singing of the anthem.

There you have it: the good, old American way: Equal time for everything and everybody. Nothing is special any more, not even Jesus, who, if we acknowledge at all, we place in a cluster of traditions.

Especially at Christmas. We keep the Christ–child around to grace an occasional manger, but he’s merely one symbol among many: Rudolph, Scrooge, St. Nicholas and his elves, toy soldiers, little drummer boys, shepherds, angels, Christmas trees, Yule logs and Jesus, all vie for our attention; everything alongside everything else. The Son of God gets lost in the Yuletide clutter.

Melissa knows better. She’s one our grandchildren. She’s grown up now, but many years ago, when she was very small, Carolyn and I took her to the Festival of the Trees, an event here Boise in which businesses and organizations decorate Christmas trees, competing with one another in various categories. The display is magnificent.

We were enchanted by the grandeur of the hall as we moved from one tree to the next, pointing and exclaiming. But Melissa soon lost interest, surfeited by splendor, until she came to a small manger scene and there she paused transfixed.

Nothing else mattered—not the magnificently decorated trees, not Santa Claus who was nearby and beckoning and not even an incredible talking tree.  She was captivated by the Child.

We tried our best to urge her on—we wanted to see the trees—but she lingered behind, wanting to hold the baby, pressing closer to him despite the ribbon stretched around the cradle, keeping her away 

Finally, she agreed to leave, albeit reluctantly, looking back over her shoulder to get a glimpse of the crèche through the trees. As we were leaving the building she tugged on my sleeve and asked once again  “Papa, can we go see the baby?” We went back to the manger and waited while she gazed long and longingly at the Child. 

As Melissa adored Him, I marveled at her simplicity. Unlike her, I often fail to see Jesus for the trees.

“There are some things worth being a child to get hold of again,” George MacDonald said. “Make me a child again,” I prayed, “at least for tonight.”

David Roper

What Will We Do In Heaven?

“Surely both intellect and love are waiting for us there” —From "The Wow O'Riven" —George MacDonald.

What do people do in hell? Nothing. It’s the most boring place in the universe. Imagine, if you can, a world without God—without beauty, without love, without laughter. Nothing to live for, or die for… forever.

What do people do in Heaven? Everything! Our loftiest hopes and dreams will be realized! “In heaven, whatever delights you now is there in superabundance,” Aquinas said.

Personally, I’ve never taken much to the idea that we’ll float about on gossamer clouds and strum our harps all day. Those activities don’t interest me now; why would I find pleasure in them in Heaven? No, I think we’ll have more significant and satisfying things to do.

Carolyn thinks we’ll spend endless days in conversation with others about things that really matter and everyone will be taken seriously. Heart will meet heart and space and time will be forgotten, “and,” she adds with a sly grin, “men will have as many words as women do.” 

C.S. Lewis thought we might be given a portion of the universe to rule, but frankly, I’m tired of running things. I’d rather spend my time exploring—moving through tine and space with the speed of thought, mapping the outer regions of the cosmos. Most stars these days are given only numbers; someday I may give them names. G.K. Chesterton thought that God is still in the business of creation. Perhaps He, “moved by tenderness sublime, will unfold new worlds, that I, his child, might see.”

I’ve been an outdoorsman all my life, but no longer. I can’t climb and trek and do the things I used to do. But this is not forever: A few more years of frailty and then strength and endless days to explore the universe that God is making! Our stories do not end in this world: One day we shall “change the feet that have grown weary for the wings that never will.” 

And we will love. Love is our business now; why not in heaven? It’s the very best thing we can do in this life and the one thing that will fascinate us forever. We shall love beyond earthly existence, beyond death, for love is eternal. Faith will become sight and hope will become realization, but love will never end! (1 Corinthians 13:8). We shall love and be loved forever! 

Who could ask for anything more?

David Roper

11/30/15

Forgiven

“My little children, these things I write to you, so that you may not sin. But if ^[1] anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.” —1 John 2:2

Carolyn reminded me this morning of a mutual friend who used to come home from work, walk through the front door and shout, “You’re forgiven!”

It wasn’t that family members had wronged him and needed his forgiveness. He was reminding them that though they had doubtless sinned throughout the day, they were, by God’s grace, fully forgiven.

Psalm 119 comes to mind, a poem in which the psalmist insists that he loves God and loves His word. Then I read the very last verse of the psalm, a text reminiscent of Jesus’ parable about a lost sheep:

I have gone astray like a lost sheep;

Seek Your servant... (119:176)

A man of God who has gone astray?

Then I thought of the tax collector in the temple who also characterized himself as a “lost sheep” and cried out for mercy, in contrast to the Pharisee who had it all together. Jesus said this man (the tax collector, not the self—righteous Pharisee) went home justified (Luke 18:9-14). 

John supplies this grace note: ”If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son continually cleanses us from all sin. If we say we have no sin (no inclination to sin), we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:7-9).

"Walking in the light" is a metaphor for our efforts to follow Jesus in the path of obedience. Obedience, John insists, is the sign that we have joined with the Apostles in the fellowship of faith. We are authentic Christians.

But, he continues, let’s not kid ourselves: We will go astray. Nevertheless, grace is given in full measure: We can take what forgiveness we need.

Not perfect; just forgiven! That’s my mantra for today.

David Roper

11/30/15

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^[1] The Greek conditional clause suggests inevitability

Bro Job

Beginning in January of this year, trouble began falling on me like bricks tumbling out of a dump truck one after another.  I won't bore you with the details except to say that I've had nine months of pain and aggravation and now enjoy a certain kinship with Brother Job.

Job is one of my patron saints. I see him—a man bereaved, humiliated and stripped of all this life has to offer; his skin is blistered and festering and his nerves are on fire. I ask, "How will this best of all men respond?" "What great truth can I learn from him?"

"After this Job opened his mouth and cursed..." (Job 3:3)

Job is my kind of man.

I haven't always thought that way. I stand in a long tradition that confused the Christian virtue of endurance with the pagan ethic of stoicism. I was taught to curb my emotions, or at least the outward expression of them, and to never complain. Ours was the virtue of the stiff upper lip. It's little wonder that I never took well to Job, his overmastering sorrow, his angry outbursts of frustration. Job was a whiner.

I've been told that stoicism found it's way into Western thought via the Renaissance and the notion that reason must override passion, but the Renaissance is not our mother. We go back to an older, richer, inspired tradition: The lament psalms in which Israel's poets pour out their emotions with groans and loud complaints.

Biblical endurance, the chief virtue in times of testing, is something quite different from stoicism. It has to do with steadfast trust in God's goodness and love despite all counter-indications, but it says nothing about our emotional state while doing so.

Job is no Stoic, striving to be pure mind with no passion. Job's was not the strength of stones or of bronze (6:14). The man is an emotional wreck. The Lord’s testing is not to find out if Job can sit unmoved like a block of wood, but will he continue to hope in God despite his suffering and the emotional turmoil that surrounded it.

The example of Jesus should forever silence those who criticize emotional outbursts and consider them to be sinful or signs of immaturity: ”In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears..." (Hebrews 5:7)

Jesus experienced the whole range of human emotions, yet he did not sin. His strongest desire, even in agony, was to surrender himself wholly to his Father.

We are drawn by our suffering to that same point of giving in to our Lord. Going through a wrestling match with God is not an indication of spiritual weakness, but of the intensity of our desire for wholeness. We have a God who lets us be angry at him and accepts our emotional pain as his own. It's okay to fume and fret o'er our troubles; okay to wish they were gone.

What I long for, pray for, therefore, is not bland, vapid, phlegmatic calm, but absolute and undoubting confidence in the love of God in the face of all my troubles—and someday to say with Job, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust him."

David Roper

11/22/15