SCARET OF DYING

Mary Trumbull Slosson, whose quaint and profound folktales give us a “glimpse of Joy beyond the walls of the world,” writes about a little boy that was “scaret of dying.”

Once there was a boy that was dreadful scaret o’ dyin’. Some folks is that way, you know; they ain’t never done it to know how it feels, and they’re scaret. And this boy was that way. He wa’n’t very rugged, his health was sort o’ slim, and mebbe that made him think about sech things more. ‘Tany rate, he was terr’ble scaret o’ dyin’. ‘Twas a long time ago this was,—the times when posies and creaturs could talk so’s folks could know what they was sayin’.

And one day, as this boy, his name was Reuben,—I forget his other name, —as Reuben was settin’ under a tree, an ellum tree, cryin’, he heerd a little, little bit of a voice,—not squeaky, you know, but small and thin and soft like, —and he see ‘t was a posy talkin’. ‘T was one o’ them posies they call Benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths with a mite o’ pink on ‘em, and it talked in a kind o’ pinky-white voice, and it says, “What you cryin’ for, Reuben? “And he says, “‘Cause I’m scaret o’ dyin’,” says he; “I‘m dreadful scaret o’ dyin’.” Well, what do you think? That posy jest laughed, the most cur’us little pinky-white laugh ‘t was,—and it says, the Benjamin says: “Dyin’! Scaret o’ dyin’? Why, I die myself every single year o’ my life.” “Die yourself ! “says Reuben “You ‘re foolin’; you ‘re alive this minute.” “‘Course I be,” says the Benjamin; “but that ‘s neither here nor there,—I’ve died every year sence I can remember.” “Don’t it hurt? “says the boy. “No, it don’t,” says the posy; “it ‘s real nice. You see, you get kind o’ tired a-holdin’ up your head straight and lookin’ peart and wide awake, and tired o’ the sun shinin’ so hot, and the winds blowin’ you to pieces, and the bees a-takin’ your honey. So it’s nice to feel sleepy and kind o’ hang your head down, and get sleepier and sleepier, and then find you ‘re droppin’ off. Then you wake up jest ‘t the nicest time o’ year, and come up and look ‘round, and—why, I like to die, I do.” But someways that didn’t help Reuben much as you ‘d think. “I ain’t a posy,” he think to himself, “and mebbe I wouldn’t come up.”

April showers bring May flowers; they also bring us the stirring of hope. Spring “posies, trees and creaturs” are hints of heaven, for God has planned it that way. But spring alone is not enough. It may only leave us with Reuben’s worry: “I ain’t a posy and mebbe I wouldn’t come up.”

Spring’s hope could be an illusion, which is why T. S. Eliot, in his pre–Christian days, thought April was “the cruelest month.”
There is a truer word: Jesus said: “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die” (John 11:25,26).

Who said this? One who rose from the grave. It’s one thing to make such a bold assertion; it’s another to back it up—and back it up Jesus did by rising from the dead, “the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep” (1 Corinthians 15:20).

“If you believe that the Son of God died and rose again,” writes George MacDonald, “your whole future is full of the dawn of eternal morning, coming up beyond the hills of life, and full of such hope as the highest imagination for the poet has not a glimmer yet.”
The Son of God died and rose again, and his resurrection is the guarantee that God will bring us up and out of the ground. A thinking, feeling, remembering, recognizable part of us will live forever.

Living forever means living out the thought of eternity that God has placed in our hearts; meeting one’s loved ones lost through separating death; living in a world without blood, sweat and tears; seeing our Lord who loves us so much he gave everything he had to unite us to him forever.

But there’s another meaning I see: since we go around twice we can live in broken and ruined bodies for time; we can endure poverty and hardship for awhile; we can face loneliness, heartache and pain for a season. We don’t have to have it all on this earth. There is a second birth.

DHR

ACEDIA

"The arrow that flies by day..." (Psalm 91:5)

One of the so-called Seven Deadly Sins is acedia (a-said-ia), said to be a state of apathy, boredom and dissatisfaction with one's lot. Early Christian monks referred to acedia as "the arrow that flies by day" because the temptation often struck in the afternoon, when hunger and fatigue made them susceptible to restlessness. It drove them out of their rooms to wander aimlessly, to seek better companions or conditions, rather than enjoy God in the "sweetness of their cells."

One fourth century Christian, Evagrius, wrote that when acedia "has taken possession of some unhappy soul, it produces dislike of the place, disgust with the cell, and disdain and contempt of the brethren who dwell with him or at a little distance, as if they were careless or unspiritual... He often groans because he can do no good while he stays there, and complains and sighs because he can bear no spiritual fruit so long as he is joined to that society; and he complains that he is cut off from spiritual gain, and is of no use in the place, as if he were one who, though he could govern others and be useful to a great number of people, yet was edifying none, nor profiting anyone by his teaching and doctrine. He cries up distant monasteries and those which are a long way off, and describes such places as more profitable and better suited for salvation; and besides this he paints the intercourse with the brethren there as sweet and full of spiritual life."[1]

Can it be that our restlessness and desire for change (read here "a greater challenge"), is nothing more than ancient acedia in another guise?

The word, "acedia" is not a biblical word, of course, and, as such, is not proscribed. Some, therefore, may doubt that it falls into the category of sin or temptation to sin. But it occurs to me that my boredom and dissatisfaction could be nothing less than the sin of covetousness: a craving for something other than God has given me. [2]

Boredom and restlessness are endemic in me; I'm a rolling stone. But I must see my impatience for what it is and do what is required of me this day simply because God has called me to be faithful to his will. I must do it in the situation in which he has placed me, not yielding to my restless passion for that elusive "something more." I must tend "the lamp quietly for God without wondering how much longer it has got to go on.[3]

It may be that someday God will move me to another place to serve His purposes there. In the meantime I must be calm, patient, willing to do anything, willing to do nothing--to sit and wait, to enjoy God in the "sweetness of my cell." Here in this place I must stay. Here I must be content with my Lord alone, until he guides me to some other place--on earth, or in heaven. "In this the long unrest is soothed and stilled; / Our hearts are filled!"

DHR

[1] The Institutions
[2] Cf., 1 Corinthians10:1-14 and Numbers 11:4-9
[3] From The Fruits of the Spirit by Evelyn Underhill

SIGN LANGUAGE

"And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all" (1 Thessalonians 3:12).

A friend of mine pastors a church in a small mountain community not far from Boise. The community is nestled in a wooded valley through which a pleasant little trout stream meanders. Behind the church and alongside the stream, there is a grove of willows, a length of grass and a sandy beach. It's an idyllic spot that has long been a place where members of the community gather to picnic and enjoy the beauty of that place.

One day, a man in the church congregation expressed concern over the legal implications of "outsiders" using the property. "Suppose someone is injured," he said. "The church might be sued." Though the elders were reluctant to take this stand, he convinced them that they should post a sign on the site informing visitors that this was private property and warning them away.

The pastor did post a sign. It read: "Warning! Anyone using this beach may, at any moment, be surrounded by people who love you."

I read his sign the week after he put it up and was charmed. "Exactly," I thought. "Once again grace has trumped the law!" This is the message we want "outsiders" to hear: "You're loved here!"

This is love for one's neighbor that springs from the riches of God's kindness, forbearance and patience. Paul was very clear: It is not the Law, but the goodness of God that draws men and women to repentance (Romans 2:4).

DHR

IN BRIEF

John Ruskin notes that we should always try to use the fewest words possible. People, if they put their minds to it, can usually say what they have to say in a sentence or two.

I counted once and found that the Gettysburg Address contains only 269 words, which means among other things, that words don't have to be many to be memorable. That's why I like Psalm 117. Brevity is its hallmark. The poet said all he wanted to say in thirty words or less (seventeen words in the Hebrew text).

Praise the LORD, all you Gentiles!
Acclaim Him, all you people!
For he has given us a bunch of rules to keep!
Praise the LORD!

What nonsense! That's not what the psalmist wrote.  (If you listened to some folks, however, that's what you'd hear). Israel's poet had something better to say:

Praise the LORD, all you Gentiles!
Acclaim Him, all you people!
For He has always loved us,
And will love us forever!
Praise the LORD!

Ah, that's the good news: God loves me and will love me forever. He loved me before I was born; He has loved me for seventy-seven years; He will love me after I die. He loves me when I have done everything wrong; he loves me when I have done nothing right; he loves me when I have done nothing at all. Nothing, "though it be cold, hard, or foul," can separate me from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus my Lord![1] His heart is an inexhaustible and irrepressible fountain of love!

Psalm 117 is an "Ascent Psalm," a song to get us up and get us going.[2] I can think of no greater encouragement: My Father loves me!

Praise the Lord!

DHR

[1] George Herbert, "The Sepulcher," and St. Paul, Romans 8:39.
[2] The Ascent Psalms were sung by pilgrims on their way up to Jerusalem, or so it’s believed.

A Weather Eye

"He who observes the wind will not sow, and he who regards the clouds will not reap" (Ecclesiastes 11:4).

The philosopher enjoins wisdom: In view of life’s uncertainties and complexities, we should keep a weather eye.

But I rely too much on the weather, I think: I watch the wind and the clouds. I hesitate and procrastinate and lose opportunities to "sow." Like the farmer that waits for just the right conditions, I look for the perfect day. I allow a season to pass and sow nothing at all.

You never know about people; you can never tell what's going on in their souls. Some may be dwelling in darkness, longing for someone to lead them into the light. The Ethiopian Eunuch in his royal chariot enjoyed prestige, wealth and power, yet inwardly he was empty and searching, pondering Isaiah's promise of the Suffering Savior and trying to understand his words. Paul was breathing out threats and visiting violence on the Church. Who would have thought he was "kicking against a goad," reacting to God's gentle prodding.

So I think I should stop looking at the clouds and get on with it: speak a word here and there and scatter the seed in season and out. In the face of life's uncertainties, it’s the only way to go.

I have a friend that often leads people into salvation; he seems to know when they have ears to hear. I asked him once how he knew they were ready to follow Jesus. "It's easy," he replied. "I ask them."

You just never know...

DHR

An Autumnal Face

NO spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.

—John Donne

Sarah, our granddaughter, when she was very small, explained to me what happens when you die: "Only your face goes to heaven, not your body. You get a new body, but keep the same face." Exactly! Faces are us.

Faces are unique in their function; there's more to them than meets the eye. Faces point beyond themselves. They are a visible reflection of the invisible soul. The face is the place "on the surface" where the self, the personality, the "I" becomes manifest.

The biblical Hebrew word for "face" may suggest that idea. It always occurs in the plural, a nicety some grammarians explain by pointing out that we do, in fact, have two faces: a left and right side. I prefer to think that we have two faces, outer and inner, visible and invisible-a surface face that mirrors the "face" of the soul.

The Greek language enshrines the same thought: The Greek word for "face," prosopon, means "person," suggesting that one's face identifies and reflects the individual. "As such, it can be a substitute for the self, or for the feelings and attitudes of the self."[1]

My mother had the same insight. She used to tell me that a mad look might someday freeze on my face-an attitude fixed for all time and for all to see.

A worried brow, an angry set to our mouths, a sly look in our eyes reveal a wretched and miserable soul. On the other hand, kind eyes, a gentle "look," a warm and welcoming smile-despite the wrinkles, blemishes and other disfigurements that may mark our faces-are the ineradicable marks of inner goodness. In time, it appears, we get the faces we deserve. As philosopher Albertus Camus noted, "People over forty are responsible for their own faces."

We can't do much about the faces we were born with, but we can do something about the faces we're growing into. We can pray for humility, patience, kindness, tolerance, mercy, gratefulness, and unconditional love. By God's grace, and in his time, you and I may grow toward an inner resemblance to our Lord, a likeness reflected in a fine old face. "Those who look to Him are radiant," Israel's poet wrote. "Their faces are never covered with shame" (Psalm 34:5). Thus "age becomes loveliest at the latest day" (George MacDonald).

George MacDonald insists that good old faces are like an old church: "It has got stained, and weather-beaten, and worn; but if the organ of truth has been playing on inside the temple of the Lord, which St Paul says our bodies are, there is in the old face, though both form and complexion are gone, just the beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles and the brownness can't spoil it. A light shines through it all-that of the indwelling spirit. I wish we all grew old like old churches" (The Seaboard Parish.).

So do I.

DHR

[1] Liddell and Scott, An Intermediate Greek-English Lexicon.

An Open Book

"You are an epistle of Christ" (1 Corinthians 3:2).

Because I'm a writer, folks sometimes tell me they too would like to write a book. "That's a worthy goal," I reply, "and I hope you do write a book someday, but it's better to be one than to write one."

I'm thinking, of course, of Paul's words: "You (Christians) are an epistle of Christ, ministered by us, written not with ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of flesh, that is, of the heart" (1 Corinthians 3:3)

Lewis Bayly, the Chaplain to King James 1st of England, in his book, The Practice of Piety, suggests that "one who hopes to effect any good by his writings" will find that he will "instruct very few... The most powerful means, therefore, of promoting what is good, is by example, and this is in every individual's power. One man in a thousand can write a book to instruct his neighbors... But every man can be a pattern of living excellence to those around him...and he that successfully performs that duty possesses an influence in society, superior to that which can be acquired by any other distinction whatever."

The work that Christ is doing in you can result in an influence far greater than any book you may write. Through his words and by his Spirit he is writing his love and goodness on the pages of your heart. Change will come quietly, imperceptibly, gradually, but it will come. Then, though you may never write a book, you will be one!

DHR.