Moses Unveiled

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John Fischer, “Evangelical Veil Productions”

Moses came down from Sinai and placed a veil over his face to shield his audience from its radiant beauty,[1] or so it would appear (Exodus 34:28–35). 

Paul, however, had another take, something not readily apparent from the Old Testament story. Moses veiled his face, “so that the children of Israel could not look to the end of that which was fading away” (2 Corinthians 3”13). The beauty on Moses face had faded away, but God’s servant kept up the charade.

I can’t be too hard on Moses, however, for at times we all pretend to be more beautiful than we are. We hide behind a façade of performance and perfection.

But no one can keep up the pretense forever. Some unsightly emotional display, some inappropriate reaction, some humiliating behavior strips us of our facade and we’re found out. Others come to know what we’ve known all along: that parts of us are still ugly and contemptible. 

At that moment of brokenness, we can hide our shame, or we can be touched at the deepest heart–level by God’s amazing grace and remember that we are God’s beloved children, despite the fact that we are not yet fully converted. Then, living “in and out of the truth of our belovedness” (Buechner), we can stand unveiled before others and before God, unadorned by pretense and hypocrisy. We can be who we are with all our imperfection apparent for all to see instead of being the sham Christians we loathed before.

And we can ask our Lord every day to complete the work he has begun: to transform us into the image of his Son, “from one measure of beauty to the next” (2 Corinthians 3:18). We can rest in the assurance that he will do so gradually (but inexorably) until we reach heaven and home and see the radiance of Jesus’ face. Then our dreams of perfection will become reality; we will be like him in every conceivable way (1 John 3:2).

DHR

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[1] I have long believed that “beauty” is the best translation of the Greek word doksan (glory). Our English word “glory” suggests “fame” or “something shiny” and misses the meaning of the original idea.

Alone

I lift up my eyes to the hills — where does my help come from?

—Psalms 121:1

There’s something about being alone, a solitary being, by myself in remote isolation, no living person for miles, no human sights or sounds, no reminders that other souls inhabit the earth. Solitude is a splendid thing.

Yet, it's an awesome thing, tinged with dread, for the wilderness is overwhelming and terrifying in its immensity. I’m humbled, dwarfed into insignificance. “How fearful is this place!” I exclaim (Genesis 28:17).

I feel small, weak and ineffective, overwhelmed by the immensity of heaven and earth. I am helpless. “From whence cometh my help?”

“My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth” (Ps 121:2).

DHR

Lambs May Wade

C. S. Lewis, in an essay entitled “Christian Apologetics,” divides religions—as he does soups—into those that are thick and those that are clear: “Now if there is a true religion it must be both thick and clear: for the true God must have made both the child and the man…”

There are “thick” concepts in the Bible: mysteries, paradoxes, complexities that boggle capacious minds, where more is meant than meets the eye. And yet, in the same book, there are concepts that are crystal clear: simple, attainable, and easily grasped by the least sophisticated mind. What surpasses the simplicity of St. John’s clear affirmation: “God is love”? Can you possibly miss the message that you are God’s beloved child?

Gregory the Great, a 7^th century Christian wrote, “”In there (the Bible), the lamb may wade and the elephant must swim...”

That said, don’t hold back: Jump in!

DHR

Marcescence and other Marvels

“All virtue is a miracle,”

—Augustine

The little oak tree on the other side of our back fence clings to its leaves all winter while other trees loose their foliage. “Marcescence” is the term botanists use to describe the phenomenon. They speak of unformed abscission layers and other arcane causes, but they do not know why some trees refuse to give up their leaves until spring.

I noticed last week, however, that the oak tree was dropping its dead leaves. The process was effortless: One by one the old leaves broke away and fluttered to the ground.

I wondered what brought about this transformation and looked more closely at the tree. I discovered that a tiny new leaf had formed at the base of every stem and had forced the old leaves off the tree.

“Aha!” I said. “A miracle.”

And so it is: All virtue is a miracle. We cannot rid ourselves of the old life and its vestiges. We cannot shoulder the burden of our sanctification any more than we can shoulder the burden of our salvation. Our part is to embrace every day what our Lord is doing in us and count on him to rid us of all that is unworthy.

As we walk with him day after day, taking in his words, seeking to be like him, asking for his help, resting in his wisdom and love, new life will emerge and old things will pass away—silently, slowly, mysteriously, inexorably. “The same God who started this great work in you would keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish...” (Philippians 1:6 The Message).[1] 

So, don’t fret...

go for walks,

live in peace,

let change come quietly and invisibly on the

inside.

—Thomas Merton

DHR

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[1] Cf., Psalm 138:7, 8

Bow Wow

 “We have known and believed the love that God has for us.”—1 John 4:16

A friend called me the other day to lament his sins. Said he wasn’t good enough for God. I agreed with him.

But then I told him about Bow Wow.

Bow Wow was a rag dog that one of our sons adopted when he was two years old. Bow Wow was Linus’ shred of outing flannel, Radar’s Teddy Bear and the Velveteen Rabbit all rolled into one. Other toys had more intrinsic value, but none was more cherished than Bow Wow.  

Bow Wow was hugged and dragged everywhere and in time became indescribably dirty. Cleaning him became a major problem because we couldn’t tug Bow Wow away from the boy. Washing Bow Wow only made things worse: All his stuffing came out. In the end he was nothing more than a dirty, stringy bundle of rags.

But, my how he was loved!

It occurs to me that we’re God’s rag dogs—tacky and desperately dirty, but precious beyond all computing, loved by Love that will never let us go. Love that looks at you and at me and says, “You’re not much to look at, but you’re mine!”

Stuart Townsend put it this way...

How deep the Father’s love for us;

How vast beyond all measure.

That He should give His only Son,

And make a wretch His treasure.

DHR

Humbling Up

“Sometimes, you have to humble up to win.”

(BSU linebacker Derrell Acrey when asked to step out of a starting role.)

Last Sunday we celebrated Palm Sunday and read again the story of the “Triumphal Entry.” We were told that Jesus entered Jerusalem, “humble and riding on a donkey, a colt, the foal of a donkey.” Thus he rode in “triumph.”

What an odd juxtaposition: “triumphant” and “riding on a donkey.” I picture a fully grown man riding on a tiny, shambling donkey, the man’s feet dragging the ground. A ludicrous sight!

Yet the man is described as “righteous” (in the right) and “bringing salvation” (setting things right).

I thought of those times when I have been “in the right” and have ridden in to set things right, but charged in on my high horse, and brought instead ruin and devastation. Oh, for the grace to enter into every conflict “humble and riding on a donkey.”[1]

Paul put it this way: “A servant of the Lord must not be contentious, but gentle to all, able to teach,[2] patient, in humility correcting those who are in opposition...” (2 Timothy 2:24,25).

DHR

4/3/12

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[1] I find this prayer pertinent to church disagreements, but more so for conflicts closer to home!

[2] The word Paul uses here has a curious, ambivalent sense: “teachable” and “able to teach.” The word suggests a tractable mind, an awareness that we who teach must always be learners and that we may not be “in the right” after all.

Home, Sweet Home

” I got a home up in-a that Kingdom; ain't-a that good news?”

 A few weeks ago a friend of mine asked me to come to California to speak for some occasion. I was tempted, but declined his kind request. I told him I don’t travel much these days, seldom stray much beyond my own area code. My body ambled south some years ago, but that’s about as far in any direction I aim to go. These days I’m comfortable with myself right where I am. (Besides, my old dog has developed acute separation anxiety. Why should I cause her undue angst?)

Funny thing, though: Even though I’m safely ensconced I always feel a peculiar hankering to go home. C. S. Lewis called the feeling Sehnsucht, a German word that has overtones of nostalgia, and melancholic longing. There’s no word for it in English, but the feeling of being far from home is a fair approximation.

I’m homesick, I think, because my home lies elsewhere. God himself is my dwelling place (Psalm 90:1). He is my home, sweet home. That’s where my heart is these days.

To be “at home in the body” is to be absent from the Lord, Paul said (2 Corinthians 5:6), but someday soon I’ll be “at home with the Lord.” Then, my longing will be assuaged.

I certainly don’t deserve to dwell in house of the Lord forever, but Jesus made a way. If old friends ask me what I’m doing there, I’ll just point to my Big Brother. “I’m with him.” I’ll say. “Indeed,” Jesus will reply, “He’s family.”

Robert Frost said. “Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in.”

Ain’t–a that good news?

DHR