Trees

By Joyce Kilmer.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

In the quietness of my final years I intend to watch a tree grow. It's a birch tree I planted as a tiny sapling over thirty years ago. It stands now in mature splendor, just outside our living room picture window, beautiful in every season of the year.

Occasionally I hear from folks I ministered to years ago. I discover to my great delight that, though I've lost sight of them, they've continued to grow in grace and godlikeness. It's a gentle reminder that I may plant and water for a while, but only God can make tree.

Herman theologian Helmut Thielike wrote, "The man who doesn't know how to let go, who is a stranger to quiet confident joy in him who carries out his purposes without us (or also through us or in spite of us), in him who makes trees grow... that man will become but a miserable creature in his old age... Can the reason why many aging people are melancholy and fearful of having the door shut upon them be that for decades they have never been able to 'let go and let God' and now can no longer see a tree growing and therefore are nothing but run-down merry-go-rounds?"[1]

And so, in my final years, though I may yet plant a sapling or two, mostly, I intend to watch my trees grow.

DHR

[1] The Waiting Father, James Clarke & Co. Ltd Cambridge, 1978, p. 86,87.

Hast That Wastes

There's this fellow I know who's always in a hurry. I've forgotten his name but I'll never forget his pace.

He's involved in everything that goes on down at the church: He's a chairman of committees, a leader of small groups, a teacher of small children, a whirlwind of pious fervor and activity. His life is full of bother and commotion. You can pick him out of any group: He's the one who wrings his hands every fifteen minutes or so; the one with a foot of tongue hanging out. Just being around him makes me tired.

But his hectic pace doesn't seem right to me. In the first place, I don't see Jesus running about like that. He was never in a hurry! He had an infinite job to do and only three and one-half years to do it, yet there's no trace of urgency in his work. He never seemed hassled or harried. Even when people made impossible demands on him, his manner was measured and slow.

Furthermore, Jesus didn't make it his practice to tell others to hurry. In fact, the only person he ever prodded into activity was Judas: "What you are about to do, do quickly," he said (Jn. 13:27).

I keep wondering, therefore, why my friend imposes this tyrannical routine upon himself. No one is driving him; the pressure seems to come from within. Perhaps his drivenness is in some way an atonement for a guilt-ridden ego, his sacrificial offering for the plagues of his past. Or perhaps he has something to prove-to his father, or God or to himself.

I don't know why my friend works so hard but I know why I'm inclined to do so: For some reason, much of my self-esteem is determined by what I do. That's why I get restless and unhappy when I'm inactive, and that's why I have to do more-far more than God or anyone else ever intended for me to do, far more than God designed my body to do. In fact, in my eccentric way, the busier I am the better I feel about myself. I feel best when I'm on the verge of exhaustion.

Jesus, on the other hand, didn't have to stay busy because he knew that God's children don't have to prove anything. They're been fully accepted in God's Beloved One. Even when they're doing nothing that seems to be significant, they are significant because they're dear to the Father. Jesus knew, and he teaches us to know, that our self-identity doesn't arise from what we do but from what we are-fully accepted and beloved children of God.

Once when Jesus' disciples returned from a mission and excitedly reported their success, he countered with the mild rebuke: "Do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven" (Luke 10:20). The disciples felt good about themselves because they had done well. And they had. But far better, Jesus observed, to get one's joy from the knowledge that we're special to God, that he knows our names and sees them written in his book!

The Bible everywhere teaches that God is under-whelmed by our best efforts and unimpressed with our most spectacular achievements. It's not what we do for him that matters nor should it matter much to us. What matters most is what we are to him.

The Father's words at Jesus' baptism are significant: "You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased" (Mark 1:11). What had Jesus done? What had he accomplished that merited such unqualified acceptance and admiration? He hadn't yet delivered a sermon, delivered a sinner or done any of his so-called "mighty deeds." He had, in fact, done nothing we normally associate with greatness and the Father's "Well done!"

He was pleasing to the Father merely because he was God's beloved son. That's all.

And what's true of him is true of us as well. Our Father delights in us (Psalm 18:19). He loves us whether we're worthy or unworthy; whether we're faithful or unfaithful. He loves us without boundary or limit. No matter what we do or leave undone he cannot stop liking us.

And so, we don't have to do anything to feel good about ourselves; we don't always have to be in a hurry. We can run in the slow lane. We can make time for the peace of God to rule our hearts and minds. We can take an hour each day or a portion of a day each week to be alone with Him. We can take time to "howdy" with our friends and neighbors. We can take a day-off each week. We can take a vacation. We can miss a meeting or two. We can leave some tasks undone at the end of each day and go home. We can take time to talk and take long walks with our spouses and kids. We can hunt, fish and golf with our friends.[1]

Like Satchel Paige, when we work we can work hard, but when we sit, we can sit loose. We don't have to be dogged and driven by our work. We don't have to prove anything because we don't have anything left to prove. We're already approved. The good news is that of God's uplifting and everlasting acceptance.[2]

DHR

[1] All of which reminds me a conversation between Philipp Melanchthon and Martin Luther. Philipp: "Martin, this day we will discuss the governance of universe." Martin: "This day you and I will go fishing and leave governance of the universe to God."
[2] From my book on ministry principles, A Burden Shared.

Carolyn, for several months now, has been writing to pastors' wives under the theme "Morning by Morning." Here is one she sent just before Christmas:

Morning by Morning

The Lord’s lovingkindnesses indeed never cease, for His mercies never fail. They are new every morning; great is Thy faithfulness. – Lamentations 3:22, 23

He awakens me morning by morning, He awakens my ear to listen… –Isaiah 50:4

Small Signs of God’s Presence

“The Christmas tree is up and almost decorated—another twenty minutes, and we’re finished.”

When, a couple of days ago, I first read these words from a dear friend far away they seemed merely a bit of chatter. That’s when I first read them.

In our home this last month we have been going through a set of heavy family challenges, stacked on top of tiredness from some happy events and from living in the 70s. The day before my friend’s email came, David and I had discussed how to simplify Christmas, especially in the decoration department. And we haven’t had a tree for years since his shoulder surgery.

David, as most of you know, writes for Our Daily Bread and often get notes from his readers. That evening he had showed me one from a woman thanking him for an article. Here is part of what she wrote:

Now I am 85 and find myself faced with more burdens, decisions, and unsolvable problems than every before. As we grow older we need to be more free of all of the above because we are less able to cope. God does most things right but He flubbed that one!

I confess that this past week I could identify with this dear woman’s feelings, although I have articulated my thoughts to only a few. Including God! (As an another friend said “ I can lament with the best of them.” I know God wants me just as I am.) So putting up a Christmas tree was the last thing on my mind or heart in light of our circumstances at the moment.

But then I read again the letter and this sentence—The Christmas tree is up—and started thinking about my friend’s situation. She is also in her 80s and has been living with extreme physical challenges for a long, long time. One of her dear children has battled an aggressive, debilitating cancer for several years, one has recently gone through a nasty divorce. My friend is unable to travel to be with them in sorrowful or happy times, except in her prayers. She understands pain of all kinds. Her picture looking down at me from my bulletin board is one big smile. I have witnessed her pain and I have witnessed her joy.

At the juncture of her words—The Christmas tree is up— and my thoughts about her, the significance of what she was saying by putting up a tree dawned on me: the brightly lit tree was not just a decoration but a symbol Advent has begun. Christ was born because He understood my sorrow, my fears, even my doubts, and He came to be with me. Yes, to save me but also to enter into my suffering and yours. And to give us hope beyond these challenges we may not understand. This is something to light up my life, real good news. Joy to the world.

These five words were for me a small but real sign of God’s presence. God used them to change my outlook from lament to anticipation. Each day I plan to look for Him in ways big and small as I wait for Christmas and walk in my world.

And this year we are going to put up a Christmas tree!

With love because He came,

Carolyn

I Shall know Why

By Emily Dickinson

I shall know why-when Time is over--
And I have ceased to wonder why--
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky--

He will tell me what "Peter" promised--
And I--for wonder at his woe--
I shall forget the drop of Anguish
That scalds me now--that scalds me now!

"Who has not suffered that lives at all?" asks one of MacDonald's characters.[1] Indeed, life is suffering: Contradiction, misfortune, disappointment and heartbreak surrounded us. Why must we enter the Kingdom of God through many tribulations?

I used to know the answers to that question, but life--now that I'm closer to its end than to its beginning--has knocked most of them right out of my head. God chided Job and his friends,[2] as Jesus chided his disciples,[3] when they drew unwarranted conclusions from suffering. In the face of affliction, I'm learning now to be more or less silent. When my friends tell me their lives are difficult, I answer "Of course." When they ask me why they're suffering, I shrug and tell them, "I don't know."

Why life should be this way, I cannot say, but I do know this: It will not always be this way; there will be an end. Eternal glory lies ahead, as Peter promised, "after we have suffered for a little while."[4] There, in that "fair schoolroom," our Lord will explain "each separate anguish," but I doubt, then, that we will care. In the awesome flood of his wisdom and love, and in the beauty[5] that will be ours for all eternity, we shall forget our present, light, momentary affliction[6]--"the drop of Anguish that scalds me now--that scalds me now!"

It's a matter of perspective.

DHR

[1] From George MacDonald's Donal Grant
[2] God's "answer" to Job's questions was "Hush, child. You wouldn't understand if I told you" (Peter Kreeft).
[3] John 9:2ff.
[4] "The God of all grace, who called us to His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after you have suffered a while, will perfect, establish, strengthen, and settle you"(1 Peter 5:10).
[5] I have become convinced that the New Testament word, "glory," which refers to the epiphany (shining out or manifestation) of eternal truth and goodness, is the equivalent of our word "beauty."
[6] "For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal" (2 Corinthians 4:17).

IN MEMORY OF MARTHA CLAY

Erected by her loving brothers,
In memory of Martha Clay.

Here lies one who lived for others;
Now she has peace and so have they.

C. S. Lewis[1]

The highest good is always subject to the greatest corruption. "Deep, deeper than we believe, lie the roots of sin; it is in the good that they exist; it is in the good that they thrive and send up sap and produce the black fruit of hell."[2] So it is that we can, under the guise of "living for others," make life miserable for those we love. We can be bothersome at best. At worst, we can be intrusive, smothering, manipulative and controlling.

Speaking for myself, I've come to see that much of my "helpfulness" is driven by anxiety, and thus, in effect, is the help that I'm giving to myself. It is to help and heal me, to assuage my own worry and fear. That's why I can become compulsive, persistent and all enveloping when I try to lend a hand. I will "help" this person, whether they want or need my help so I will no longer be afraid. (And woe be to those I help if they don’t respond well to all that I have done, for their refusal to be “helped” exacerbates my fear!)

That being said, how then can I know my heart and its perturbations and move toward acts of mercy that are, in fact, helpful? There is but one way: Through prayer and what ancient Christians called "the examine of love":

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me, and know all my anxieties.[3]

See if there is a way in me (i.e., a way of doing things) that causes pain to others,
And lead me in the way that produces eternal good.[4]

I must bring my heart to God to expose the anxiety that drives me and cast my care upon him, for he cares for those I love as he cares for me.[5] Then, in his warmth and tenderness and in the wholesome peace he gives, I may learn in time to give prudent help in a way that produces eternal good.[6]

The test of my peace and the measure of my progress is, of course, the way I choose to react when my helpfulness goes unrewarded.

DHR

[1] C.S. Lewis, Poems, "Epigrams and Epitaphs," Number 10
[2] Charles Williams, The Descent of the Dove, p. 108
[3] Grammarians are unsure what this word “anxieties” actually means since it only occurs twice in the Old Testament and the root is unknown. It probably has the idea of hidden, or suppressed anxiety.
[4] Psalm 139:23,24 (My translation)
[5] 1 Peter 5:7
[6] I must point out, for my own comfort and for yours, that anxiety, while it may lead to sin, is not in itself sinful. It is rather an affliction, and like every affliction, it is our share in the sufferings of this life.

Away in a Manger

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.
The stars in the sky looked down where He lay,
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay.

The cattle are lowing, the Baby awakes,
But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes;
I love Thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky
And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.

Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever, and love me, I pray;
Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
And fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there.

--James Murray

There was indeed a manger near Bethlehem, a cave full of foul odors and animal waste. There a homeless couple crept when the door of the inn was shut in their faces. There the little Lord Jesus “laid down his sweet head”--a helpless infant with unfocused eyes and uncontrollable limbs, needing to be cuddled and cared for.[1] "The infinite made infinitesimally small," G. K. Chesterton said; the little Lord Jesus. An easy thing it is to love him.

Fredrick Buechner wrote "The child is born among beasts. The sweet breath and steaming dung of beasts. And nothing is ever the same again. Those who believe in God can never in a way be sure of him again. Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure...to what lengths he will go, or to what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of mankind..."[2]

All through the Old Testament we read that God has been doing his best to get next to us, but nothing can match what happened that night in that manger. Now we know to what lengths God will go to be near us. "Ludicrous depths of self-humiliation." Indeed!

This is Christmas, the final, irrefutable proof that God will do anything to get next to us, to be close by us forever. And the startling thought is this: If there were but one of us he still would have come.

Mozart's Requiem contains a wonderful line: "Remember, merciful Jesu, that I am the cause of your journey."

DHR

[1] "No crying he makes?" Nonsense. There is no sin in crying: "Jesus wept" (John 11:35)
[2] Fredrick Buechner, The Hungering Dark

Deformed

Odd, this twisted form
should be the work of God.
God, who makes, without mistakes,
the happy norm, the status quo--
The usual--made me, you know.

The Royal Palm He made;
and, too, the stunted pine.
With joy I see the lovely shapes;
with pride I live in mine.
No accident I am:
a Master Craftsman's plan.

-Ruth Bell Graham

I came across a tortured, twisted pine tree some years ago, high on a ridge--an ugly, misshapen thing at first glance. But I looked again and saw something deeper and better and thought of those whose deformities are overwhelmed by rare beauty.

Appearance is overrated, a mere sensation in the eyes (or brain) produced by shape, color and motion and conditioned a good deal by society and association. (In some cultures, foot-long ear lobes and distended lips are thought to be the essence of loveliness.)

A philosopher-friend of mine once pointed out to me that objects cannot be beautiful in themselves for they're only arrangements of colorless, shapeless, invisible atoms. We can't see them, but if we could, they would bring us no delight or satisfaction.

There is a spiritual beauty, however, that is much deeper and more enduring than anything we can see with our natural eyes. It is the symmetry and splendor that God brings to his children, what scripture calls "the beauty of holiness."

Our present culture turns the phrase upside down, worshipping outward appearance and the holiness of beauty.[1] But that's a terrible mistake, for it leads us to vanity--the desire to exceed the limits God has appointed for us--and is the means by which pride and self-preoccupation enter in and we miss the highest good. Preoccupation with our bodies, as even pagan philosophers affirm, unavoidably leads to the diminishment of our souls. Plato in his dialogue, Phaedo, argues that we can love wisdom, or we can love our bodies, but we cannot, at the same time, love both.

We must be satisfied, then, with the way God has formed us. Our disabilities and deformities are not a mistake, but part of God's eternal plan. His way of dealing with them is not to remove them, but to endow them with godlike strength, dignity and beauty and put them to his intended use-as they are.

McGuffey had it exactly right...

Beautiful faces are they that wear,
The light of a pleasant spirit there;
Beautiful hands are they that do,
Deeds that are noble, good and true;
Beautiful feet are they that go,
Swiftly to lighten an other's woe.

-McGuffey's Second Reader

Has aging brought humiliating disfigurement? Do you consider yourself an eyesore, too ugly to be of use?

No, you are "(God's) workmanship" created as you are for good works (Ephesians 2:10). You are his special creation, designed from birth to manifest God's loveliness in a unique way. The Craftsman's plan surpasses the material.

Your countenance, though wrinkled and blemished, can be adorned with the joy of the Lord and made lovely with his kindness and compassion. Your body, be it ever so humble and lumpish, can be graceful in unselfish service and love. This is "grace beyond reach of art," human ugliness hidden in divine loveliness, beauty at its very best.

And, of course, this is not all that will be. On ahead lies the redemption of our bodies. One day soon we will be made new: "We are as God has made us, but we are not as God will make us. We will be made over again and everything will once for all be set right" (George MacDonald).

And so I pray, may the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us.

DHR


[1] I'm reminded here of the character on "Saturday Night Live" that always ended his monologue with the reminder: "Looking good is better than being good."