I’m Coming Down

G. K. Chesterton has written a two-act play entitled “The Surprise,” one of only two plays he composed. It’s virtually unknown and rarely enacted.

The play is cast in the Middle Ages and opens with a friar wandering through a forest. He sees a large rolling caravan (a trailer with a stage) with handsome life-size puppets lying about on the stage. The puppeteer stands above the structure.

The friar asks where the puppeteer is giving his show for he would like to see it. The puppeteer tells him to sit down and he will give him a private performance.

The man picks up the puppets’ strings and begins to spin out a romantic tale in which a swashbuckling hero and his friend determine to rescue a fair damsel in distress. They carry it off with a certain amount of panache, and the play ends.

The friar applauds, but the puppeteer confesses that he is very unhappy because he loves his puppets and they cannot reciprocate his love. He can only manipulate them from above. “If only they were alive,” he muses. The friar falls to his knees and prays that the puppeteer’s wish will be granted. The curtain falls on the first act.

The second act begins with the puppets lying on the stage amid their loose strings, but then the characters begin to stir on their own. They rise and start reenacting the play.

But this time everything goes wrong. The hero and his friend get drunk and quarrel; they show jealousy over the heroine; they arrive too late to rescue her—at which point, the puppet master stands up on the roof of the caravan and shouts, “Stop! I’m coming down.” And he drops down onto the stage to save his puppets from themselves.

The play ends at this point, and Chesterton offers no explanation.[1] 

I leave that to you...

DHR

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[1] Good metaphors need no explanation. George MacDonald said, “If I draw a picture of a horse and must explain, “This is a horse,” I have not drawn a very good picture of a horse.”

Myrrh

“When (the Magi) had opened their treasures, they presented gifts to Him: gold, frankincense, and myrrh” (Matthew 2:11).

I read the story of the Magi this morning and recalled a Christmas episode of “The Simpsons,” in which Professor Frink, playing a would-be wise man, admits to regifting the myrrh he brought for the baby Jesus. "Because,” he explained. "Who needs myrrh?” 

Exactly. Myrrh is a gooey, gummy resin used for the most part to embalm the dead, an unlikely gift to give or receive. Who needs it?

Wise Men know: myrrh was something this child one day would need.

DHR

An Exceptionally Good Christmas

"I think we're going to have an exceptionally good Christmas."

If I had written these words I would probably have been thinking that our family would all be together for a white Christmas. I would probably imagine that well ahead of time all the cards had been mailed, all the preparations made and everything would be "just so." We would have a brightly lit tree and lovely red and green decorations, filling my heart with good memories. There would be the just-right presents to bring delight and joy to each one. There would be singing and laughing, playing games and a festive meal, with everyone decked out in their Christmas finery and caring for one another.  And I would find a fresh way to present the Christmas story at just the right time, which would be meaningful to all. There would be no worries, no loneliness, no health issues, no one missing from our family circle, either spacially or emotionally. At our house Evie would be singing "Come On Ring Those Bells" to welcome everyone in!

"I think we're going to have an exceptionally good Christmas."

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote those words to his fiancée while he was isolated in a dark, cruel Germany prison as World War 2 was raging. He went on to explain:

"The very fact that every outward circumstance precludes our making provision for it will show whether we can be content with what is truly essential. I used to be very fond of thinking up and buying presents, but now that we have nothing to give, the gift God gave us in the birth of Christ will seem all the more glorious, the emptier our hands, the better we understand what Luther meant by his dying words: "We're beggars: it's true." The poorer our quarters, the more clearly we perceive that our hearts should be Christ's home on earth."

Letter to fiancée Maria von Wedemeyer, December 1, 1943

Because of God's priceless gift of His Son, may each of us have an exceptionally good Christmas, content with what is truly essential. Content whatever our Christmas looks like this year.

Blessings,

Carolyn Roper

The selection from Bonhoeffer comes from the work, God Is in the Manger: Reflections on Advent and Christmas; compiled by Jana Riess.

Bad Days

 “Some days you tame the tiger; and some days the tiger has you for lunch.”

 —Tug McGraw

My father was a stoic man who had little patience with complaint, thus I learned to play down the intensity of my feelings and hide behind a facade of dead calm. I became a strong proponent of the stiff upper lip.

But as I’ve grown older I’ve become a complainer.  I’m learning to grumble and pour out my grievances to God. Complaint, I’ve come to see, is better than stoicism, for at least it draws me toward my Lord.

But grumbling is not the last resort. My agitation sometimes leads me to look deeper inside to see the realm from which my frustration and anger come. Feelings lay bare my inmost desires, like the lights on our automobile dashboards that indicate what’s going on under the hood. The way I respond emotionally when God and circumstances don’t match my expectations reveals the condition of my heart.

The reason for so much of my anguish, it seems to me, is that I’ve set my heart on the here and now and have completely lost sight of the realm that is timeless. Deprived in the present I decide there’s nothing left for which to live. But that’s a serious error. There’s more to life than this.

The purpose of life is not to be happy, I’ve finally discovered, though there are plenty of serendipities and blissful occasions along the way. No, everything in life works together to move us toward intimacy with God and to make us more like him. That’s what this life is for.

But that lesson can only learned by those who are “trained” by affliction and difficulty.[1]  We must let adversity do its work. We must know that we’re greatly loved by God even when circumstances suggest otherwise. We must know we’re in these straits, not by accident but by God’s appointment, and humble ourselves under his mighty hand. We must seek to manifest the specific grace for which this trial calls. And we must accept our sorrow as the means by which we are drawn into the heart of God.

We may not have the good life —struggle, pain, disappointment, vexation, opposition, loss may be our lot —but we have God forever and he is our good. As the psalmist concluded: “The nearness of God is my good” (73:28). God himself is our joy. “Happiness is neither outside nor inside us,” Pascal said, “it is in God, both outside and inside us…. Our only true bliss is to be in him, and our sole ill to be cut off from him.”

Life’s disappointments—and they seem to come in waves—strip us of our earnestness with everything but God. When we begin to see how empty life is, when it ceases to have it’s attraction on us, then we begin to move toward God as our good. As we come to him again and again—listening to his word, meditating on his thoughts, following him in the path of obedience, tasting of his goodness—he makes himself increasingly known. We enter into intimacy with him and come to love him for himself.

“The most fundamental need, duty, honor, and happiness of men is…. adoration,” Fredrich von Hügel said. In adoration we enjoy God for himself. We long for the Giver rather than his gifts. We ask nothing more than to be near him and to be like him. We want nothing but the hunger to give ourselves to him. In adoration we learn why every other chase has left us breathless and restless, worn out and wanting for more.

And so, though it’s hard to accept, we need nothing more than God. Our “toys and lesser joys” can never satisfy; they are a small delight. God alone is the answer to our deepest longings.

So, the only thing left for us to do is to turn our energies toward him, giving him our full attention and our heart’s devotion, asking him every day to bring us to the place that we find him more interesting than anyone we know, anything we do, any place we go, or anything we possess.

Then we will have all we can ever expect to have in this world, but it's enough. As a beleaguered friend of mine once said, “You never know how much you have until all you have left is God.”

DHR

[1] Hebrews 12:11

DANGEROUS CROSSINGS

"Life is mighty chancy at any kind of trade..."

Rudyard Kipling

I don't wade swift streams any more, if I can help it, even when the best fishing is on the other side. The rocks are too slippery, the currents are too strong, my balance is too uncertain, and my old legs aren't what they used to be.

I see it as a parable: so many challenges I once took on readily are now too challenging for me. Like the psalmist, I lose sleep at night wondering how I can negotiate them (77:1-4).

But then I remember the "deeds of the LORD." I read that his "path led through the sea, his way through the mighty waters." He surged through the Red Sea as I would wade a tiny brook.

Furthermore, he "lead his people like a flock." Like a good shepherd he brought all Israel safely through the Red Sea to the other side. No one was left behind, no one was abandoned, no one was swept away.

All of us face difficult and dangerous crossings in our life-time-a transition to a new place or position, a decision to abandon a sinful practice and make a new beginning, a choice to walk a way we would rather not go, a call to venture ourselves in untried service, a retirement that takes us from prominence to a lower profile, or our final crossing through the river "bitter and cold." Yet we need not fear the dark currents for God does not fear them. His strength and courage are infinite. He will see us through.

Yet, the psalmist observes with some wonderment, he "leaves no footprints" as he accompanies us. Just as the sand in the bottom of a stream hides our footprints as soon as they are imprinted, so God's presence, as real as our own, is hidden from us. He is with us, "walking incognito," as C. S. Lewis said, and thus we may not realize he is present. But, Lewis continues, "the incognito is not hard to penetrate. The real labor is to remember, to attend," to make ourselves think about his presence; to acknowledge that he is at our side.

Furthermore, though we cannot see God's footprints in our crossings, he is incarnate in human agents that we can see. At the Red Sea he led Israel "through the hand of Moses and Aaron." Now, he leads us in the wise counsel of a mother, in the strong grip of a father, in the urgings of godly brother or sister, in the quiet encouragement of a caring spouse, in the gentle touch of a child.

How many hands have reached out to us-guiding us, encouraging us, strengthening us. In them we perceive the hand of our Lord leading us through deep and dangerous waters to the other side.

Hard crossings are inevitable, but our Lord has promised: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you" (Isaiah 43:2).

I came to the swift, raging river,

And the roar held the echo of fear; 

"Oh, Lord, give me wings to fly over,

If You are, as You promised, quite near."

But He said, "Trust the grace I am giving,

All-pervasive, sufficient for you.

Take My hand-we'll face this together;

But My plan is not over, but through."

-Lee Webber

DR

11/18/12

ANYTHING GOES

Corinth was a sick city, corrupt even by Roman standards, so sex–saturated that Aristaphanes the Greek poet made up a verb to describe it, “to corinthianize,” was to engage in lewd, licentious conduct. 

It’s against that setting that Paul writes:

“Everything is permissible for me”—but not everything is beneficial. “Everything is permissible for me”—but I will not be mastered by anything. “Food for the stomach and the stomach for food”—but God will destroy them both. The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. By his power God raised the Lord from the dead, and he will raise us also. Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ himself? Shall I then take the members of Christ and unite them with a prostitute? Never! Do you not know that he who unites himself with a prostitute is one with her in body? For it is said, “The two will become one flesh.” But he who unites himself with the Lord is one with him in spirit. Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a man commits are outside his body, but he who sins sexually sins against his own body. Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body. (1 Corinthians 6:12-20).

Paul starts where the Corinthians were by quoting two of their stock clichés. First, they were saying, “Everything is permissible for me (1 Corinthians 6:12),” by which they meant that sex is good and anything goes.

Not exactly, Paul responds. Sex is good! God created sex and sexuality, not Madonna, Lady Gaga or Scarlett Johansson. (Would that we could get that one back from the world!)  But it doesn’t follow that all sex is good. Sex is like fire: it must be contained or it becomes a terribly destructive force.) Our sexuality must be contained or it will master and eventually destroy us. As for me, Paul says, “I will not be overpowered by anything.”

The Corinthians had another motto: “Food for the stomach and the stomach for food (6:13),” by which they meant that nature demands satisfaction. The implied comparison is that a man’s sexual appetite is like any hunger. Feel a Mac–attack? Binge. Feel a sexual urge? Merge.

Once again Paul agrees with the basic premise: food is made for the stomach and the stomach is made for food, but it’s faulty reasoning to argue that the body is made for fornication. That’s what a logic professor would call a “categorical error”—comparing apples and oranges. The stomach is one thing; bodies are another. God designed the stomach for food and satisfaction. A man can satisfy that hunger with impunity. But our bodies are more than their hungers, an idea that Paul elaborates by insisting that our bodies have a unique purpose which we may forfeit through sexual immorality.

The Lord is for the body

First of all, Paul writes, the Lord is for our bodies. That would have been a staggering thought in Paul’s day. Back then, most people believed that only the mind mattered, or more precisely, the things on which you put your mind. The body was base and either you got it in line (Stoicism) or you gave up and went for all the gusto (Epicureanism).  Monk or a drunk; it was all the same: the body was bad. Paul disagreed: bodies are good. God is for our bodies.

That thought appeals to me as I get older and fewer of my body parts work and those that do work don’t work very well. I once thought I’d never grow old.  Perpetual youth, like hope, sprang eternal in my breast.  I jogged, lifted weights, tried to eat right and stayed more or less in shape, but time caught up with me. Saint Francis was right:  “Brother Ass” is exactly the right name for my body—often stubborn and always absurd. Yet, Paul insists, no matter what shape it’s in, God loves my old body! That’s something to write home about!

The body is for the Lord

Paul then inverts the argument and insists that the body is for the Lord.  God not only loves our bodies, but he has a purpose for them: the members of our bodies are the actual members of Christ! (6:15)—the means by which we make visible our invisible Lord!  We are “little Christs,” made to manifest to the world around us the grace and beauty of our Lord’s character.

Furthermore, our bodies are designed to manifest God forever: “By his power God raised the Lord from the dead, and he will raise us also” (6:14). When our bodies are redeemed and perfected, they’ll display his character to all the universe and throughout all eternity. God has determined to invest our bodies with endless significance.

That’s why Paul calls on the Corinthians to “flee from sexual immorality—All other sins a man commits are outside his body, but he who sins sexually sins against his own body” (vs. 18).

Interpreters struggle with this verse because it clearly states that sexual indulgence is unique in its effect upon us. Yet other sins do affect our bodies. Drunkenness, drug abuse and even gluttony can turn it into an ugly caricature of what God intended it to be. So what does Paul mean when he states flatly that other sins are “outside the body,” but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body?

The answer is given in verse 19: “Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you… (1 Corinthians 6:19). Human beings are different from other created beings in that our bodies are designed to be containers for God. Our members are his members by which he manifests himself in the world. That is our greatness.

So what should we do? Don’t take chances! If you happen to be in a woman’s apartment and you find yourself becoming aroused, take a hike. If you’re in your automobile and desire awakens start the engine and drive away. If you’re reading a magazine and come across something sexually stimulating toss it away. If you’re watching a movie and it begins to arouse you, get up and walk out. If you’re watching television and it turns toward the prurient, change the channel. If you’re in a hotel room and you’re drawn to the porno flicks ask the desk to block them or as a godly friend of mine did, leave your room and sleep in your truck. It’s better to lose a night’s sleep than lose something far more valuable.

Sex is nothing to play with. It is a subtle, powerful force, and the havoc it wreaks is ample reason to fear it and run from it —like Joseph who gave the empty sleeve to Pharaoh’s attractive, seductive wife.

A piece of work

Paul closes with this remarkable conclusion: “you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body” (1 Corinthians 6:20).”

Our bodies don’t belong to us; they belong to God. They are his by right of creation and the cross. The only reasonable response we can make is to give them to him so he can do make something worthwhile out of them.

God’s work is always good. He makes us what we’re intended to be. He imparts beauty of character and strength of will. There is about that person a subtle fragrance of grace and truth, a gentle wisdom that is pure and peaceable, reasonable, full of mercy and goodness. He has integrity: what you see is what you get. There is no hypocrisy. Wherever that man goes others sense that they have been in the presence of a rugged righteousness, hard to put into words, but one that leaves them longing for something more. That is our greatness.

Paul writes, “Do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires. Do not offer the parts of your body to sin, as instruments of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God, as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer the parts of your body to him as instruments of righteousness” for all tiume. (Romans 6:12,13). Why sell out for anything less when vast and eternal glory awaits us.

DHR

A Wandering One

                               They felt good eyes upon them

                               and shrank within—undone;
                               good parents had good children
                               and they—a wandering one.

—Ruth Bell Graham

Manoah prayed: “Teach us how to bring up the boy who is to be born” (Judges 13:8). This is the earnest and often anxious prayer of every good parent.

“The boy” was Samson, Israel’s prankish Hercules, who “pillowed his great head upon the lap of sin” and squandered his God–given strength away. One wonders how often Manoah and his wife awakened in the dark, sleepless hours of the night and asked themselves, “Where did we go wrong?”

When our children make bad choices—when they abuse alcohol, do drugs, get pregnant, drop out of school, turn their backs on God and their family, we ask ourselves the same question. We blame ourselves and see our children as the tragic victims of our ineptitude.

There is, however, no absolute correlation between the way people parent and the way their children turn out. Good parenting makes a difference, but it does not guarantee that the product will be good.

We’re all are acquainted with families where neglect, violence and substance abuse are the norm, yet the children turn out remarkably well. They have good friends; they do well in school; they hold good jobs; they end up in stable marriages and handle their parental responsibilities with wisdom and love.

On the other hand there are families where the parents are warm, nurturing, kind, firm, wise and giving and yet there’s at least one prodigal in the family and sometimes more than one.

It’s certainly better to be one kind of parent than the other, but the fact remains that despite our best efforts our children sometimes go wrong.

But, you say, what of the proverb: “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it” (Proverbs 22:6)? It sounds like a guarantee.

Not exactly. Proverbs are not promises, but premises—general rules or axioms­—statements of broad truths much like the saying: “As the twig is bent so the tree is inclined.” A proverb sets forth a truth applicable in most cases, but not necessarily so. There are exceptions to the rule.

The reason there are exceptions is that children are not mindless matter that can be shaped at will, but autonomous individuals who may, with the best of parenting, choose to go their own way. Even God, the perfect parent, has had trouble with his children—Adam and Eve to name two, and me, to name one more.

We cannot produce good children and if we believe that by the simple application of a few techniques and rules we can secure good behavior we may be in for bitter disillusionment and heartache. No one can determine nor can they predict what their offspring will do. (It was Joaquin Andujar, poet and pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals, who said you can sum up baseball in one word: “You never know.” His word count was off, but he captured the essence of life as well as baseball.)

Given that uncertainty the question is not “How can I produce good children?” but rather, “How can I be a good parent?” The two questions appear to be the same, but they’re not. The first has to do with the product, over which we have no control, the second with process, over which we do, by God’s grace, have some measure of control.

If our focus is on process, then the questions are about me: “How can I deal with my impatience, temper and rage, my selfishness, my resentment, my stubbornness, my defensiveness, my pride, my laziness, my unwillingness to listen? How can I deal with my addictions? How can I strengthen my marriage? How can I develop my parenting skills? How can I build bridges of grace, forgiveness and acceptance that will make it possible for my prodigal to come home. These are the matters that must occupy me, and then I must leave the outcome to God.

Ruth Bell Graham has written again,

Lord, I will straighten all I can and You
take over what we mothers cannot do.

DHR