Fresh Starts

I like things like mornings and Mondays and September, times of new beginnings and fresh starts. I like times like that—usually!

Lately, though, I've been thinking about those other times. Times when I don't want to jump in and have another go at things. And I've been considering what makes the difference. Why is it that sometimes I'd rather "get on the bus, go to another state and live in the woods and eat berries,"as school-bound Lucy puts it in one "Peanuts"episode? (Charlie Brown gets to the core of the matter by asking, "Having trouble with fractions again, huh?")

What are the "fractions"in my life that take the fizz out, that get me trapped in malaise and wanting to say, "I think I'll pass on that opportunity"? What makes me not want to serve another, work on a relationship, chair a committee, parent a child, lead a study or get involved at any level?
In taking an informal survey of some people I know and looking way down deep in my own heart, l've identified several reasons I might want to opt out - or to not opt in.

The first reason I might not want to start again is the vacation syndrome. A five week vacation in the woods this summer was like Turkish Delight to me. I developed a taste for it and wanted more. Coming back was hard to do. It involved a choice to believe Jesus was right when He said, "The one who loses his life shall find it."As I believed His word I could then choose to accept the responsibilities that He'd given me, knowing that in doing so I'd find life-more than on the open road.

Another reason I've identified for wanting to pull back is an awareness of inadequacy. Looking at the task and thinking "I can't do that!"or "I can't do that as well as she/he can."l empathize with Moses: "Here am l. Send Aaron!"But the Creator says to me as He did to Moses "I called you. I want you. I'll be with you. Because you are weak, the glory will go to Me in the end."Again the choice is mine. Will I take Him at His word?

Not being noticed or taken seriously seems one more reason to fold up my tent and back away. But Jesus said, "Take the lower seat."So why should I mind when someone gives it to me? Instead, I can ignore secondary causes, and inwardly say, "Thank you, Jesus, for giving me this chance to follow You, this chance to take the lower seat. I know You don't give stones when I need bread."I then can get on with what He's called me to do.

These things-–a vacation mentality, an awareness of inadequacy, and a sense of not being noticed are all things that can (and do at times) make it hard for me to step into the realities of my responsibilities. But as hard as these make it, there is one thing that for me makes it even harder. Failure. Not the inability to get the job done, but rather the failure to do it His way. Sin and it's inevitable harvest of guilt and shame can more than anything discredit me in my own eyes to the extent that checking out seems the only option open. I once put it this way:

The feeling's back.
It hurts a lot.
And this is what it says,
"You've done that thing,
The very thing,
You said
You'd never do again.
Shame, shame.
Shame all over you."

The "thing" can be being out of control with my kids or in a meeting. Or one-on-one saying hurtful things, rather than speaking words that heal. Maybe I've had a failure in courage or in courtesy. Maybe I've been flirting with the world and made some bad moves. Any of these, sneaking up on me for the umpteenth time, can make me say with David, "My vitality was drained away as with the fever-heat of summer"(Psalm 32:4). I mean, it's bad enough to realize I had it in me in the first place, but to see it come out again can be overwhelming. Humbling even.

Over the years the Lord has been teaching me a few principles about my failures—my sin.

1. I need to take a good, hard look at these death spots in my life and acknowledge them . Even though it's humbling and it hurts, I can look without fear because God only reveals these to me so that He can heal me. He's not playing "Gotcha!"

2. 1 am learning to let my failures lead me to say, "Amazing grace, that saved a wretch like me."And to mean it! As I then confess my sin and turn from it toward God, I can worship Him more genuinely. I know I'm forgiven much, and so I love Him much.

3. Too, by disclosing to me the bond I have with each other sinning person, Jesus is increasingly tenderizing me. I see how I thrive under His forgiveness and understanding and I want to pass it on.

4. A while back, though, I was stumped. I couldn't figure out how a sinless God could understand the shame and guilt that issued from my failure. Even the great passage in Hebrews four that assures me Jesus understands my struggles, says He is without sin. "So how can You understand?"I asked Him. With a bold stroke He reminded me of His cross. His word came quietly to my thoughts: "He who knew no sin became sin for you that you might become the righteousness of God"(2 Cor. 5:21). He had felt sin's burden of guilt and shame. He does understand. He is a merciful high priest who can offer both help and sympathy in even this.

Because I'm learning to look at my failure the way God does, I'm energized to welcome the opportunities that come with September and Mondays and mornings. It's becoming freshly real that "His mercies are new every morning."And I can start again. So can you!

Carolyn Roper

Martyrdom

"You shall be witnesses (martures) to Me...” (Acts 2:8)

I read of martyrs today, zealots that seek death in glorious, once-in-a-lifetime offerings. But true martyrdom is something altogether different. The term comes from a Greek noun, martus, that means "a witness," and in that sense I can and should become a martyr every day.

If I bear calamity and suffering patiently and calmly, even that suffering I’ve brought upon myself...

If I accept the difficulties of life as the righteous judgment of God on sinful humanity and repent of my part in it in humility and shame...

If I turn from my restless impatience in my troubles and bow in hopeful submission to God's will...

If I see no purpose in my pain and yet trust my Father's love and "wise bestowment"...

If others see in me that cheerfulness that is seldom seen in this world—a quiet joy in the face of deep sorrow and loss...

Then I have become a martyr, a "witness" to Christ’s invisible presence in me.

This is the "martyrdom" I seek and for which I pray.

DHR

“While We Sleep…"

“In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat, for he gives to those he loves while they sleep” (Psalm 127:2).

Author Lauren Winner was asked how we as followers of Jesus can be more counterculture. Her answer? “Get more sleep.”

Miss Winter admitted the curious nature of her comment. "Surely one could come up with something more other-directed, more sacrificial, less self-serving,” she wrote.  Still, she reasoned, “a night of good sleep—a week, or month, or year of good sleep—testifies to a countercultural embrace of sleep (that) bears witness to values higher than ‘the cares of this world, the deceitfulness of riches, and the desire for other things.’”^[1]

Israel’s poet anticipated her thoughts: “In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat, for he gives to those he loves while they sleep.”

There’s something wonderfully significant about this psalm, something easily missed unless we understand that Israel’s day began in the evening and not in the morning.

We begin our day when the sun comes up. We leap out of bed, grab a cup of coffee, wolf down an energy bar and rush out the door to begin our work. Only when our work is done do we rest, and our work is never done.  There’s always one more e-mail to answer, one more phone call to return, one more errand to run.

Israel’s sequence of evening and morning pictures the attitude we should embrace toward all our efforts: We must begin with rest—rest in a God of infinite resources. When we awaken to begin our work, we rise to join Him in a work in progress, for he does not slumber nor sleep.

It’s useless to drive ourselves in anxious frenzy, the psalmist pleads, as if success depends on our efforts. We must work hard and we must be faithful in all we do, but everything depends upon God. He has been working throughout eternity to gain our highest good. Thus in simple faith we rest “that He, who knows and loves, will do the best.”

Maker of all, the Lord,

And Ruler of the height,

Who, robing day in light, hast poured

Soft slumbers o’er the night,

That to our limbs the power

Of toil may be renew’d,

And hearts be rais’d that sink and cower,

And sorrows be subdu’d.

—Saint Ambrose

DHR

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^[1] Lauren Winner, “Books & Culture,” January/February 2006, Vol. 12, No. 1, Page 7.

What God Has Prepared!

"Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things that God has prepared for those who love Him" (1 Corinthians 2:9).

My friend Gus passed away a few weeks ago. Gus was a fellow trout fisherman. Weekends usually found him in his little boat on a nearby lake, casting for fish.

I got a letter from his daughter Heidi the other day. She told me she's been talking about heaven with her grandkids since Gus went home. Her 6 year old grandson, who also loves to fish, explained what Heaven is like and what Great-Grandpa Gus is doing: "It's really beautiful,” he mused, "and Jesus is showing Grandpa Gus where the best fishing holes are."  

Isn’t it odd that we know so little about Heaven? Why should we be told almost nothing about our next destination?

Perhaps it’s that we human beings have no categories to comprehend it. On one occasion, when Paul reported his visit to Heaven, words failed him. He saw things that “cannot be told” (2 Corinthians 12:2-4). He didn’t mean that it’s improper to speak about Heaven, but that it’s impossible to do so. There are no words by which the facts of Heaven can be imparted to our senses.

But having said that I think the problem lies deeper than mere inadequacy of human language and comprehension. Strange to say, to know more than we know might harm us.

What I mean is this: We might gain a little comfort from knowing the details of Heaven but it would not be the highest comfort, for it is not the knowledge of Heaven that comforts and assures us, but the knowledge of God Himself. Because I know Him and I know how good He is, I can leave this life and everything in it with utter confidence that Heaven will be “a wonderful place, full of glory and grace.” It will be “really beautiful” and Jesus will show me where the best fishing holes are, because, I must say, that’s the sort of God that He is!

DHR

Things Above

“If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God” —Colossians 3:1

Our valley can be very cold in the winter. Clouds and fog roll in and blanket the ground, trapping frigid air under warmer layers above.

It’s cloudy and cold in the valley, but you can rise above it. There’s a road nearby, Bogus Basin Road, that winds up the flank of Shafer Butte, a 7500’ mountain that rises out of the valley. A few minutes of driving and you break out of the fog and emerge into the warmth and brilliance of a sunlit day. You can look down on the clouds that shroud the valley and see it from a different point of view.

You can’t make yourself happy in conditions that are contrary to happiness, but you can rise above them. Little by little you can learn to withdraw from them, refusing to allow your thoughts and actions to be governed by them. You can climb up out of your misery and gloom, sit for a time on the hillside and look at things from God’s point of view. You can remind yourself that the sun is always shining even if it has not been shining on you and that everything in the valley will soon pass away. And though you can only stay for a moment you will have gained a perspective that only the mountain can know.

This is faith—the means by which we rise above our circumstances and find courage and calmness for the day.

DHR

Death Watch

"In those days Hezekiah became sick and was at the point of death. And Isaiah the prophet the son of Amoz came to him, and said to him, “Thus says the Lord: Set your house in order, for you shall die” (Isaiah 38:1).

I read this morning about a new gadget, the Tikker Death Watch, a wristwatch that ticks off the seconds until you die. The watch-wearer fills out a questionnaire, inputs age and the countdown begins. (The watch employs a logarithm used by the federal government to estimate life expectancy.)

Swiss inventor, Fredrick Colting, a former grave digger it should be noted, got the idea for the watch when his grandfather died: “It made me think about death and the transience of life, and I realized that nothing matters when you are dead. Instead, what matters is what we do when we are alive.” (One potential customer quipped that he would "Blast some Ethel Merman one last time while sipping latte.")   

King Hezekiah of Judah had a "Death Watch" of sorts: He was gravely ill and the prophet Isaiah said the countdown had begun. The king, who was the only 38 years old at the time, begged for additional days. God in his mercy gave him fifteen years. Sad to say, Hezekiah squandered those years, exposing Judah's treasure to the Babylonians, a self-serving decision that led to the Babylonian Captivity some years later. He also fathered Manasseh, an awful man that led the nation of Judah into moral ruin.

St. Peter had a “Death Watch” as well: "The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self- controlled and sober- minded for the sake of your prayers. Above all keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins. Show hospitality to one another without grumbling. As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God's varied grace..." (1 Peter 4:7-10).

What can we do with the moments that remain? Fret about them or fritter them away?  Here’s Peter’s guidance: Pray, love those inside and outside of God’s family and use your spiritual gifts to serve others. Put another way, do the things that have eternal significance.

In the words of a plaque that hung on the wall of my boyhood home:

Only one life will soon be past;

only what's done for Christ will last.

And when I am dying how glad I will be,

that the lamp of my life has blazed out for Thee.

David Roper

1/8/14

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Far from The Madding Crowd

"But when I thought how to understand this, it seemed to me a wearisome task, until I went into the sanctuary of God..." —Psalm 73:16,17

Some years ago my son Brian and I agreed to haul some equipment into an isolated Idaho backcountry ranch for a friend. There are no roads into the area, at least none that my truck could negotiate, so the ranch manager, a young man named Ralph, met us at road's end with a wagon hitched to a brace of mules.

On the way into the ranch, Ralph and I started chatting and I learned that he lived on the property year-around and rarely ventured outside. "What do you do in the winter," I asked, knowing that winters in the high country were long and bitter. I also knew the ranch had no electricity, radio or telephone service other than a satellite radio. I wondered what Ralph did when the snow piled up to his cabin's eves.

“Don’t you get lonely,” I asked. “Nope,” he replied. "How do you endure the isolation?” I asked. "Actually," he drawled. "I find it right peaceable."  

Solitude is not loneliness. Loneliness is the result of inadequate intimacy and meaningful activity. John Milton, I think it was, pointed out that loneliness is the first thing God saw that wasn't good.

Solitude is something else. It is a matter of finding a quiet place far from the crowd. Sometimes our hard-pressed souls long for isolation more than anything else. There's “too much noise in the air, too many sounds, too loud, too near.” Our ears ache; our bodies tense. Where can we find the solitude that our hearts crave?

Somewhere I came across this odd little haiku:

I wish that

I could enter in

And close the door

Of my small house

To dwell alone

As little shellfish do.

Me too...

But how can I "dwell alone" in my crowded, buzzing, noisy, busy world. "Not here. There is not enough silence" (Eliot).

I came across a story the other day that gave me an idea: I have a namesake, David 1 of Scotland, who’s mostly unknown to us these days. In his day he was one of the most powerful and influential kings of his age, though he was better known for his godliness and wisdom. His gentle rule "softened the barbarity of the nation." (If you know anything about Scottish Highlanders that's saying a lot!) One of his courtiers wrote, "I confess that I found in the king a monk, in the court a cloister."

I like that idea: a monk and his cloister. Caught up in the dangerous conditions of his time and harried on every side by violent warlords, David’s mindset was that of a contemplative monk. The contentious court was his cloister: Even in that dangerous environment he could withdraw for moments of contemplation and prayer from which he emerged to bring peace to his nation.

We can do that. In the midst of our pressure-filled, dense–packed days we can withdraw into our hearts for a moment or two to reflect upon God's loving kindness and mercy. We can stay in that quiet place until the noise around us fades away and a sense of God’s presence envelops us. We will find in that quiet God-filled place the peace that the world has taken away. Our hearts will be quieted and stilled.

Then we can bring that peace with us into the world.

DHR

Thou mak'st a secret chamber, holy-dim,

Where thou wilt come to help my deepest prayer.

MacDonald, George. “A Diary of an Old Soul