Who Goes There?

Several years ago, Carolyn and I were driving up a mountain road into the Sawtooths when we came across a large band of sheep moving down the road toward us. A lone shepherd with his dogs was in the vanguard, leading his flock out of summer pasture into the lowlands and winter quarters.

We pulled to the side of the road and waited while the flock swirled around us—and watched them until they were out of sight.

I wondered: Sheep are the embodiment of all that is feeble and helpless. Do they fear change and new places?”

Like most old folks I like the “fold”—the old, familiar regimens Like Bilbo, the aging hobbit, “I miss my victuals at noon.” But all is shifting and changing these days; I’m being led out—away from familiar surroundings and into a vast unknown. I wonder: What new limits will overtake me this year? What nameless fears will wake? Jesus’ words come to mind: “When I lead my sheep out, I go before them (John 10:4).

I may be dismayed at what life has in store for me this year and next, but my shepherd knows the way I’m taking and He goes before. He will not lead me down paths too steep, too arduous for me; He knows my limits and will strike a leisurely pace. He knows the way to green pasture and good water. “He knows the way through the wilderness; all I have to do is follow.”

Thus I need not fear tomorrow, or take on its obligations, for tomorrow will take care of itself: Tomorrow “must pass through Him before it gets to me”[1] 

Doubt casts its weird, unwelcome shadows o’er me

Thoughts that life’s best and choice things are o’er.

What but His word can strengthen and restore me.

And this blessed fact: that still He goes before.

—J. Danson Smith

David Roper

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[1] F. B. Meyer

WHAt’s A Parent to do?

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

—Ruth Bell Graham

When our children make unwise choices: when they abuse alcohol, do drugs, get pregnant, drop out of school, turn their backs on family and God, we ask ourselves, in one way or another, “What did I do that I should not have done?” “What should I have done that I did not do?” We collapse into self–doubt and condemnation. We feel like failures, our children the tragic victims of our mismanagement.

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

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

On the other hand we all know of families where the parents are warm, nurturing, kind, firm, wise and giving and yet there is at least one prodigal 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 sometimes our children choose to go the wrong way.

But, you say, what about 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)? That sounds very much like a guarantee—except it’s not.

The biblical proverbs are not promises; they are premises—general rules or axioms. Proverbs 22:6 is a statement of general truth much like our contemporary saying: “As the twig is bent so the tree is inclined.” It’s an adage, a saying that sets forth a truth applicable in most cases, but not necessarily so. There are always exceptions to the rule.

The reason there are exceptions is that children are not mindless matter that can be shaped and formed at will, but thinking, choosing individuals who may, even with the best of parenting, choose to go his or her own way. Even God, who is the perfect parent, has had trouble with his children—Adam and Eve to name only two. (You and me to name two others.)

You and I cannot produce godly children and if we believe that by applying certain 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 could sum up baseball in one word: “You never know.” His word count was off, but he captured the essence of childrearing as well as baseball.

Given that uncertainty the question we should ask ourselves 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 results; the second with process. The first puts the responsibility on us; the second leaves the results to God. The first is concerned with matters beyond our control; the second with things that are well within our control.

If our focus is on process rather than results the questions then become, “How can I deal with my impatience, my 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 make it possible for my prodigal to return?” And more important than all, “How can I grow in love for my Father–God and become much more like him in all that I do?”

These are the matters that ought to occupy us—the things that we can do. And then we must leave the consequences to God.

David Roper (With a a lot of help from psychiatrist, Dr. John White)

Rooted and Grounded in Love

For this reason I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, from whom the whole family in heaven and earth is named, that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with might through His Spirit in the inner man, that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith; that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the width and length and depth and height—to know the love of Christ which passes knowledge; that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.—Ephesians 3:17-20

There’s an ancient, gnarled cherry tree in our back yard that has seen better days. Its bark is dark and creased with age; its limbs are sparse and spindly and it leans about 15 degrees to the east. A couple of years ago I had to cut off several large branches on one side and the tree lost its symmetry. Two winters ago, we had several sub–zero days in a row and I thought we had lost it for sure. The man that sprays our trees was convinced it was dead.

Yet, it came to life last spring and continues to do so every year. Each April it shrugs off winter and puts out blossoms—fragrant white flowers that grow in profusion, that beautify and perfume our yard.  Carolyn wants to cut it down, but I can’t do it. I love that old tree. 

The tree endures because its roots are deep into the soil. It draws its life and strength from a hidden, subterranean source. 

And so it is with us: our ability to endure—no, to flourish—is dependent on our “rootedness” in Christ. Those who read and reflect upon His Word and pray it into their souls continue to bear fruit—the fruit of the Spirit—even into old age. As the psalmist promised, “Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing” (Psalm 902:14).

David Roper

The Greatness of Gratitude 

    

“One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice.” —Luke 17:15 

Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem when ten lepers approached him—standing at a distance, as the law commanded and calling out to him: “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” 

When Jesus saw them, he said to them, “Go; show yourselves to the priests,” and as they journeyed they were healed. 

One of them, when he realized he was clean, came back, threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. (Luke adds, “He was a Samaritan”—an outlier.) “Where are the other nine?” Jesus asked.

Good question…

In the busyness of life, we can forget to give thanks. Someone has done something for us—given a gift, performed a task, delivered a timely sermon, given us a word of counsel or comfort, shown love in some other way. We fail to say "Thanks."

Has someone been kind to you this week? Why not give that friend a call, send a text or an e-mail, or—heavens to murgatroyd—an old fashioned thank–you note as our mothers taught us to do.

After all, “Love has good manners” (1 Corinthians 13:5).

David Roper

The Hidden Life

by George MacDonald 

By degrees,

They knew not how, men trusted in him. When

He spoke, his word had all the force of deeds

That lay unsaid within him. To be good

Is more than holy words or definite acts;

Embodying itself unconsciously

In simple forms of human helpfulness,

And understanding of the need that prays.

And when he read the weary tales of crime,

And wretchedness and white-faced children, sad

With hunger, and neglect, and cruel words,

He would walk sadly for an afternoon,

With head down-bent, and pondering footstep slow;

And to himself conclude: “The best I can

For the great world, is, just the best I can

For this my world. The influence will go

In widening circles to the darksome lanes

In London’s self.” When a philanthropist

Said pompously: “With your great gifts you ought

To work for the great world, not spend yourself

On common labours like a common man;”

He answered him: “The world is in God’s hands.

This part he gives to me; for which my past,

Built up on loves inherited, hath made

Me fittest. Neither will He let me think

Primaeval, godlike work too low to need,      

For its perfection, manhood’s noblest powers

And deepest knowledge, far beyond my gifts.

And for the crowds of men, in whom a soul

Cries through the windows of their hollow eyes         

For bare humanity, and leave to grow,-

Would I could help them! But all crowds are made    

Of individuals; and their grief, and pain,        

And thirst, and hunger, all are of the one,      

Not of the many. And the power that helps

Enters the individual, and extends

Thence in a thousand gentle influences         

To other hearts. It is not made one’s own

By laying hold of an allotted share

Of general good divided faithfully.

Now here I labour whole upon the place

Where they have known me from my childhood up.

I know the individual man; and he

Knows me. If there is power in me to help,

It goeth forth beyond the present will,

Clothing itself in very common deeds

Of any humble day’s necessity: 

I would not always consciously do good;       

Not always feel a helper of the men,   

Who make me full return for my poor deeds

(Which I must do for my own highest sake, 

If I forgot my brethren for themselves) 

By human trust, and confidence of eyes 

That look me in the face, and hands that do 

My work at will -’tis more than I deserve. 

But in the city, with a few lame words, 

And a few scanty handfuls of weak coin, 

Misunderstood, or, at the best, unknown, 

I should toil on, and seldom reach the man. 

And if I leave the thing that lieth next, 

To go and do the thing that is afar, 

I take the very strength out of my deed, 

Seeking the needy not for pure need’s sake.”

Thus he. The world-wise schemer for the good 

Held his poor peace, and left him to his way.

This poem, excerpted from a much longer work by George MacDonald, has to do with an intellectually gifted young Scot who turned his back on a prestigious academic career to return to his aging father and to the family farm, there to engage in “simple forms of human helpfulness.” What a waste,” a world–wise schemer lamented and “left him to his way.” 

So you too may serve in some unnoticed, hidden place, doing nothing more than “very common deeds / Of any humble day’s necessity.” Others may ask, “Why this waste?” 

God wastes nothing. Every act of love, no matter how minute, rendered to him, is noted and has eternal consequences. Every place, no matter how small and humble is holy ground.^[1]

But, you ask, what of the world? I too “read the weary tales of crime, / And wretchedness and white-faced children, sad / With hunger, and neglect, and cruel words.” What can I do to bring salvation to the world? 

The best I can for the great world, is the best I can do for this my world. My influence on my small part of the world will go where God determines it will go. “And the power that helps / Enters the individual, and extends / Thence in a thousand gentle influences / To other hearts.” ^[2]

Influence is more than high and “holy words and definite acts.” It’s a simple matter—often an unconscious matter—of human helpfulness: being there, listening, understanding the need, loving and praying. This is what turns daily duty into worship and service. There is no greater spiritual work and no greater influence than that of a gentle, caring, unselfish servant of God.

Evelyn Underhill has written, “Among the things which we should regard as spiritual in this sense are our household or professional work, the social duties of our station, friendly visits, kind actions and small courtesies, and also necessary recreation of body and of mind, so long as we link all these by intention with God and the great movement of his Will…” 

We must see that “our small action is part of the total action of God.”^[3]  In other words, every small action, done for Jesus’ sake, is part of God’s larger work to save the world. “All may of Thee partake: / Nothing can be so mean (small) / Which with his tincture, ‘for Thy sake,’ / Will not grow bright and clean. / A servant with this clause / Makes drudgery divine; / Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws / Makes that and th' action fine.”^[4]

Having “swept,” however, we should then forget the consequences of our actions. Consequences are God’s business. Our task is the duty of the moment, whether we experience success or heartbreaking failure. “Every man proclaims his own goodness, but a faithful man who can find?” the wise man mused, lamenting the strange dearth of that simple, noble virtue.

I think of the Father’s words to Jesus at his baptism: “This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased.” What had Jesus done for the past thirty years? He had not worked one miracle, preached a single sermon or done any of the mighty works we normally associate with greatness. Yet, he gained his Father’s unqualified acceptance. 

Recently, a friend sent these words, “During the past few months, I’ve struggled to make sense of what feels like a shrinking vision for my life. I once aspired to greatness—not great in the sense of being President or world famous but great in the sense of dreaming and attempting great things for God… More and more, I’m content to stay close to home. Content to preach to the faithful flock entrusted to my care and who love me more deeply than I deserve. Content to leave the reformation of denominational culture to others gifted in that area. Content with a shrinking sphere of influence. The uncharacteristic contentment baffles me. I’ve wondered if… Jesus still considers me faithful.” He does, my friend. “Well done thou good and faithful servant.”

So, for those of us who wonder where we are to begin, we must begin where we are: by loving those nearest to us and giving human help where it’s most needed, whether our lives are filled with mundane duties, or matters of international concern. “Who is my neighbor,” the rich man asked Jesus, to which our Lord responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan, and its unexpected answer: The very next person I meet.

David Roper

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^[1] Luke 16:10
^[2] This was certainly true of poet Amy Carmichael, that cloistered, arthritic, bed-ridden saint who rarely ventured outside her room, yet whose gentle influence has gone in “widening circles” to the ends of the earth.
^[3] From The Spiritual Life^[4] George Herbert, “The Elixer”

Paying Attention

Happy is the one that considers the poor…” (Psalm 41:1).

Hark! Hark! The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town.
Some in rags and some in tags,
And some in silken gown.

Some folks are poor in possessions and appearance; others in faith, hope and love. Even if we can’t alleviate the poverty of those we meet along the way we can “consider” them—a verb that means, “to pay attention.” 

G.K. Chesterton defines a saint as one that exaggerates what the world neglects, and what is neglected today is the art of paying attention. Few people seem to be aware of the pain around them; they go their way inattentive and unmoved. “The love of many has grown cold.”

In such a world it’s not hard to find some want to supply, some misery to alleviate. A divorcee or widow, grief–stricken in her loneliness. A weary parent kept awake at night by the struggles of a hurting child. A frightened man awaiting cancer surgery in the morning. A care–worn checker in a grocery store working a second or third job to make ends meet. A young boy who’s never had enough father. A single mother whose flood of worries has washed her hope away. A lonely old man who has outlived his usefulness, or so he believes. A hurting heart behind your own front door.

Perhaps we don’t have much to give, but we can pay attention. We can see beyond what others see to the possibilities of mercy, compassion and understanding. John Newton wrote on one occasion, “If, as I go home, a child has dropped a halfpenny, and if, by giving another, I can wipe away its tears, I feel I have done something. I should be glad to do greater things, but I will not neglect this.”

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find a caring child. The winner was a four–year–old whose next–door neighbor was an elderly gentleman that had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman’s yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there. When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.” 

Indeed. We can help people cry. We can shows them in other ways that we care.  We can ask them to tell their stories and listen patiently while they do. We can treat them with courtesy and respect, though they may be testy or tiresome. We can encourage those with aching hearts with a word of God’s mercy and love. We can follow up with an e-mail, a card or a call. And We can pray with them, the most helpful and healing act of all, for in prayer we bring others to the throne of mercy where they find “grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16). 

And here’s where the beatitude comes into play, for in the oldest and oddest paradox of all, paying attention pays off, for we’re happiest when we give our lives away. Think of those who think only of themselves, who grasp and grab and play it safe. The life they save is the life they lose. In the end it’s worth nothing to anyone including themselves, a featureless, lifeless parody of those who have lived and cared for others. “Only a life given away for love’s sake is worth living,” says Fredrick Buechner.

The realm of happiness is easily entered: “Consider the poor.”

David Roper

Glorify Me!

I’ll no hae the warl’ lichtly me!’ he said. ‘Mebbe the warl’ winna tribble itsel aboot ye sae muckle as e’en to lichtly ye!’ returned his companion quietly.

(I'll not have the world make light of me!" he said. “Maybe the world won’t trouble itself about you so much as even to make light of you.” returned his companion, quietly.) —George MacDonald in Heather and Snow

"Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had with you before the world existed" [John 17:5). 

"Glorify me" Only Jesus could legitimately pray this prayer for He is eternally the Lord of Glory.

I wonder, do I ask for the glory that belongs to Jesus alone? Oh, not out loud. I would never make this request aloud where others might hear me, but when I insist that others listen to me, recognize me, consult me, remember my contributions, give me "the honor I'm due," am I not muttering this prayer?

David Roper

5.29.17