Restoration

“[He] leads me beside quiet waters, He restores my soul … even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ….”[1]

This morning, these words have been coursing through me, and for two notable reasons.  Although one of those reasons might be obvious, given the mark Hurricane Harvey left, and the destruction Irma promises; but the other reason stems from a conversation I had with an Indian pastor now serving in the Philippines.  As I had opportunity to share Psalm 23 with him, he then recounted the incidents in his life, when, fearing physical harm or even death, he had known the restorative grace of Yahweh Elohim, the LORD.

The Hebrew word translated “restores,” שׁוּב , basically means “to return”; likewise, the Greek translation of that Hebrew word also means “to turn” or “to return.”  Moreover, that which the LORD restores is “life”; for the word translated “soul” is the Hebrew word, נֶ֫פֶשׁ, which has a much broader meaning than our Western concept of “soul.”  That is, because of our Greek heritage, we tend to think of “soul” as an immaterial, ethereal entity; whereas those of the Hebrew mind and tradition view נֶ֫פֶשׁ as incorporating the whole of one’s life and being.  To have one’s soul restored, to have one’s life returned includes the returning of physical health and relational wellbeing, as well as spiritual wellbeing.

As I have thought of the verb “to return” in conjunction with “life,” I sense that the Psalmist thought of life being given back – as a gift.  So often, when I think of “restoration,” I imagine a return to an original state: for instance, a restored car or Victorian home might look as it did when first built.  And yet, with thought, I recognize that the newly restored is not what it was when new.  It cannot be.  Thus, as I think of Houston, I am convinced that life for those who have lived there will never be the same.  It won’t necessarily be worse – in fact, it might be better – but a restored life will be lived in the light of Harvey’s wake.

With the Psalmist, I do believe that the God of creation is continually returning life – and such the Resurrection proclaims – but from my very human perspective, a turning has occurred, whereby a demarcation or even a gulf exists between what was and what will be.  The good news is that He restores, and our world, our lives need His restorative, returning touch.

Faithfully,

            Stan

[1] Cf. Psalm 23:2-4.

Thanksgiving

           Thanksgiving? … in the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey?  Thanksgiving? … with Irma promising further destruction?  Should I then give thanks like the Pharisee, who, in Jesus’ parable, gave thanks because he was not like the tax collector pleading for mercy?[1]  Or, should I give thanks that the day before me promises warming sunshine, pleasant temperatures, and the opportunity to write, relate, and read without giving thought or energies to rotting drywall and slithering water moccasins?

            Surely the answer to my first, fully-formed question is a resounding “no”: I should not give thanks because the overwhelming, physical and emotional grief of those in and around Houston and New Orleans is not mine.  And most assuredly, like the Pharisee, I should not give thanks, thinking that I am somehow better or wiser or more blessed, because their suffering is not mine.  Rather, as the second question suggests, I should give thanks for what I have been given.  It is this “thanksgiving,” which directs us to the heart of the Greek word for “thanksgiving”: εὐχαριστία (cf. eucharist); for at its heart is the word, χάρις, which we translate as “grace” or “favor.”

            Thus, I would offer, “thanksgiving” is our response to the grace or unmerited favor that has been bestowed upon us — and ultimately, what do we have that has not been given to us?  If we are willing to track the sequence — truly a humbling exercise — we will recognize that all that we have is a gift.  Oh admittedly, one can rightly argue that much depends upon how we use the gifts given to us; nonetheless, our use of these gifts is still greatly contingent upon a variety of factors beyond our control or determination.

            I do not mean to offer “Pollyanna glasses” (i.e. that we're thankful for evil), but I would have you remember, even as I seek to remember, that we have much for which to be thankful, even in dire circumstances.  As the Apostle Paul languished in a foul and fetid Roman prison, he nevertheless was able to pen:

            “Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with            thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.  And the peace of God, which             surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”[2]

Thanksgiving became his entrée into the peace of God, whereby he then could state: “for I have learned to be content with whatever I have,” irrespective the circumstance.[3]

[1]  Cf. Luke 18:9-14.

[2]  Cf. Philippians 4:6-7.

[3]  Cf. Philippians 4:11-13.

Normalcy

            At this moment we Americans are very aware of both the natural and the human phenomena of our world.  On the one hand, many are the images, etched upon our memories, of the devastations Harvey has unleashed upon Texas and Louisiana (even though the above photo captures the destruction of WW2); on the other hand, the world’s political (and military) stage has shifted from the terrorism of the Taliban and al-Qaeda, with Syria, Iraq and Iran just off-stage, to the sabre-rattling or missile-launching of Kim Yong-un.  (And of course, some suggest that this shift, reflecting the ongoing economic alliances operative in our world, is only a shift of perception: the same choir, just a different solo voice.)

            With these events or escalating conflicts well before us, I find within me and hear from those about me the longing for normalcy: would that we could return to “the way life used to be.”  However, with some reflection—and I’m not seeking to be pessimistic—the truth is that the way things were differs little from the way things are.  As we’ve viewed the destruction left in Harvey’s wake, we have been reminded of hurricanes Katrina (2005) and Sandy (2012), as benchmarks for comparison.

            Again, I am not seeking to be pessimistic, and yet recently I was captured by a comment C.S. Lewis made:

            “We are mistaken when we compare war with ‘normal life.’  Life has never been normal.   Even those periods which we think most tranquil, like the nineteenth century, turn out, on         closer inspection, to be full of crises, alarms, difficulties, emergencies.”[1]

Thus what seems generally to be true of human life and/or history is equally so regarding the Christian life.  And yet, somehow within Christian circles we have deeply imbibed the thought: all one need do is believe and one will experience a blessed life free from perplexing choices and consequences, and most certainly free from pain and suffering.  We have imbibed such a draught, even though it is fully counter Jesus’ warning to His first disciples: “I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves.”[2]

            Such a warning should quell any of our (and my) protests regarding present and normative difficulties and struggles; however, those struggles do not negate a life rich in faith, hope and love. 

[1] C.S. Lewis, “Learning in War-Time,” The Weight of Glory (Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1972), pp. 44-45.

[2] Cf. Matthew 10:16.

More Fishing ...

In my previous blog, I shared with you my fishing experience in the wilds of Canada.  From that post, I hope you discerned my sense of privilege, enjoyment and learning.  To have the time and opportunity to travel by floatplane to three remote lakes, plus the access to outboards and fishing tackle—surely this is privilege.  To watch bald eagles in flight, to hear the cry of loons, and to behold a lingering sunset, where sky and water overlap—surely this is enjoyment.  And to have deep quiet, during which I pondered Jesus’ first words to His disciples: “I will make you fishers of [others]”, or: “I will show you how to fish for others”—surely this is learning, or at least for me.

Perhaps what I learned was nothing new, that is, more than likely I gazed upon a facet of the same diamond, whereby the old appeared new.  Whatever the truth of my experience, as I awaited the next fish to nibble and bite, as I felt the sun hot upon my skin, I acknowledged again our Creator’s great patience with me.  How many times and in how many ways has He sought to draw me to Himself?  How often has He provided me just the right offering, suited for me—exclusively—longing that I might take hold?  Of course, the difference between His patiently waiting for me and my waiting for the next fish is radically other: I desired the fish to bite, either for my culinary delight and physical nourishment, or for the excitement of “landing one”; He, on the other hand, desires me to “take and eat,” in order that I might experience His great good in abundance.

Within the New Testament, you might recall that the word “patience” (μακροθυμία in Greek) can also be translated: “long-suffering.”  Moreover, the word θυμία, the second word of μακροθυμία, suggests the burning of incense upon an altar.  Thus, as an image, μακροθυμία (long-suffering patience) might be pictured as a sacrificial offering, whereby the goodness of God is eventually revealed and experienced.

Even if I ponder the Cross, I know that I cannot fathom the depth and extent of our God’s suffering on my behalf—and yet, I know of His abiding patience, with the hope that His forbearance will not be in vain.  Or stated otherwise: I hope that His patience with me will be like incense, producing a pleasing fragrance culminating in light.

Faithfully,

            Stan

Fishing ...

Two weeks ago, I had the privileged experience of fishing for walleye and northern pike in the “wilderness” of northwestern Ontario.  By the word “wilderness,” I mean: four of us stayed within a cabin, which, although it had an outhouse, also had hot and cold water, a shower, electricity and a wood-burning stove.  By “wilderness” I also mean: we had boat access to three, good-sized lakes, with no other signs of humanity for miles around.  The silence … was profound and wild.  We were beyond any Internet access, and only upon one day did we hear the distant drone of a plane; otherwise, the wind and conversant loons disturbed our silence.

Of the four of us, I was the novice, the neophyte; my companions, however, were well-seasoned and -experienced fishermen, and were very patient with me, guiding me in the sport and art of fishing.  Thus I learned to bait-a-hook, set-a-hook, use a gig or lure, and to cast with accuracy—or almost.  And I became comfortable netting a fish, un-hooking it, and, with a word of encouragement: “Friend, return to your world”, releasing it to the iron-colored waters about us. 

But I also learned these truths, rather than, as I had for years, simply giving intellectual assent to them: fishing requires strategy and patience.  “To successfully fish,” one needs to know the kind or variety of fish and their behavior or inclinations, subject to weather conditions, time of day and season: spring, summer or fall.  One must also go to where they are: not once did a fish jump into our boat and announce: “I’ve been looking for you guys.”

Almost proverbial is the adage that fishing requires patience; although I was consistently reminded that our four days of fishing was exceptional: on average, we caught nearly one hundred fish each day (and I don’t believe this to be a fisherman’s tale).  This meant, however, that during the ten-to-twelve hours each day we were upon the lake, we experienced moments of inactivity: we waited.  A beautiful sun blazed; the mirror-still lake reflected, and we waited.  During such moments, my mind turned to Jesus’ words to His first disciples:  “I will make you fishers of men”, or, as a recent translation captures: “"Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will send you out to fish for people." (Mark 1:17 TNIV)

In my next blog I will share more with you regarding Jesus’ words and my Canadian experience.

Faithfully,

            Stan

Forgiving.

Often I have been profoundly encouraged and yet equally sobered by Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s question:

            “Even when sin and misunderstanding burden the communal life, is not the sinning            [brother/sister] still a [sister/brother] with whom I, too, stand under the Word of Christ?”*

His question reminds me that the Church, the Bride of Christ, consists of those, like me, who are less than perfect (τελέω), or, as this Greek word and its opposite connote, who are incomplete.  Of course, to think of believers in Christ as “less than perfect” or as “incomplete” is to think  euphemistically.  As I have aged (whether or not I have gained in wisdom is another question), I am increasingly inclined to view myself as “broken” or “crippled,” and those about me as much the same—albeit, perhaps not as severely crippled as I am.

If such is my view, namely, that others are crippled or broken, it behooves me consistently and constantly to recall that my brokenness, my sin, is no less offensive than theirs.  But therein lies the rub; for my brokenness, like myopia, often is the failure to employ the same standard to others as I apply to myself.  I am far too inclined to excuse my blunders, my calculated deceit, my lack of love as permissible because of “extenuating circumstances,” whereas they are without excuse.  If others really knew what I was feeling and thinking; if they really knew of those long-concealed wounds; if they really knew of what I had endured—then they’d understand my words and actions. 

Ah, it is true: they might understand, and so too might God, but that is not the point; for the standard is perfection or being absolutely complete—nothing broken, crippled, marred or tainted.  And so, Bonhoeffer’s insight directs us to look beyond ourselves; to eschew comparing ourselves one with the other (another sign of my brokenness, for instance), but rather to hear afresh the “Word of Christ,” who is the Word.  In the face of undenied sin, He said: “Does no one [who is without sin] condemn you? …  Neither do I condemn you.  Go and from now on no longer sin.”  (John 8:10-11).  This same One also said: “I am the Good Shepherd.  The Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep”, many of whom are maimed, wounded, sightless and/or lost.  (John 10:11).

I do not rejoice in my brokenness or that of any other; but I do give thanks for and to the One, who has chosen to forgive us both.

*Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together, tr. John W. Doberstein (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1954), p.28.

170 Pastors

… they are the reason I wrote SENT. Oh it’s true, I hope that many might benefit from its writing, especially those within impoverished settings, where resources are scant; but the 170 pastors of Nkhoma Synod, Malawi, were my initial audience. Given that initial audience, I also hope that many within the US might benefit from my “meditations,” particularly in combination with the Greek text and the several inductive questions provided. Even so, the 170 were and remain my focus.

If I may and briefly, I would like to share my Malawian experience with you: In August of 2013, Mary, my wife, and I were invited to teach at the Josophat Mwale Theological Institute of Nkhoma, approximately an hour’s drive southeast of Lilongwe, the nation’s governmental capitol. Prior to our first visit, we knew that Malawi ranked among the world’s ten poorest nations; that this small, landlocked nation was subject to periodic drought and famine; that the AIDS pandemic had decimated nearly an entire generation; and that of its 14million inhabitants, approximately 3.6million were Presbyterian.

These facts we knew. What we had not anticipated was this: Malawi is a land without paper. Of course I write with hyperbole, but when compared to the US, where paper abounds, Malawi has virtually none. For example: as I write, I can look upon the many volumes shelved about me; pictures and tissues; binders filled with photocopied material; post-its and cardboard boxes—and then I think of what we recycle bi-weekly—but not so in Malawi. One evening, as we dined with a high-ranking, governmental official, we were dumbfounded: for nearly 10minutes, our host’s wife searched about their home for a scrap of paper, in order to write a phone number. When she returned, she held a scrap, already written upon one side. Our hosts were people who had cell phones, iPads, platinum screen TVs, but no paper … and if they had no paper, what of the average pastor, who, if blessed, might have a bicycle, by which he seeks to shepherd the 6800 congregants (on average) under his care?

I wrote SENT, with the hope that, as the average pastor peddles from congregation to congregation, prayer house to prayer house, he might carry SENT in his knapsack; that he might jot a thought or underline a phrase within it; that he might share a question from it, which might spark insight and discussion. For the 170, I wrote … but of course, I trust that you might benefit as well.

Well, I hope soon to share more with you, but until then, feel free to leave a comment below, and/or connect with me on Facebook or Twitter.

Stan