Joy in the morning ...

Dear one,
For some years, this sentence has often arrested my attention: 
          “Weeping may linger for the night,
          but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5). 
 
In and of itself, this line seems to capture our very human experience of grief. In the midst of grievous loss—whether of a beloved one, of a missed opportunity, of a cherished ability, of a “secure” investment, or of a way of life—most of us know that dreaded nighttime experience:
 
     From every corner, dark silence permeates; sleep escapes, the heart relentlessly compounds its ache, and the mind, like the old-fashioned movie reel, luridly replays the same sequences. 
     O’ that the long hours might pass, and when pre-grey twilight tinges the east, then … well, if not joy, at least relief colors the horizon. 
 
But is relief tantamount to joy? I think not.
 
If I allow myself the broader context of Psalm 30, I recognize that this psalm is a song of praise—for healing, for aid amid dire distress, for the LORD’s gracious favor even given His anger. That is, David encouraged:
            
            “Sing praises to the LORD … For His anger is but for a moment;
                        His favor is for a lifetime.
            Weeping may linger for the night,
                        But joy comes with the morning.”
 
David knew of a nighttime filled with weeping, of his failure and the consequence of his LORD’s justice; and yet he came to realize that his LORD’s anger was momentary. Without question, the anger was real, but so too was the dawning light streaming through opened windows. So too was the hope that poured over him: as difficult, as grievous as the previous day had been, daylight affirmed that the gift of life remained. But more than the gift of life, for David the Giver of that gift remained abiding and faithful. 
 
I do not mean to suggest that the grief you and I might experience is the result of God’s anger; rather, in his experience, David knew, in spite of his LORD’s just anger, something greater and more wonderful: his Creator’s presence with him throughout. This, I believe, was the source of David’s joyful morn: irrespective his failure, his LORD remained present.
 
A friend recently suggested: Joy is the knowledge that another delights in our presence; that is, we know joy when another enjoys us.
 
Much in these days might be a cause for weeping, but our tears need not preclude joy: there is One, always present, who delights in us. May we enter into His joy.
 
Hopefully
            Stan

Commanded Love ...?

Dear one,
 
With genuine discomfort, upon numerous occasions, I have found myself stumbling over Jesus’ seemingly very simple and direct words: 
“A new command I give you, in order that you love one another—just as I loved you, in order that you might love one another” (John 13:34).
 
The context of this new command was the upper room: knowing that His crucifixion lay before Him, recognizing that not one of His disciples would willingly perform the duty of a slave, Jesus did what they would not. He washed their feet. Peter, appalled, recognizing the topsy-turvy nature of Jesus’ action, reacted: 
            “Never! will you wash my feet! Never!” (13:8). 
 
However, he quickly recanted, and permitted Jesus to wash his feet (13:9-10). Jesus then used the washing of all His disciples’ feet as an object lesson: “If I, as Lord and Teacher, wash your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s’ feet” (13:14).
 
Although His word is clear and direct, I falter: “Can love be commanded? That is, is love yet another ‘ought,’ another duty to be performed?” Admittedly, to these questions you might immediately reply: “Apparently Jesus thought so.” If such is your response, I fully agree; but then, if I agree, I am now defining love as an action, rather than as a feeling. However, if love is an action, I nonetheless know myself too well: sometimes my “good deeds” are wrongly motivated. Sometimes self-interest prompts me to do the good I might not otherwise do.  
 
Ah, but with this admission, I believe that the heart of Jesus’ love—its motivation—arises. The one who is loved is to benefit, and only secondarily, if at all, does the one who actively loves benefit. That is, I love—a deed in action—in order that the other might benefit from my action. As such, I seek neither a “good feeling” nor the appearance of a deed well done—even within the eyes of God. Rather, if I am to obey Jesus’ command to love, I will discover that I am not the beneficiary. No, it’s all about the beloved; and herein, I believe, lies the great stumbling block to the Christian faith: to love selflessly through overt, demonstrable action. 
 
His disciples benefited by His washing their feet: a prelude to His hanging upon a cross.
 
These days of covid19, racial unrest, and presidential wrangling afford us great opportunity to love. And when we stumble, not if, they afford the opportunity to cry out: “Lord, help me to do what I would not do.”
 
Praying,
            Stan
 

How does your garden grow ...?

Dear one,

“Growth,” I’ve frequently said, “our Creator takes great delight in growth. All we need do is look upon the natural world about us—or even our own maturation as human beings: stages and/or seasons of development are manifest.”
 
In so many regards, I find this observation comforting: in the hands of the Master Gardener, you and I are not yet who we will be—and I offer this encouragement as one who is neither as physically robust nor as intellectually astute as he once was. Nonetheless, I know that such growth, even in the latter days of life, is fully consistent with Jesus parable of Mark 4:26-29.
 
That parable, you might recall, depicts a farmer who scatters his seed; sleeps and rises night and day—and nothing happens; and then, beyond his knowing, the seed sprouts, inaugurating an eventual harvest. Very much, this is a parable about the process of growth, especially as to how the Kingdom of God grows: often quietly and unobserved. Whether understood individually or corporately, the underlying message is exceedingly hopeful: eventually the Kingdom will bear great fruit.
 
This noted, there is a further Kingdom parable, which complements the Markan parable of process: the parable concerning “the wheat and tares.” In this parable, Matthew 13:24-30,  a farmer scatters good seed, only later to discover that an enemy subsequently broadcast “bad” seed (i.e. tares or weeds) among the good seed. As a consequence, when the seeds sprout, the tares among the wheat, the farmer allows both to grow together, until the harvest, when the two will be separated. The underlying hope of this parable, both individually and corporately, is that the conflict between good and evil, between just and unjust words and deeds will be at an end. However, until that day of “harvest,” the tension and the conflict will remain—which, however, is not fatalism, but a sincere trust that the “weeds” will not always entangle and inhibit.
 
I do indeed receive comfort and encouragement from both of these parables: a process of growth is at work within me (and the Body of Christ), which one day will be fully manifest. I might neither understand nor observe that growth process, but His Kingdom and its fruit will abound. Even so, within that process, “weeds” horribly retard and complicate, making of the garden anything but a beautiful oasis of lush fruit. 
 
In both parables, patience is of the essence, as we await the Gardener, who will complete His good work.
 
Waiting,
            Stan

An idiot ...?

Dear one,

You might need to forgive me: I am now rereading Dostoevsky’s, The Idiot. As others have observed, in The Idiot Dostoevsky’s sought to depict a character who is most Christ-like; for him that character is Prince Myshkin. Thus, when Myshkin enters into the upper echelons of St. Petersburg society, others immediately view him as an “idiot”: he is not concerned about his appearance; gives little thought to money; and speaks plainly and openly—like a child he hides little. 

Of course, these stated attributes are mostly “negative”: what Myshkin does not. However, Dostoevsky positively characterizes him as sensitive and caring, as generous and kind, as patient and guileless: Myshkin readily reads the hearts and minds of others, who then marvel at his insights and easily confide in him. Soon they relish his company and yet they resist him; soon they are caught in an approach-avoidance web of their own weaving.

In contrast to Myshkin is Nastasya: she is the epitome of those values most esteemed by Petersburg society. At age twenty-five, her beauty is stunning; she is highly educated and refined; wears exceedingly well the latest styles; lives in luxury amid great art and royal furnishings; and has her own box at the Bolshoi. Nonetheless, she is imperious: cold and callous, argumentative and angry, calculating and capricious. But Myshkin, ignoring those traits most highly esteemed by Russian society, sees in her a woman (or little girl?), who is alone, afraid, devalued, and broken—longing to be loved simply because she is. In his view, she is to be loved, not because of what she has or has not said or done; not because of the “trophy-value” she might confer. She is loved because she is to be loved.

Myshkin (who also is broken) and Nastasya have captured my imagination: when all of the layers of our sophistication—our achievements, acquisitions, expertise, and defenses—have been stripped away, do we not long to be “simply loved”? Do we not repeatedly need to hear and believe:

“But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved— and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus”? (Ephesians 2:4-6).  

In a world plagued by pandemics and racial injustice; in world lauding values which devalue, may we live as those who are “simply loved.”

 In hope,

            Stan

Ps. The portrait above is of Dostoevsky.

War love ...

Dear one,
 
Perspective: I wonder, in these days of coronavirus and racial protests, are we being led or are we being forced to experience life differently? 
 
Perspective.
 
In great measure, I began to ponder afresh “perspective” as I read the unfolding correspondence (“love letters”?) of a couple, whose engagement was being sorely tested. Inexorably caught in a web, patiently they sought to extricate themselves.
 
Perspective.
 
Air raid sirens, bomb craters, and demolished buildings; search lights, the roar of engines overhead, and blackouts had become commonplace. Amid these, each day they sought a return to the life they had known: family meals and friends, books and career goals, midnight walks and a warm fire; but funeral services regularly impeded each attempted return. During the first year of their engagement, they had spent a total of eight, supervised hours in one another’s presence; writing letters became their love-line. With “reasonable” expectations, each knew that they might receive a reply to a letter written November 30 by December 14.
 
Perspective.
 
Thus as Christmas 1943 drew nigh, ever-concerned for her safety and convinced that they would not celebrate Yuletide together, he wrote:

“How hard it is, inwardly to accept what defies our understanding; how great is the temptation to feel ourselves at the mercy of blind chance; how sinister the way in which mistrust and resentment steal into our hearts at such times; and how readily we fall prey to the childish notion that the course of our lives reposes in human hands! And then, just when everything is bearing down on us …, the Christmas message comes to tell us that all our ideas are wrong, and that what we take to be evil and dark is really good and light because it comes from God. Our eyes are at fault ... God is in the manger, wealth in poverty, light in darkness, succor in abandonment. No evil can befall us; whatever men may do to us, they cannot but serve the God who is secretly revealed as love and rules the world and our lives.”[1]
 
Perspective.
 
Thus Dietrich Bonhoeffer, age thirty-seven, wrote to his beloved Maria, age nineteen, as he sat in his Gestapo cell. He had proposed in January of 1943; in April he had been arrested. Amid Allied bombing, they wrote and loved. He was executed on April 9, 1945, three weeks before Hitler’s suicide.
 
Perspective,
            Stan

[1] Love Letters From Cell 92: The correspondence between Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Maria von Wedemeyer 1943-45 (Nashville, Abingdon Press, 1994), p.133.

Loose lips sink ...

Dear one,

“Loose lips sink ships …” is a phrase that I associate with WW II. Whether or not loose lips did sink ships, I do not know—although I do know that sound can carry across water, whereby one’s presence and position might be plotted by enemy ears—but apparently the Roosevelt administration of 1942-45 promoted the expression, in order to quell false rumors and/or negative information. Presumably that administration understood the power of human words, and therefore, counter playground etiquette and philosophy, understood that sticks and stones can break bones, and that words cannot only hurt, but can cripple and destroy. 

Recently I’ve given renewed thought to Paul’s letter written to the Ephesian church. From my perspective, the letter is well crafted. The first three chapters focus upon who the Ephesians were in Christ: by grace through faith they had received a new identity: they were God’s workmanship (literally they were God’s “poem,” ποίημα), created in Christ Jesus, that they might walk in good works (Ephesians 2:10); and by grace through faith they had experienced an unimagined unity: Jew and Gentile worshipping together, thus transcending the great cultural, ethnic, racial, and religious divides, which had separated them (2:15). 

This in part is who they were in Christ. But then, in the last three chapters, the focus shifts: the imperative replaces the indicative. The Ephesians were to become who they were. For instance, the first major imperative is that they were “to walk in a manner worthy of their calling”: that is, they were to uphold one another in love, seeking to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace (4:3). The second major imperative is that they were to “put off” the old ways of relating and behaving—the old habits—and “put on,” like a monk’s habit, new ways of relating. And chief among these was speaking  the truth in love, each one with her/his neighbor (4:15, 25). 

However, this “truth-speaking” did not always mean sharing pleasantries or banal observations about the weather; rather, at moments it might necessitate anger. If so, nonetheless “be angry but sin not” was to be the modus operandi; moreover, within the context of this Ephesian letter, “sin” could be defined as any word or action, any behavior or attitude that does not uphold, build-up, and/or encourage another. 

In a culture that purportedly longs for unity, while simultaneously using words as bludgeons, may we recognize that loose lips sink marriages, families, churches, communities, and nations.

Writing in love,

            Stan

Unity and/or Freedom???

Dear one,

As you might recall, in my recent rereading of The Brothers Karamazov ,I have found the Grand Inquisitor’s observations regarding humankind and his accusation against Christ thought-provoking:

“Hadst Thou [Christ] accepted that last counsel of the [devil], Thou wouldst have accomplished all that man seeks on earth … [especially] some means of uniting all in one unanimous and harmonious ant-heap, for the craving for universal unity is the third and last anguish of men” (The Brothers Karamazov, “Book 5”).  

According to the Inquisitor, if Jesus had worshipped the devil, then He, Jesus, could have united all humanity under His reign and thereby fulfill our human longing for universal unity. In some regards, the Inquisitor’s observations are fully consistent with Genesis 1&2: we are communal beings, created to live in harmonious union, and so reflect the image of God (Genesis 1:27). However, in Genesis 3 that union fractured horribly: our forebears freely chose to be their own, autonomous gods.

Within my little world, when I communicate with pastors overseas, and when they ask me about George Floyd and/or about the coronavirus, I sense that they are also asking: Are you experiencing unity and freedom, or unity or freedom? In my responses to them, I offer: ours is a tradition, which seeks to navigate between both, upholding both, but it remains to be seen whether or not we’ll wreck upon the shoals of one or the other.   

Thus, regarding the Inquisitor’s observation, we Americans do seek unity; but counter that impulse is another and equally strong impulse: we seek freedom. That is, as popularly formulated: 

“You may do as you wish, given that I can do as I want—as long as you ‘neither [pick] my pocket nor [break]my leg’ (Thomas Jefferson: Notes on the State of Virginia, Query XVII, “Religion”); but if I suffer financial or physical harm, then I will freely curtail your freedom” (e.g. much of American foreign policy?).

From my perspective, the Inquisitor’s critique fails on two counts: Jesus did inaugurate a Kingdom based upon His rule alone: self-sacrificing love and service; and secondly, His subjects will experience unity, as they freely confess their brokenness and failures, both to Him and to one another, thus forsaking their heritage: to be autonomous gods. As Mark recorded: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has drawn near; repent [i.e. allow Him to redirect your hearts and minds], and believe [i.e. live] the good news” (Mark. 1:15).  

Praying for the peace of unity and freedom,

            Stan

"What dreams may come ..."

Dear one,

To hope … to dream: within these days of political unrest, I took a moment to reread Martin Luther King Jr.’s, “I Have a Dream.” When I did, once again I found the quality and depth of his words striking—even prophetic; and when I did, I then had occasion to consider his hopes in relation to a recent dream I had:

            Aware of a large, flaming, wooden crate, seeking to extinguish it, I darted into an adjoining street, only to discover that the street and its buildings were aflame. I then heard Hamlet’s words:

            “… what dreams may come/ When we have shuffled off this mortal coil/ Must give us pause” (Hamlet, III,i).

As I have given thought to hopes and dreams, I sense that both are a present, forward-looking desire based upon a past reality or experience. Moreover, if the hope or dream is well-founded, then its realization is probable; however, if it is ill-founded, then its future realization is most improbable. When I compare my dream to the Dream of Dr. King (i.e. racial equality and/or justice), mine becomes ephemeral—so much fog, based upon the vagaries of my personality; whereas his dream, I believe, is founded upon a faithful, living-but-ancient, Biblical tradition of those who have suffered greatly. My dream is uncertain; his is sure: 

            “I have a dream my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character … I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places shall be made plain, and the crooked places shall be made straight and the glory of the Lord will be revealed and all flesh shall see it together. [Isaiah 40] / This is our hope” (A Testament of Hope).

Likewise, I believe the Apostle Paul knew much about dreams:

            “[We] also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance,and endurance character, and character hope, and hope does not shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly” (Romans 5:3-6). 

The hope of the Christian faith rests upon the present love of God experienced through His Spirit, as based upon Jesus’ death. For two millennia this hope has transformed lives and cultures: Dr. King’s dream, I believe, rests upon this hope.

Dreaming, 

            Stan

Free for ...?

Dear one,

Recently I have begun rereading Dostoyevsky’s, The Brothers Karamazov; and once again I’ve wrestled with Ivan Karamazov’s (not Dostoyevsky’s) view of humanity. That view, manifest in Ivan’s “poem,” “The Grand Inquisitor,” is pessimistic, harsh, and scathing. According to Ivan, or rather, according to the Inquisitor, Christ has failed because He did not found His work upon miracle, mystery, and authority—a mistake the Inquisitor and the Inquisition would not make. Accordingly, Christ failed because He did not succumb to  the Evil One’s temptations: to turn stone to bread, to escape suffering and pain, and to rule all the kingdoms of the earth by submitting to Evil (cf. Matthew 4:1-11).

That is, in order to be happy, human beings (Russians?) prefer miracle: they will follow anyone, who will provide for and satisfy their physical needs and wellbeing; they prefer mystery: they will follow anyone who will expiate the dark fears and guilt of the human heart; and they prefer authority: they will follow anyone who can unite all humanity as one flock, as one people. Such happiness can only be gained, so argued the Inquisitor, if human beings are denied the freedom of choice. Because Christ regularly granted freedom—and because humanity cannot bear the weight of freedom, as evident in their subjecting one another to great horrors—Christ failed.

Since the publication of The Brothers Karamazov (1879-80), politically Ivan’s views have proven insightful: through the course of the twentieth century, particularly but not exclusively as seen in Russia and Germany, when given democratic freedoms whole peoples and nations have chosen to follow those who subjugate them, denying them their hard-gained freedoms. However, Biblically and theologically Ivan’s read of Jesus’ temptations is errant: from the beginning and by design, we have been given choices and have unanimously, as one family, chosen un-freedom and its hellish horrors (like Auschwitz). By His obedience, including the Cross, Jesus has reestablished in Himself our freedom to choose what is good, right, just, and loving . Thus, freedom becomes not an escape from but the opportunity for giving to others. In this regard, I am reminded of Paul’s words:

“For you were called unto freedom; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for [self-desires], but through love serve one another” (Galatians 5:13). 

 In a world plagued by coronavirus and racial injustices, may we use our Christ-given freedoms for the sake of others—not as license to acquire bread, assuage guilt, and/or dominate others, but as a license to sacrificially love.

 Seeking freedom,

Stan 

Vexed and Distracted ...?

Dear one,

This morning I have the delight of looking out upon a lush, green lawn; spring-green leaves of maples and oaks; and the radiance of irises in full bloom. Among these moves a fresh breeze , promising warmth; and above all, a sky sparkling deep and blue. Furthermore, I have the pleasure of watching several starlings, robins, finches, and even hummingbirds eating their second, or may be their third breakfast. 

This day holds much beauty and opportunity for me—ah, a hummingbird just returned. 

But as I behold this morn, I know that beyond my sight is a pandemic world, that looks very different from an assisted-living and/or nursing home window; from an empty classroom in India; and from a desolate marketplace in Uganda. Likewise, beyond my view lies the aftermath of demonstrations and destruction; of despair and fear amid broken glass and burned wreckage; of hope puddled in grimy gutters. 

In the light of these worlds, the irony for me this morning stems from an anticipated conversation, in which two sisters, Martha and Mary, might figure (Luke 10:38-42). Very likely you know this account: Martha appeared as “vexed,” “distracted,” and “overcome by great service”; and Jesus affirmed her vexation: she was “concerned and troubled about many things”. Although motivated to serve, her distractions prevented her from focusing upon the important and the essential: time with Him.

As I thought of Martha’s distraction, I gave further attention, as perhaps never before, to the Greek word, περισπάω(perispaó), which we translate as “vexed” or “distracted.” Without question, either of these words is an accurate translation, but in classical Greek, this verb also describes the action of an army diverting energies and efforts to counter an enemy’s flanking movements. Instead of centering upon its primary objective and focus of attack, the army begins to turn about, backing up and in upon itself: great confusion and loss is probable.

Martha was vexed. Apparently she forgot about the nature and meaning of her hospitality: her focus was to be upon Jesus and providing for His needs. I wonder: Might He have wanted her, for a moment, to sit with Him, to be present for Him? 

Upon this day, I realize that I too can be distracted: I can allow beautiful surroundings, or riot and pandemic concerns to divert me from what I am to do and to be. Apart from asking: “Lord, what would you have of me today?” most anything or anyone can turn me about, in and upon myself. 

Un-vexing,

            Stan

Loaned ...

Dear one,

 Perhaps for a variety of reasons, the word “loan” has acquired new significance for me: in the past two or three weeks, I have found myself giving thanks for the “loan” of our home and yard. Most likely this thanksgiving has been prompted by the coronavirus: culturally I (we?) have become much more keenly aware of disease and/or death, neither of which is new, and yet—even as a pastor, who routinely made hospital visits or officiated funeral services—my perspective has shifted.

Admittedly, this shift might also reflect my age. At the age of 70, I number within that demographic for whom disease and death are more prevalent; but whatever its prompting, I sense that this shift has become more closely aligned with the lives and daily realities of those I encountered in Malawi. Upon my every visit to Malawi, weekly if not with a greater frequency, invariably the host family with whom I stayed attended a funeral service. Of course, at the time of my first visits, the life expectancy for the average Malawian was 59 years, whereas our American average was 78 years. (Those numbers are now 63 and 79 years respectively.)

Regardless the cause of my shifting perspective, I find myself not only more aligned with Malawians, but in truth, with the millions upon millions whose average life expectancy is ten to fifteen years less than my own, statistical average as an American. (Haitians can expect to live 64 years; Indians 69 years; and Russians 72 years.) Moreover, this alignment fits well with most of recorded history: as some have quipped, the human mortality rate has been consistently 100%. Thus, some cultures (even our American culture of the 1860s) have lauded a “noble” death, in contrast to our present, “peaceful” death gained through sleep.  

Now with these reflections, I don’t mean to be morbid; rather, with thanksgiving I recognize that “my” possessions are not really mine—they have been given to me “on loan” by the One who promised to give life and to give it in great abundance (John 10:10). Moreover, this same One indicated that we all have been given various gifts and talents, which are to be used and spent—and by our spending as He did, we will be welcomed into His Presence with joy (Matthew 25:14-30).

With thought, I believe I’m learning “to hold lightly” what has been given to me for a time: loaned to me not for the possessing but for the joy of giving to others.

Still learning,

            Stan