Cades Cove

Well, I tried to tempt all or some of you last weekend. No one could manage to break free plus the fact that they still are banning all back country fires in the Smokies turned me from going overnight solo to doing a "book tour" of Cades Cove. Fall is a great hiking time but I don't like the idea of going to bed at 7:30 unless I am really whipped. One needs a fire and some good company.

I enjoyed some great music going to and from the cove, got to bike leisurely through the Cove, stopped along the way and worked myself through a short book I wanted to read, and had a serendipitous moment at the Missionary Baptist Church. I attached a copy of that interlude which I wrote up for this week's Thurs. News. Not a bad day, all in all.

There are some great unexplored areas of the cove which offer sunny hillsides, tranquil pastures, and peaceful reflection. I aim to explore more of it over time as I can.

“I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live: I will sing praise to my God while I have my being.” –Ps. 104:33

My instructions to our teachers were explicit: come back to school after home study week with a fresh love for a new book, an old friend, or an eternal truth. To make sure I practiced what I preached, I set off last Sat. morning intending on a book tour of Cades Cove. I packed a lunch, a couple of books, and took off on my bike through the Cove looking for sunny hillsides and quiet nooks.

My first stop was at the off road Primitive Baptist Church. I could not help but notice the sweet sound of singing coming from inside and was instantly drawn in. There I found a dozen or so family members, young and old, singing the old hymns of the faith up in front in rich harmonies. I sat down and joined in. They had come in and discovered the wonderful acoustics of the old church in its delightful simplicity. Wooden floors, wooden walls, and wooden ceiling joined together to breathe a special magic into this little impromptu choir, much the way a well-made violin resonates the sound of the strings and spills it forth in rich fashion. They were rediscovering and reliving the musical heritage of its original occupants who knew full well the delight of acapella singing. Accompanying the thrill of hearing the sound of intermingling voices and old familiar tunes, I delighted in the instant bond of connection with these perfect strangers. They not only knew the old songs of Zion, they loved them. It made my heart sing to hear young people suggesting this song and then that one with the genuine zest that only comes in knowing the truth they proclaim.

Another couple wandered in and joined us. His voice was powerful and strong and full of zeal for the task at hand. It stoked our enthusiasm all the more. Someone suggested we gather in a circle to get a better blend. We did, and the songs continued to roll. Visitors piled in and many sat or joined in as well. We rejoiced with each new title that was pulled up from memory in which we again discovered common ground. I take credit for suggesting “It is well with my soul” which proved to be the highpoint as the inspired voices hurled themselves into its swelling words of praise. The place boomed. I couldn’t decide if I would rather be in the midst or be standing out in the parking lot to hear the praise ring from this historic structure against the beautiful backdrop of mountains and sky.

All total, we sang for well over an hour. We couldn’t pull ourselves away. No one wanted to leave. It was one of those serendipitous moments that becomes a treasured memory. Later, I joined these memories with the search I had made of the East Tennessee Rationalists Society website. They are a curiosity of mine and while visiting my children who are fully wireless, I took the time to wander through their comings and goings. They have a photo of Rodin’s “The Thinker” on their standard. Evidently they do not know that “The Thinker” is not engaged in secular, rational thought but is part of a larger frieze inspired by Dante’s “Inferno” where he is pondering his eternal fate between heaven and hell. For a society trying to explore alternatives to supernaturalism, I find it quite amusing. They are in earnest, however, and are steeped in intellectual skepticism of the highest order. Altogether, my week ended in sincere empathy for them. Theirs is a dry and barren faith. Atheism has no music that can stir the soul like a dozen voices in a simple, country church. There simply are no songs for unbelief. How truly sad. On the other hand, it is said that the early Methodists out sang their enemies. May we not neglect the power of song to propel the joy of the Kingdom deep within our souls and to a dry and thirsty generation.

Old Friends

“Take my instruction, and not silver, and knowledge rather than choicest gold.” Pro. 8:10

Way back in the waning years of the 1960’s (B.C. – before children), my wife and I were picked up and drafted into a singing group known as the Keyfolk out in Seattle, Washington. It was the hey-day of folk music, coffee houses, and Jesus people who were, quite simply, Christian flower children. Yes, your humble administrator once toted a guitar and hung out with some pretty interesting people. But through that single but exciting year of “singing gigs” and “witnessing for Jesus,” we became bonded with the leaders of that music group, Mike and Yvonne. We were a strange foursome from totally different backgrounds. They were Pentecostal, Bible college graduates, and we were mainline denomination folk with staid college educations. None of that mattered for the bonds of truth welded us together as we shared the same passions and the same crazy sense of humor. Their sense of fearlessness and zeal took us places we would never have dared to go and developed in us gifts we never would have known we had.

After that year together, life took us to different ends of the United States, but we still kept in touch, at Christmas time if nothing else. We shared a brief visit after the first children were born but then did not see them again until all the kids were in their teens. Again, the chemistry was still there as we took up immediately where we had left off. Two or three chance visits since then have always proved the same vision still true with much laughter and many joys and struggles shared that mirrored similar paths of mission, family, and blessing. It is truly a precious thing to have friendships that can be so enriching, affirming, and enlightening. We have learned so much from them and yet they would, knowing their blind and gracious spirits, say the same about us.

This past week, they came again, flying out for a conference, taking a few extra days to stoke the old fires of friendship, and also to research a family tree that reaches into the hills of East Tennessee. We laughed at old jokes and new jokes, laughed at the aches and pains of growing old, but also rejoiced in the goodness of God over the years. Each family has reared three children with some struggles and pain but return thanks for the Godly paths they now follow. Grandchildren abound, and we shared the gold of the new life stories emerging around us. Each has been privileged to share in ministries that have borne fruit in their season. And each has traveled the world over touching those monuments and places that most folk only read about.

That is where it really hit us. We all came from inauspicious backgrounds, small towns, and less than perfect families, raised poor to middle class, and yet we have traveled those dream trips to explore the old world, walked in the footsteps of the famous and infamous, all at little or no expense. They had spent 6 years building churches in Africa. We had led student tours to the capitals of Europe. Every bit as momentous, we were still married to the same spouse after 40 years. We owned our own homes, were still able to take pride in our children, and were blessed with little ones around our knees. What riches were ours. And who would have thought we average few, we of no degree, we of humble gifts and origins could have done and experienced all that in our lifetimes? But it was not because of any dashing accomplishment of ours but simply the unmerited favor of God. Wisdom, that gallant lady of Pro. 8, promises to those who seek diligently after her “enduring wealth and righteousness.” She has sure kept her word with us, and we are downright amazed at her generosity when we now look back. What a lady!

Friends

"thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.” -2 Sam. 1:26

These were the words of David describing his friend, Jonathan, in what was his funeral oration. It captures one of the great friendships of the Bible. That some have perverted this as evidence of same-sex, physical love says more about today’s culture than it does about the text. We are drawn to this story because of its utter selflessness, not because of forbidden pleasures. Friendship is that way. It is a rare commodity that draws two kindred souls together because each loves the same truth rather than some magnetic power of the other. Whereas lovers continually look into one another’s eyes and talk of their love, friends walk side by side hardly ever talking of their friendship but instead are absorbed by a common interest. Friendship is uninquisitive and cares nothing about one’s background, wealth, status, beauty, or race. The real question for friends is, “Do you see the same truth?” Those who care little about truth or beauty are incapable of true friendship; a spur to awaken in our children a love for both.

Neither is friendship necessarily exclusive. In fact, friendship can magnify the importance of each member of a circle for each person elicits forth certain qualities in the other members that no one else can. I love it when friend “C” joins with me and friend “B” because “B” comes alive in a certain way in “C’s” presence that does not happen when only I am there. In that respect, friendships are a harbinger of heaven where each will magnify and reflect in the other the glory of God.

Friendship is most naturally found among same sex relationships. It springs from the fertile ground of shared activities and pursuits. It occurs when two or more discover they have not only the same interests but the same passions for what is important and what is true. A same-sex friendship knows automatically that all bodily passions are irrelevant, that what passes between them is spiritual in nature with no ulterior motives involved. While friendships do develop between the sexes, they can quickly and easily shift onto slippery ground.

Today’s culture glorifies romance, or even pure, unbridled lust. Moms take pride in the romantic adventures of their daughters; fathers in the conquests of their sons. Few know the joy of a deep, same-sex friendship, what C.S. Lewis calls “the crown of life and the school of virtue.” And few value it because few experience it. For our family, we drilled our girls in the fact that they would seldom remember the boyfriends they had in school, but they would very likely retain their female friendships long afterwards; and vice-versa for our son. In so doing, we removed from them much of the peer pressure that says that their value is determined by their appeal to the opposite sex. While this may seem like a message delivered to teens, we see an increasingly downward escalation of romantic allure and expectations in our society well into grade school.

Using Paul’s language, I “beseech you my brethren” to affirm in yourselves and your children those Godly same-sex relationships that bring us out of ourselves, draw us to higher truths, and confirm the value of each individual. They may not have a lot of survival value, but they give value to survival.

*For more, read the chapter on “Friendship” in The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis from which much of this was borrowed.

The War

I had not planned to write this tonight but it just sort of flowed out. Since many of you may have been watching PBS this past week, I thought I would send it out fresh from the pen/keyboard.

“Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee: to deliver thee from the way of the evil man.” –Pro. 2:11

You may have been captivated as I was by the week long series by Ken Burns on PBS entitled simply, “The War.” Much of it was familiar territory to me from a historical point of view. But the personal vignettes and eye-witness accounts were riveting. Tonight was the end point. I was affected by each segment but now at the end I sit quietly mulling over the utter gravity of it all. It did not end with a punch but rather as a long, tedious tale; much like a gripping novel would. It was a story where I identified with the characters through thick and thin, but now the tale finds a quiet finish where there are no winners, simply survivors. To see these young warriors come home from scenes that rival anything out of Tolkein’s tortured, middle-earth imagination and watch them step back into the routine, the normal, the trivial pursuits of everyday life, brings an agonizing hush to the heart. For those who had seen the most ragged edge of war, it had to be hard to relate to the silly and banal concerns of normal living. And who could know their stories? Who could understand the horrors they had witnessed or perpetrated upon an intransigent foe? Or should anyone even want to know?

The answer in part has to be a resounding, “Yes!” No, the gory details of battlefield life and death need not be played and replayed to satisfy our voyeuristic curiosities. Don’t misunderstand; the history of pain written across countless cemeteries and broken family trees is important less anyone get a misguided and romantic view of war. But I would rather focus on the ideas and convictions that so gripped the enemy that they were just as willing to die for an evil cause as we were for a just one. This did not garner much of Mr. Burns penetrating attention, but the unmistakable portrait of the enemy was there. You did not have to look far.

Many G.I.’s went to war not really thinking or realizing just what was at stake. No American could imagine the horrors of the death camps discovered only late in the war in 1945. It was only when we entered the foul nests of the enemy’s dens that we saw the ghastly results of an idea taken to its logical conclusion. And to witness the unquestioning discipline of the Japanese whose culture had bred a race of the most formidable soldiers the modern world had ever seen was frightening even at a distance of some 60 years. Their capacity for cruelty knew few bounds. Wherever they went, they treated their victims with utmost contempt. A real warrior would have rather died fighting than to surrender. Therefore, by simple and logical extension, these who somehow survived and found themselves captive were less than human beings, objects not of pity but of derision. Then there were the kamikaze pilots who turned their planes into human bombs. An American sailor told how a pilot would strap on the head scarf of suicide for the emperor sincerely believing that he would earn an automatic place in heaven. Then, after a slight pause, he added with a firm sense of conviction, “Of course, he was wrong.”

In that simple phrase, so much is summed up. Ideas are important. The right ones can evoke selfless humanitarianism that spreads comfort to the sick, food to the hungry, and justice to the oppressed. The wrong ones can enslave whole peoples, spread death and destruction at unimaginable levels, and create a mindset in which the unthinkable becomes thinkable, even commonplace. Not all cultures are created equal. What happened in Nazi Germany and militaristic Japan was no accident, no political aberration, or the work of a mad few. These plagues upon man were carefully engineered over generations, injected into the very young, and willingly spread among every level of society. They were wrong. They were evil. And they were deadly. I only pray we may be alert to the viruses of the soul at loose in our society.

Renters

“…the soul of the diligent is made fat.” - Pro. 13:4

I have been trying to rent an apartment these last few weeks. It is discouraging business. Not because there is no interest. On the contrary. One ad in the newspaper makes my phone ring for days. But then the dreary business begins. One showing after another introduces me to the flotsam and jetsam of human wreckage washing up on my little piece of shore. The stories unfold with sickening familiarity.

I hate to disparage my own sex, but far too many tales involve a delinquent father who has abandoned his wife and child or has left some woman shipwrecked with ruined credit and bankruptcy. But, yes, occasionally I will encounter a middle aged dad trying to raise up young children by himself for loss of a wife for one reason or another. The result is the same: a single parent trying to start over, a homeowner reduced to a tenant, and pleas for mercy in the face of ruined credit. I take phone calls and when they tell me they just went through a nasty divorce or somebody abandoned the family I tell them that makes me mad. I am not sure how that comes across on the other end of the phone from a perfect stranger, but someone should be upset. I figure they get enough people telling them that they are probably better off and that everything will be okay. No, someone should be angry at the resulting ruin.

And then there are the fools. This Christian(?) lady was “living with” a former addict who went back on his drugs and now she was set adrift with ruined credit. I was heartless. I reminded her in so many words that she had asked for it. She agreed. And how about the woman who wanted an apartment for herself, her husband, her daughter and fiancée, and a dog? She worried about the dog being a problem. She seemed shocked that the unmarried daughter and fiancée was more of a problem than the dog. No clue.

I have come to take great boldness of late with the unmarrieds after being advised of my rights as a landlord. A sweet and fresh young voice informed me that she and her fiancé were looking for a place to rent. I told her that as soon as they get married I would be glad to talk with them. I am always assured that they are planning on it soon. I offer to get them a preacher and a cake. Well, not that soon. A young man called for a place for his girlfriend and their child. I explained my belief in marriage and told him that his little girl needs a dad, a legal one, and that this wonderful girlfriend deserves a commitment. I can’t believe I am preaching to these phone-ins. Somehow, he was not angry. I am angry at the loss of shame in our society; and angry that after dozens of offers, no one has taken me up on a free wedding.

Then there are the married folk who look good in person and on paper but whose credit check reads like a police blotter with accounts in collections, deceitful references, bankruptcies, repossessions and $6000 in abandoned credit card debt. Why did they even bother? The stories of bad luck do not reconcile with defaults on cable TV bills, prolific smoking habits, or the fancy sports car they drive up in.

In comparison, I feel almost guilty in my affluence and secure relationships. But the House of Nordmoe was not given or inherited or won in some fluke of luck. It was built over a lifetime, mainly by honoring the promises we made as a young couple. We were not the beautiful or the well-connected. It was a story of simple God-inspired diligence. Real, steadfast lives don’t “just happen.” They are built, brick upon brick, stone upon stone, precept upon precept, until the “fatness” comes. There is no substitute for diligence, no shortcut to a secure and stable home. And if you are presently experiencing blood, sweat, and tears, you are probably on the right course. Faint not for in due season you shall reap.