“They will still yield fruit in old age; They shall be full of sap and very green,” -Ps. 92:14
While retrieving the school sign out front at the end of another school day, my eye was arrested by a yellow flash on the ground in the midst of an otherwise colorless lawn-scape. It was a dandelion stubbornly blooming in the heart of December. I have been thinking about December dandelions ever since. There certainly are not many of them still intent upon lighting up a lawn. This one hugged the earth closely, just barely raising its yellow hand up towards the sky. But there it was, a holdout against winter, a defiant flash of life amidst winter’s grey. Did it not get the word? Such blooms are supposed to go quietly into oblivion this time of year.
I read just last week of an 80 year old woman who also refused to go quietly into the sunset. Another December dandelion. She apparently also did not get the word that old folks are past their prime and need to retire to the sidelines like most sensible persons do. And certainly, she, who knew nothing of Facebook, You-Tube, texting, tweeting, or smart-phones, was obviously a world removed from today’s modern college student. Yet she took it upon herself to begin a letter writing ministry to her church’s college freshmen, away from home for the first time and awash in untold distractions and temptations. She not only wrote them, she wrote them every week. And she prayed. She prayed God’s best for them and that they would find a good church home in their new environment. She looked forward to seeing them at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The result? Church members reported that the “students sought her out and rushed to give her hugs and to say, ‘Thank you,” whenever they came home.” So much for the much ballyhooed generation gap. So much for our constant efforts to shuttle off our church members into age-segregated settings where they can safely relate to their own.
Serious study has shown and demonstrated that this cross generational cross pollination of faith is incredibly important in transferring our beliefs to the second and third generations that follow after us. If our youth do not see faith in action in our lives, woven into the events and values of everyday life, they are much more likely to forsake the faith of their fathers. Putting on a show of faith, going through the motions, does not make a very deep impression. The young usually see through it. But a faith that colors everyday decisions, that confesses mistakes and shortcomings, that deals with temptation and forgiveness in very real terms is a faith that impacts our children and grandchildren in deep and permanent ways.
In this respect, there is always work to be done and a reason for every person, regardless of age, to be on task and mission for God. It is a mission that does not require mobility, financial support, or technological savvy. It simply requires an openness and concern for others, an honesty and transparency to share the important things in life, and the confidence in God that He is still the same today, yesterday, and forever. Our story today is of a grandmother who knew we are all just people in need of God’s touch, regardless of age. It is the story of one who knew there was still work to be done and was willing to do it; willing to be intentionally used by God to touch others.
I remember those days when as a young and lonely freshman, I would eagerly check my college mailbox everyday looking for some connection from home. There were many grey days and weeks when the only mail I found was the college generated junk mail. What would I have given for a touch from a godly grandmother who knew my name and lifted it up in weekly prayer? How much would it have meant to have a December dandelion in my life? A lot. A whole lot. And now that I am entering the December of my life, I pray I do not go quietly. May others still see a flash of yellow amidst the grey. Resolve with me to do likewise.
May the message of God’s mercy and truth be born afresh in us this Christmas,
Mr. Moe
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
My Turn
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth....” Matthew 6:19
‘Tis the season for giving. As quickly as the toy stores can fill my mailbox with catalogs, my children tear them open and mark them up with checks and circles around everything they want, want, want! Usually these items reflect that same character logo that is found on every other toy in our playroom. One thing is certain, advertising sells. One year, my little girl got so hung up on Elmo that it started affecting her behavior. Simply put, Elmo had become the idol of a two year old’s life. So we decided it was time for Elmo to move out. Every toy, coloring book, and sticker was put out of sight. Elmo was soon forgotten. My daughter is older now, and the wish list has changed, but, as with many children, a discontented heart can still be a struggle. It’s not just the kids who get caught in the “gotta have it” trap. Consider the adult who decides to surprise the family with that big screen TV to improve upon football with HD perfection; meanwhile, the spouse is scraping pennies to make the budget work. I am sad to think how such Christmas surprises very may well end up causing more resentment than surprise. The enemy will try to use this holiday for his own agenda - to elicit feelings of selfishness, anger, worry, and discontentment just to name a few. He wants to damage relationships, and this season can be a prime time for him to get the job done.
This year we are doing things a little differently. Presents still will come, large and small, but each one will be thought out. Is this good for nurturing relationships? …Or will this present grow our child’s skill and confidence? …Could this present encourage their walk with Jesus? ...And last, have we bought too much? We often say we want to make Christmas about Christ’s birth, but then, at the end of the day, after tons of wrapping paper gets thrown away and the kids’ eyes are weary from play, we might find it was more about us playing Santa. We might even notice the discontentment on faces when that last gift is uncovered from under the tree. A few weeks ago I laid out all the presents I had bought for my children that have been “in hiding” all year to show my husband. Oh my…there was twice as much there as I had thought. Found at a bargain or not, if we gift all of these things we will surely perpetuate the materialistic attitudes that the Bible warns is not for the good of their character. Proverbs 22:6 says “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” This Christmas I hope to ‘train up’ contentment, simplicity, good family traditions, and time spent together focused on our Savior. I plan to be intentional to enjoy my family instead of being a grumbling Martha in the kitchen trying to make the perfect recipe of Christmas.
One particular Christmas, prior to having my own family, I traveled home to Atlanta to be with my parents and my sisters’ families. The much expected family dynamics began to unfold. Money was frivolously spent on presents for each other that we really had only wanted ourselves. My parents always bought us something from Sam’s Club, not because we really needed anything from there, but simply because they liked going to Sam’s Club. The kids ferociously unwrapped presents, barely looking at the one in front of them as they eyed the next wrapped box. Overindulgence overcame sense. The day had become more of an obligation than a desire to repeat year after year. After some discussion, we decided to stop buying presents between families for Christmas. We started a new tradition of playing games instead. Christmas was never the same. Agreed unanimously, it was better! The stress of shopping was gone and for the first time on Christmas day our home was filled with laughter. There is nothing like a round of the game, Finish Line, to draw out relationships that are in need of nurturing. We sat together and listened while one read from the Bible the story of Jesus’ birth. One year we even went to a downtown soup kitchen and served food to the poor.
I encourage you to think about what Christmas needs to be this year, not just what you want it to be. You might just feel inclined to send your “Elmo” back to the store. Perhaps you will add your own healthy traditions that will be passed on for generations. Who knows, Daddy just might end up with a donkey sent to a poor family in his name. (But don't tell.)
Molly Clark
Molly is the mother of Lydia Clark, a K4 student at Smithwood. Molly also helps edit our Thursday News on a regular basis.
‘Tis the season for giving. As quickly as the toy stores can fill my mailbox with catalogs, my children tear them open and mark them up with checks and circles around everything they want, want, want! Usually these items reflect that same character logo that is found on every other toy in our playroom. One thing is certain, advertising sells. One year, my little girl got so hung up on Elmo that it started affecting her behavior. Simply put, Elmo had become the idol of a two year old’s life. So we decided it was time for Elmo to move out. Every toy, coloring book, and sticker was put out of sight. Elmo was soon forgotten. My daughter is older now, and the wish list has changed, but, as with many children, a discontented heart can still be a struggle. It’s not just the kids who get caught in the “gotta have it” trap. Consider the adult who decides to surprise the family with that big screen TV to improve upon football with HD perfection; meanwhile, the spouse is scraping pennies to make the budget work. I am sad to think how such Christmas surprises very may well end up causing more resentment than surprise. The enemy will try to use this holiday for his own agenda - to elicit feelings of selfishness, anger, worry, and discontentment just to name a few. He wants to damage relationships, and this season can be a prime time for him to get the job done.
This year we are doing things a little differently. Presents still will come, large and small, but each one will be thought out. Is this good for nurturing relationships? …Or will this present grow our child’s skill and confidence? …Could this present encourage their walk with Jesus? ...And last, have we bought too much? We often say we want to make Christmas about Christ’s birth, but then, at the end of the day, after tons of wrapping paper gets thrown away and the kids’ eyes are weary from play, we might find it was more about us playing Santa. We might even notice the discontentment on faces when that last gift is uncovered from under the tree. A few weeks ago I laid out all the presents I had bought for my children that have been “in hiding” all year to show my husband. Oh my…there was twice as much there as I had thought. Found at a bargain or not, if we gift all of these things we will surely perpetuate the materialistic attitudes that the Bible warns is not for the good of their character. Proverbs 22:6 says “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” This Christmas I hope to ‘train up’ contentment, simplicity, good family traditions, and time spent together focused on our Savior. I plan to be intentional to enjoy my family instead of being a grumbling Martha in the kitchen trying to make the perfect recipe of Christmas.
One particular Christmas, prior to having my own family, I traveled home to Atlanta to be with my parents and my sisters’ families. The much expected family dynamics began to unfold. Money was frivolously spent on presents for each other that we really had only wanted ourselves. My parents always bought us something from Sam’s Club, not because we really needed anything from there, but simply because they liked going to Sam’s Club. The kids ferociously unwrapped presents, barely looking at the one in front of them as they eyed the next wrapped box. Overindulgence overcame sense. The day had become more of an obligation than a desire to repeat year after year. After some discussion, we decided to stop buying presents between families for Christmas. We started a new tradition of playing games instead. Christmas was never the same. Agreed unanimously, it was better! The stress of shopping was gone and for the first time on Christmas day our home was filled with laughter. There is nothing like a round of the game, Finish Line, to draw out relationships that are in need of nurturing. We sat together and listened while one read from the Bible the story of Jesus’ birth. One year we even went to a downtown soup kitchen and served food to the poor.
I encourage you to think about what Christmas needs to be this year, not just what you want it to be. You might just feel inclined to send your “Elmo” back to the store. Perhaps you will add your own healthy traditions that will be passed on for generations. Who knows, Daddy just might end up with a donkey sent to a poor family in his name. (But don't tell.)
Molly Clark
Molly is the mother of Lydia Clark, a K4 student at Smithwood. Molly also helps edit our Thursday News on a regular basis.
Sunday, December 04, 2011
Rejoicing in goodness
“let thy priests, O LORD God, be clothed with salvation, and let thy saints rejoice in goodness.” -2 Chron. 6:41
What does a volunteer firemen’s fundraising dinner, a day at Dollywood, and a Christmas choral concert have in common? All three represent a picture, in part, of what’s right with the world.
We were overnight in Walden Creek, Tennessee, (population: 50 something?) and didn’t feel like going in to town for dinner. A large sign was set out just down the road promising in big letters a home cooked meal and auction as a fundraising event for the local fire hall. We bit. At the appointed time, the place was packed. Food was in abundance, and dinner was a great deal, just $8.00. This group of volunteers had been cooking 200 pounds of turkey and fixings all day. Home-made desserts covered two tables. A local musical group of middle aged men were playing guitars making some pleasant enough music, easily pleased with themselves. I scanned the rows of lockers and fire hats adorning the long wall. Each one represented a man who took his place in the line out of a sense of pride and honor. Volunteer firemen; must be a rare breed. The ladies who supported them by baking cakes and cookies and serving up 200 pounds of turkey certainly must come from good stock as well. Listening to conversation at the table revealed a local politician who just loved to work the crowd out of a genuine love for God, country, and Walden Creek. There was little other apparent reason for seeking office in such a place. Another was a retired man who had come to find his truest and best calling in life working in a nearby home for special needs children. It was small-town community life at its best; men and women coming together to work for the good of all. It kind of made me proud to be an American again.
Just a few weeks earlier, there was this special day at Dollywood. Dollywood is a slick package of commercial kitsch at its worst, but on the other hand it holds up and embraces so much that is good, even if it is pretend for just a day. Families stroll together hand in hand making a memory for their children or even grandparents. This is not a place where rebels, drunks, and the wild folk would even want to come. It is all about roller coasters and funnel cakes and carved baseball bats; good stuff where kids of all ages can come free of embarrassment. Talent, skills, and crafts are all showcased to inspire us to maybe create or achieve something lasting, something beautiful, something of value, all by ourselves. Costumes took us back to a time when clothes were worn to connote station and to please others. The fun came in small, clean packages of rides and cotton candy and ice cream all without the greasy, carny types who look like sinister, tattooed, fugitives from justice. The hired help were actually helpful. The gospel music flowed freely, without stricture or embarrassment, and pulsed with joy. This was life as it could be, should be; except, of course, for the high priced lunches.
And this week, the area Home School Christmas choir concert put on by 60 young men and women showed yet another picture of life as it could be, should be. The songs poured forth in rich variety demonstrating the incredible abundance of artistic and musical fascination with the story of Christmas over the centuries. Every land, every era has produced musical praise in majestic and memorable manner; all taken by the amazing advent of God in flesh. And that is as it should be. It is impossible to sing these songs of Zion and be mad at the world, or your neighbor. Beautiful as well was the sight of young men and young women, acting in concert, complimenting each other in bold unison or subtle harmony. No room for gender animosities or exploitive manipulation here. Peace reigned as all were held thrall to a director’s lead, a clue for how to find peace when all follow after the Master’s will. And just to have a concert is proof that the world is temporarily, anyway, safe for the arts that warm the soul but serve no real, practical purpose.
In a world gone sour in so many ways, isn’t it grand we can still catch glimpses of the image of God in his goodness in day to day existence? May we keep looking for it, and find it, and cherish it.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
What does a volunteer firemen’s fundraising dinner, a day at Dollywood, and a Christmas choral concert have in common? All three represent a picture, in part, of what’s right with the world.
We were overnight in Walden Creek, Tennessee, (population: 50 something?) and didn’t feel like going in to town for dinner. A large sign was set out just down the road promising in big letters a home cooked meal and auction as a fundraising event for the local fire hall. We bit. At the appointed time, the place was packed. Food was in abundance, and dinner was a great deal, just $8.00. This group of volunteers had been cooking 200 pounds of turkey and fixings all day. Home-made desserts covered two tables. A local musical group of middle aged men were playing guitars making some pleasant enough music, easily pleased with themselves. I scanned the rows of lockers and fire hats adorning the long wall. Each one represented a man who took his place in the line out of a sense of pride and honor. Volunteer firemen; must be a rare breed. The ladies who supported them by baking cakes and cookies and serving up 200 pounds of turkey certainly must come from good stock as well. Listening to conversation at the table revealed a local politician who just loved to work the crowd out of a genuine love for God, country, and Walden Creek. There was little other apparent reason for seeking office in such a place. Another was a retired man who had come to find his truest and best calling in life working in a nearby home for special needs children. It was small-town community life at its best; men and women coming together to work for the good of all. It kind of made me proud to be an American again.
Just a few weeks earlier, there was this special day at Dollywood. Dollywood is a slick package of commercial kitsch at its worst, but on the other hand it holds up and embraces so much that is good, even if it is pretend for just a day. Families stroll together hand in hand making a memory for their children or even grandparents. This is not a place where rebels, drunks, and the wild folk would even want to come. It is all about roller coasters and funnel cakes and carved baseball bats; good stuff where kids of all ages can come free of embarrassment. Talent, skills, and crafts are all showcased to inspire us to maybe create or achieve something lasting, something beautiful, something of value, all by ourselves. Costumes took us back to a time when clothes were worn to connote station and to please others. The fun came in small, clean packages of rides and cotton candy and ice cream all without the greasy, carny types who look like sinister, tattooed, fugitives from justice. The hired help were actually helpful. The gospel music flowed freely, without stricture or embarrassment, and pulsed with joy. This was life as it could be, should be; except, of course, for the high priced lunches.
And this week, the area Home School Christmas choir concert put on by 60 young men and women showed yet another picture of life as it could be, should be. The songs poured forth in rich variety demonstrating the incredible abundance of artistic and musical fascination with the story of Christmas over the centuries. Every land, every era has produced musical praise in majestic and memorable manner; all taken by the amazing advent of God in flesh. And that is as it should be. It is impossible to sing these songs of Zion and be mad at the world, or your neighbor. Beautiful as well was the sight of young men and young women, acting in concert, complimenting each other in bold unison or subtle harmony. No room for gender animosities or exploitive manipulation here. Peace reigned as all were held thrall to a director’s lead, a clue for how to find peace when all follow after the Master’s will. And just to have a concert is proof that the world is temporarily, anyway, safe for the arts that warm the soul but serve no real, practical purpose.
In a world gone sour in so many ways, isn’t it grand we can still catch glimpses of the image of God in his goodness in day to day existence? May we keep looking for it, and find it, and cherish it.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Kingdom of God
“The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field…” Matt. 13:31
Forty five years ago this Saturday, I walked out in front of a room full of people and pledged my life to a lovely young lady. It was a scary occasion where promises were made ‘til death do us part and all of that. A few minutes passed by, and then I was a married man. It didn’t take long at all to pass over that threshold of life alone to life together. Just a few minutes, some exchange of words, a pronouncement, and a piece of signed paper was all it took to redirect my whole life. I was in the club, complete with newly minted wedding band.
As I walked out and down the aisle, not a whole lot had really changed in my personal being. I still loathed broccoli, had my distinct ideas regarding wardrobe selections, and certainly did not like wearing a ring. I conceded that I would wear it for the honeymoon, but then, forget it. Little did I know that a wedding ceremony was just the beginning of a total make-over. Neither one of us suspected as much.
I soon learned that taking off the wedding band at night was just not the thing to do. In fact, I have worn it continually to this day. In fact, this thing called marriage just kept on growing and insinuating itself into every part of my personal life and business. It started affecting the way I dressed, the way I ate dinner (with manners), the way I spoke, and the way I thought about things like birthday cards and Mother’s Day cards. It introduced me to the joys of tacos, real Italian spaghetti, and deep fried okra. Indeed, my wardrobe changed, my manners changed, my music changed, my habits of where I dropped my clothes changed, and even the way I put the toothpaste cap on the toothpaste tube changed.
Then along came some children who changed my life even more drastically than I could ever have imagined. Instead of me being at the center of the universe or even sharing that center with another, now suddenly I only owned a minority share of it. I was willing to forego sleep, change a smelly diaper, and clean up after a knock down drag out fight with green beans and a one year old. How could something that small completely take over and trump my plans for the weekend let alone my finances and all my heart-felt priorities?
With each child, my world was stretched, and I was changed some more. Now that they are gone from the house, I have taken back the rooms where they had set up their separate kingdoms, places where they had freely established their own tastes and preferences independent of mine. But yet, if I were to lose any one of them now, I would be diminished as a person as painfully as if you had cut off an arm. Then there are the grandchildren whose insidious smiles and giggles have taken and stretched my heart to ever new extremes. This marriage thing just will not be contained and keeps on growing, keeps on investing itself like a virus into every portion of my life, and keeps on scaling new ramparts within the most private and selfish parts of my soul. How could I have imagined what an unstoppable flood those wedding vows would loose within me.
So too, the kingdom of God is like a grain of mustard seed, exceedingly small, yet finding root, it sprouts and grows and will not be denied its destiny to occupy a great space, larger than all the garden plants, becoming a tree so that the birds of the air come and nest in its branches. How much like a marriage that begins with a simple oath and then starts its work to bring life where before was just raw soil and a little rain. It is an invasive species in both instances that takes over whatever it touches, reaching its tentacles into every corner, into places that we did not even know existed.
I am not the same man I was 45 years ago for which all of you need be grateful. It is due in large part to a very patient wife but also to the steadfast work of the Spirit of God that refuses to leave me as I am. My faith in marriage tells me that the changes I see are for my best. I can see that clearly now. It was not always so clear in the midst of the stretching. My faith in God says his pruning is also for my good. To have remained the same would have been to settle for a small pot of static plastic flowers, slowly gathering dust, instead of an ever expanding living plant that bears actual fruit. Be glad for life and growth, change and transformation, both mine and yours.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Forty five years ago this Saturday, I walked out in front of a room full of people and pledged my life to a lovely young lady. It was a scary occasion where promises were made ‘til death do us part and all of that. A few minutes passed by, and then I was a married man. It didn’t take long at all to pass over that threshold of life alone to life together. Just a few minutes, some exchange of words, a pronouncement, and a piece of signed paper was all it took to redirect my whole life. I was in the club, complete with newly minted wedding band.
As I walked out and down the aisle, not a whole lot had really changed in my personal being. I still loathed broccoli, had my distinct ideas regarding wardrobe selections, and certainly did not like wearing a ring. I conceded that I would wear it for the honeymoon, but then, forget it. Little did I know that a wedding ceremony was just the beginning of a total make-over. Neither one of us suspected as much.
I soon learned that taking off the wedding band at night was just not the thing to do. In fact, I have worn it continually to this day. In fact, this thing called marriage just kept on growing and insinuating itself into every part of my personal life and business. It started affecting the way I dressed, the way I ate dinner (with manners), the way I spoke, and the way I thought about things like birthday cards and Mother’s Day cards. It introduced me to the joys of tacos, real Italian spaghetti, and deep fried okra. Indeed, my wardrobe changed, my manners changed, my music changed, my habits of where I dropped my clothes changed, and even the way I put the toothpaste cap on the toothpaste tube changed.
Then along came some children who changed my life even more drastically than I could ever have imagined. Instead of me being at the center of the universe or even sharing that center with another, now suddenly I only owned a minority share of it. I was willing to forego sleep, change a smelly diaper, and clean up after a knock down drag out fight with green beans and a one year old. How could something that small completely take over and trump my plans for the weekend let alone my finances and all my heart-felt priorities?
With each child, my world was stretched, and I was changed some more. Now that they are gone from the house, I have taken back the rooms where they had set up their separate kingdoms, places where they had freely established their own tastes and preferences independent of mine. But yet, if I were to lose any one of them now, I would be diminished as a person as painfully as if you had cut off an arm. Then there are the grandchildren whose insidious smiles and giggles have taken and stretched my heart to ever new extremes. This marriage thing just will not be contained and keeps on growing, keeps on investing itself like a virus into every portion of my life, and keeps on scaling new ramparts within the most private and selfish parts of my soul. How could I have imagined what an unstoppable flood those wedding vows would loose within me.
So too, the kingdom of God is like a grain of mustard seed, exceedingly small, yet finding root, it sprouts and grows and will not be denied its destiny to occupy a great space, larger than all the garden plants, becoming a tree so that the birds of the air come and nest in its branches. How much like a marriage that begins with a simple oath and then starts its work to bring life where before was just raw soil and a little rain. It is an invasive species in both instances that takes over whatever it touches, reaching its tentacles into every corner, into places that we did not even know existed.
I am not the same man I was 45 years ago for which all of you need be grateful. It is due in large part to a very patient wife but also to the steadfast work of the Spirit of God that refuses to leave me as I am. My faith in marriage tells me that the changes I see are for my best. I can see that clearly now. It was not always so clear in the midst of the stretching. My faith in God says his pruning is also for my good. To have remained the same would have been to settle for a small pot of static plastic flowers, slowly gathering dust, instead of an ever expanding living plant that bears actual fruit. Be glad for life and growth, change and transformation, both mine and yours.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Night watches
My soul shall be satisfied … when … I meditate on thee in the night watches. –Ps. 63:5-6
I stumbled through the dark pasture at 5:00 AM with only a single, green, night-vision LED showing the way. The quiet of the night was unbroken by the usual dog alarm. I was straining to hear the lumbering shifting of cows who were out there somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly they were there with at least 8 pairs of glowing eyes all trained on me the intruder into their grassy haven. Fumbling in the dark, I found my spot, trying not to crunch too loudly on those dried and fallen leaves I ordinarily love to rustle. Dried leaves, a crisp fall night, smells of autumn, and the silence of the dead of night all combined to provide a habitation that welcomed me into its dark bosom. The sky was ink black except for every star in the universe peeking through, wanting to be noticed. There, straight above me and standing proud on its handle, was the Big Dipper. I sat in admiration of how it guided southern, run-away slaves who followed their friend, “the drinkin’ gourd,” to safe haven in the north. It is an indelible sign post in the sky that even the most uneducated or simple can follow. Not long after settling in with branches and leaves around me in my freshly made nest, a thin ribbon of light started to dissolve the darkened sky; the hope of a new day.
As the light slowly grew to herald the coming sun, it was almost as if it came as an enemy or intruder to a hundred crows; birds of the day but dark as night. They took to the sky in steadily increasing numbers raising a cacophony of caws and cawing that had a raucous and almost angry sound. Perhaps it was their only way of showing their applause for the dawn raising its curtain after an intermission that had grown interminable. They were sure to spread the word winging their way either singly or in groups, never content to just fly through the air in quiet flight like any respectable bird.
The cows in the pasture were now clearly visible, some slowly rousing themselves, but most content to lie in their beds like any of us when faced with a new day. The grass was gently frosted, proudly showing a hardy claim to life in spite of winter’s warning shots. The burgeoning light occasionally threw sparks of light off a crystalled blade or leaf. The usual whispers of night sounds were suddenly trumped by a chattering squeal not too far off in the distance. It was too irregular for a bird; too high pitched for a dog or coyote. It played upon my imagination as it kept repeating itself in sharp alarm. It then grew silent and was no more. Suddenly my senses were raised to the awareness of living in a world where death stalks us all. Nature is cruel as well as beautiful, and I suspect I was listening to the death throes of some rabbit or small animal caught in the claws of an owl or other predator. And here I was, the ultimate predator, lying in deadly wait for fresh venison for my freezer.
The sun slowly pushed its way over the hill as our little spot joyfully received its warming rays sent out several minutes before from that gigantic nuclear furnace in the sky, some 92 million miles away. My senses were alert for my prey to make its appearance knowing full well how softly and unobtrusively they can insinuate themselves into a staid landscape. While the waiting continued, half-hour after half-hour, I occupied myself with some prayers for church, family, and school. Prayer and quiet, softly combined to fix an iron cord between the human and the divine, arching its way from woods to sky to eternity and beyond, a mystery far greater than all.
Then suddenly, my eye caught movement, and there in front of me was the sight I had longed to see. He had, of course, snuck up on me as if to say, “You need to be watching better than that.” I followed him carefully with excitement welling up within me. But then, as he cleared the brush, I could clearly see his button nubs where antlers will soon grow. “Next year, little fellah, next year.” But still it was a glorious sight to see this beautiful creature filling my sight with cross hairs laid across his heart. Admiration and yet the need to kill and eat; the beauty and the beast within us all.
As the morning spent itself without further success to the hunt, thoughts of success and failure chased each other across my mind. No trophy to take home and yet the time spent sitting, listening, watching, observing, had sharpened my senses to the sticking point. How I would love to drag my students out and sit them in the woods to watch the coming day and see how many wonders they could find, how many thoughts they could capture, and how wonderful a psalm they could write to describe it all. They might also find that time, spent in deliberate slow motion, is not quite so scary after all.
I stumbled through the dark pasture at 5:00 AM with only a single, green, night-vision LED showing the way. The quiet of the night was unbroken by the usual dog alarm. I was straining to hear the lumbering shifting of cows who were out there somewhere in the darkness. Suddenly they were there with at least 8 pairs of glowing eyes all trained on me the intruder into their grassy haven. Fumbling in the dark, I found my spot, trying not to crunch too loudly on those dried and fallen leaves I ordinarily love to rustle. Dried leaves, a crisp fall night, smells of autumn, and the silence of the dead of night all combined to provide a habitation that welcomed me into its dark bosom. The sky was ink black except for every star in the universe peeking through, wanting to be noticed. There, straight above me and standing proud on its handle, was the Big Dipper. I sat in admiration of how it guided southern, run-away slaves who followed their friend, “the drinkin’ gourd,” to safe haven in the north. It is an indelible sign post in the sky that even the most uneducated or simple can follow. Not long after settling in with branches and leaves around me in my freshly made nest, a thin ribbon of light started to dissolve the darkened sky; the hope of a new day.
As the light slowly grew to herald the coming sun, it was almost as if it came as an enemy or intruder to a hundred crows; birds of the day but dark as night. They took to the sky in steadily increasing numbers raising a cacophony of caws and cawing that had a raucous and almost angry sound. Perhaps it was their only way of showing their applause for the dawn raising its curtain after an intermission that had grown interminable. They were sure to spread the word winging their way either singly or in groups, never content to just fly through the air in quiet flight like any respectable bird.
The cows in the pasture were now clearly visible, some slowly rousing themselves, but most content to lie in their beds like any of us when faced with a new day. The grass was gently frosted, proudly showing a hardy claim to life in spite of winter’s warning shots. The burgeoning light occasionally threw sparks of light off a crystalled blade or leaf. The usual whispers of night sounds were suddenly trumped by a chattering squeal not too far off in the distance. It was too irregular for a bird; too high pitched for a dog or coyote. It played upon my imagination as it kept repeating itself in sharp alarm. It then grew silent and was no more. Suddenly my senses were raised to the awareness of living in a world where death stalks us all. Nature is cruel as well as beautiful, and I suspect I was listening to the death throes of some rabbit or small animal caught in the claws of an owl or other predator. And here I was, the ultimate predator, lying in deadly wait for fresh venison for my freezer.
The sun slowly pushed its way over the hill as our little spot joyfully received its warming rays sent out several minutes before from that gigantic nuclear furnace in the sky, some 92 million miles away. My senses were alert for my prey to make its appearance knowing full well how softly and unobtrusively they can insinuate themselves into a staid landscape. While the waiting continued, half-hour after half-hour, I occupied myself with some prayers for church, family, and school. Prayer and quiet, softly combined to fix an iron cord between the human and the divine, arching its way from woods to sky to eternity and beyond, a mystery far greater than all.
Then suddenly, my eye caught movement, and there in front of me was the sight I had longed to see. He had, of course, snuck up on me as if to say, “You need to be watching better than that.” I followed him carefully with excitement welling up within me. But then, as he cleared the brush, I could clearly see his button nubs where antlers will soon grow. “Next year, little fellah, next year.” But still it was a glorious sight to see this beautiful creature filling my sight with cross hairs laid across his heart. Admiration and yet the need to kill and eat; the beauty and the beast within us all.
As the morning spent itself without further success to the hunt, thoughts of success and failure chased each other across my mind. No trophy to take home and yet the time spent sitting, listening, watching, observing, had sharpened my senses to the sticking point. How I would love to drag my students out and sit them in the woods to watch the coming day and see how many wonders they could find, how many thoughts they could capture, and how wonderful a psalm they could write to describe it all. They might also find that time, spent in deliberate slow motion, is not quite so scary after all.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Politics of Change, II
“Judge not according to the appearance, but judge righteous judgment.” John 7:24
Conservative or progressive? I decided last week that I prefer G.K. Chesterton’s appellation of “reformer” to either of the two more traditional viewpoints concerning change. Change is the hinge pin upon which all this debate, both modern and ancient, revolves. In what direction are we moving? Is it good or bad? Who decides?
As Christians, we are uniquely situated between this world and the next to offer both friendship and judgment. We embrace this world as God’s gift to us both to use and to tend, fallen though it may be. But we also have a picture of what it was supposed to look like and what it will be when fully redeemed and restored. No one else can offer this perspective of where we came from and where we need to go. Our sense of “change” has a fixed standard, an eternal vision, by which we can measure true progress. Francis Bacon, the father of modern science, wrote back in 1620, “For man by the fall fell at the same time from his state of innocency and from his dominion over creation. Both of these losses however can even in this life be in some part repaired; the former by religion and faith, the latter by arts and sciences.” No need to apologize. We stand in good company.
To make judgments against our culture is the epitome of bad manners these days. The very word, “judgment,” is loaded with sinister connotations and will quickly make for embarrassed looks at modern day dinner parties. Yet that is clearly what we are called to do in the traditions of all the prophetic voices of Scripture. It may mean standing on a street corner and calling on fellow travelers to repent, but more likely, it will impel us to just examine on a daily basis the choices and the voices that confront us and decide which are of God and which are not. To judge is simply to discern truth from error. Those who deny the dichotomy of truth and error are hopelessly lost in an endless maze of aimless confusion. They are to be pitied; not emulated.
But the essential part of discernment is to have a clear vision of what the eternal non-negotiables are. I was raised to never attend movies in a theater. That protest against Hollywood lifestyles died when movies came into everyone’s home on TV. What is the standard that we are communicating, and where do we draw the line? As our culture and technology change around us, we have to have fresh insights into what exactly we are to cling to and what we should reject. This calls for constant, new-wineskin thinking. It is probably the most difficult challenge that each generation faces; to hand down the visions we cherish so dearly to a new generation without the chaff of outmoded forms and traditions. Even for myself, I need to have my visions of faith and stewardship reborn anew as I fight the stultifying agents of age and routine.
So, too, education must never become encrusted with unquestioning, rote repetition of the past. But neither should it be allowed to become a free-for-all sandbox of new and untested theories where innovation is prized for its own sake. Take the field of English for example (as I promised). I continue to believe that words have both power and meaning. (That can be revolutionary enough in some circles.) I do not believe that words should be allowed to fall into the hands of slick lawyers or querulous intellectuals who would shred their meaning for selfish purposes. I do not think they should be allowed to fall into the grasp of skeptics who would lace them with a thousand doubts. And I pledge to resist the perversion of language by pornographic perpetrators in the name of realism or the cheapening of language by trendy shortcuts that deny the power of the narrative or the poetic. I believe that the printed page still can represent the highest ends and accomplishments of mankind and can lead us to the Book of Books that continues to illumine our pathway home. This is my vision that I hope will guide me through the tumultuous waters of change already lapping at the boat we know of as “language arts.” It is also the vision I hope to impart to the next generation, whether they kindle, text, tweet, or blog (four words which were not even in our vocabulary ten years ago).
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Conservative or progressive? I decided last week that I prefer G.K. Chesterton’s appellation of “reformer” to either of the two more traditional viewpoints concerning change. Change is the hinge pin upon which all this debate, both modern and ancient, revolves. In what direction are we moving? Is it good or bad? Who decides?
As Christians, we are uniquely situated between this world and the next to offer both friendship and judgment. We embrace this world as God’s gift to us both to use and to tend, fallen though it may be. But we also have a picture of what it was supposed to look like and what it will be when fully redeemed and restored. No one else can offer this perspective of where we came from and where we need to go. Our sense of “change” has a fixed standard, an eternal vision, by which we can measure true progress. Francis Bacon, the father of modern science, wrote back in 1620, “For man by the fall fell at the same time from his state of innocency and from his dominion over creation. Both of these losses however can even in this life be in some part repaired; the former by religion and faith, the latter by arts and sciences.” No need to apologize. We stand in good company.
To make judgments against our culture is the epitome of bad manners these days. The very word, “judgment,” is loaded with sinister connotations and will quickly make for embarrassed looks at modern day dinner parties. Yet that is clearly what we are called to do in the traditions of all the prophetic voices of Scripture. It may mean standing on a street corner and calling on fellow travelers to repent, but more likely, it will impel us to just examine on a daily basis the choices and the voices that confront us and decide which are of God and which are not. To judge is simply to discern truth from error. Those who deny the dichotomy of truth and error are hopelessly lost in an endless maze of aimless confusion. They are to be pitied; not emulated.
But the essential part of discernment is to have a clear vision of what the eternal non-negotiables are. I was raised to never attend movies in a theater. That protest against Hollywood lifestyles died when movies came into everyone’s home on TV. What is the standard that we are communicating, and where do we draw the line? As our culture and technology change around us, we have to have fresh insights into what exactly we are to cling to and what we should reject. This calls for constant, new-wineskin thinking. It is probably the most difficult challenge that each generation faces; to hand down the visions we cherish so dearly to a new generation without the chaff of outmoded forms and traditions. Even for myself, I need to have my visions of faith and stewardship reborn anew as I fight the stultifying agents of age and routine.
So, too, education must never become encrusted with unquestioning, rote repetition of the past. But neither should it be allowed to become a free-for-all sandbox of new and untested theories where innovation is prized for its own sake. Take the field of English for example (as I promised). I continue to believe that words have both power and meaning. (That can be revolutionary enough in some circles.) I do not believe that words should be allowed to fall into the hands of slick lawyers or querulous intellectuals who would shred their meaning for selfish purposes. I do not think they should be allowed to fall into the grasp of skeptics who would lace them with a thousand doubts. And I pledge to resist the perversion of language by pornographic perpetrators in the name of realism or the cheapening of language by trendy shortcuts that deny the power of the narrative or the poetic. I believe that the printed page still can represent the highest ends and accomplishments of mankind and can lead us to the Book of Books that continues to illumine our pathway home. This is my vision that I hope will guide me through the tumultuous waters of change already lapping at the boat we know of as “language arts.” It is also the vision I hope to impart to the next generation, whether they kindle, text, tweet, or blog (four words which were not even in our vocabulary ten years ago).
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Politics of Change, I
“You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.” - Matt. 5:13
Since the decline of American reading habits is now so well documented, we have decided that the future commends us to de-emphasize writing in our curriculum and, instead, begin training our students in the art of producing short video clips for YouTube. We calculate that at the present rate, texting and twitter will supplant the need for day to day communication and that video is the wave of the future in reaching the masses. We will no longer be inflicting endless spelling and grammar lessons on students because of the new, freely abbreviated language emerging in txt & twt.
Do I have your attention yet? Is this scenario so far-fetched anymore? I do think it is time to admit we live in an era of unprecedented change in the field of communications. So should we endorse all this change and hop on board, not wanting to give up the chance to influence this cultural shift in the name of Christian education? Is this new shift a symptom of cultural decline or simply a new ministry opportunity? The larger question revolves around whether you consider yourself a conservative or a progressive.
Conservatism is based upon the idea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But you do not. If you leave a thing alone you leave it exposed to a torrent of corrosive influences and change. A white post left alone soon becomes a black post. So, too, it is with human institutions. Men are natural backsliders. Human virtue tends by its own nature to rust and rot. Witness the moral drift of our oldest colleges, Harvard and Yale, and the similar tale of decline that has accompanied many churches over the years. Simply clinging to tradition as “the way we have always done it” is no hedge against dissolution and decay. I have decided I am no conservative.
Progressivism assumes that through technology and science the human condition is improving every day, in every way. Change is inevitable and natural and leads us on to broad sunlit paths away from the antiquated and primitive past. There are some problems with this assumption, as any student of nuclear war can tell you. Progressives also suffer from the lack of a fixed target, goal, or endpoint. It is hard for them to agree on a set goal because they have no absolute by which to measure “progress.” Progress should mean that we are always changing the world to suit a vision, but it has been found much easier to just change the vision. Schools used to stress striving for various competencies. Then they shifted to building self-esteem. What we have today are students with steadily declining test scores but who feel better about themselves than ever before in history (in documented test results). I decided I am no progressive.
G.K. Chesterton was much more comfortable with the appellation of “reformer” for it implied a certain set form for which we strive. For him the ideal vision must be set, and he looked to the Scriptures for a form that was set and fixed before time began. A reformer sees a certain thing out of shape and sets to put it into shape, knowing well what that shape is. A reformer is fond of this world in order to change it, but is also fond of another world in order to have something to change it to. This I can live with.
I have decided I am no conservative who will cling tenaciously to the dry crust of tradition long after it has been hollowed out and sucked dry of all essence and life. I am no progressive who is slave to a blind belief that change is of necessity both inevitable and good especially when those who propose it cannot define what the good is. I would rather claim to be a reformer, ever vigilant to call us back to the heavenly vision that remains a constant yet needs to be ever reborn in us anew with fresh zeal and insight. It is not by the might of tradition as it slogs along some weary path or the power of the crowd as it clamors for something new and novel but by the Spirit of the ever living eternal Lord that we build our lives or maintain any human institution (apologies to Zach. 4:6). I want to be ready and willing to judge cultural trends as they come and be an agent of cultural reform instead of either a mere, unthinking follower or an intransigent obstructionist.
As for reading and grammar … to be continued.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Thoughts were freely taken from G.K. Chesterton and his book, Orthodoxy (chapter 7), written in 1908.
Since the decline of American reading habits is now so well documented, we have decided that the future commends us to de-emphasize writing in our curriculum and, instead, begin training our students in the art of producing short video clips for YouTube. We calculate that at the present rate, texting and twitter will supplant the need for day to day communication and that video is the wave of the future in reaching the masses. We will no longer be inflicting endless spelling and grammar lessons on students because of the new, freely abbreviated language emerging in txt & twt.
Do I have your attention yet? Is this scenario so far-fetched anymore? I do think it is time to admit we live in an era of unprecedented change in the field of communications. So should we endorse all this change and hop on board, not wanting to give up the chance to influence this cultural shift in the name of Christian education? Is this new shift a symptom of cultural decline or simply a new ministry opportunity? The larger question revolves around whether you consider yourself a conservative or a progressive.
Conservatism is based upon the idea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But you do not. If you leave a thing alone you leave it exposed to a torrent of corrosive influences and change. A white post left alone soon becomes a black post. So, too, it is with human institutions. Men are natural backsliders. Human virtue tends by its own nature to rust and rot. Witness the moral drift of our oldest colleges, Harvard and Yale, and the similar tale of decline that has accompanied many churches over the years. Simply clinging to tradition as “the way we have always done it” is no hedge against dissolution and decay. I have decided I am no conservative.
Progressivism assumes that through technology and science the human condition is improving every day, in every way. Change is inevitable and natural and leads us on to broad sunlit paths away from the antiquated and primitive past. There are some problems with this assumption, as any student of nuclear war can tell you. Progressives also suffer from the lack of a fixed target, goal, or endpoint. It is hard for them to agree on a set goal because they have no absolute by which to measure “progress.” Progress should mean that we are always changing the world to suit a vision, but it has been found much easier to just change the vision. Schools used to stress striving for various competencies. Then they shifted to building self-esteem. What we have today are students with steadily declining test scores but who feel better about themselves than ever before in history (in documented test results). I decided I am no progressive.
G.K. Chesterton was much more comfortable with the appellation of “reformer” for it implied a certain set form for which we strive. For him the ideal vision must be set, and he looked to the Scriptures for a form that was set and fixed before time began. A reformer sees a certain thing out of shape and sets to put it into shape, knowing well what that shape is. A reformer is fond of this world in order to change it, but is also fond of another world in order to have something to change it to. This I can live with.
I have decided I am no conservative who will cling tenaciously to the dry crust of tradition long after it has been hollowed out and sucked dry of all essence and life. I am no progressive who is slave to a blind belief that change is of necessity both inevitable and good especially when those who propose it cannot define what the good is. I would rather claim to be a reformer, ever vigilant to call us back to the heavenly vision that remains a constant yet needs to be ever reborn in us anew with fresh zeal and insight. It is not by the might of tradition as it slogs along some weary path or the power of the crowd as it clamors for something new and novel but by the Spirit of the ever living eternal Lord that we build our lives or maintain any human institution (apologies to Zach. 4:6). I want to be ready and willing to judge cultural trends as they come and be an agent of cultural reform instead of either a mere, unthinking follower or an intransigent obstructionist.
As for reading and grammar … to be continued.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Thoughts were freely taken from G.K. Chesterton and his book, Orthodoxy (chapter 7), written in 1908.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Deadly Doubt
“You of little faith, why did you doubt?” -Matt. 14:31
Pity poor Peter. Here he goes and joins Jesus walking on water, demonstrating beyond words that the Master has power over wind and wave and that he is willing to trust in that by jumping overboard himself. Then, all so shortly after his triumph of faith and example, he starts to doubt and sink. The first impulse to pitch over the side of the boat was his finest moment. His action screamed to all, “Follow me.” But then the wetness of that water had to have drawn his eyes down to his feet, miraculously suspended over nothingness, and the thought had to have occurred to him, “What have I just done?” As soon as the heart started to sink, so did the feet.
Doubt always seems to haunt our finest accomplishments. A long time past in a place far away, I knew of a young man who had spent a carefully calculated year of his life building a house for his young family. The land was paid for. The materials had been carefully laid up in advance. The design utilized rough-sawn boards from a mill. The aim was to be debt free. The house grew steadily all that summer with the help of a few friends and was ready to move into by winter’s first freeze. A good hard freeze did come a bit sooner than expected and a still exposed pipe froze under the house. Alone, he crawled under the house and spent some considerable time with a torch in a fruitless effort to thaw the frozen pipe. Frustration and doubts grew by the minute and were certainly exaggerated by the year’s toil and weariness. Finally, he gave up, and as he emerged from that crawl space, he threw down the torch in a pile of scrap-wood, walked off in dejected defeat, and said to himself, “I’ve created a monster.” The house burned to the ground as a total loss.
I saw that house shortly before it burned. It was beautiful in its artful simplicity; a masterpiece of economy and style. I had praised the plan as brilliant, the workmanship as of the highest order. A single doubt undermined and destroyed the dream of years in one, heart-sick day. But strange as it may seem, I understood the defeated spirit that had undercut my friend. Have not we all experienced the same struggle on a thousand fronts so many times before? None, perhaps, with such catastrophic consequences. But nevertheless, we know the dark moments of doubt that persistently dog our finest moments; especially our finest moments.
My best sermons, my finest prayers, my most labored woodworking efforts, my most profound contributions to conversation or print are almost always followed by doubt. The master doubt planter comes and sows those seeds in the small hours of the morning. “What have you done now? My, but that was silly. Can you actually believe you said (or did) that?” Even the great cooks in my family never fail to place their best creations on the table without disclaimers and doubts. “Is it good? Do you like it?” I think this continued curse to mankind of fear and doubt comes from the same one who uttered those eternally deadly words, “Hath God said?”
It is one thing to live with some healthy humility that includes room for self-imposed questioning. It is quite another thing to see good things, to see hopes and dreams die under a crushing load of doubt. It certainly enters the mind of every newly married person at some point or other, “Have I just made the biggest mistake of my life?” And tragically, far too many succumb to it. We bring children into the world and pour ourselves into their parenting only to confront the horrors of doubt in the lonely moments of our soul.
It was said of Daniel that he could dissolve doubts (Dan. 5:12). We sure could use him from time to time. But his source of strength is available to all; even today. And may we be ever willing to extend hope to the hopeless. It is a ministry as sorely needed as any; the ministry of encouragement. Who about us is peering into the abyss and in need of a steady hand and a good word?
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Pity poor Peter. Here he goes and joins Jesus walking on water, demonstrating beyond words that the Master has power over wind and wave and that he is willing to trust in that by jumping overboard himself. Then, all so shortly after his triumph of faith and example, he starts to doubt and sink. The first impulse to pitch over the side of the boat was his finest moment. His action screamed to all, “Follow me.” But then the wetness of that water had to have drawn his eyes down to his feet, miraculously suspended over nothingness, and the thought had to have occurred to him, “What have I just done?” As soon as the heart started to sink, so did the feet.
Doubt always seems to haunt our finest accomplishments. A long time past in a place far away, I knew of a young man who had spent a carefully calculated year of his life building a house for his young family. The land was paid for. The materials had been carefully laid up in advance. The design utilized rough-sawn boards from a mill. The aim was to be debt free. The house grew steadily all that summer with the help of a few friends and was ready to move into by winter’s first freeze. A good hard freeze did come a bit sooner than expected and a still exposed pipe froze under the house. Alone, he crawled under the house and spent some considerable time with a torch in a fruitless effort to thaw the frozen pipe. Frustration and doubts grew by the minute and were certainly exaggerated by the year’s toil and weariness. Finally, he gave up, and as he emerged from that crawl space, he threw down the torch in a pile of scrap-wood, walked off in dejected defeat, and said to himself, “I’ve created a monster.” The house burned to the ground as a total loss.
I saw that house shortly before it burned. It was beautiful in its artful simplicity; a masterpiece of economy and style. I had praised the plan as brilliant, the workmanship as of the highest order. A single doubt undermined and destroyed the dream of years in one, heart-sick day. But strange as it may seem, I understood the defeated spirit that had undercut my friend. Have not we all experienced the same struggle on a thousand fronts so many times before? None, perhaps, with such catastrophic consequences. But nevertheless, we know the dark moments of doubt that persistently dog our finest moments; especially our finest moments.
My best sermons, my finest prayers, my most labored woodworking efforts, my most profound contributions to conversation or print are almost always followed by doubt. The master doubt planter comes and sows those seeds in the small hours of the morning. “What have you done now? My, but that was silly. Can you actually believe you said (or did) that?” Even the great cooks in my family never fail to place their best creations on the table without disclaimers and doubts. “Is it good? Do you like it?” I think this continued curse to mankind of fear and doubt comes from the same one who uttered those eternally deadly words, “Hath God said?”
It is one thing to live with some healthy humility that includes room for self-imposed questioning. It is quite another thing to see good things, to see hopes and dreams die under a crushing load of doubt. It certainly enters the mind of every newly married person at some point or other, “Have I just made the biggest mistake of my life?” And tragically, far too many succumb to it. We bring children into the world and pour ourselves into their parenting only to confront the horrors of doubt in the lonely moments of our soul.
It was said of Daniel that he could dissolve doubts (Dan. 5:12). We sure could use him from time to time. But his source of strength is available to all; even today. And may we be ever willing to extend hope to the hopeless. It is a ministry as sorely needed as any; the ministry of encouragement. Who about us is peering into the abyss and in need of a steady hand and a good word?
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Friday, September 23, 2011
The New and the Old
“…there is no new thing under the sun.” -Ecc. 1:9
One of the advantages of being old is that I can remember when new ideas were once old ideas, long since discarded. When I first graduated from Wheaton College in 1966, we learned under the traditional semester system where school started after Labor Day, semester exams were held in early January, and school let out in early June. That’s the way it was back then except we were hearing about a new model of doing school called the quarter system. It was taking root in some state schools and seemed cutting edge and revolutionary. By the time I went back for graduate school two years later, the quarter system was standard in most colleges and universities. The school year was divided into three equal quarters with a fourth quarter available in the summer. Most students liked the quarter system because of shorter class lengths and because they fit neatly between vacation times. No taking home papers and guilt over the Christmas break.
Fast forward some twenty years later, and I was in the middle of another graduate program at UT, on the quarter system. But lo and behold, all of a sudden a new wave of innovation was sweeping the nation’s universities. It was called the semester system. By the time I graduated, I had a bevy of both quarter and semester credits with higher math called in to calculate their equivalency. We all were assured, however, that the semester system was a much better educational experience with some folks actually trying to pass it off as “new.”
In my old age, I confess to be a bit numb to whatever is being bandied about as being “new” in the field of “education.” I have seen any number of fads come and go; from schools without failure to open classrooms without walls or doors. But most interesting are the old concepts that resurface from time to time as “cutting edge, innovative, reforms.” It looks like we have another one on our hands with the current renewed interest in “community schools.”
Having been raised in community schools back in the days before bussing and consolidation, it perked my interest. I have long lamented the disappearance of small community or, what we used to call, neighborhood schools. These were schools that children could walk to within their own neighborhoods. I grew up walking to school from K5 through 4th grade while living in the city. At Oakwood Elementary, we students even walked home for lunch and then returned for afternoon classes. The school was small, but neighborhood involvement was high. It was a hub for social activities as well as education. We knew and were known by others. Bullies could not hide in some faceless mob. We supported our school with newspaper drives and scout groups. It was our school.
But the neighborhood school concept was soon seen as outmoded. It was clearly shown on a piece of paper that consolidating into larger schools brought greater cost efficiency and made possible greater course offerings and more special services. Greater numbers of students had to be bussed in and student body populations soared. Coaches loved it because it gave them greater numbers to pick from for athletic teams. Administrator salaries grew proportionally. All sorts of new classes proliferated with special teachers. It was an impressive superstructure to behold. No one seemed to notice the increased anonymity that students experienced. The criminal element loved it. And good students had to claw their way to the top to gain access to student government or sports team leadership. Only one student in 2000 was able to claim the prize of being the band, drum major. PTA was a distant and amorphous activity. After-school activities were privy only to those with transportation. And the politics of control slipped away to some centralized district.
Imagine my amusement when this week’s News Sentinel featured a front page story about our superintendent visiting some “cutting-edge” new schools in Cincinnati called “community schools.” They are smaller, given over to high community involvement, and reflective of the needs and make-up of the local community or neighborhood. Guess what? Parental involvement is higher, school buildings function as a social hub, test scores are higher, and everybody seems happier. I love it. What is old is new again. But it is only politically acceptable if we re-label it as “new” and “innovative.” This new wineskin raises some questions, but if done well, it could be a very positive step in returning American schools back towards their former position of greatness. Now, I wonder how long it will be before they re-introduce the possibility of failure? What could we call it? How about “terminal re-direction”? Pardon my cynicism.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
One of the advantages of being old is that I can remember when new ideas were once old ideas, long since discarded. When I first graduated from Wheaton College in 1966, we learned under the traditional semester system where school started after Labor Day, semester exams were held in early January, and school let out in early June. That’s the way it was back then except we were hearing about a new model of doing school called the quarter system. It was taking root in some state schools and seemed cutting edge and revolutionary. By the time I went back for graduate school two years later, the quarter system was standard in most colleges and universities. The school year was divided into three equal quarters with a fourth quarter available in the summer. Most students liked the quarter system because of shorter class lengths and because they fit neatly between vacation times. No taking home papers and guilt over the Christmas break.
Fast forward some twenty years later, and I was in the middle of another graduate program at UT, on the quarter system. But lo and behold, all of a sudden a new wave of innovation was sweeping the nation’s universities. It was called the semester system. By the time I graduated, I had a bevy of both quarter and semester credits with higher math called in to calculate their equivalency. We all were assured, however, that the semester system was a much better educational experience with some folks actually trying to pass it off as “new.”
In my old age, I confess to be a bit numb to whatever is being bandied about as being “new” in the field of “education.” I have seen any number of fads come and go; from schools without failure to open classrooms without walls or doors. But most interesting are the old concepts that resurface from time to time as “cutting edge, innovative, reforms.” It looks like we have another one on our hands with the current renewed interest in “community schools.”
Having been raised in community schools back in the days before bussing and consolidation, it perked my interest. I have long lamented the disappearance of small community or, what we used to call, neighborhood schools. These were schools that children could walk to within their own neighborhoods. I grew up walking to school from K5 through 4th grade while living in the city. At Oakwood Elementary, we students even walked home for lunch and then returned for afternoon classes. The school was small, but neighborhood involvement was high. It was a hub for social activities as well as education. We knew and were known by others. Bullies could not hide in some faceless mob. We supported our school with newspaper drives and scout groups. It was our school.
But the neighborhood school concept was soon seen as outmoded. It was clearly shown on a piece of paper that consolidating into larger schools brought greater cost efficiency and made possible greater course offerings and more special services. Greater numbers of students had to be bussed in and student body populations soared. Coaches loved it because it gave them greater numbers to pick from for athletic teams. Administrator salaries grew proportionally. All sorts of new classes proliferated with special teachers. It was an impressive superstructure to behold. No one seemed to notice the increased anonymity that students experienced. The criminal element loved it. And good students had to claw their way to the top to gain access to student government or sports team leadership. Only one student in 2000 was able to claim the prize of being the band, drum major. PTA was a distant and amorphous activity. After-school activities were privy only to those with transportation. And the politics of control slipped away to some centralized district.
Imagine my amusement when this week’s News Sentinel featured a front page story about our superintendent visiting some “cutting-edge” new schools in Cincinnati called “community schools.” They are smaller, given over to high community involvement, and reflective of the needs and make-up of the local community or neighborhood. Guess what? Parental involvement is higher, school buildings function as a social hub, test scores are higher, and everybody seems happier. I love it. What is old is new again. But it is only politically acceptable if we re-label it as “new” and “innovative.” This new wineskin raises some questions, but if done well, it could be a very positive step in returning American schools back towards their former position of greatness. Now, I wonder how long it will be before they re-introduce the possibility of failure? What could we call it? How about “terminal re-direction”? Pardon my cynicism.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Family and the Narrow Way
“God setteth the solitary in families….” -Psalm 68:6
Relatives and close family members can be both a blessing and a curse. I remember my much older cousin, Gerald, who would come out to our farm when I was a boy and would go rabbit hunting with me in the winter time. Now I could go rabbit hunting anytime I wanted to all by myself. I just seldom did. But when Gerald wanted to participate, it was a high, energy-packed affair that I would not have missed for anything. There were jokes and stories and a thing called male camaraderie; a term I would not have known at that age, but something very real I experienced and relished. It was richer still because we were both Nordmoes; men of the same bloodline, stomping through the winter snow, with guns, celebrating each kill with mutual praise.
Not all was goodness and light within the Nordmoe clan, however. Blessed with several aunts and uncles within a close geographic area, there was always someone not speaking to someone. I listened in on numerous stories of the quirks, foibles, and, at times, extremely hurtful things that were said and done, one to another. I remember one of my favorite uncles falling under the spell of alcohol for a time and putting his whole family through some years of agony and embarrassment. Then there was the crazy aunt who decided to open a restaurant with the gracious help of several extended family members. She may have known how to cook but was absolutely hapless when it came to working with people, most especially family. The grand experiment was short lived with a host of hurt feelings left in its wake.
As a young boy, I remember numerous boring afternoons spent sitting in the homes of my childless aunts and uncles as we made the obligatory visits. Those with cousins were a welcome relief, for the most part, considering that most of them were girls. I endured the aunt who insisted on kissing me. I resented at times the invalid grandmother who spent months living with us. She restricted our family freedom, never spoke to me, and smelled like an old person. Then there was the grandfather who picked trick or treat night to get in an accident far out of town and died shortly after we arrived at the hospital. Spoiled all my great plans. He never spoke to me either, but always there was some obligation to attend to him, the mysterious recluse.
All together, my extended family was quite a collection of average folk with a sprinkle of misfits, misers, loners, perfectionists, gadflies; all born with a general family propensity for stubbornness and aloofness that streaked them all. It was more my nature to run from them than to them. And even now as a grown and soon to be old man, I marvel how our family gatherings seem to gravitate to the funny stories we tell on one another. Our idiosyncrasies are well known throughout the family. So how is it that we should think it a good thing to live together in community? Why on earth would we want to purposefully tie ourselves in with other Christians when we can’t even get along with our own kin? Why sign up for more pain, frustration, and ties that restrict? And God wants to set the solitary in families like that’s a good thing?
I have been dwelling this weekend on how it actually is a good thing, even after spending three whole days holed up in a two bedroom cabin with five other adults and 4 grandchildren. Look at it this way. We have a hollowness at our core, a sin nature that prefers darkness to light. When left alone, we are at our worst. Who would think of swearing in church? Of course not. We have little trouble living the Christian life on Sunday mornings. Even within the family, we experience restraints that keep us in the narrow way. Cain would not have killed Abel had they been in the presence of Adam and Eve. So it is that fatherless boys are so much more likely to end up in prison. We chafe at the restrictions that family members put upon us, especially when they are irritating and spiteful. But even then, they confront us with real life versus the escapism that would tempt us to a life of obscurity where our evil deeds could be hidden under a veil of secrecy and anonymity. God knows best. There is safety in the flock. We need each other if only to bring out the best in us when challenged by another’s weakness. Now, if only I could sell that to teen-agers.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Relatives and close family members can be both a blessing and a curse. I remember my much older cousin, Gerald, who would come out to our farm when I was a boy and would go rabbit hunting with me in the winter time. Now I could go rabbit hunting anytime I wanted to all by myself. I just seldom did. But when Gerald wanted to participate, it was a high, energy-packed affair that I would not have missed for anything. There were jokes and stories and a thing called male camaraderie; a term I would not have known at that age, but something very real I experienced and relished. It was richer still because we were both Nordmoes; men of the same bloodline, stomping through the winter snow, with guns, celebrating each kill with mutual praise.
Not all was goodness and light within the Nordmoe clan, however. Blessed with several aunts and uncles within a close geographic area, there was always someone not speaking to someone. I listened in on numerous stories of the quirks, foibles, and, at times, extremely hurtful things that were said and done, one to another. I remember one of my favorite uncles falling under the spell of alcohol for a time and putting his whole family through some years of agony and embarrassment. Then there was the crazy aunt who decided to open a restaurant with the gracious help of several extended family members. She may have known how to cook but was absolutely hapless when it came to working with people, most especially family. The grand experiment was short lived with a host of hurt feelings left in its wake.
As a young boy, I remember numerous boring afternoons spent sitting in the homes of my childless aunts and uncles as we made the obligatory visits. Those with cousins were a welcome relief, for the most part, considering that most of them were girls. I endured the aunt who insisted on kissing me. I resented at times the invalid grandmother who spent months living with us. She restricted our family freedom, never spoke to me, and smelled like an old person. Then there was the grandfather who picked trick or treat night to get in an accident far out of town and died shortly after we arrived at the hospital. Spoiled all my great plans. He never spoke to me either, but always there was some obligation to attend to him, the mysterious recluse.
All together, my extended family was quite a collection of average folk with a sprinkle of misfits, misers, loners, perfectionists, gadflies; all born with a general family propensity for stubbornness and aloofness that streaked them all. It was more my nature to run from them than to them. And even now as a grown and soon to be old man, I marvel how our family gatherings seem to gravitate to the funny stories we tell on one another. Our idiosyncrasies are well known throughout the family. So how is it that we should think it a good thing to live together in community? Why on earth would we want to purposefully tie ourselves in with other Christians when we can’t even get along with our own kin? Why sign up for more pain, frustration, and ties that restrict? And God wants to set the solitary in families like that’s a good thing?
I have been dwelling this weekend on how it actually is a good thing, even after spending three whole days holed up in a two bedroom cabin with five other adults and 4 grandchildren. Look at it this way. We have a hollowness at our core, a sin nature that prefers darkness to light. When left alone, we are at our worst. Who would think of swearing in church? Of course not. We have little trouble living the Christian life on Sunday mornings. Even within the family, we experience restraints that keep us in the narrow way. Cain would not have killed Abel had they been in the presence of Adam and Eve. So it is that fatherless boys are so much more likely to end up in prison. We chafe at the restrictions that family members put upon us, especially when they are irritating and spiteful. But even then, they confront us with real life versus the escapism that would tempt us to a life of obscurity where our evil deeds could be hidden under a veil of secrecy and anonymity. God knows best. There is safety in the flock. We need each other if only to bring out the best in us when challenged by another’s weakness. Now, if only I could sell that to teen-agers.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Thursday, September 01, 2011
The Man & the Message
“…for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.” -Matt. 12:34
Ad hominem is a Latin phrase that simply means “to the man.” It has come into clichéd usage to refer to an attack upon someone’s work or body of ideas because of a character flaw within the author of that work. We all have an expectation that others will practice what they preach or else we feel somewhat free to ignore what they say. While this is true up to a point, some have hidden behind the inconsistencies of men to deny the truth of God as if that is excuse enough. Hardly so, as Paul would exclaim that God’s truth still stands even though all men be liars. So it is that the earth is still round even should my 6th grade science teacher be found to be a scoundrel, thief, and a wastrel.
Nevertheless, the ad hominem test is one which is still valid and needful today. There is a very strong undertow in our society today that says that a man’s professional life and personal life are two entirely different matters. What a person does in his personal life is none of our business. As a result, we can find college professors who parade by day as respected scholars and by night are producers of pornography with not a blush of inconsistency or shame. How far we have come from Harry Truman who wouldn’t knowingly hire a man who had cheated on his wife: “You know, if a man will lie to his wife, he'll lie to me. And if he'll break his oath of marriage, he'll break his oath of office.”
And in the area of scholarship, I want to know the personal credentials of an author as well as any honors and degrees he might hold. It can often be quite revealing. It tells me of what bent that writer or thinker is and if they have been able to live consistently with the ideas they are propounding. I remember very distinctly sitting in a history of education class as we were exposed to a lengthy exposition of the Emile by Jean Jaques Rousseau. To his credit, it was one of the first major treatises upon the subject of education other than the Bible and described in great detail the ideal education of a child at the hearthside of his parents. What they did not tell me in that class was that Rousseau fathered several children and turned them all over to an orphanage as soon as they were born. I was never able to read that book again without total contempt.
It is long recognized that in all the social sciences and literature that the prejudices and predilections of an author will easily color the results of his research and writings. In knowing these preconceptions, we can understand so much more fully the product of that person’s scholarship and be apprised of his intentions. I was recently interested to discover that, even in the field of economics, morality matters. John Maynard Keynes (1883-1946) was a giant in matters of macro-economics, the finance of nations. He still casts a strong shadow upon the thinking of world leaders including our own. He advocated powerful central governments promoting prosperity through inflationary policies and spending on public works. In his view, a severe public crisis called for deliberate public deficits. Sound familiar? It turns out he was a deeply rebellious intellectual who imbibed a severe atheism in his youth. In his Cambridge days, he was part of a group who “entirely repudiated a personal liability … to obey general rules. We claimed the right to judge every individual case on its merits, and the wisdom to do so successfully. This was a very important part of our faith, violently and aggressively held, and for the outer world it was our most obvious and dangerous characteristic. We repudiated entirely customary morals, conventions, and traditional wisdom.” Part of the wisdom that Keynes repudiated was classical economics which emphasized work and savings in an environment of economic freedom and sound money. He trashed it simply as “Puritanism.”
Do we really want to follow someone who rejects tradition simply because it is old, who violently reacts to anything Christian because it smacks of God, who is totally conceited with his own wisdom because it is “superior”? And then should we trust him with the treasure of nations and the fate of peoples to say nothing of our 401-K’s? Apparently we have, and we will undoubtedly face the consequences whatever those may be. Did no one check this man’s credentials at the door before we gave him the keys to the kingdom? Ad hominem, I say.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Ad hominem is a Latin phrase that simply means “to the man.” It has come into clichéd usage to refer to an attack upon someone’s work or body of ideas because of a character flaw within the author of that work. We all have an expectation that others will practice what they preach or else we feel somewhat free to ignore what they say. While this is true up to a point, some have hidden behind the inconsistencies of men to deny the truth of God as if that is excuse enough. Hardly so, as Paul would exclaim that God’s truth still stands even though all men be liars. So it is that the earth is still round even should my 6th grade science teacher be found to be a scoundrel, thief, and a wastrel.
Nevertheless, the ad hominem test is one which is still valid and needful today. There is a very strong undertow in our society today that says that a man’s professional life and personal life are two entirely different matters. What a person does in his personal life is none of our business. As a result, we can find college professors who parade by day as respected scholars and by night are producers of pornography with not a blush of inconsistency or shame. How far we have come from Harry Truman who wouldn’t knowingly hire a man who had cheated on his wife: “You know, if a man will lie to his wife, he'll lie to me. And if he'll break his oath of marriage, he'll break his oath of office.”
And in the area of scholarship, I want to know the personal credentials of an author as well as any honors and degrees he might hold. It can often be quite revealing. It tells me of what bent that writer or thinker is and if they have been able to live consistently with the ideas they are propounding. I remember very distinctly sitting in a history of education class as we were exposed to a lengthy exposition of the Emile by Jean Jaques Rousseau. To his credit, it was one of the first major treatises upon the subject of education other than the Bible and described in great detail the ideal education of a child at the hearthside of his parents. What they did not tell me in that class was that Rousseau fathered several children and turned them all over to an orphanage as soon as they were born. I was never able to read that book again without total contempt.
It is long recognized that in all the social sciences and literature that the prejudices and predilections of an author will easily color the results of his research and writings. In knowing these preconceptions, we can understand so much more fully the product of that person’s scholarship and be apprised of his intentions. I was recently interested to discover that, even in the field of economics, morality matters. John Maynard Keynes (1883-1946) was a giant in matters of macro-economics, the finance of nations. He still casts a strong shadow upon the thinking of world leaders including our own. He advocated powerful central governments promoting prosperity through inflationary policies and spending on public works. In his view, a severe public crisis called for deliberate public deficits. Sound familiar? It turns out he was a deeply rebellious intellectual who imbibed a severe atheism in his youth. In his Cambridge days, he was part of a group who “entirely repudiated a personal liability … to obey general rules. We claimed the right to judge every individual case on its merits, and the wisdom to do so successfully. This was a very important part of our faith, violently and aggressively held, and for the outer world it was our most obvious and dangerous characteristic. We repudiated entirely customary morals, conventions, and traditional wisdom.” Part of the wisdom that Keynes repudiated was classical economics which emphasized work and savings in an environment of economic freedom and sound money. He trashed it simply as “Puritanism.”
Do we really want to follow someone who rejects tradition simply because it is old, who violently reacts to anything Christian because it smacks of God, who is totally conceited with his own wisdom because it is “superior”? And then should we trust him with the treasure of nations and the fate of peoples to say nothing of our 401-K’s? Apparently we have, and we will undoubtedly face the consequences whatever those may be. Did no one check this man’s credentials at the door before we gave him the keys to the kingdom? Ad hominem, I say.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Friday, August 26, 2011
Bad News, Good News
“How blessed is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in His ways.” -Ps. 128:1
Here it is, not even two weeks into the new school year, and already I’ve seen tears; and not from young kindergarten students on their first day away from home. These are moms, and probably there are some dads as well stifling the emotion welling up within them. The carefully nursed expectations of the new year are suddenly dashed as students come face to face with the brick walls of reality. School can be tough. Friendships fragile. Shortcomings revealed. And the grass on the other side of some imaginary fence all of a sudden is ablaze with a vibrant green.
For those with struggles straight out of the gate, I am moved with compassion. Hard starts are discouraging. But if the book of true confessions were written, there are plenty of doubts hanging out in everyone’s anxiety closet. Yes, every family in school, every parent, every student, every husband or wife has one. I have one. It is part of our nature to dwell on the dark side at times, and when we do we see nothing but warts and wrinkles, imperfections and weaknesses, mistakes and fears.
Is the future ahead one of promise or peril? Given our propensity for bad news, we generally fear the worst. The daily news seems to just reinforce our preconception of things sliding down a slippery slope into the abyss of no return. Just thinking about where we are headed can conjure up depressing images something akin to John’s Revelations. But how much of that is fed by a media cycle that feeds upon the bizarre and the sensational? And is there any good news?
I was pleasantly surprised to find that there is. A Christian sociologist from the University of Connecticut, Bradley Wright, has come out with a book entitled, “Christians Are Hate-Filled Hypocrites …and Other Lies You’ve Been Told.” He has explored some modern, commonly held conceptions and found them to be more urban legend and myth than truth. Myth#1: Christians have a higher divorce rate than non-Christians. He did the research and found that evangelicals and those who have greater rates of church attendance are not as likely to go through divorce. Myth#2: Young evangelical youth are leaving the faith in droves. He compared youth of today with the youth of their grandparent’s era and found roughly the same trends. The young are always less religious than the old. In fact, church attendance in the 20th century was greater than in the 19th century. Myth #3: Abstinence programs don’t work. Prof. Wright found that there is a significant correlation between church attendance and abstinence among unmarried youth. Myth #4: There is more poverty and hunger today than ever before. Actual case is that hunger has decreased, but our immediate awareness of what does exist is up significantly. Myth #5: Totalitarianism is on the rise. Truth is that democracy has significantly increased over the past 50 years and is still growing. Besides the obvious tabloid journalism, Christians are partly to blame for our tendency to pick up the black flag of world demise and point to end times near at hand.
We have an enemy that loves to do the same within the looped memories of our minds. He loves to replay my failures and projected fears which are many. But Ps. 128 arrested my attention this week with its beautiful promises of blessing for those who fear him. My marriage and family are far from perfect, but I can unquestionably see how these promises have come to fruition in my life. All of a sudden I am looking at good news instead of bad. My wife has been a fruitful vine, my children like olive plants. I have eaten of the fruit of my hands, and I have lived to see my children’s children. The Lord has blessed from Zion in spite of tears, stumblings, mistakes, and numerable shortcomings. Perhaps we fail to see the prosperity of our Jerusalems because we fail to look for it. May we look for the good news and find cause to be grateful.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Here it is, not even two weeks into the new school year, and already I’ve seen tears; and not from young kindergarten students on their first day away from home. These are moms, and probably there are some dads as well stifling the emotion welling up within them. The carefully nursed expectations of the new year are suddenly dashed as students come face to face with the brick walls of reality. School can be tough. Friendships fragile. Shortcomings revealed. And the grass on the other side of some imaginary fence all of a sudden is ablaze with a vibrant green.
For those with struggles straight out of the gate, I am moved with compassion. Hard starts are discouraging. But if the book of true confessions were written, there are plenty of doubts hanging out in everyone’s anxiety closet. Yes, every family in school, every parent, every student, every husband or wife has one. I have one. It is part of our nature to dwell on the dark side at times, and when we do we see nothing but warts and wrinkles, imperfections and weaknesses, mistakes and fears.
Is the future ahead one of promise or peril? Given our propensity for bad news, we generally fear the worst. The daily news seems to just reinforce our preconception of things sliding down a slippery slope into the abyss of no return. Just thinking about where we are headed can conjure up depressing images something akin to John’s Revelations. But how much of that is fed by a media cycle that feeds upon the bizarre and the sensational? And is there any good news?
I was pleasantly surprised to find that there is. A Christian sociologist from the University of Connecticut, Bradley Wright, has come out with a book entitled, “Christians Are Hate-Filled Hypocrites …and Other Lies You’ve Been Told.” He has explored some modern, commonly held conceptions and found them to be more urban legend and myth than truth. Myth#1: Christians have a higher divorce rate than non-Christians. He did the research and found that evangelicals and those who have greater rates of church attendance are not as likely to go through divorce. Myth#2: Young evangelical youth are leaving the faith in droves. He compared youth of today with the youth of their grandparent’s era and found roughly the same trends. The young are always less religious than the old. In fact, church attendance in the 20th century was greater than in the 19th century. Myth #3: Abstinence programs don’t work. Prof. Wright found that there is a significant correlation between church attendance and abstinence among unmarried youth. Myth #4: There is more poverty and hunger today than ever before. Actual case is that hunger has decreased, but our immediate awareness of what does exist is up significantly. Myth #5: Totalitarianism is on the rise. Truth is that democracy has significantly increased over the past 50 years and is still growing. Besides the obvious tabloid journalism, Christians are partly to blame for our tendency to pick up the black flag of world demise and point to end times near at hand.
We have an enemy that loves to do the same within the looped memories of our minds. He loves to replay my failures and projected fears which are many. But Ps. 128 arrested my attention this week with its beautiful promises of blessing for those who fear him. My marriage and family are far from perfect, but I can unquestionably see how these promises have come to fruition in my life. All of a sudden I am looking at good news instead of bad. My wife has been a fruitful vine, my children like olive plants. I have eaten of the fruit of my hands, and I have lived to see my children’s children. The Lord has blessed from Zion in spite of tears, stumblings, mistakes, and numerable shortcomings. Perhaps we fail to see the prosperity of our Jerusalems because we fail to look for it. May we look for the good news and find cause to be grateful.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Monday, August 22, 2011
Ghostly Mountains
“As the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people….” –Ps. 125:2
Yes, I continue to be amazed at the capability of good people, educated people, even good church people, to self-destruct. All we like sheep have gone astray. It is our nature to wander away from the flock and the good shepherd into places we ought not to go. Heedless of danger, we are drawn this way and that by seemingly small and inconsequential enticements that isolate us from our community and expose us to the merciless elements. In the full light of day the dangers are not apparent, but soon the darkness falls about us as compromise leads to habit and habit to fatal addiction. Then the howl of the night reveals our vulnerability as, alone, we face the predatory beasts who easily have their way with us. And to our naïve surprise we discover we are no match for them. Easy pickings for the prince of darkness. Family ties are no defense. Education of no use. Intelligence checkmated. Experience of years for naught. Sophistication and status irrelevant. We are lambs to the slaughter.
But this is a most dreary and morose theme. I dwell on it occasionally as a check to my pride. I am never so smart or wise that moral disaster cannot overtake me. When I think I stand I need to take heed lest I fall. Yet there is another side to this coin. It is one I need to keep before me as well, and it is nothing but good news. We have a shepherd who neither sleeps nor slumbers and knows each of his flock by name. Indeed, we have a keeper who joys over us with singing (Zeph. 3:17). And that keeper is none other than the Lord God who made heaven and earth. No Hollywood super hero or beneficent, powerful transformer can compare to this eternal force in the heavens who counts us as his own.
Besides my fixation with our own inherent human weakness this summer, I have also been pre-occupied with mountains as well. Being face to face with these giants of the earth inspires a sense of reverence and wonder. So when I read of God surrounding his people as the mountains surrounding Jerusalem, I have some very awesome pictures in my mind stemming from my experiences standing amidst the western range of the great Rocky Mountains. One has to pick one’s approach to these mountains carefully as they are formidable barriers to the traveler. We followed trails discovered years ago; trails that would grant access to the carefully secluded lakes and valleys that thrill the visitor with grand views and inviting landscapes. It is there, in these secluded valleys that campgrounds, inns, and even grand hotels love to make their home. These are dead end roads that proudly declare, “End of the line. No other way in or out.” There is something sweetly comforting about being nestled in one of those sheltered coves. Not even great storms have easy access to these havens ringed about with walls of stone thousands of feet above.
So, too, Scripture declares a haven to the soul. Those who trust in the Lord are as Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abide forever. And as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people. I take great comfort in this as I walk a very narrow path. Yes, I see others falling by the wayside succumbing to a thousand follies. Yet, if I trust and abide in the Lord, I will not fear even if a thousand shall fall at my side, and ten thousand at my right hand. It shall not come near me (Ps. 91:7). My eternal soul is secure and safe. The souls of my children can be secure and safe. So long as I continue to trust in the Lord and dwell under the shadow of His wings, I will not be moved.
This world is hazardous beyond our imaginations or the scope of any government to fix. Yet through a life of faith, we can live surrounded by the most majestic of peaks of God’s care and provision. Oh, that we could catch a glimpse of them now and again.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Yes, I continue to be amazed at the capability of good people, educated people, even good church people, to self-destruct. All we like sheep have gone astray. It is our nature to wander away from the flock and the good shepherd into places we ought not to go. Heedless of danger, we are drawn this way and that by seemingly small and inconsequential enticements that isolate us from our community and expose us to the merciless elements. In the full light of day the dangers are not apparent, but soon the darkness falls about us as compromise leads to habit and habit to fatal addiction. Then the howl of the night reveals our vulnerability as, alone, we face the predatory beasts who easily have their way with us. And to our naïve surprise we discover we are no match for them. Easy pickings for the prince of darkness. Family ties are no defense. Education of no use. Intelligence checkmated. Experience of years for naught. Sophistication and status irrelevant. We are lambs to the slaughter.
But this is a most dreary and morose theme. I dwell on it occasionally as a check to my pride. I am never so smart or wise that moral disaster cannot overtake me. When I think I stand I need to take heed lest I fall. Yet there is another side to this coin. It is one I need to keep before me as well, and it is nothing but good news. We have a shepherd who neither sleeps nor slumbers and knows each of his flock by name. Indeed, we have a keeper who joys over us with singing (Zeph. 3:17). And that keeper is none other than the Lord God who made heaven and earth. No Hollywood super hero or beneficent, powerful transformer can compare to this eternal force in the heavens who counts us as his own.
Besides my fixation with our own inherent human weakness this summer, I have also been pre-occupied with mountains as well. Being face to face with these giants of the earth inspires a sense of reverence and wonder. So when I read of God surrounding his people as the mountains surrounding Jerusalem, I have some very awesome pictures in my mind stemming from my experiences standing amidst the western range of the great Rocky Mountains. One has to pick one’s approach to these mountains carefully as they are formidable barriers to the traveler. We followed trails discovered years ago; trails that would grant access to the carefully secluded lakes and valleys that thrill the visitor with grand views and inviting landscapes. It is there, in these secluded valleys that campgrounds, inns, and even grand hotels love to make their home. These are dead end roads that proudly declare, “End of the line. No other way in or out.” There is something sweetly comforting about being nestled in one of those sheltered coves. Not even great storms have easy access to these havens ringed about with walls of stone thousands of feet above.
So, too, Scripture declares a haven to the soul. Those who trust in the Lord are as Mount Zion, which cannot be moved, but abide forever. And as the mountains surround Jerusalem, so the Lord surrounds His people. I take great comfort in this as I walk a very narrow path. Yes, I see others falling by the wayside succumbing to a thousand follies. Yet, if I trust and abide in the Lord, I will not fear even if a thousand shall fall at my side, and ten thousand at my right hand. It shall not come near me (Ps. 91:7). My eternal soul is secure and safe. The souls of my children can be secure and safe. So long as I continue to trust in the Lord and dwell under the shadow of His wings, I will not be moved.
This world is hazardous beyond our imaginations or the scope of any government to fix. Yet through a life of faith, we can live surrounded by the most majestic of peaks of God’s care and provision. Oh, that we could catch a glimpse of them now and again.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Lifting Eyes Unto the Hills
“He established the earth upon its foundations, So that it will not totter forever and ever.” –Ps. 104:5
I walked among the mountains of the U.S. and Canadian Rockies this summer, and it troubled my mind as much as it soothed my spirit. I stood on varied colored sedimentary rock that once sat under ancient seas. I was told they were millions of years old and were slowly laid down layer upon layer under alternating shallow and deep oceans. I could see where there were cracks in one layer where the silt had dried under a hot sun and split open into a spider web pattern. These were then subsequently filled in with other material leaving a graphic picture of prehistoric dried mud. Then these sea beds were thrust upwards thousands of feet forming the purple mountain majesties we find so captivating. Following that, the glaciers went to work carving out the valleys and lakes. This, of course, took another few million years. And in the process, we were given a dramatic cross cut view of the mountain itself with its undulating layers pushed up at odd angles. Each layer represented another eon of time for natural processes to complete their work.
Or did it? Old earth, new earth? Which is it? Is the earth billions of years old with its story undeniably written and recorded in rock and stone? It will be one of my first questions when arriving in heaven. I really would like to know. Of course, once there, our questions which we hold so dear will probably seem quite trivial. I still can’t help but ponder this question of earth age. It compelled me to try to reconcile this with Scripture.
I went not to Genesis but to the Psalms to read of God’s hand in creation. In the poetic I hoped to find clues to the graphic. Poetry reaches beyond the concrete and portrays reality in a way that plain narrative cannot. There I found that God was “the one who by his strength established the mountains” (Ps. 65:6). I saw a picture of great convulsions in nature in Ps. 77 where the earth trembled and shook as God moved through the sea following a path through the great waters. Ps. 95 talks of the depths of the earth, the heights of the mountains, and all the seas as being in His hands as He formed the dry land. Ps. 97 tells us that the earth trembles before the Lord and that the mountains melt like wax before His presence. But most graphically, Ps. 104 describes the processes of creation where messengers of wind and fire were involved in setting the earth on its foundation so that it should never be moved. Waters covered the earth as a garment and stood above the mountains. At God’s rebuke the waters fled, the mountains rose, and the valleys sank down to the place He appointed for them. It all sounds very cataclysmic over a much shorter period of time.
And why mountains? They are pretty to look at but nothing can grow on them nor can anyone live there. Did God put them there for pure variety’s sake? I was thrilled to learn that they have a very real purpose. As I stood on a glacier of 1,000 feet thick ice beneath my feet, I learned that 75% of the world’s fresh water comes from glacial run off. The mountains serve a life-giving function in capturing and storing up the winter snows, compacting them to ice, and then slowly releasing them to water the earth. Even the atheist is compelled to admit that the earth seems to be ideally suited to sustain human life. Almost by design. Imagine that. And the mountains have their place in this grand scheme.
As to their age, that mystery is still not known. But I do know that it is the glory of God to conceal a matter (Pro. 25:2). And in His wisdom He has decreed that the just shall live by faith during our sojourn on this earth. I reserve the right to hold the processes of "millions of years" with some serious suspicion. God the creator has veiled his presence from us, to keep us walking by faith and not by sight. And in creation, He has covered His own tracks quite well. He might even be just a bit downright "unscrupulous" in leaving a trail of evidence that would disguise his hand in all of this. The secular scientist has no way of admitting to the agency of a God who can touch the mountains and make them smoke. He can only theorize natural causes. He believes only what he can see. We believe so that we can see.
The unbeliever looks and proudly assures himself that this is a self-made universe so he can declare himself the resident in-charge landlord and sole proprietor. At the bottom, this is nothing more than your garden-variety mutiny in the vineyard (Luke 20) dressed up in the white smock of a learned geologist.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
I walked among the mountains of the U.S. and Canadian Rockies this summer, and it troubled my mind as much as it soothed my spirit. I stood on varied colored sedimentary rock that once sat under ancient seas. I was told they were millions of years old and were slowly laid down layer upon layer under alternating shallow and deep oceans. I could see where there were cracks in one layer where the silt had dried under a hot sun and split open into a spider web pattern. These were then subsequently filled in with other material leaving a graphic picture of prehistoric dried mud. Then these sea beds were thrust upwards thousands of feet forming the purple mountain majesties we find so captivating. Following that, the glaciers went to work carving out the valleys and lakes. This, of course, took another few million years. And in the process, we were given a dramatic cross cut view of the mountain itself with its undulating layers pushed up at odd angles. Each layer represented another eon of time for natural processes to complete their work.
Or did it? Old earth, new earth? Which is it? Is the earth billions of years old with its story undeniably written and recorded in rock and stone? It will be one of my first questions when arriving in heaven. I really would like to know. Of course, once there, our questions which we hold so dear will probably seem quite trivial. I still can’t help but ponder this question of earth age. It compelled me to try to reconcile this with Scripture.
I went not to Genesis but to the Psalms to read of God’s hand in creation. In the poetic I hoped to find clues to the graphic. Poetry reaches beyond the concrete and portrays reality in a way that plain narrative cannot. There I found that God was “the one who by his strength established the mountains” (Ps. 65:6). I saw a picture of great convulsions in nature in Ps. 77 where the earth trembled and shook as God moved through the sea following a path through the great waters. Ps. 95 talks of the depths of the earth, the heights of the mountains, and all the seas as being in His hands as He formed the dry land. Ps. 97 tells us that the earth trembles before the Lord and that the mountains melt like wax before His presence. But most graphically, Ps. 104 describes the processes of creation where messengers of wind and fire were involved in setting the earth on its foundation so that it should never be moved. Waters covered the earth as a garment and stood above the mountains. At God’s rebuke the waters fled, the mountains rose, and the valleys sank down to the place He appointed for them. It all sounds very cataclysmic over a much shorter period of time.
And why mountains? They are pretty to look at but nothing can grow on them nor can anyone live there. Did God put them there for pure variety’s sake? I was thrilled to learn that they have a very real purpose. As I stood on a glacier of 1,000 feet thick ice beneath my feet, I learned that 75% of the world’s fresh water comes from glacial run off. The mountains serve a life-giving function in capturing and storing up the winter snows, compacting them to ice, and then slowly releasing them to water the earth. Even the atheist is compelled to admit that the earth seems to be ideally suited to sustain human life. Almost by design. Imagine that. And the mountains have their place in this grand scheme.
As to their age, that mystery is still not known. But I do know that it is the glory of God to conceal a matter (Pro. 25:2). And in His wisdom He has decreed that the just shall live by faith during our sojourn on this earth. I reserve the right to hold the processes of "millions of years" with some serious suspicion. God the creator has veiled his presence from us, to keep us walking by faith and not by sight. And in creation, He has covered His own tracks quite well. He might even be just a bit downright "unscrupulous" in leaving a trail of evidence that would disguise his hand in all of this. The secular scientist has no way of admitting to the agency of a God who can touch the mountains and make them smoke. He can only theorize natural causes. He believes only what he can see. We believe so that we can see.
The unbeliever looks and proudly assures himself that this is a self-made universe so he can declare himself the resident in-charge landlord and sole proprietor. At the bottom, this is nothing more than your garden-variety mutiny in the vineyard (Luke 20) dressed up in the white smock of a learned geologist.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Rebellion
“But Samuel said, "What then is this bleating of the sheep in my ears, and the lowing of the oxen which I hear?"-I Sam. 15:14
Biology 101. Sophomore year of high school. I found myself in a class of middle to low achievers. By comparison, I was enough of a trustworthy student to have earned a seat next to the one cute girl in a room full of boys, some of whom were jail material. We sat at two-person lab tables on stools. My partner was a cheerleader, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but perky and excitable. The class was predictably slow and unchallenging; the teacher struggling against the stream. One day mid-year, I somehow found myself in the possession of a small, plastic crawdad in my pocket. Amid the drone of another dull class, I pulled it out and craftily placed it next to my partner’s elbow resting on the table; then feigned total indifference. Moments later, a shriek rang out across the classroom as my partner fell to the floor in complete alarm. The critter instantly disappeared as my prank had escalated beyond my dreams. Wrongfully assuming my innocence (only “A” in the room), the teacher just warned everyone that those stools could be tricky.
I was enough of a rule keeper in my adolescent years to avoid serious trouble. No charges of petty theft, no cursing or fighting, no truancy, or even a duck-tail haircut. I have never smoked a cigarette to this day. Yet there was a latent edge of rebellion that became a part of my life during that time. It was subtle and manifested itself in curious ways. The teen years are a time of self discovery, and I was no exception. We all wanted to be unique and affirmed; at the same time. I started picking the rules I would obey and the ones I would not. The big ones were “no brainers”, but the small ones became a matter of my prerogative. I resisted and dodged certain chores at home that were abhorrent to me. I started to pick what classes at school I would work hard at and which ones I would skate. I hung with some kids who would steal bowling balls as trophies. I would take a salt shaker from the school cafeteria as a souvenir. Nothing outrageous, mind you, but always a bit of the rebel.
Rebelliousness is in every human heart ever since the garden. “Hath God said…?” was the whisper that led us all astray and continues to echo down through time. Mine was never a threat to society yet it was there, nevertheless. At times, I papered it over as a creative spirit that was not suited to following the herd. “Why should I memorize a senseless list that was in the back of every textbook?” At times my independent streak served me well. One night I was with some friends when they partook of their parents’ liquor cabinet. I, alone, abstained and discovered I had no trouble doing so. But other things I could rationalize with the best.
In retrospect, I can see where this has hurt me over the years. I was a terrible student at language for I would chafe at the drills and any rote work. I forfeited a chance to go into chemical research because I found the discipline too confining. I opened myself up to embarrassment at times for my susceptibility to compromise. My military career was doomed from the start because of my tendency towards “inventiveness.” Yes, it helped me stand alone as a beginning teacher when all the rest went out on an illegal strike. But it was much too late in life that I came face to face with the story of Saul’s selective obedience in I Sam. 15. “… rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry.” It took those words to shake me out of my comfortable delusion. I was not being unique, creative, or expressing my personality. I was rebellious.
How life turns. Now I am the gatekeeper of rules; the enforcer, no less. It is only by the grace of God that I now, too, can say, “To obey is better than sacrifice.” With respect to the authority figures that God places in our lives, my advice now is to listen and follow. If it is not illegal, immoral, or fattening, just do it. We will be the better persons for it. Standing alone for righteousness sake was relatively easy for me. Submitting to authority, convention, or any form of discipline was my moral challenge. Beware the bleating of sheep.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Biology 101. Sophomore year of high school. I found myself in a class of middle to low achievers. By comparison, I was enough of a trustworthy student to have earned a seat next to the one cute girl in a room full of boys, some of whom were jail material. We sat at two-person lab tables on stools. My partner was a cheerleader, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but perky and excitable. The class was predictably slow and unchallenging; the teacher struggling against the stream. One day mid-year, I somehow found myself in the possession of a small, plastic crawdad in my pocket. Amid the drone of another dull class, I pulled it out and craftily placed it next to my partner’s elbow resting on the table; then feigned total indifference. Moments later, a shriek rang out across the classroom as my partner fell to the floor in complete alarm. The critter instantly disappeared as my prank had escalated beyond my dreams. Wrongfully assuming my innocence (only “A” in the room), the teacher just warned everyone that those stools could be tricky.
I was enough of a rule keeper in my adolescent years to avoid serious trouble. No charges of petty theft, no cursing or fighting, no truancy, or even a duck-tail haircut. I have never smoked a cigarette to this day. Yet there was a latent edge of rebellion that became a part of my life during that time. It was subtle and manifested itself in curious ways. The teen years are a time of self discovery, and I was no exception. We all wanted to be unique and affirmed; at the same time. I started picking the rules I would obey and the ones I would not. The big ones were “no brainers”, but the small ones became a matter of my prerogative. I resisted and dodged certain chores at home that were abhorrent to me. I started to pick what classes at school I would work hard at and which ones I would skate. I hung with some kids who would steal bowling balls as trophies. I would take a salt shaker from the school cafeteria as a souvenir. Nothing outrageous, mind you, but always a bit of the rebel.
Rebelliousness is in every human heart ever since the garden. “Hath God said…?” was the whisper that led us all astray and continues to echo down through time. Mine was never a threat to society yet it was there, nevertheless. At times, I papered it over as a creative spirit that was not suited to following the herd. “Why should I memorize a senseless list that was in the back of every textbook?” At times my independent streak served me well. One night I was with some friends when they partook of their parents’ liquor cabinet. I, alone, abstained and discovered I had no trouble doing so. But other things I could rationalize with the best.
In retrospect, I can see where this has hurt me over the years. I was a terrible student at language for I would chafe at the drills and any rote work. I forfeited a chance to go into chemical research because I found the discipline too confining. I opened myself up to embarrassment at times for my susceptibility to compromise. My military career was doomed from the start because of my tendency towards “inventiveness.” Yes, it helped me stand alone as a beginning teacher when all the rest went out on an illegal strike. But it was much too late in life that I came face to face with the story of Saul’s selective obedience in I Sam. 15. “… rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry.” It took those words to shake me out of my comfortable delusion. I was not being unique, creative, or expressing my personality. I was rebellious.
How life turns. Now I am the gatekeeper of rules; the enforcer, no less. It is only by the grace of God that I now, too, can say, “To obey is better than sacrifice.” With respect to the authority figures that God places in our lives, my advice now is to listen and follow. If it is not illegal, immoral, or fattening, just do it. We will be the better persons for it. Standing alone for righteousness sake was relatively easy for me. Submitting to authority, convention, or any form of discipline was my moral challenge. Beware the bleating of sheep.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The "B" Word
“O Lord, how many and varied are Your works! In wisdom have You made them all;” -Ps. 104:24
There were any number of forbidden words in our household when our children were growing up. Most of them, of course, were of the four letter variety. But one word was five letters long and was known as “the B word.” It is one which we can print here and one which some of you might not even find that objectionable. Quite simply, it was any usage of the word, bored. It just seemed to us to be a crime against humanity for any of our children to proclaim themselves bored in a home located in the heart of the United States of America where toys, puzzles, pens, pencils, and paints abound; to say nothing of books by the boxfuls. If that would not suit their fancy, there was always the resident cat and dog accompanied by periodic episodes of hamsters, rabbits, and chickens. Plus, if push came to shove, there were two other siblings present at all times to either join with in cooperative fun or to torment in some fashion or another. In good weather, there was a full acre of grounds to roam, trees to climb, flush with abundant material for fashioning forts, kitchens, or club houses. To claim boredom was to bring the wrath of Khan down upon their heads.
I must confess to having experienced brief times of boredom. Usually it was at the hands of some speaker droning on and on about a topic of no import (“The History of Hats in Medieval Italy”) in a manner that resembled someone reciting all 415 colors in a paint catalog. Yes, the state of boredom is not just an affliction confined to the young. Adults find themselves sometimes trapped in boring jobs, coming home to boring marriages, and even attending boring churches. How much of this is a prison built of drab, colorless walls wherein they are truly trapped, and how much of it is self-inflicted blindness due to their own inability to see the fascinating that lurks within the mundane? That is a complex question with serious spiritual dimensions.
I suspect that the answer lies more with what is going on within us than with what is going on around us. We have been placed in an incredibly fascinating world. Life abounds around us in astonishing variety, both great and small, and in full living color. This is no black and white world (which, in retrospect, would have worked just fine, I suspect). I am continually amazed how life pervades every conceivable corner of our world in the most hostile of environments. I have seen spiders crawling out of holes in snowfields. Miraculously, some forms of algae and bacteria flourish in the Dead Sea. Even in the deepest depths of the ocean, life has been discovered.
The Psalmist exclaims, “O Lord, how many and varied are Your works! …the earth is full of Your riches and Your creatures.” These are the words of someone who has come face to face with the wonder of wonders, an infinite God who sets the universe as His table and yet numbers the hairs on our head and calls us by name. Made in His image, we were meant to live in full appreciation of the vast panoply of wonders imbedded in creation. He calls to us through it, and we are audience to the beauty and complexity of it all. The work of the Holy Spirit surely amplifies God’s voice to us in creation and stirs in us the ability to praise Him “…majestic in holiness, awesome in glory, working wonders” (Ex. 15:12). To be obsessed with ourselves is the fountainhead of boredom. To look heavenward is to discover not only who we are but the magnificent stage we stand upon. In the midst of our mindless hours, the key to victory over boredom is to break free of our self pity and look out upon the miraculous that surrounds our every step.
Children, go out and play! Look under rocks, scan the skies, smell the leaves, observe the ants, dig in the earth, unlock the secrets of a seed, and marvel! And in becoming as little children ourselves, we, too, can enter the kingdom where we discover God’s most remarkable world and raise our voice in praise.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
There were any number of forbidden words in our household when our children were growing up. Most of them, of course, were of the four letter variety. But one word was five letters long and was known as “the B word.” It is one which we can print here and one which some of you might not even find that objectionable. Quite simply, it was any usage of the word, bored. It just seemed to us to be a crime against humanity for any of our children to proclaim themselves bored in a home located in the heart of the United States of America where toys, puzzles, pens, pencils, and paints abound; to say nothing of books by the boxfuls. If that would not suit their fancy, there was always the resident cat and dog accompanied by periodic episodes of hamsters, rabbits, and chickens. Plus, if push came to shove, there were two other siblings present at all times to either join with in cooperative fun or to torment in some fashion or another. In good weather, there was a full acre of grounds to roam, trees to climb, flush with abundant material for fashioning forts, kitchens, or club houses. To claim boredom was to bring the wrath of Khan down upon their heads.
I must confess to having experienced brief times of boredom. Usually it was at the hands of some speaker droning on and on about a topic of no import (“The History of Hats in Medieval Italy”) in a manner that resembled someone reciting all 415 colors in a paint catalog. Yes, the state of boredom is not just an affliction confined to the young. Adults find themselves sometimes trapped in boring jobs, coming home to boring marriages, and even attending boring churches. How much of this is a prison built of drab, colorless walls wherein they are truly trapped, and how much of it is self-inflicted blindness due to their own inability to see the fascinating that lurks within the mundane? That is a complex question with serious spiritual dimensions.
I suspect that the answer lies more with what is going on within us than with what is going on around us. We have been placed in an incredibly fascinating world. Life abounds around us in astonishing variety, both great and small, and in full living color. This is no black and white world (which, in retrospect, would have worked just fine, I suspect). I am continually amazed how life pervades every conceivable corner of our world in the most hostile of environments. I have seen spiders crawling out of holes in snowfields. Miraculously, some forms of algae and bacteria flourish in the Dead Sea. Even in the deepest depths of the ocean, life has been discovered.
The Psalmist exclaims, “O Lord, how many and varied are Your works! …the earth is full of Your riches and Your creatures.” These are the words of someone who has come face to face with the wonder of wonders, an infinite God who sets the universe as His table and yet numbers the hairs on our head and calls us by name. Made in His image, we were meant to live in full appreciation of the vast panoply of wonders imbedded in creation. He calls to us through it, and we are audience to the beauty and complexity of it all. The work of the Holy Spirit surely amplifies God’s voice to us in creation and stirs in us the ability to praise Him “…majestic in holiness, awesome in glory, working wonders” (Ex. 15:12). To be obsessed with ourselves is the fountainhead of boredom. To look heavenward is to discover not only who we are but the magnificent stage we stand upon. In the midst of our mindless hours, the key to victory over boredom is to break free of our self pity and look out upon the miraculous that surrounds our every step.
Children, go out and play! Look under rocks, scan the skies, smell the leaves, observe the ants, dig in the earth, unlock the secrets of a seed, and marvel! And in becoming as little children ourselves, we, too, can enter the kingdom where we discover God’s most remarkable world and raise our voice in praise.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Parenting
“And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” -Gal. 6:9
Another milestone in our year has come. Registration for next year’s classes is upon us. For me, it is that bend in the road where I mark another year of dreaming for the future of RECA while realizing that one more year of sharing life together with you is winding down. For you, it is that time of committing your students to another year of school with River’s Edge. I am well aware as I have walked this road with many of you that this means a choice of continued sacrifice and dedication to a hard and narrow path. In choosing River’s Edge, you are not taking the path of least resistance. If we were to practice truth in advertising, I would find myself marketing RECA in the words of Churchill, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.” Not a very great advertising slogan indeed.
What can I say to encourage you in this good work? Good parenting is nothing less than “blood, toil, tears, and sweat.” Did we expect any less? In truth, I had little idea of what I was getting myself into in bringing home that first baby from the hospital. No, I did not know all the labor involved in raising a child into adult hood. Perhaps that was a good thing else we might not have gone there. God, in His wisdom, introduces children to us when they are small, cute, and cuddly. By the time we realize they can become sassy, feisty adolescents, it is too late. We have already committed ourselves, heart and soul.
Whatever state of blissful ignorance that may have surrounded bringing children into the world, it soon dissipates. We realize we have a job on our hands. In God’s wisdom, He continues to draw us into deeper waters where we must lose any focus we might have had on ourselves as being the center of the universe. Marriage starts it. Children cement the deal. Parenting will take us farther than we had ever planned and cost us more that we had ever bargained. But also in God’s wisdom, the more we die to self, the more we gain.
Parenting is tough if we do it right. If we shun the work, however, and try to do it on the cheap, it can come back to haunt us as a nightmare that never goes away. My heart bleeds for those I know who have reaped that whirlwind. Our experience in parenting was much as yours is now. A lot of work, work, and more work. A lot of tears along with the laughter, and a lot of self-doubts as to how it would work out. But let me point out some joys at the end of the rainbows (following the storms) that I remember so clearly. One day you too may get a phone call from your son or daughter who tells you that they are graduating from college … with honors. It was the one you worried most about. Then there is the day when you will stand before a solemn assembly and give them away in marriage to a godly mate, knowing full well they have come to that point, fully chaste, and still walking with the Lord. It hardly gets any better than that. But yes, it does. There is that day where you will put your feet under their kitchen table for the first time as they serve you a home cooked meal and feel the earth move beneath you. And after they move away, there is that heart that overflows with gratitude when they come to visit, genuinely glad to see you and you them. They share family reunions as adults on equal terms where the jokes flow and new memories are made on a level we never knew possible. Then there are the quiet Sunday mornings where we rise, just the two of us, and head for church knowing that all three children are doing the same thing, miles and miles away, without being told. How blessed we are. It was all worth it. Of course, then there are the six grandchildren that are thrown in for good measure and now we share in the pain and pleasure of supporting that great work except we get most of the fun while mom and dad get most of the work.
Whatever it takes, in terms of love, discipline, time, and effort, even another year at River’s Edge perhaps, it is well worth it in the end. You, too, will reap in good season if you faint not.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Another milestone in our year has come. Registration for next year’s classes is upon us. For me, it is that bend in the road where I mark another year of dreaming for the future of RECA while realizing that one more year of sharing life together with you is winding down. For you, it is that time of committing your students to another year of school with River’s Edge. I am well aware as I have walked this road with many of you that this means a choice of continued sacrifice and dedication to a hard and narrow path. In choosing River’s Edge, you are not taking the path of least resistance. If we were to practice truth in advertising, I would find myself marketing RECA in the words of Churchill, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.” Not a very great advertising slogan indeed.
What can I say to encourage you in this good work? Good parenting is nothing less than “blood, toil, tears, and sweat.” Did we expect any less? In truth, I had little idea of what I was getting myself into in bringing home that first baby from the hospital. No, I did not know all the labor involved in raising a child into adult hood. Perhaps that was a good thing else we might not have gone there. God, in His wisdom, introduces children to us when they are small, cute, and cuddly. By the time we realize they can become sassy, feisty adolescents, it is too late. We have already committed ourselves, heart and soul.
Whatever state of blissful ignorance that may have surrounded bringing children into the world, it soon dissipates. We realize we have a job on our hands. In God’s wisdom, He continues to draw us into deeper waters where we must lose any focus we might have had on ourselves as being the center of the universe. Marriage starts it. Children cement the deal. Parenting will take us farther than we had ever planned and cost us more that we had ever bargained. But also in God’s wisdom, the more we die to self, the more we gain.
Parenting is tough if we do it right. If we shun the work, however, and try to do it on the cheap, it can come back to haunt us as a nightmare that never goes away. My heart bleeds for those I know who have reaped that whirlwind. Our experience in parenting was much as yours is now. A lot of work, work, and more work. A lot of tears along with the laughter, and a lot of self-doubts as to how it would work out. But let me point out some joys at the end of the rainbows (following the storms) that I remember so clearly. One day you too may get a phone call from your son or daughter who tells you that they are graduating from college … with honors. It was the one you worried most about. Then there is the day when you will stand before a solemn assembly and give them away in marriage to a godly mate, knowing full well they have come to that point, fully chaste, and still walking with the Lord. It hardly gets any better than that. But yes, it does. There is that day where you will put your feet under their kitchen table for the first time as they serve you a home cooked meal and feel the earth move beneath you. And after they move away, there is that heart that overflows with gratitude when they come to visit, genuinely glad to see you and you them. They share family reunions as adults on equal terms where the jokes flow and new memories are made on a level we never knew possible. Then there are the quiet Sunday mornings where we rise, just the two of us, and head for church knowing that all three children are doing the same thing, miles and miles away, without being told. How blessed we are. It was all worth it. Of course, then there are the six grandchildren that are thrown in for good measure and now we share in the pain and pleasure of supporting that great work except we get most of the fun while mom and dad get most of the work.
Whatever it takes, in terms of love, discipline, time, and effort, even another year at River’s Edge perhaps, it is well worth it in the end. You, too, will reap in good season if you faint not.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Sheltering
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. –Eph. 6:13
For those who don’t know or recognize it, “sheltering” has become a dirty word. It has been accused of keeping company with words like censorship, intolerance, narrow thinking, bigotry, suppression, and fanaticism. “Sheltering” to most of us, however, is synonymous with protecting, caring, shielding, and defending. King David was a “shelterer” over 2000 years before internet filtering as he wrote, “I will set no wicked thing before mine eyes: I hate the work of them that turn aside; it shall not cleave to me.” (Psalm 101:3) But somehow our culture has taken the basically Christian idea of forbearance and twisted it beyond recognition so that intellectual maturity is measured by what we allow and entertain and not by what we forswear.
I am still of that old school that judges a beautiful house by the good things it contains and not by its non-discriminating tolerance for junk, animals of every sort, and filth beyond measure. Sure, a clean, well-kept house makes me feel uncomfortable if I were to think of entering while in my garden boots and dirty work clothes while a mud hut would not make me feel in the least bit hesitant. Keeping intellectual house in today’s world, however, seems to put a value upon making the bats, roaches, snakes, and pigs all feel welcome.
I just reviewed the website of the American Library Association and went to their section celebrating banned books. After perusing the list of challenged or banned books which they champion as a defense of our 1st amendment rights, I felt strangely dirty. The last time I felt that way was after entering some squalid refugee huts in the Dominican Republic where dirt and disease were everywhere around me. I yearned for a shower and some soapy disinfectant. Paul says we are to destroy speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God, and to take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ (2 Cor. 10:5). Paul’s desire is simply to be clean. We mark our humanity by what we do not allow as well as the things we tolerate; perhaps more so. We have forgotten that being a person of “discriminating tastes” is a compliment.
Ed Dunlop, who writes for The Old Schoolhouse, has an interesting article out entitled “Homeschool Dads; Guarding the Castle.” He draws a strong parallel between the protective features and functions of the medieval castle and the task of guarding our hearts in today’s dark and hostile world. “Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life” (Pro. 4:23) is his key verse. I would urge you to link on to the article at www.crosswalk.com/homeschool/11604986/ to read in full. Protection of hearth and home in medieval Europe was the name of the game in self-preservation. So it is today if we are to protect our hearts from being destroyed by a thousand and one evil values that come to us wrapped in the comic strains of a hilarious TV show or blatantly fed to us by a smooth tongued panelist putting a slick spin on sin.
The arena of battle today is our minds which are so accessible to the powerful and ever-present media that surround us. I feel it pressing in on me. It is where I live or die spiritually. J. M. Njoroge, an apologist for Ravi Zacharias ministries writes, “… the power of ideas is most clearly demonstrated in the absolute effectiveness of the Tempter’s strategy in the Garden of Eden. How did Satan succeed in driving Adam and Eve away from God? Not through demon possession or illness, and not by overpowering their will: he succeeded by planting an idea in their mind. Ever since the human race bought the lie that we can actually become gods ourselves in place of God, we have been willing—even resolved—to do our enemy’s bidding. The key arena for this spiritual battle has been our minds.” May we all, parent and child together, find shelter for our minds in the cleft of the Rock that shadows a dry thirsty land.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
For those who don’t know or recognize it, “sheltering” has become a dirty word. It has been accused of keeping company with words like censorship, intolerance, narrow thinking, bigotry, suppression, and fanaticism. “Sheltering” to most of us, however, is synonymous with protecting, caring, shielding, and defending. King David was a “shelterer” over 2000 years before internet filtering as he wrote, “I will set no wicked thing before mine eyes: I hate the work of them that turn aside; it shall not cleave to me.” (Psalm 101:3) But somehow our culture has taken the basically Christian idea of forbearance and twisted it beyond recognition so that intellectual maturity is measured by what we allow and entertain and not by what we forswear.
I am still of that old school that judges a beautiful house by the good things it contains and not by its non-discriminating tolerance for junk, animals of every sort, and filth beyond measure. Sure, a clean, well-kept house makes me feel uncomfortable if I were to think of entering while in my garden boots and dirty work clothes while a mud hut would not make me feel in the least bit hesitant. Keeping intellectual house in today’s world, however, seems to put a value upon making the bats, roaches, snakes, and pigs all feel welcome.
I just reviewed the website of the American Library Association and went to their section celebrating banned books. After perusing the list of challenged or banned books which they champion as a defense of our 1st amendment rights, I felt strangely dirty. The last time I felt that way was after entering some squalid refugee huts in the Dominican Republic where dirt and disease were everywhere around me. I yearned for a shower and some soapy disinfectant. Paul says we are to destroy speculations and every lofty thing raised up against the knowledge of God, and to take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ (2 Cor. 10:5). Paul’s desire is simply to be clean. We mark our humanity by what we do not allow as well as the things we tolerate; perhaps more so. We have forgotten that being a person of “discriminating tastes” is a compliment.
Ed Dunlop, who writes for The Old Schoolhouse, has an interesting article out entitled “Homeschool Dads; Guarding the Castle.” He draws a strong parallel between the protective features and functions of the medieval castle and the task of guarding our hearts in today’s dark and hostile world. “Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life” (Pro. 4:23) is his key verse. I would urge you to link on to the article at www.crosswalk.com/homeschool/11604986/ to read in full. Protection of hearth and home in medieval Europe was the name of the game in self-preservation. So it is today if we are to protect our hearts from being destroyed by a thousand and one evil values that come to us wrapped in the comic strains of a hilarious TV show or blatantly fed to us by a smooth tongued panelist putting a slick spin on sin.
The arena of battle today is our minds which are so accessible to the powerful and ever-present media that surround us. I feel it pressing in on me. It is where I live or die spiritually. J. M. Njoroge, an apologist for Ravi Zacharias ministries writes, “… the power of ideas is most clearly demonstrated in the absolute effectiveness of the Tempter’s strategy in the Garden of Eden. How did Satan succeed in driving Adam and Eve away from God? Not through demon possession or illness, and not by overpowering their will: he succeeded by planting an idea in their mind. Ever since the human race bought the lie that we can actually become gods ourselves in place of God, we have been willing—even resolved—to do our enemy’s bidding. The key arena for this spiritual battle has been our minds.” May we all, parent and child together, find shelter for our minds in the cleft of the Rock that shadows a dry thirsty land.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Single Eye
“The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!” -Matt. 6:22-23
I can think of no more sensitive part of the body than the eye. I can cut, stab, tear, or bruise any part of me and endure, but a small grain of sand in my eye leaves me groveling and helpless. My one yucky memory of army bayonet training is to feint a stab at my enemy’s eyes. He will instinctively protect. Eye surgery is the stuff nightmares are made of, and most of us retain memories of some sort of procedure we hope never to repeat. Yet we all desperately need eye surgery of the most radical kind; to have our eye rendered “single.”
I borrow liberally today from a sermon John Wesley preached in his waning days when he labored under an acute concern for his followers as they were steadily emerging into new found prosperity and respectability. The sermon was a solemn and stern warning to his flock. “What the eye is to the body, intention is to the soul.” What has captured the intention of the human heart? What does it aim at? Where is it looking for fulfillment and purpose? Wesley hammered and hammered this theme with a desperate sense of urgency that seems so needful today. ‘If thine eye be single,’ singly fixed upon God, ‘thy whole body,’ that is, all thy soul, ‘shall be full of light,’ shall be filled with holiness and happiness. And again: If thine eye be single; if God be in all thy thoughts; if thou are constantly aiming at Him who is invisible; if it be in thy intention, in all things small and great, in all thy conversation to please God, to do not thy own will, but the will of him who sent thee into the world; if thou canst not say to … him who made thee for thyself, “I view thee, Lord, and end of my desires;” –then the promise will certainly take place: “Thy whole body shall be full of light:” thy whole soul shall be filled with the light of heaven; with the glory of the Lord resting upon thee. It is only then that we should be able to “pray without ceasing” and “in everything give thanks.”
We live, breathe, and swim in a world filled with distractions. The media is everywhere blaring at us, assaulting our senses with a Madison Avenue finesse that has perfected seduction to a high art form and science. Our wheels easily take us places wherever our heart desires and wherever our instincts for entertainment lead us. Our prosperity enables us to consume at a level never before known in the history of the world. Our driven culture plies us with activity upon activity consuming our time with amazing efficiency. It is also an increasingly visual world we live in where old timey circus freak shows, gaudy and cheap in their obvious trickery, are now replaced by digital special effects that are all but impossible to discern from real life. We now live with one foot in the Star Trek “hollow deck,” a roomful of space-age illusion. No wonder we struggle with having a “single eye” fixed on God. No wonder I do.
A distracted and dissatisfied soul is not a modern invention by any means. Wesley lamented in his day, the hungry soul, like the busy bee, wanders from flower to flower; but it goes off from each, with an abortive hope, and a deluded expectation. But nothing in this world has the capacity to satisfy the human soul no matter what great labors of pain or skill are taken to extract it. “A fool may find a kind of paradise upon earth, (although it is a grand mistake), but the wise man can find none.” Nothing in the realm of the senses or fame or riches or knowledge can replace the peace of home that is found only in God. Love the Lord with all thy heart, mind, soul, and strength. If this guiding principle be left to rust or disuse, to decay in the warm compost of our mall culture, then what is left to direct our understandings, passions, affections, tempers, all our thoughts, words, and actions? How great our darkness will be.
Those of us who cherish old British literature know well the recurring theme of parents who wished their children to “marry well.” Wesley fought tooth and nail against the very thought of it. Dare you sell your child to the devil? You undoubtedly do this… when you marry a son or daughter to a child of the devil; though it be one who wallows in gold and silver. Beware of the gilded bait! Death and hell are hid beneath! This was plain talk of the creeping darkness that comes when first principles are lost. Sobering words but somehow needful in the summer of our distractions.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
I can think of no more sensitive part of the body than the eye. I can cut, stab, tear, or bruise any part of me and endure, but a small grain of sand in my eye leaves me groveling and helpless. My one yucky memory of army bayonet training is to feint a stab at my enemy’s eyes. He will instinctively protect. Eye surgery is the stuff nightmares are made of, and most of us retain memories of some sort of procedure we hope never to repeat. Yet we all desperately need eye surgery of the most radical kind; to have our eye rendered “single.”
I borrow liberally today from a sermon John Wesley preached in his waning days when he labored under an acute concern for his followers as they were steadily emerging into new found prosperity and respectability. The sermon was a solemn and stern warning to his flock. “What the eye is to the body, intention is to the soul.” What has captured the intention of the human heart? What does it aim at? Where is it looking for fulfillment and purpose? Wesley hammered and hammered this theme with a desperate sense of urgency that seems so needful today. ‘If thine eye be single,’ singly fixed upon God, ‘thy whole body,’ that is, all thy soul, ‘shall be full of light,’ shall be filled with holiness and happiness. And again: If thine eye be single; if God be in all thy thoughts; if thou are constantly aiming at Him who is invisible; if it be in thy intention, in all things small and great, in all thy conversation to please God, to do not thy own will, but the will of him who sent thee into the world; if thou canst not say to … him who made thee for thyself, “I view thee, Lord, and end of my desires;” –then the promise will certainly take place: “Thy whole body shall be full of light:” thy whole soul shall be filled with the light of heaven; with the glory of the Lord resting upon thee. It is only then that we should be able to “pray without ceasing” and “in everything give thanks.”
We live, breathe, and swim in a world filled with distractions. The media is everywhere blaring at us, assaulting our senses with a Madison Avenue finesse that has perfected seduction to a high art form and science. Our wheels easily take us places wherever our heart desires and wherever our instincts for entertainment lead us. Our prosperity enables us to consume at a level never before known in the history of the world. Our driven culture plies us with activity upon activity consuming our time with amazing efficiency. It is also an increasingly visual world we live in where old timey circus freak shows, gaudy and cheap in their obvious trickery, are now replaced by digital special effects that are all but impossible to discern from real life. We now live with one foot in the Star Trek “hollow deck,” a roomful of space-age illusion. No wonder we struggle with having a “single eye” fixed on God. No wonder I do.
A distracted and dissatisfied soul is not a modern invention by any means. Wesley lamented in his day, the hungry soul, like the busy bee, wanders from flower to flower; but it goes off from each, with an abortive hope, and a deluded expectation. But nothing in this world has the capacity to satisfy the human soul no matter what great labors of pain or skill are taken to extract it. “A fool may find a kind of paradise upon earth, (although it is a grand mistake), but the wise man can find none.” Nothing in the realm of the senses or fame or riches or knowledge can replace the peace of home that is found only in God. Love the Lord with all thy heart, mind, soul, and strength. If this guiding principle be left to rust or disuse, to decay in the warm compost of our mall culture, then what is left to direct our understandings, passions, affections, tempers, all our thoughts, words, and actions? How great our darkness will be.
Those of us who cherish old British literature know well the recurring theme of parents who wished their children to “marry well.” Wesley fought tooth and nail against the very thought of it. Dare you sell your child to the devil? You undoubtedly do this… when you marry a son or daughter to a child of the devil; though it be one who wallows in gold and silver. Beware of the gilded bait! Death and hell are hid beneath! This was plain talk of the creeping darkness that comes when first principles are lost. Sobering words but somehow needful in the summer of our distractions.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Introverts
“In the secret place of His tent He will hide me…” -Ps. 27:5
We introverts have to contend with a bad rap. How often have you heard a neighbor or fellow worker interviewed after some mad man has run amok and you hear, “He was always quiet and kept to himself.” A certain sinister reputation attends those who can be characterized thusly. There is a good deal of misunderstanding regarding introverted personalities, and it affects quite a few of us. Modern studies show that up to 50% of our American population may be considered “introverts.” I confess I am exhibit “A.” As far as I can remember, I was quite content to play by myself be it a sandbox or with blocks as a child or picking up my .22 cal. squirrel rifle and heading into the fields with my dog as a teen. It was not until much later that I began to wonder if something was wrong with me.
Adam McHugh has written a book entitled, Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture. A major premise is the acknowledgement of a present day environment that prizes extroverted personalities that corresponds to the rise of our modern media. The heroes of our culture are the gregarious, hard-charging social leaders who can light up a room or electrify an audience be it on TV or in the church. Introverts readily acknowledge that they are not so gifted or even interested in attempting such a role. As a result, feelings of inferiority often develop as they see themselves not measuring up to our cultural models held in such high esteem. Introverts are often criticized for appearing stand-offish or even arrogant. This further tends to isolate them and deepen their insecurity.
In actuality, McHugh argues that introverts are neither anti-social or shy. He associates shyness with an unhealthy fear of social situations. Introverts are not shy but simply do not feel a pressing need for the company of a group. He cites brain research as showing that introverts have a physically demonstrable more active brain revealed by larger blood flow to differing parts of the brain. When an introverted child was queried by a parent why she didn’t play more with others, her innocent response was that she had plenty of activity going on in her own head. It appears that introverts have a great need to spend more time processing what is going on inside and do not need the external stimulation coming from voices around them as much as their extroverted cousins. When put into situations that demand a high level of social interaction in a compressed period of time, they can demonstrate actual physical symptoms of acute exhaustion because of the overload of such mental activity. Introverts prefer the company of one or two friends to the company of a group. They tend to think deeply and be very loyal to the friendships they do make.
As a parent, one always tends to worry about the child who is quite content to entertain themselves. They are quite easy to raise, but secretly we wonder if they are alright and if they will be as successful as their extroverted brothers or sisters. After all, we want our children all to be leaders, quarterbacks, captains, and class presidents. Adam McHugh challenges us, and rightly so, to look for the gifts that introverts bring to the table whether in the church or in life. In my mind, King David appears to me to have been a raging introvert. Content to spend his youth in the pasture tending sheep, he burst upon the Hebrew stage as a result of an intensely strong inner spiritual life cultivated in private. He took the reins of government reluctantly rather than through personal ambition. Throughout his life, the Psalms reveal a deep thoughtfulness and delight in a personal relationship with God alone and not in crowds of adoring subjects. History is replete with examples of introverts making tremendous contributions to progress in all the arts and sciences. Introverts make great mates, fathers, and mothers. Do you have one in your family? Worry not. Learn to prize them, encourage them, and cherish their unique giftedness. They may one day be the rock you need to lean upon.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
We introverts have to contend with a bad rap. How often have you heard a neighbor or fellow worker interviewed after some mad man has run amok and you hear, “He was always quiet and kept to himself.” A certain sinister reputation attends those who can be characterized thusly. There is a good deal of misunderstanding regarding introverted personalities, and it affects quite a few of us. Modern studies show that up to 50% of our American population may be considered “introverts.” I confess I am exhibit “A.” As far as I can remember, I was quite content to play by myself be it a sandbox or with blocks as a child or picking up my .22 cal. squirrel rifle and heading into the fields with my dog as a teen. It was not until much later that I began to wonder if something was wrong with me.
Adam McHugh has written a book entitled, Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture. A major premise is the acknowledgement of a present day environment that prizes extroverted personalities that corresponds to the rise of our modern media. The heroes of our culture are the gregarious, hard-charging social leaders who can light up a room or electrify an audience be it on TV or in the church. Introverts readily acknowledge that they are not so gifted or even interested in attempting such a role. As a result, feelings of inferiority often develop as they see themselves not measuring up to our cultural models held in such high esteem. Introverts are often criticized for appearing stand-offish or even arrogant. This further tends to isolate them and deepen their insecurity.
In actuality, McHugh argues that introverts are neither anti-social or shy. He associates shyness with an unhealthy fear of social situations. Introverts are not shy but simply do not feel a pressing need for the company of a group. He cites brain research as showing that introverts have a physically demonstrable more active brain revealed by larger blood flow to differing parts of the brain. When an introverted child was queried by a parent why she didn’t play more with others, her innocent response was that she had plenty of activity going on in her own head. It appears that introverts have a great need to spend more time processing what is going on inside and do not need the external stimulation coming from voices around them as much as their extroverted cousins. When put into situations that demand a high level of social interaction in a compressed period of time, they can demonstrate actual physical symptoms of acute exhaustion because of the overload of such mental activity. Introverts prefer the company of one or two friends to the company of a group. They tend to think deeply and be very loyal to the friendships they do make.
As a parent, one always tends to worry about the child who is quite content to entertain themselves. They are quite easy to raise, but secretly we wonder if they are alright and if they will be as successful as their extroverted brothers or sisters. After all, we want our children all to be leaders, quarterbacks, captains, and class presidents. Adam McHugh challenges us, and rightly so, to look for the gifts that introverts bring to the table whether in the church or in life. In my mind, King David appears to me to have been a raging introvert. Content to spend his youth in the pasture tending sheep, he burst upon the Hebrew stage as a result of an intensely strong inner spiritual life cultivated in private. He took the reins of government reluctantly rather than through personal ambition. Throughout his life, the Psalms reveal a deep thoughtfulness and delight in a personal relationship with God alone and not in crowds of adoring subjects. History is replete with examples of introverts making tremendous contributions to progress in all the arts and sciences. Introverts make great mates, fathers, and mothers. Do you have one in your family? Worry not. Learn to prize them, encourage them, and cherish their unique giftedness. They may one day be the rock you need to lean upon.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Purpose
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” Rom. 8:28
All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Paul McCartney and John Lennon looked down from their little hill of fame and fortune and wrote a song of despair and fruitlessness attempting to characterize all the little people around them who seemed to live pointless and anonymous lives. Poor Eleanor Rigby. She lived “in a dream waiting at the window, wearing a face she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?” Equally pointless was the poor priest, Father McKenzie, “writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear. No one comes near.” Poor Eleanor Rigby. She “died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.”
Through the pure thoughtlessness of a mortuary worker, a room full of us sat quietly a few weeks ago as we waited for the funeral service to start, and we were treated to a clanging incongruencey. The receiving line had ended, the family had taken their seats, the podium was still vacant, and the only sound in this perfectly quiet room was the canned music coming from the speakers while the beloved lay in peaceful repose before us. In soft, tinkly tones, Eleanor Rigby played out as the last song before the service began.
All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Fred Chamberlain was anything but an Eleanor Rigby or a Father McKenzie. Most folks who die at age 103 have outlived all their friends. Yet the room was full of people who had come to pay tribute. The photographs and memorabilia placed about showed a life rich in meaning and productivity. The pastors who spoke (he had lived through several) told story after story of someone who had lived a life of service and had made everyone Fred touched the richer for it. His love for the Lord was beyond question. His church was his second home.
I doubt he had ever received any slick advertising telling him that for $29.95 he could have a copy of a “Who’s Who” with his name in it. The world has never seen Fred’s name in lights. His highest position of leadership in this world was probably the role of deacon at a little no-name Baptist Church. Yet I count him among the ranks of some of the most fortunate of men for he typified for me someone who truly lived a fulfilled life. He had found not only had known who he was and had discovered the rich sense of mission that comes in knowing Christ, Fred had a deep sense of purpose for his own gifts and abilities. He was a worker. I think he found great satisfaction in laboring with his hands. He was a commercial baker for much of his life but came home and baked up countless more loaves of bread to give away. He took delight in fixing things, even things that weren’t his. He served for awhile as a deputy helping where he could. And his service as deacon was an embodiment of everything that word could mean. Retirement? Who can say when he ever quit working. He fashioned windjammers from pop cans, Christmas orbs from hundreds of transparent solo cups, and for his 100th birthday celebration, he fashioned homemade ornaments from thousands of beads tied on ribbons. His smile and cheerful disposition made him welcome everywhere. His loyalty and service to family, a model. Yet he felt himself unworthy of any mansion or crown on the other side. A simple place of service would do.
The hollow sounds of Eleanor Rigby could not mock this man. His life was above it all. No contest. May we all do as well in finding and living out God’s purposes for our lives without complaint, be they humble or profound.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Paul McCartney and John Lennon looked down from their little hill of fame and fortune and wrote a song of despair and fruitlessness attempting to characterize all the little people around them who seemed to live pointless and anonymous lives. Poor Eleanor Rigby. She lived “in a dream waiting at the window, wearing a face she keeps in a jar by the door. Who is it for?” Equally pointless was the poor priest, Father McKenzie, “writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear. No one comes near.” Poor Eleanor Rigby. She “died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.”
Through the pure thoughtlessness of a mortuary worker, a room full of us sat quietly a few weeks ago as we waited for the funeral service to start, and we were treated to a clanging incongruencey. The receiving line had ended, the family had taken their seats, the podium was still vacant, and the only sound in this perfectly quiet room was the canned music coming from the speakers while the beloved lay in peaceful repose before us. In soft, tinkly tones, Eleanor Rigby played out as the last song before the service began.
All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Fred Chamberlain was anything but an Eleanor Rigby or a Father McKenzie. Most folks who die at age 103 have outlived all their friends. Yet the room was full of people who had come to pay tribute. The photographs and memorabilia placed about showed a life rich in meaning and productivity. The pastors who spoke (he had lived through several) told story after story of someone who had lived a life of service and had made everyone Fred touched the richer for it. His love for the Lord was beyond question. His church was his second home.
I doubt he had ever received any slick advertising telling him that for $29.95 he could have a copy of a “Who’s Who” with his name in it. The world has never seen Fred’s name in lights. His highest position of leadership in this world was probably the role of deacon at a little no-name Baptist Church. Yet I count him among the ranks of some of the most fortunate of men for he typified for me someone who truly lived a fulfilled life. He had found not only had known who he was and had discovered the rich sense of mission that comes in knowing Christ, Fred had a deep sense of purpose for his own gifts and abilities. He was a worker. I think he found great satisfaction in laboring with his hands. He was a commercial baker for much of his life but came home and baked up countless more loaves of bread to give away. He took delight in fixing things, even things that weren’t his. He served for awhile as a deputy helping where he could. And his service as deacon was an embodiment of everything that word could mean. Retirement? Who can say when he ever quit working. He fashioned windjammers from pop cans, Christmas orbs from hundreds of transparent solo cups, and for his 100th birthday celebration, he fashioned homemade ornaments from thousands of beads tied on ribbons. His smile and cheerful disposition made him welcome everywhere. His loyalty and service to family, a model. Yet he felt himself unworthy of any mansion or crown on the other side. A simple place of service would do.
The hollow sounds of Eleanor Rigby could not mock this man. His life was above it all. No contest. May we all do as well in finding and living out God’s purposes for our lives without complaint, be they humble or profound.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Mission
I will redeem you with a stretched out arm, and with great judgments:” -Ex. 6:6
I have always been a junk collector. I still have an old plastic tire gauge vaguely in the shape of a pistol the size of which would fit in a child’s hand. It doesn’t work. It never did. I found it in the dirt walking to school one day when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade. Something drew me to it. My imagination enhanced its form and function into any number of uses: a secret tool, a mini-gun, a spy gadget. What one person had carelessly discarded, I had picked up and redeemed as a treasured collectible, a toy, a real find.
I still have a hard time passing up someone else’s throwaways. I can see uses for just about anything. Some are genuine treasures others have just overlooked and left to rust in neglect. I found a hand plane in a junk store in my early days of discovering the joys of such tools. It was covered in rust and dull as a brick. $8.00 redeemed it from the shelf and a life of benign neglect. A number of painstaking hours in the shop brought it back to life. The rust gone, the wood refurbished, and the blade brought to a razor’s sharpness, this tool now sits in a place of honor in my wood shop and is one of the sweetest cutting of all my planes. I can take off paper thin slices of wood with an effortless push while it makes this little “swwizz” sound that is music to the ears.
Redemption, as I see it, is God-work. It is the central, over-arching theme of history since the fall. God seeks to redeem man from the effects of that infernal disaster in the garden and convert his rebellious creatures into sons and daughters that will reign with Him in heaven once again. He promises not only to raise us up as new creatures in Christ and give us one day a heavenly body, He also promises a new heaven and a new earth. At best, all our environmental efforts will only slow down the steady decay of our planet. God is coming again to restore creation to its original intended form: lions lying down with lambs, children playing near the adder’s hole.
There is no greater mission in life than to participate in God’s mission. Only He can fully bring this work to completion, but it is given into our hand to play a significant part in this supreme work. There is no greater task, no greater challenge, but to join in this business of redeeming a fallen world wherever we touch it. Immediately, Christians think of redeeming lost souls, and that is undoubtedly the most exciting work of all. “He that winneth souls is wise,” we read in Proverbs. Yet we need also to see the bigger picture for it gives meaning and direction to even the most common of labors or the most exotic of the arts and sciences.
I cannot look at an overgrown lot or a patch of wild woodlands but see all the possibilities of quiet walkways, gardens, scenic overlooks, cleared picnic spots, and young trees that would produce lumber of value someday if only they were thinned, pruned, and given a modicum of tender care. Nature by itself is wasteful, producing both weeds and fruit. When we tend nature, we redeem it to stem its self destructive tendencies and greatly improve its productivity. When the scientist looks at a crippling disease, he sees nature gone awry and begins a search for a cure to end the reign of sin that would disfigure and destroy. The policeman seeks to restore order to a world that would end in chaos if left to its own devices. The housewife seeks to redeem each day’s confusion resulting from just meeting our daily needs. Dirt and dust spring up everywhere and the stains of daily living must be resisted at every turn. Parents train up children by spending much time and care in redeeming a future citizen and honored saint from the rough, self-centered lump of clay given into their midst.
The second secret of living a fulfilled life is getting a sense of mission, a vision of what we are to be about. There is no greater work than joining with God in the work of redemption. Enlist your children, now.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
I have always been a junk collector. I still have an old plastic tire gauge vaguely in the shape of a pistol the size of which would fit in a child’s hand. It doesn’t work. It never did. I found it in the dirt walking to school one day when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade. Something drew me to it. My imagination enhanced its form and function into any number of uses: a secret tool, a mini-gun, a spy gadget. What one person had carelessly discarded, I had picked up and redeemed as a treasured collectible, a toy, a real find.
I still have a hard time passing up someone else’s throwaways. I can see uses for just about anything. Some are genuine treasures others have just overlooked and left to rust in neglect. I found a hand plane in a junk store in my early days of discovering the joys of such tools. It was covered in rust and dull as a brick. $8.00 redeemed it from the shelf and a life of benign neglect. A number of painstaking hours in the shop brought it back to life. The rust gone, the wood refurbished, and the blade brought to a razor’s sharpness, this tool now sits in a place of honor in my wood shop and is one of the sweetest cutting of all my planes. I can take off paper thin slices of wood with an effortless push while it makes this little “swwizz” sound that is music to the ears.
Redemption, as I see it, is God-work. It is the central, over-arching theme of history since the fall. God seeks to redeem man from the effects of that infernal disaster in the garden and convert his rebellious creatures into sons and daughters that will reign with Him in heaven once again. He promises not only to raise us up as new creatures in Christ and give us one day a heavenly body, He also promises a new heaven and a new earth. At best, all our environmental efforts will only slow down the steady decay of our planet. God is coming again to restore creation to its original intended form: lions lying down with lambs, children playing near the adder’s hole.
There is no greater mission in life than to participate in God’s mission. Only He can fully bring this work to completion, but it is given into our hand to play a significant part in this supreme work. There is no greater task, no greater challenge, but to join in this business of redeeming a fallen world wherever we touch it. Immediately, Christians think of redeeming lost souls, and that is undoubtedly the most exciting work of all. “He that winneth souls is wise,” we read in Proverbs. Yet we need also to see the bigger picture for it gives meaning and direction to even the most common of labors or the most exotic of the arts and sciences.
I cannot look at an overgrown lot or a patch of wild woodlands but see all the possibilities of quiet walkways, gardens, scenic overlooks, cleared picnic spots, and young trees that would produce lumber of value someday if only they were thinned, pruned, and given a modicum of tender care. Nature by itself is wasteful, producing both weeds and fruit. When we tend nature, we redeem it to stem its self destructive tendencies and greatly improve its productivity. When the scientist looks at a crippling disease, he sees nature gone awry and begins a search for a cure to end the reign of sin that would disfigure and destroy. The policeman seeks to restore order to a world that would end in chaos if left to its own devices. The housewife seeks to redeem each day’s confusion resulting from just meeting our daily needs. Dirt and dust spring up everywhere and the stains of daily living must be resisted at every turn. Parents train up children by spending much time and care in redeeming a future citizen and honored saint from the rough, self-centered lump of clay given into their midst.
The second secret of living a fulfilled life is getting a sense of mission, a vision of what we are to be about. There is no greater work than joining with God in the work of redemption. Enlist your children, now.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
I am what I am
“But by the grace of God I am what I am” -I Cor. 15:10
Who am I? I admit I still couldn’t give you a complete and definitive answer to that question even after living with myself for these 66 years. We see through a glass darkly, but there is coming a day in which we shall know even as we are known. Until that day comes, I must dwell content with knowing only an outline of the shadows of who I am. I can tell you a lot about myself now, but when I was 12 and 13 years old, I had hardly a clue as to who I was. The only true ground of being in my life at that time was a distinct experience of God’s love for me for which I was very grateful. I had come to know that I was a child of his and precious in his sight. That was a huge help. Other than that, I could not begin to grasp just what kind of person I was and what gifts or abilities lay within. It was as though I walked the ground of my being, to which I held clear title, but had no way of telling what lay beneath my feet be it hard clay, fertile loam, rich in mineral wealth, or barren dirt.
It was told me the other day that this is the first of three things necessary to living a fulfilled life: to know who we are. That question has sharp and definite spiritual dimensions with tremendous doctrinal overtones. Yes, we need to know who we are in Christ for that is our true destiny. It is cause for Biblical study, teaching, and meditation for our enemy is out to steal, kill, and destroy the image of God in which we were made. He can do that through poisoning our minds with a thousand negative thoughts.
Yet there still remains a huge area of existence which we naturally question on this earthly plane. Who am I? Am I super intelligent or just average? Am I gifted at anything in particular, or am I totally talentless? Am I a people person or is a life of humble service in the shadows my lot? Am I a verbal person able to bend ears to my voice or do I make a fool of myself when speaking openly? Am I an independent person who needs no friends, or am I desperately lonely without others? Am I creative or better off following directions? Am I blessed by heredity to position, power, and great expectations, or am I doomed to anonymity?
The Apostle Paul had an acute identity crisis first priding himself as a persecutor of the church and then discovering a totally new self after being thrown down in the dust of the Damascus road. From a Pharisee of the Pharisees, he became a believer and eventually described himself as “the least” of the Apostles. With time, he came to accept this tortured progression, and he made a short but classic acknowledgement of the peace that he had made with himself. “I am what I am.” In that simple phrase, he declared that he had looked within and was no longer wishing he were something else other than what God had created and placed within him.
Our children are desperately plagued by questions of who they are. These questions reach their tortuous peak in the transition years between elementary and high school. Eventually they will come to know who they are as human beings, complicated yet gifted, creative yet flawed, unique but yet so familiar. In the meantime, we can help them by affirming the gifts and propensities we see emerging in them. We can build a wall of protective and assuring love around them that will withstand the doubts sown by the enemy. We can help them understand who they are in Christ as children of the Heavenly Father with all the rights and privileges therewith.
One day, we pray, they will be able to say with a sense of acceptance and contentment, “I am what I am”: not as a resignation of slothful indifference, but as a prayer of gratefulness for the uniqueness by which they have been created. And from there they go on to find a sense of mission and purpose for that uniqueness. May we be instruments of His grace in opening young eyes to the treasures beneath their feet.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Who am I? I admit I still couldn’t give you a complete and definitive answer to that question even after living with myself for these 66 years. We see through a glass darkly, but there is coming a day in which we shall know even as we are known. Until that day comes, I must dwell content with knowing only an outline of the shadows of who I am. I can tell you a lot about myself now, but when I was 12 and 13 years old, I had hardly a clue as to who I was. The only true ground of being in my life at that time was a distinct experience of God’s love for me for which I was very grateful. I had come to know that I was a child of his and precious in his sight. That was a huge help. Other than that, I could not begin to grasp just what kind of person I was and what gifts or abilities lay within. It was as though I walked the ground of my being, to which I held clear title, but had no way of telling what lay beneath my feet be it hard clay, fertile loam, rich in mineral wealth, or barren dirt.
It was told me the other day that this is the first of three things necessary to living a fulfilled life: to know who we are. That question has sharp and definite spiritual dimensions with tremendous doctrinal overtones. Yes, we need to know who we are in Christ for that is our true destiny. It is cause for Biblical study, teaching, and meditation for our enemy is out to steal, kill, and destroy the image of God in which we were made. He can do that through poisoning our minds with a thousand negative thoughts.
Yet there still remains a huge area of existence which we naturally question on this earthly plane. Who am I? Am I super intelligent or just average? Am I gifted at anything in particular, or am I totally talentless? Am I a people person or is a life of humble service in the shadows my lot? Am I a verbal person able to bend ears to my voice or do I make a fool of myself when speaking openly? Am I an independent person who needs no friends, or am I desperately lonely without others? Am I creative or better off following directions? Am I blessed by heredity to position, power, and great expectations, or am I doomed to anonymity?
The Apostle Paul had an acute identity crisis first priding himself as a persecutor of the church and then discovering a totally new self after being thrown down in the dust of the Damascus road. From a Pharisee of the Pharisees, he became a believer and eventually described himself as “the least” of the Apostles. With time, he came to accept this tortured progression, and he made a short but classic acknowledgement of the peace that he had made with himself. “I am what I am.” In that simple phrase, he declared that he had looked within and was no longer wishing he were something else other than what God had created and placed within him.
Our children are desperately plagued by questions of who they are. These questions reach their tortuous peak in the transition years between elementary and high school. Eventually they will come to know who they are as human beings, complicated yet gifted, creative yet flawed, unique but yet so familiar. In the meantime, we can help them by affirming the gifts and propensities we see emerging in them. We can build a wall of protective and assuring love around them that will withstand the doubts sown by the enemy. We can help them understand who they are in Christ as children of the Heavenly Father with all the rights and privileges therewith.
One day, we pray, they will be able to say with a sense of acceptance and contentment, “I am what I am”: not as a resignation of slothful indifference, but as a prayer of gratefulness for the uniqueness by which they have been created. And from there they go on to find a sense of mission and purpose for that uniqueness. May we be instruments of His grace in opening young eyes to the treasures beneath their feet.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
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