Westminster Abby in London is half church and half graveyard of the greats. To be buried there is among the highest honors that England can bestow. It has its share of English kings, nobles, and great poets for sure. But easily eclipsing them all would be Sir Isaac Newton. I was pulled along through the majesty of the place by the anticipation of standing at his tomb and monument. Sir Isaac had contributed more to the development of modern science than any other man alive until that time (or perhaps even since). Newton’s Principia Mathematica became one of the most important and influential works on physics of all times. He formulated the basic laws of motion and the universal laws of nature that unraveled the great mysteries of science of his day. He invented calculus as well as gave birth to the classical theories of mechanics and optics. Alexander Pope summed it up succinctly in his couplet, "Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night; God said, Let Newton be! and all was light." The scientific history of the modern world could be written in terms of Before Newton and After Newton. More significantly, Newton, the consummate logician, held deeply to the necessity of God to sustain and hold all things together. He believed that the beauty and regularity of the natural world could only "proceed from the counsel and dominion of an intelligent and powerful Being." His place in this hall of champions, ensconced in a holy shrine dedicated to God’s glory, is without dispute and wholly natural.
How ironic is the fact that not many years hence Charles Darwin would be laid to rest not many feet away from Newton’s tomb. Here was a man who had invented a world where God was no longer a necessity, where all the beauty and regularity of the natural world emanated from sheer chance and the drive of living beings to merely survive. Considering all the reverence of the place that swept our thoughts skyward, Darwin seemed terribly out of place. God seems to have tolerated Darwin’s ultimate insult with his usual patient equanimity and granted him a resting place. He who bore the mocking of his killers while nailed to a cross is surely not all that troubled by a bookish naturalist who was quite content to live a life defined by blindness to the eternal.
I sought out Newton to pay homage, I passed over Darwin as one who glances to look at a tragic scene, and then eagerly looked for a man who epitomized great accomplishment in the moral realm, William Wilberforce. His body and monument are separated by some distance, but both were well known to the uniformed docents that patrolled the scene. The grave was near the entrance, and it held its fascination. But the monument transfixed me with words of praise that echo down the ages. Born in 1759, Wilberforce served nearly half a century in the House of Commons. “In an age and country fertile in grand and good men, he was among the foremost of those who fixed the character of their times.” That was a tribute earned through years of steady devotion to a high and noble cause when few would pause to even give lip service and many stood in great opposition. “His name will ever be specially identified with those exertions which, by the blessing of God, removed from England the guilt of the African slave trade, and prepared the way for the abolition of slavery in every colony of the empire.” This was a protracted struggle that consumed a lifetime of service in politics at great personal cost. “In the prosecution of these objects, he relied, not in vain, on GOD; but in the progress, he was called to endure great obloquy (humiliation, disgrace, mortification, infamy) and great opposition.” The perseverance of William Wilberforce against all odds is legendary. To all his life in that political mudpit, however, “…he added the abiding eloquence of a Christian life.” Because of this and his steadfast dedication to principle, “He outlived … all enmity” and “died not unnoticed or forgotten by his country.” Let us not forget as well.
May God grant us some men and women who will fix the character of our times, who are ready to endure years of obloquy for the pursuit of righteousness, and who will outlive the enmity of their age for the sake of a better age to come.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Dry, Dry Bones
“Put them in fear, O LORD; Let the nations know that they are but men.” -Psalm 9:20
The valley of bones. That is about all I could think of as we walked through the remains of the Roman Forum, that once proud seat of authority that held sway over all the known world of its day. We walked on the streets where proud Caesars once walked, where orators like Cicero held audiences in awe, and where legions tramped proudly on their arrival home from fresh victories across the seas. This was the equivalent of our National Mall in Washington, D.C., our sacred stretch of green that stretches from the Capitol, past the Washington Monument, over the reflecting pool, all the way to the Lincoln Monument. Only in Rome, everything was more concentrated as a result of the lack of motorized transport. One could easily walk from the Coliseum to Palatine Hill, from the Circus Maximus to the Pantheon, and from the Baths of Nero to the Senate House. The streets were all paved, unlike many great cities even as late as the 18th century. And the buildings were massive structures made of solid stone and marble. Caesar Augustus boasted that he had found Rome brick but left it marble. We have ample evidence of this and many descriptive passages to chronicle the glory that was Rome. Modern re-creations of the complex of temples, baths, palaces, government buildings, and entertainment venues that was Rome at the height of its glory leave one aghast at this concentration of wealth and beauty. There was never a city like it or surpassing it since. One could walk for blocks and blocks, miles perhaps, and see nothing but majestic marble monuments on par with the Parthenon in Greece in terms of costly grace and beauty.
And the Romans built everything to last. Thousands of miles of roads were constructed of four different layers in order to meet a construction standard of endurance for 100 years. Many have lasted 2000 years and are still in use today. Their engineering miracles are best seen in their system of aqueducts that brought fresh water into the heart of their cities. There were at least seven separate aqueducts that supplied Rome with its plentiful water supply that made its sanitation standards unequalled until the 19th century. Some of these are still operative today. Everything they constructed seemed to be built with an unequalled ability to endure. Much of the Coliseum still stands today even after 2000 years of invasions, erosion, neglect, outright theft, and predations of nature. Yet its foundations are secure holding up thousands of tons of walls and floors. We wandered its halls and passageways and marveled at its similarity to a modern stadium long before football, soccer, or baseball were even a thought.
So what had reduced this proud city, this cradle of an empire, this forum that concentrated the opulence and power of the world’s rulers for hundreds of years to a marble scrap yard; a valley of bones? Oh, how the mighty are fallen. It surely would have been thought absolutely impossible in the second century that this palatial setting would ever disappear under tons of debris and become a market place for farm animals, despoiling the very ground, and a refuge for the homeless and the criminal sort. Nor would it be thought that the proud Roman race would totally disappear in the sea of crisscrossing currents of humanity.
Their forum is dead, their language is dead, and their bloodline is untraceable. The mighty buildings of stone and marble are gone with the exception of a few which were saved in large part because of their later use as Christian churches, another triumph of a once sworn enemy. Walking among this valley of bones produced no thrill of triumph over a pagan foe, no urge to tramp up and down upon the ruins of a city that once enslaved the world. It produced, rather, an intense feeling of humility that bore witness to the transient nature of accomplishment, even when carved in tons of marble. What took ages to build was destroyed in a matter of days and years. There is no room for the boasting of man in kingdoms or monuments of grandeur. They do not last. These ruins testify mightily to the frailty of man in the flesh, even at his finest. “No man can lay a foundation other than the one which is laid, which is Jesus Christ.” (I Cor. 3:11) No one.
The valley of bones. That is about all I could think of as we walked through the remains of the Roman Forum, that once proud seat of authority that held sway over all the known world of its day. We walked on the streets where proud Caesars once walked, where orators like Cicero held audiences in awe, and where legions tramped proudly on their arrival home from fresh victories across the seas. This was the equivalent of our National Mall in Washington, D.C., our sacred stretch of green that stretches from the Capitol, past the Washington Monument, over the reflecting pool, all the way to the Lincoln Monument. Only in Rome, everything was more concentrated as a result of the lack of motorized transport. One could easily walk from the Coliseum to Palatine Hill, from the Circus Maximus to the Pantheon, and from the Baths of Nero to the Senate House. The streets were all paved, unlike many great cities even as late as the 18th century. And the buildings were massive structures made of solid stone and marble. Caesar Augustus boasted that he had found Rome brick but left it marble. We have ample evidence of this and many descriptive passages to chronicle the glory that was Rome. Modern re-creations of the complex of temples, baths, palaces, government buildings, and entertainment venues that was Rome at the height of its glory leave one aghast at this concentration of wealth and beauty. There was never a city like it or surpassing it since. One could walk for blocks and blocks, miles perhaps, and see nothing but majestic marble monuments on par with the Parthenon in Greece in terms of costly grace and beauty.
And the Romans built everything to last. Thousands of miles of roads were constructed of four different layers in order to meet a construction standard of endurance for 100 years. Many have lasted 2000 years and are still in use today. Their engineering miracles are best seen in their system of aqueducts that brought fresh water into the heart of their cities. There were at least seven separate aqueducts that supplied Rome with its plentiful water supply that made its sanitation standards unequalled until the 19th century. Some of these are still operative today. Everything they constructed seemed to be built with an unequalled ability to endure. Much of the Coliseum still stands today even after 2000 years of invasions, erosion, neglect, outright theft, and predations of nature. Yet its foundations are secure holding up thousands of tons of walls and floors. We wandered its halls and passageways and marveled at its similarity to a modern stadium long before football, soccer, or baseball were even a thought.
So what had reduced this proud city, this cradle of an empire, this forum that concentrated the opulence and power of the world’s rulers for hundreds of years to a marble scrap yard; a valley of bones? Oh, how the mighty are fallen. It surely would have been thought absolutely impossible in the second century that this palatial setting would ever disappear under tons of debris and become a market place for farm animals, despoiling the very ground, and a refuge for the homeless and the criminal sort. Nor would it be thought that the proud Roman race would totally disappear in the sea of crisscrossing currents of humanity.
Their forum is dead, their language is dead, and their bloodline is untraceable. The mighty buildings of stone and marble are gone with the exception of a few which were saved in large part because of their later use as Christian churches, another triumph of a once sworn enemy. Walking among this valley of bones produced no thrill of triumph over a pagan foe, no urge to tramp up and down upon the ruins of a city that once enslaved the world. It produced, rather, an intense feeling of humility that bore witness to the transient nature of accomplishment, even when carved in tons of marble. What took ages to build was destroyed in a matter of days and years. There is no room for the boasting of man in kingdoms or monuments of grandeur. They do not last. These ruins testify mightily to the frailty of man in the flesh, even at his finest. “No man can lay a foundation other than the one which is laid, which is Jesus Christ.” (I Cor. 3:11) No one.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Rousseau Revisited
“The LORD knoweth the thoughts of man, that they are vanity.” -Psalm 94:10-12
On our last day in Paris, we were given the gift of one hour to wander the historic left bank and told to meet our bus on the steps of the Pantheon, a majestic building enshrining some of the great heroes of French history. I could not resist. I made for this grand crypt at full speed eagerly anticipating the opportunity to stand before the remains of some of the great names that had gripped my interest a half-world away amid library carols and university debates. Here lay one of my heroes, Victor Hugo, who wrote that grand tale of mercy and truth, justice and love, vengeance and redemption: Les Miserables. I entered the cavernous building with anxious thoughts of the few, fleeting moments I had to discover the tombs of both the saints and sinners housed there, all tucked away in various alcoves posted with signs and directions written in totally incomprehensible French.
I dodged and darted until I could stand in a moment of raw reverence before Hugo’s tomb and pay my respects. But I must confess, it was not Hugo’s tomb that held the greatest fascination for me but rather my arch nemesis, Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Being French has to be difficult for when you look to those men who have played such a huge role in shaping the history of that country, it inevitably includes some of the grandest “Moriarities” of the modern age. Such is the case with this Pantheon of heroes. Along with Hugo, Louis Braille, and Marie Curie you find the savage beast of Marat and the seductive, deeply disturbed, Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
I was drawn as by a magnet to find his resting place, a curious wooden box with a peaked roof. In carved relief, an arm appears from a cracked door on the end holding a small bouquet. Appropriate, I thought. From the bosom of death and decay that was his life, he held forth to all of France a bouquet of cut and soon-to-wilt adolescent ideals presented with a gripping narrative that was his gift. His private life was “a record of almost uninterrupted squalor and misery.” “Every friendship, whether with men or women, concluded with a quarrel.” He imagined enemies everywhere “until, in 1778, he died, paranoid and almost catatonic.”* Yet his writings portrayed life lived in the most exquisite of philosophic and limpid Utopianism. His characters frequently stopped to rhapsodize and sermonize on the human condition giving naïve, adolescent ideas the gravity of apparent truth. The effect was incredibly successful in an age tired of arid rationalism and cynicism. He ravished the soul of his countrymen to the point that much of the high flown rhetoric of the French Revolution was informed by the precepts and ideals of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Robespierre, that devil in a fine suit who presided over the Terror, was a huge fan of Rousseau and absorbed all his writing, travelling to visit him before his death. Rousseau was unique in that his writing appealed to poor and rich alike, seducing them with empty phrases that had a ring of virtue and endearing sentiment. It had the widest imaginable influence upon his countrymen. He was to the French Revolution what Jefferson was to ours, only combined with the simplistic appeal of an Oprah Winfrey and the narrative power of a Stephen King.
The ideals of the French Revolution soon unleashed the horror of the Terror. From the ashes of that came forth Napoleon who ransacked as much of the world as he could both with armies and ideas. Curiously, a man named Vladimir Lenin some years later looked to the tumult of the French Revolution for his inspiration in spreading a new revolution that would enslave half the world in its idealistic chains. I cannot help but link the Cold War, Korea, and Vietnam to a chain of events going all the way back to Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Standing there in front of Rousseau’s tomb, I was seized by a school-boy impulse. I wet the tip of my finger and applied a touch of spittle to the railing surrounding his bones. A contemptuous act, I admit. It should have been a tear for all the suffering that has flowed in his wake. But somehow tears would not come. The momentous gravity of the vanity of it all sapped my more gracious instincts. Perhaps next time.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe *Paris in the Terror, Stanley Loomis, 1964
On our last day in Paris, we were given the gift of one hour to wander the historic left bank and told to meet our bus on the steps of the Pantheon, a majestic building enshrining some of the great heroes of French history. I could not resist. I made for this grand crypt at full speed eagerly anticipating the opportunity to stand before the remains of some of the great names that had gripped my interest a half-world away amid library carols and university debates. Here lay one of my heroes, Victor Hugo, who wrote that grand tale of mercy and truth, justice and love, vengeance and redemption: Les Miserables. I entered the cavernous building with anxious thoughts of the few, fleeting moments I had to discover the tombs of both the saints and sinners housed there, all tucked away in various alcoves posted with signs and directions written in totally incomprehensible French.
I dodged and darted until I could stand in a moment of raw reverence before Hugo’s tomb and pay my respects. But I must confess, it was not Hugo’s tomb that held the greatest fascination for me but rather my arch nemesis, Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Being French has to be difficult for when you look to those men who have played such a huge role in shaping the history of that country, it inevitably includes some of the grandest “Moriarities” of the modern age. Such is the case with this Pantheon of heroes. Along with Hugo, Louis Braille, and Marie Curie you find the savage beast of Marat and the seductive, deeply disturbed, Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
I was drawn as by a magnet to find his resting place, a curious wooden box with a peaked roof. In carved relief, an arm appears from a cracked door on the end holding a small bouquet. Appropriate, I thought. From the bosom of death and decay that was his life, he held forth to all of France a bouquet of cut and soon-to-wilt adolescent ideals presented with a gripping narrative that was his gift. His private life was “a record of almost uninterrupted squalor and misery.” “Every friendship, whether with men or women, concluded with a quarrel.” He imagined enemies everywhere “until, in 1778, he died, paranoid and almost catatonic.”* Yet his writings portrayed life lived in the most exquisite of philosophic and limpid Utopianism. His characters frequently stopped to rhapsodize and sermonize on the human condition giving naïve, adolescent ideas the gravity of apparent truth. The effect was incredibly successful in an age tired of arid rationalism and cynicism. He ravished the soul of his countrymen to the point that much of the high flown rhetoric of the French Revolution was informed by the precepts and ideals of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Robespierre, that devil in a fine suit who presided over the Terror, was a huge fan of Rousseau and absorbed all his writing, travelling to visit him before his death. Rousseau was unique in that his writing appealed to poor and rich alike, seducing them with empty phrases that had a ring of virtue and endearing sentiment. It had the widest imaginable influence upon his countrymen. He was to the French Revolution what Jefferson was to ours, only combined with the simplistic appeal of an Oprah Winfrey and the narrative power of a Stephen King.
The ideals of the French Revolution soon unleashed the horror of the Terror. From the ashes of that came forth Napoleon who ransacked as much of the world as he could both with armies and ideas. Curiously, a man named Vladimir Lenin some years later looked to the tumult of the French Revolution for his inspiration in spreading a new revolution that would enslave half the world in its idealistic chains. I cannot help but link the Cold War, Korea, and Vietnam to a chain of events going all the way back to Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Standing there in front of Rousseau’s tomb, I was seized by a school-boy impulse. I wet the tip of my finger and applied a touch of spittle to the railing surrounding his bones. A contemptuous act, I admit. It should have been a tear for all the suffering that has flowed in his wake. But somehow tears would not come. The momentous gravity of the vanity of it all sapped my more gracious instincts. Perhaps next time.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe *Paris in the Terror, Stanley Loomis, 1964
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Separating Man from Beast
“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine” - Proverbs 17:22
There was a woman who went to see a lawyer about getting a divorce. The lawyer started to ask her some routine questions. “What are your grounds?” “Well, we have this big farm,” she replied. “Do you have some sort of grudge?” “No, my husband’s never built one, and we have to park outside.” “Well, does he beat you up?” “Are you kidding? I get up two hours before he ever does.” “Look, Lady. Why do you want to divorce him?” “Because I have never been able to carry on an intelligent conversation with that man!”
Humor: the ability to see that something is funny. It is a marvelous human trait that almost defies definition yet so distinctly separates us from the animal kingdom. A car drove up next to me at a stoplight the other day and two young ladies suddenly erupted in laughter that carried through two, rolled up windows. It hit me squarely. Not only do we as humans feel guilt so keenly as apart from apes, we also laugh; often, communally, contagiously, and at the slightest pretext. Someone makes a joke and the next thing we hear this unique and totally unintelligible sound emanating from one another that is somewhere between a sneeze, a cough, and a wheeze yet wholly different. And everyone’s laugh is just a bit different from the high pitched squeakers to the muffled snorters to the gasping gaffawers. Record, freeze, and separate out these sounds from a person’s normal speech, play them back, and it is almost as embarrassing as appearing in public in one’s underwear.
We find humor in such incredibly different situations. We see humor in the ironic. “I signed up for an exercise class and was told to wear loose-fitting clothing. If I HAD any loose-fitting clothing, I wouldn’t have signed up in the first place!” We see humor in the unintended. “Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager” (sign in a Nairobi restaurant). “Feeding animals picking plants prohibited” (sign in the Smokies). We find humor in exaggeration. Here are three exercises to help prepare you for a hospital experience: (a) drink a quart of Sherwin-Williams Eggshell One-coat Coverage Interior Flat White #2. Then have your child stuff his slinky down your throat. (b) Put a real estate agent’s ‘Open House’ sign on your front yard and lie on your bed dressed in a paper napkin with straws stuck up your nose. (c) Put your hand down the garbage disposal while practicing your smile and repeating: “mild discomfort”.
And who doesn’t love those misprints in church bulletins? “Don’t let worry kill you. Let the church help.” “Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our church and community.” We love to laugh at ourselves when words come out of our mouths that make no sense. “If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of failure” (Bill Clinton). “Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life” (Brooke Shields, during an interview to become Spokesperson for federal anti-smoking campaign). We even laugh at the obvious. “Why are men just happier people? Your last name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat.” And we laugh at the mistakes of one another. Here are some notes from parents sent to school after children were absent. “Please excuse Ray Friday from school. He has very loose vowels.” “Please excuse Lisa for being absent she was sick and I had her shot.” “Please excuse Roland from P.E. for a few days. Yesterday he fell out of a tree and misplaced his hip.” Don’t laugh too hard. We are saving yours for future publication.
And then there are the things your kids say and do. A K5 student recently announced to her class that her family had cooked their cat in a pot. It turns out the cat was cremated, but not at home. And another was on a trip and declared his desperate need to use the bathroom while mom was pumping gas at a stop. She said, “Well let’s go, now!” And so he did.
Laughter is the delightful proof of our unique humanity; and good medicine to the bones. Practice daily.
There was a woman who went to see a lawyer about getting a divorce. The lawyer started to ask her some routine questions. “What are your grounds?” “Well, we have this big farm,” she replied. “Do you have some sort of grudge?” “No, my husband’s never built one, and we have to park outside.” “Well, does he beat you up?” “Are you kidding? I get up two hours before he ever does.” “Look, Lady. Why do you want to divorce him?” “Because I have never been able to carry on an intelligent conversation with that man!”
Humor: the ability to see that something is funny. It is a marvelous human trait that almost defies definition yet so distinctly separates us from the animal kingdom. A car drove up next to me at a stoplight the other day and two young ladies suddenly erupted in laughter that carried through two, rolled up windows. It hit me squarely. Not only do we as humans feel guilt so keenly as apart from apes, we also laugh; often, communally, contagiously, and at the slightest pretext. Someone makes a joke and the next thing we hear this unique and totally unintelligible sound emanating from one another that is somewhere between a sneeze, a cough, and a wheeze yet wholly different. And everyone’s laugh is just a bit different from the high pitched squeakers to the muffled snorters to the gasping gaffawers. Record, freeze, and separate out these sounds from a person’s normal speech, play them back, and it is almost as embarrassing as appearing in public in one’s underwear.
We find humor in such incredibly different situations. We see humor in the ironic. “I signed up for an exercise class and was told to wear loose-fitting clothing. If I HAD any loose-fitting clothing, I wouldn’t have signed up in the first place!” We see humor in the unintended. “Customers who find our waitresses rude ought to see the manager” (sign in a Nairobi restaurant). “Feeding animals picking plants prohibited” (sign in the Smokies). We find humor in exaggeration. Here are three exercises to help prepare you for a hospital experience: (a) drink a quart of Sherwin-Williams Eggshell One-coat Coverage Interior Flat White #2. Then have your child stuff his slinky down your throat. (b) Put a real estate agent’s ‘Open House’ sign on your front yard and lie on your bed dressed in a paper napkin with straws stuck up your nose. (c) Put your hand down the garbage disposal while practicing your smile and repeating: “mild discomfort”.
And who doesn’t love those misprints in church bulletins? “Don’t let worry kill you. Let the church help.” “Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our church and community.” We love to laugh at ourselves when words come out of our mouths that make no sense. “If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of failure” (Bill Clinton). “Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life” (Brooke Shields, during an interview to become Spokesperson for federal anti-smoking campaign). We even laugh at the obvious. “Why are men just happier people? Your last name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat.” And we laugh at the mistakes of one another. Here are some notes from parents sent to school after children were absent. “Please excuse Ray Friday from school. He has very loose vowels.” “Please excuse Lisa for being absent she was sick and I had her shot.” “Please excuse Roland from P.E. for a few days. Yesterday he fell out of a tree and misplaced his hip.” Don’t laugh too hard. We are saving yours for future publication.
And then there are the things your kids say and do. A K5 student recently announced to her class that her family had cooked their cat in a pot. It turns out the cat was cremated, but not at home. And another was on a trip and declared his desperate need to use the bathroom while mom was pumping gas at a stop. She said, “Well let’s go, now!” And so he did.
Laughter is the delightful proof of our unique humanity; and good medicine to the bones. Practice daily.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
Graveyard Exam
“Remember the former things long past, for I am God, and there is no other.” –Isa. 46:9
Last Friday some 22 of us, students and adults, stood in the graveyard of the First Presbyterian Church. And it posed all sorts of questions to us; sort of a well-stocked pantry in sod and stone of questions and queries that spoke to us from the ground. History has a way of doing that, placing us back in time and confronting us with difficulties and deep matters that are, in their particulars, largely unknown to us but yet entirely within the pale of possibility for us to experience once again in some form or another. This grave yard held a host of stories that ghosted our imaginations with things that go bump in the middle of the night of our comfortable lives.
There were tombs of the rich and famous, William Blount plus three Tennessee senators lying alongside common folk and at least one murderer. We have little choice with the company we keep once we are passed and are certain only that rich and poor, the famous and the infamous, will one day lay down their bones in the dust together having faced the great leveler, death. How do we then continue to look at questions of fame and status, achievement or anonymity, wealth or poverty in light of this common end?
We saw the graves of a common family, uncommon in only one respect. They had lost and buried six children over time, some just days old, others somewhat mature in years. How would I have done under such a burden as that? Would I have kept faith with my Lord, the woman I had married, and with life itself and the promise of fruitfulness? Where would I find the strength to continue on to bear forth those final two babies after the first four were gone?
We saw the concrete evidence of the plague of civil war that swept Knoxville in its train. We have little feeling for the depth of hostility that was wreaked across a once stable community. We heard how soldiers once grazed their horses in this sacred space, knocking headstones all about with careless indifference. Would we ever be so situated where the demands of blunt practicalities would compel us to sacrifice and trash our otherwise treasured traditions? How then would we do? We learned that when the Union Army finally “liberated” Knoxville, all of the local pastors except one were run out of town for their days of Confederate sympathizing. Will we ever be placed in time where ungodly causes are being championed by godly, theologically astute, men of position operating in the majority? How closely then would we cling to Truth and stand accordingly?
The tomb of Abner Baker tells a tragic story of politics, hate, and revenge. Abner’s father, Dr. Harvey Baker, was a physician who was known to treat Confederate and Union soldiers alike. One day a small band of Union bushwackers or renegades broke into his home and shot him through a closet door behind which he had hidden. After the war, Abner, who was a Confederate soldier, returned home and sought out his father’s killers. He found one downtown in the courthouse and killed him there. Confined to jail, Union sympathizers broke him out soon after and hung him. He is buried in this graveyard with the tallest of all the grave markers standing proudly over his resting place. On it is written, “A martyr for manliness and personal rights. His death was an honor to himself but an everlasting disgrace to his enemies.” A whole host of questions flew up at me. Would I, like Dr. Baker, receive friend or foe at my door in the middle of a deadly fight and be willing to bind up their wounds alike? Would I ever be so possessed of hate so as to take personal revenge for a great injustice? Would I ever be sympathetic to vigilante justice that would take the law into its own hands? And could I ever become complicit in crime by lionizing a killer in the name of “manliness and personal rights”?
History has a way of confronting us with ourselves. And so we go there to ponder our future.
Last Friday some 22 of us, students and adults, stood in the graveyard of the First Presbyterian Church. And it posed all sorts of questions to us; sort of a well-stocked pantry in sod and stone of questions and queries that spoke to us from the ground. History has a way of doing that, placing us back in time and confronting us with difficulties and deep matters that are, in their particulars, largely unknown to us but yet entirely within the pale of possibility for us to experience once again in some form or another. This grave yard held a host of stories that ghosted our imaginations with things that go bump in the middle of the night of our comfortable lives.
There were tombs of the rich and famous, William Blount plus three Tennessee senators lying alongside common folk and at least one murderer. We have little choice with the company we keep once we are passed and are certain only that rich and poor, the famous and the infamous, will one day lay down their bones in the dust together having faced the great leveler, death. How do we then continue to look at questions of fame and status, achievement or anonymity, wealth or poverty in light of this common end?
We saw the graves of a common family, uncommon in only one respect. They had lost and buried six children over time, some just days old, others somewhat mature in years. How would I have done under such a burden as that? Would I have kept faith with my Lord, the woman I had married, and with life itself and the promise of fruitfulness? Where would I find the strength to continue on to bear forth those final two babies after the first four were gone?
We saw the concrete evidence of the plague of civil war that swept Knoxville in its train. We have little feeling for the depth of hostility that was wreaked across a once stable community. We heard how soldiers once grazed their horses in this sacred space, knocking headstones all about with careless indifference. Would we ever be so situated where the demands of blunt practicalities would compel us to sacrifice and trash our otherwise treasured traditions? How then would we do? We learned that when the Union Army finally “liberated” Knoxville, all of the local pastors except one were run out of town for their days of Confederate sympathizing. Will we ever be placed in time where ungodly causes are being championed by godly, theologically astute, men of position operating in the majority? How closely then would we cling to Truth and stand accordingly?
The tomb of Abner Baker tells a tragic story of politics, hate, and revenge. Abner’s father, Dr. Harvey Baker, was a physician who was known to treat Confederate and Union soldiers alike. One day a small band of Union bushwackers or renegades broke into his home and shot him through a closet door behind which he had hidden. After the war, Abner, who was a Confederate soldier, returned home and sought out his father’s killers. He found one downtown in the courthouse and killed him there. Confined to jail, Union sympathizers broke him out soon after and hung him. He is buried in this graveyard with the tallest of all the grave markers standing proudly over his resting place. On it is written, “A martyr for manliness and personal rights. His death was an honor to himself but an everlasting disgrace to his enemies.” A whole host of questions flew up at me. Would I, like Dr. Baker, receive friend or foe at my door in the middle of a deadly fight and be willing to bind up their wounds alike? Would I ever be so possessed of hate so as to take personal revenge for a great injustice? Would I ever be sympathetic to vigilante justice that would take the law into its own hands? And could I ever become complicit in crime by lionizing a killer in the name of “manliness and personal rights”?
History has a way of confronting us with ourselves. And so we go there to ponder our future.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Primates and Primary Differences
“For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;” -Romans 3:22-24
One of my most memorable moments of young children was at the home of a friend where we had gathered for a birthday party. Our friend’s youngest child, at one point, came running out of the house amidst great tears announcing to the world his moral outrage, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” The child could not have been much more than 2 years old. So how did this child develop such a keen and dreadful sense of “fairness” at such a young age? Could it be that we are created with a God given conscience that early on raises its head in absolute indignation at perceived wrongs? Is there a universal sense of rightness and wrongness stamped on our image? And where did that come from?
Dr. Frans de Waal, an Emory University primatologist, spoke recently and demonstrated how primates share with us traits of fairness and moral outrage in some very unique experiments. His point was to show how a sense of morality could evolve without religion or God. It was troubling at first to witness this clear and undeniable demonstration. As Christians, we believe man is uniquely different from the animal kingdom especially when it comes to morality. Mankind has generally prided itself on its finely developed moral code embedded in law and government that sets us apart from the laws of the jungle. Dr. de Waal suggested we were just sitting a little higher up the evolutionary ladder from our ancestors and aren’t all that different.
Troubled, I began to reflect on just how different we are from the animals. One can surely see that there are many human emotions that are mimicked in the animal kingdom. Playfulness, anger, loyalty, loneliness, empathy, and even sorrow are to be found among our animal friends. Dr. de Waal has now demonstrated that chimps can exhibit a sense of fairness and moral outrage when suffering unequal treatment.
As much as our very concepts of “right” and “wrong” are still, in themselves, indicators of the existence of a moral universe, especially when they are so universally similar around the world, this is not the key factor that marks us as uniquely different. Everyone knows not to mess with a dog’s dish while he is eating. What truly marks us as unique is our sense of guilt; a lingering remorse over wrongful doing. It is real and it is painful. While we can see examples of empathetic sorrow in the animal kingdom, what we don’t see are examples of animals driven to suicide through their complicity in evil. But we as humans do it all the time; every day, in fact. While we can get some relief from the pain of guilt through the forgiveness of others, there is a very real sense of guilt for the very self-centered nature we share with Adam. That sense of guilt finds no solution on earth. It is an offense against God our creator that cannot be muted, forgotten, or easily erased as much as we might try. Freud says it is a societal construct imposed by others. Marx says it was invented as a means of control by the upper classes. Dawkins would say it is just silly; a waste of time. Just maybe it is real, and it cries out from the ground of our being every bit as much as Abel’s blood cried out from the ground to God.
I had to remove a student from a kindergarten class not too long ago for not cooperating with her teacher. It was a first for me. She sat the rest of the day with a sour and painful expression on her face. After an earnest meeting with her father that night, the young student came to school the next day along with a big shiny apple she insisted on giving to her teacher. Suitable apologies were made and reconciliation was achieved. Following school, she ran down to her mother and with a beaming expression she cried out, “I’m forgiven! I’m forgiven!” No primate will ever know such joy. And such should be ours day after day as we walk in God’s forgiveness. Such is the privilege of being fully human and fully a child of His.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
One of my most memorable moments of young children was at the home of a friend where we had gathered for a birthday party. Our friend’s youngest child, at one point, came running out of the house amidst great tears announcing to the world his moral outrage, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” The child could not have been much more than 2 years old. So how did this child develop such a keen and dreadful sense of “fairness” at such a young age? Could it be that we are created with a God given conscience that early on raises its head in absolute indignation at perceived wrongs? Is there a universal sense of rightness and wrongness stamped on our image? And where did that come from?
Dr. Frans de Waal, an Emory University primatologist, spoke recently and demonstrated how primates share with us traits of fairness and moral outrage in some very unique experiments. His point was to show how a sense of morality could evolve without religion or God. It was troubling at first to witness this clear and undeniable demonstration. As Christians, we believe man is uniquely different from the animal kingdom especially when it comes to morality. Mankind has generally prided itself on its finely developed moral code embedded in law and government that sets us apart from the laws of the jungle. Dr. de Waal suggested we were just sitting a little higher up the evolutionary ladder from our ancestors and aren’t all that different.
Troubled, I began to reflect on just how different we are from the animals. One can surely see that there are many human emotions that are mimicked in the animal kingdom. Playfulness, anger, loyalty, loneliness, empathy, and even sorrow are to be found among our animal friends. Dr. de Waal has now demonstrated that chimps can exhibit a sense of fairness and moral outrage when suffering unequal treatment.
As much as our very concepts of “right” and “wrong” are still, in themselves, indicators of the existence of a moral universe, especially when they are so universally similar around the world, this is not the key factor that marks us as uniquely different. Everyone knows not to mess with a dog’s dish while he is eating. What truly marks us as unique is our sense of guilt; a lingering remorse over wrongful doing. It is real and it is painful. While we can see examples of empathetic sorrow in the animal kingdom, what we don’t see are examples of animals driven to suicide through their complicity in evil. But we as humans do it all the time; every day, in fact. While we can get some relief from the pain of guilt through the forgiveness of others, there is a very real sense of guilt for the very self-centered nature we share with Adam. That sense of guilt finds no solution on earth. It is an offense against God our creator that cannot be muted, forgotten, or easily erased as much as we might try. Freud says it is a societal construct imposed by others. Marx says it was invented as a means of control by the upper classes. Dawkins would say it is just silly; a waste of time. Just maybe it is real, and it cries out from the ground of our being every bit as much as Abel’s blood cried out from the ground to God.
I had to remove a student from a kindergarten class not too long ago for not cooperating with her teacher. It was a first for me. She sat the rest of the day with a sour and painful expression on her face. After an earnest meeting with her father that night, the young student came to school the next day along with a big shiny apple she insisted on giving to her teacher. Suitable apologies were made and reconciliation was achieved. Following school, she ran down to her mother and with a beaming expression she cried out, “I’m forgiven! I’m forgiven!” No primate will ever know such joy. And such should be ours day after day as we walk in God’s forgiveness. Such is the privilege of being fully human and fully a child of His.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Clear Light of Day
You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again?-Matt. 5:13
In 1933, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote to his grandmother, “The question is really: Christianity or Germanism? And the sooner the conflict is revealed in the clear light of day the better.” Bonhoeffer was able to see in those very early days prior to the maelstrom of the Third Reich that there was a creeping effort afoot to co-opt the German church to serve the rabid purposes of Nazi ideology. Later that same year, over 80% of the audience that turned up for a key church conference wore the brown shirts of the Nazi party. From then on, true Christians were forced underground. The church was thus effectively silenced through intimidation, pressure tactics, and overt political action and made to further the ideology of Hitler’s perverse dreams.
We have witnessed this again and again when oppressive forces seek to make religion subservient to the wishes of a secular state. During the French Revolution, church leaders were at one point forced to take an oath to the Constitution under penalty of losing their positions and were to be prosecuted as disturbers of the public peace if they continued to lead worship in any way. This new Constitution had completely destroyed the role of the church in public life and was opposed by the overwhelming majority of church leaders. On 5 February 1791, all priests who had not taken the oath were banned from preaching in public. Thousands of priests, nuns, and bishops suffered dismissal, deportation, and death as a result.
In the wake of the Communist revolution in Russia, “believers were never officially attacked for being believers, but they were officially attacked for perceived or invented resistance to the state and its policies.” We can read in a document entitled Separation of the Church from the State and the Schools from the Church: Decree of the Soviet of People's Commissars, 12 January 1918, “the free performance of religious rites is granted as long as it does not disturb public order.” In China today the government has a policy for religious management that requires Christians to join the strongly politically-charged National Committee of Three-Self Patriotic Movement or else their various religious activities (including congregation, worship, ceremony, formation of church, construction of church buildings, and evangelism) will be severely restricted and suppressed by various governmental management departments. Totalitarianism always seeks to silence any opposing voice and does so in the name of preserving the public order and the public peace. Despotism never likes to be disturbed.
At the risk of being alarmist, I am seeing some very uncomfortable developments here at home. Christian organizations on university campuses across our land are under attack. At stake is their right to conduct their fellowships according to historic Christian doctrine. Forty one different universities are contemplating challenges to student organizations according to the latest prayer letter from Intervarsity. The Obama administration is in the midst of a serious fight to impose birth control and abortifacient provisions on Catholic schools and charities under the name of health care. Protestants and Catholics alike are rallying to challenge this serious threat to religious freedom of conscience. Presently, our courts are intense battlegrounds arbitrating the rights of Christians to resist the imposition of politically-correct definitions of diversity and marriage.
What I think we are witnessing is an effort to bend Christian doctrine to serve the interests of secular dogma or to silence it altogether. Strident voices are coming out of various closets which have never been heard in public before. Unfortunately, Christian doctrine is proving to be disturbing to the public order. I agree with G.K. Chesterton that, “We do not need a church that is right when we are right. We need a church that is right when we are wrong. We do not need a church that moves with the world. We need a church that moves the world.” Maybe we should be saying, the sooner the conflict is revealed in the clear light of day the better.
In 1933, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote to his grandmother, “The question is really: Christianity or Germanism? And the sooner the conflict is revealed in the clear light of day the better.” Bonhoeffer was able to see in those very early days prior to the maelstrom of the Third Reich that there was a creeping effort afoot to co-opt the German church to serve the rabid purposes of Nazi ideology. Later that same year, over 80% of the audience that turned up for a key church conference wore the brown shirts of the Nazi party. From then on, true Christians were forced underground. The church was thus effectively silenced through intimidation, pressure tactics, and overt political action and made to further the ideology of Hitler’s perverse dreams.
We have witnessed this again and again when oppressive forces seek to make religion subservient to the wishes of a secular state. During the French Revolution, church leaders were at one point forced to take an oath to the Constitution under penalty of losing their positions and were to be prosecuted as disturbers of the public peace if they continued to lead worship in any way. This new Constitution had completely destroyed the role of the church in public life and was opposed by the overwhelming majority of church leaders. On 5 February 1791, all priests who had not taken the oath were banned from preaching in public. Thousands of priests, nuns, and bishops suffered dismissal, deportation, and death as a result.
In the wake of the Communist revolution in Russia, “believers were never officially attacked for being believers, but they were officially attacked for perceived or invented resistance to the state and its policies.” We can read in a document entitled Separation of the Church from the State and the Schools from the Church: Decree of the Soviet of People's Commissars, 12 January 1918, “the free performance of religious rites is granted as long as it does not disturb public order.” In China today the government has a policy for religious management that requires Christians to join the strongly politically-charged National Committee of Three-Self Patriotic Movement or else their various religious activities (including congregation, worship, ceremony, formation of church, construction of church buildings, and evangelism) will be severely restricted and suppressed by various governmental management departments. Totalitarianism always seeks to silence any opposing voice and does so in the name of preserving the public order and the public peace. Despotism never likes to be disturbed.
At the risk of being alarmist, I am seeing some very uncomfortable developments here at home. Christian organizations on university campuses across our land are under attack. At stake is their right to conduct their fellowships according to historic Christian doctrine. Forty one different universities are contemplating challenges to student organizations according to the latest prayer letter from Intervarsity. The Obama administration is in the midst of a serious fight to impose birth control and abortifacient provisions on Catholic schools and charities under the name of health care. Protestants and Catholics alike are rallying to challenge this serious threat to religious freedom of conscience. Presently, our courts are intense battlegrounds arbitrating the rights of Christians to resist the imposition of politically-correct definitions of diversity and marriage.
What I think we are witnessing is an effort to bend Christian doctrine to serve the interests of secular dogma or to silence it altogether. Strident voices are coming out of various closets which have never been heard in public before. Unfortunately, Christian doctrine is proving to be disturbing to the public order. I agree with G.K. Chesterton that, “We do not need a church that is right when we are right. We need a church that is right when we are wrong. We do not need a church that moves with the world. We need a church that moves the world.” Maybe we should be saying, the sooner the conflict is revealed in the clear light of day the better.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Final Exam
“You shall teach them to your sons, talking of them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road and when you lie down and when you rise up.” -Deuteronomy 11:19
This is ancient history to most of you and to the general college scene of today. But back in the 1960’s, Mrs. Moe and I faced our final hurdle in our senior year at Wheaton College in a much dreaded ritual known as Senior Comprehensives. The very words of “Senior Comps” struck fear and trembling into student hearts. For three years we pretended that they were afar off and not to be contemplated. But in that last year, we had to run the gauntlet of a 4 hour exam that covered both general knowledge and our major field. Rumors abounded of students who didn’t pass and had to repeat in order to graduate. There was also no real way to study for it. You either knew it or you didn’t. We never saw a score. You either passed or failed. Fortunately, we both survived.
I have no intention of subjecting our high school students to such an ordeal, but the thought is tempting at times. And if I did, the subjects I shared in last Thursday evening’s Parent In-Service would be the heart and soul of it. A number of you were interested enough in them to ask for a copy. I share them with you here and will also send out an electronic copy as well. What I do hope to do is to weave these issues into our high school studies so that as one point or another all students will be able to understand the questions and be able to speak to them from a Christian world view by the time they graduate. I believe that in doing so they will be prepared to be salt and light in our dying culture. It is imperative that we understand what we are up against in the increasingly hostile world in which we live. In disseminating these questions, I covet your eagerness to learn as well by listening, reading, and even researching these topics yourself so that your dinner table conversation can be sprinkled with lively discussion of the issues that matter to our life and times. I will also be sending out a power point presentation for you to help you understand why a Christian world-view is so important and how we are communicating a world-view whether we realize it or not. My simple proposition is this; that all students graduating from RECA should be able to demonstrate the following:
• The ability to make a rational argument concerning the dangers and threats of relativism as opposed to objective truth.
• The ability to articulate an argument for “original intent” as a method of interpreting our Constitution versus the idea of “a living document” and how that will shape our future.
• A full understanding of the effects of evolutionary thinking upon culture, law, medicine, and the rights of man.
• The ability to define what it means to be fully human and what distinguishes us from the animal kingdom.
• A full understanding of what separation of church and state meant to our forefathers (civil and religious) versus today.
• A knowledge of what is at stake in the debate over diversity and multi-culturalism.
• An ability to argue a defense of traditional marriage.
• An ability to articulate the right of religious people to speak to moral issues in the public square from their religious base.
• An understanding of a Christian view towards the environment.
• A demonstrated understanding of reasons for the reliability of the Scriptures.
As I see it, this is where the battle lines are being drawn within our nation for this next generation. Let’s help equip them for the fight. And it is never too early to start. I would hope that bits and pieces of this conversation would be taking place well before high school. We are making disciples for spiritual warfare. Preparing them for college is just a side show.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
This is ancient history to most of you and to the general college scene of today. But back in the 1960’s, Mrs. Moe and I faced our final hurdle in our senior year at Wheaton College in a much dreaded ritual known as Senior Comprehensives. The very words of “Senior Comps” struck fear and trembling into student hearts. For three years we pretended that they were afar off and not to be contemplated. But in that last year, we had to run the gauntlet of a 4 hour exam that covered both general knowledge and our major field. Rumors abounded of students who didn’t pass and had to repeat in order to graduate. There was also no real way to study for it. You either knew it or you didn’t. We never saw a score. You either passed or failed. Fortunately, we both survived.
I have no intention of subjecting our high school students to such an ordeal, but the thought is tempting at times. And if I did, the subjects I shared in last Thursday evening’s Parent In-Service would be the heart and soul of it. A number of you were interested enough in them to ask for a copy. I share them with you here and will also send out an electronic copy as well. What I do hope to do is to weave these issues into our high school studies so that as one point or another all students will be able to understand the questions and be able to speak to them from a Christian world view by the time they graduate. I believe that in doing so they will be prepared to be salt and light in our dying culture. It is imperative that we understand what we are up against in the increasingly hostile world in which we live. In disseminating these questions, I covet your eagerness to learn as well by listening, reading, and even researching these topics yourself so that your dinner table conversation can be sprinkled with lively discussion of the issues that matter to our life and times. I will also be sending out a power point presentation for you to help you understand why a Christian world-view is so important and how we are communicating a world-view whether we realize it or not. My simple proposition is this; that all students graduating from RECA should be able to demonstrate the following:
• The ability to make a rational argument concerning the dangers and threats of relativism as opposed to objective truth.
• The ability to articulate an argument for “original intent” as a method of interpreting our Constitution versus the idea of “a living document” and how that will shape our future.
• A full understanding of the effects of evolutionary thinking upon culture, law, medicine, and the rights of man.
• The ability to define what it means to be fully human and what distinguishes us from the animal kingdom.
• A full understanding of what separation of church and state meant to our forefathers (civil and religious) versus today.
• A knowledge of what is at stake in the debate over diversity and multi-culturalism.
• An ability to argue a defense of traditional marriage.
• An ability to articulate the right of religious people to speak to moral issues in the public square from their religious base.
• An understanding of a Christian view towards the environment.
• A demonstrated understanding of reasons for the reliability of the Scriptures.
As I see it, this is where the battle lines are being drawn within our nation for this next generation. Let’s help equip them for the fight. And it is never too early to start. I would hope that bits and pieces of this conversation would be taking place well before high school. We are making disciples for spiritual warfare. Preparing them for college is just a side show.
Mercy and Truth, Mr. Moe
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The Least of These
“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’
Matthew 25:40
In the early 1800’s, the driving social issue of the day was the abolition of slavery which we can trace from the intractable campaign of William Wilberforce in England to our own cataclysmic years of the Civil War. Today’s defining issue is that of abortion on demand with all of its related value of life issues including assisted suicide, cloning, and embryonic stem cell research. Anyone familiar with our own history of the pre-civil war era knows of the vitriolic rhetoric regarding slavery that rocked the public square and ultimately divided a nation. Nor could the Supreme Court settle this issue but, instead, heaped fuel to the fire with its infamous Dred-Scott decision which would forever be a stain upon the high court.
In 1973, our Supreme Court opened the floodgates to abortion on demand with its own infamous decision and overturned hundreds of laws across our land. What they thought would be a means of settling a social debate once and for all has not gone away but instead grown to massive proportions. The bleed-over that many visionaries feared is now with us and has also mushroomed the stakes. Not only are we seeing more women suffering from unscrupulous practitioners than ever before, we are seeing a devaluing of all human life especially at the fringes of the social family. This ranges from sex selection abortion to special needs children to the elderly. It also tears at the fabric of our national identity in our ability to defend the rights of all to threatening the health and well being of long standing programs like social security which depend on young workers supporting the old. Immigration is the only way that our present population can preserve its numbers.
I would like every student going through River’s Edge to be knowledgeable about our present and ongoing cultural war and what it means to our country, our health care system, our legal system, our neighborhoods, and our families. The ramifications of this debate are hugely practical all across our society. There is what many are calling a culture of death at work here that seeks to change the way we look at human life at every level. This country has always valued life in any and all situations. It is what has made us great. We can all affirm that America has been great because it has been good, but when it ceases to be good it will cease to be great.
The good news is that we are witnessing a groundswell movement today that prizes a culture of life. For the first time since 1973, more American youth are identifying themselves as pro-life rather than pro-choice. The annual pro-life march in Washington is a remarkable display of youth turning out in overwhelming numbers. When are children too young to understand what is at stake? Lila Rose, one of the leading Christian young crusaders against abortion, was first exposed to the horror of this plague at the age of 9 when she picked up a book in her home. Her course has been set ever since.
This Sunday is the annual March for Life here in Knoxville beginning with a rally at Calvary Baptist Church on Kingston Pike, 2:00 pm (http://trlknox.org/). I would urge you to consider attending this rally with your family to hear our County Mayor Tim Burchett speak up for life. The musical group, Wild Blue Yonder, will be there as well, and I hope they will perform their song that says to “lift up the truth and lift it high; wave it proudly in the face of lies.” It is powerful. This is a chance for your children to see hundreds of other families across our city gathering together to take a stand in the name of Jesus proclaiming that all human life is inviolate. It has always been an inspiring service. Our children need to know that merely being little is not safe anymore.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Matthew 25:40
In the early 1800’s, the driving social issue of the day was the abolition of slavery which we can trace from the intractable campaign of William Wilberforce in England to our own cataclysmic years of the Civil War. Today’s defining issue is that of abortion on demand with all of its related value of life issues including assisted suicide, cloning, and embryonic stem cell research. Anyone familiar with our own history of the pre-civil war era knows of the vitriolic rhetoric regarding slavery that rocked the public square and ultimately divided a nation. Nor could the Supreme Court settle this issue but, instead, heaped fuel to the fire with its infamous Dred-Scott decision which would forever be a stain upon the high court.
In 1973, our Supreme Court opened the floodgates to abortion on demand with its own infamous decision and overturned hundreds of laws across our land. What they thought would be a means of settling a social debate once and for all has not gone away but instead grown to massive proportions. The bleed-over that many visionaries feared is now with us and has also mushroomed the stakes. Not only are we seeing more women suffering from unscrupulous practitioners than ever before, we are seeing a devaluing of all human life especially at the fringes of the social family. This ranges from sex selection abortion to special needs children to the elderly. It also tears at the fabric of our national identity in our ability to defend the rights of all to threatening the health and well being of long standing programs like social security which depend on young workers supporting the old. Immigration is the only way that our present population can preserve its numbers.
I would like every student going through River’s Edge to be knowledgeable about our present and ongoing cultural war and what it means to our country, our health care system, our legal system, our neighborhoods, and our families. The ramifications of this debate are hugely practical all across our society. There is what many are calling a culture of death at work here that seeks to change the way we look at human life at every level. This country has always valued life in any and all situations. It is what has made us great. We can all affirm that America has been great because it has been good, but when it ceases to be good it will cease to be great.
The good news is that we are witnessing a groundswell movement today that prizes a culture of life. For the first time since 1973, more American youth are identifying themselves as pro-life rather than pro-choice. The annual pro-life march in Washington is a remarkable display of youth turning out in overwhelming numbers. When are children too young to understand what is at stake? Lila Rose, one of the leading Christian young crusaders against abortion, was first exposed to the horror of this plague at the age of 9 when she picked up a book in her home. Her course has been set ever since.
This Sunday is the annual March for Life here in Knoxville beginning with a rally at Calvary Baptist Church on Kingston Pike, 2:00 pm (http://trlknox.org/). I would urge you to consider attending this rally with your family to hear our County Mayor Tim Burchett speak up for life. The musical group, Wild Blue Yonder, will be there as well, and I hope they will perform their song that says to “lift up the truth and lift it high; wave it proudly in the face of lies.” It is powerful. This is a chance for your children to see hundreds of other families across our city gathering together to take a stand in the name of Jesus proclaiming that all human life is inviolate. It has always been an inspiring service. Our children need to know that merely being little is not safe anymore.
Mercy and Truth,
Mr. Moe
Sunday, December 18, 2011
December Dandelions
“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
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 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
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