You remember the parable of the Prodigal Son.
After the son has left his father's home, his father anxiously awaits his return, watches for his coming, and rushes out to meet his son when he finally appears on the road back home.
The father barely even listens to his son's prepared apology, but instead restores him fully, immediately, and wholeheartedly. The father kisses his son, embraces him, and leaves no room for even a shadow of a doubt as to whether the matter is resolved.
It is done. The son is home.
In a lesser-known story, another prodigal son finds himself in a homecoming that is much less clear or comforting, in fact, highly ambiguous and open for interpretation.
King David, like the father in Jesus' parable, also kisses his prodigal son Absalom, but the kiss does not convey resolution or completion, but an ambiguity that leaves open the door for the worst disaster of David's reign.
The story begins in II Samuel 13, when King David's daughter Tamar is raped by her half-brother Amnon. This bizarre and disturbing incident ends with King David being "furious", but doing nothing, and Tamar retreating in shame to the home of her brother....Absalom.
In the absence of any reaction from the King, Absalom's heart is allowed to nurture a vengeful grudge against Amnon, and Absalom resolves to carry out his vengeance when the time is right.
2 Years Later:
After everyone else has apparently moved on and forgotten about the rape of Tamar, Absalom arranges to murder Amnon in the middle of a high-spirited feast, and makes good his plan. With Amnon dead and Tamar avenged, Absalom flees the country. King David then "mourned his son every day", but still apparently does nothing in response to what has now evolved into a series of heinous events.
3 Years Later:
King David's feelings have now moved from grief over the death of his son Amnon, to longing for his prodigal son Absalom. David still does not act, but leaves the situation as it is. Joab, the head of David's army, realizes the king's heart will not be at ease as long as Absalom is estranged, and devises a scheme using an emotional story from a widow to persuade David to allow Absalom to return to the kingdom.
But David still will not erase all doubt. While he grudgingly relents to Absalom's return, there are stipulations: "He must go to his own house; he must not see my face." So, Absalom returns to Jerusalem, three years after sinfully avenging a rape that is now five years old, but still has no place before his father.
2 Years Later:
Absalom's resentment grows over his continued status as an outsider, and he twice sends for Joab to appeal for an audience with King David. Joab twice ignores Absalom's request. The increasingly bold Absalom responds to this rebuff by burning Joab's field, forcing a response from the chief of the army. Joab finally hears Absalom out, and finally arranges a meeting between father and son.
Read out of context, this reunion after seven years of separation might sound heartfelt: "...the king summoned Absalom, and he came in and bowed down with his face to the ground before the king. And the king kissed Absalom." (14:33) But, considering the reasons for the separation, and the resentment surely felt by Absalom by this time, this scene is more likely forced and awkward, so very different from the scene described by Jesus when the prodigal in His story returns home.
So much that had needed to be said was never said, and now so many things that might help are so hard to say, perhaps impossible to say.
4 Years Later:
After Absalom's ambiguous reunion with his father, he immediately sets upon a deliberate campaign to undermine his father's authority and win the hearts of his father's people. For four years this goes on, without a word from King David. And all at once, it happens. Absalom overthrows King David, and it takes a bloody battle and Absalom's demise to restore David's throne again.
All this, in 11 years. 11 short years. 11 long years. Imagine having your life turned upside-down by a chain of events that had gone unchecked, with their origin in a wrong left unresolved, eleven years before.
It was a very different story for David and Absalom than the story Jesus told about the Prodigal Son.
Both stories feature a son gone astray, and a father facing the painful aftermath of the sins of his son. Both stories build up to a moment of return for the lost son.
But only one story's reunion is happy, fulfilling, or lasting.
These stories speak to what can happen when a person needs to be restored, and when a person needs to forgive.
The son in Jesus' story repented completely of his sin, and threw himself at his father's mercy. The father forgave immediately, restored fully, and left no room for misunderstanding, in sharp contrast to David, whose responses to Absalom were marked by delay, procrastination, and grudging, conditional compromise. While Jesus' prodigal knew where he stood, it's clear Absalom did not.
We're not told exactly what Absalom's attitude was about his sin. We tend to think poorly of him all around, but one has to wonder how the story might have been different had David intervened from the beginning. Is it possible Absalom's vengeful spirit might never have taken root? Is it possible this father might have been able to guide his son to the God whose heart he knew so well?
We'll never know.
But we do know that this relationship was never restored, and this prodigal was never brought home.
Forgiveness, restoration.
When the story is told by Jesus, the way home is clear.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
God's Movers
What ever became of the Kohathites?
Introduced with several verses of ink in Numbers 4, but only mentioned in passing a few times beyond that; entrusted with what initially sounds like a refined responsibility, but in reality the ancestors of those indispensable guys you never think about till you need them: movers.
Never heard of them?
The Kohathites were a division of the Levite tribe in Israel, and were therefore assigned a responsibility related to the tabernacle during the years when the Israelites wandered in the wilderness.
Their task, as presented in Numbers 4:4, was "...the care of the most holy things."
How can this job description not conjur up images of white-gloved hands polishing shiny things, stocking breads, refilling oils, lighting candles and generally keeping oneself clean and out of the heat?
If you thought those things like I did, the image is busted in the next several verses. It turns out the Kohathites didn't get to dust, shine, or refill the holy things at all. In fact, they didn't even get to see or touch them. The fancy parts of this job were reserved for Aaron and his sons, and whenever God called on His children to pick up camp and move across the wilderness, the holy things inside the tabernacle were packed up carefully by Aaron's sons, covered and concealed by the curtains from the tabernacle, the hides of sea cows, and solid blue cloths.
Once the holy things were secure and unseen, "...and when the camp is ready to move, the Kohathites are to come to do the carrying. But they must not touch the holy things or they will die. The Kohathites are to carry those things that are in the Tent of Meeting." (verse 15)
"Do the carrying" would certainly fall into the "Care of the Holy Things" chapter, but it sure isn't the first thing that comes to mind.
What must this job have been like? Over and over again, to transport the same hidden items across the wilderness, only to arrive at the next stop, turn over the precious cargo to Aaron and his sons without seeing or touching it, and go back on standby till the next move is called for.
What was it like for these servants of God, to carry a burden for Him that they themselves could never see, never touch, never fully comprehend or appreciate? They doubtless saw the rough outline of the holy things of God, shrouded by mystery they were never permitted to uncover. They knew the strength it took to carry the load a long way, but they never saw the load itself, and, so far as we know, were never given a reason why they weren't allowed to see it.
Did the Kohathites bear their burden gladly? Was there ever any resentment felt over the limits of their privilege? If not resentment, at least a longing to know more, to become fully familiar with the burden God had assigned them to carry? Might a full appreciation for the splendor of God's holy things have made the burden easier to carry? (Or, might the Kohathites have thought so, at least?)
We're just not told.
One thing we do know, however, is that the Kohathites are not the only ones God has ever tasked with carrying a burden they could not comprehend.
"Have you considered my servant Job?" -- Job 1:8
"For truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it." -- Matthew 13:17
"It was revealed to them [the prophets] that they were not serving themselves but you, when they spoke of the things that have now been told you by those who have preached the gospel to you by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven. Even angels long to look into these things." -- I Peter 1:10-12
From Job to the Kohathites, to the prophets to the angels, the children of God can find kindred spirits in scripture during times of confusion created by burdens we bear but can't comprehend.
Illness, loss, good deeds seemingly unnoticed or even punished, attempts at godly influence spurned. Seemingly aimless periods in which God's direction is sought after, but just doesn't seem clear.
Why doesn't God always supply the full context for these burdens at the time we're carrying them?
Why doesn't he always satisfy our desire to know more, to comprehend fully in this life?
There are deeper waters to dive in search of scholarly answers to those questions, but a sense of His mystery can be found in the story of Jesus' healing of the man blind from birth. (John 9) Jesus makes clear that the man's affliction, his burden in life, was not caused by anyone's sin, but was rather an opportunity for "...the works of God to be displayed in him." (verse 3).
Ultimately, the burdens we bear without full comprehension can only be accepted on faith as God's opportunities to display His work in our lives.
And, ultimately, our ways are not His ways, and our thoughts are not His thoughts. (Isaiah 55:8)
Lord, please sustain us when we don't see what You see, when we can't comprehend what You ask us to carry, when it seems so clear to us that we just need You to tell us Your plan.
Help us to trust you more, Father, and to rest assured that You will never forsake us, even when the burden seems heavy, and the purpose seems unclear.
Introduced with several verses of ink in Numbers 4, but only mentioned in passing a few times beyond that; entrusted with what initially sounds like a refined responsibility, but in reality the ancestors of those indispensable guys you never think about till you need them: movers.
Never heard of them?
The Kohathites were a division of the Levite tribe in Israel, and were therefore assigned a responsibility related to the tabernacle during the years when the Israelites wandered in the wilderness.
Their task, as presented in Numbers 4:4, was "...the care of the most holy things."
How can this job description not conjur up images of white-gloved hands polishing shiny things, stocking breads, refilling oils, lighting candles and generally keeping oneself clean and out of the heat?
If you thought those things like I did, the image is busted in the next several verses. It turns out the Kohathites didn't get to dust, shine, or refill the holy things at all. In fact, they didn't even get to see or touch them. The fancy parts of this job were reserved for Aaron and his sons, and whenever God called on His children to pick up camp and move across the wilderness, the holy things inside the tabernacle were packed up carefully by Aaron's sons, covered and concealed by the curtains from the tabernacle, the hides of sea cows, and solid blue cloths.
Once the holy things were secure and unseen, "...and when the camp is ready to move, the Kohathites are to come to do the carrying. But they must not touch the holy things or they will die. The Kohathites are to carry those things that are in the Tent of Meeting." (verse 15)
"Do the carrying" would certainly fall into the "Care of the Holy Things" chapter, but it sure isn't the first thing that comes to mind.
What must this job have been like? Over and over again, to transport the same hidden items across the wilderness, only to arrive at the next stop, turn over the precious cargo to Aaron and his sons without seeing or touching it, and go back on standby till the next move is called for.
What was it like for these servants of God, to carry a burden for Him that they themselves could never see, never touch, never fully comprehend or appreciate? They doubtless saw the rough outline of the holy things of God, shrouded by mystery they were never permitted to uncover. They knew the strength it took to carry the load a long way, but they never saw the load itself, and, so far as we know, were never given a reason why they weren't allowed to see it.
Did the Kohathites bear their burden gladly? Was there ever any resentment felt over the limits of their privilege? If not resentment, at least a longing to know more, to become fully familiar with the burden God had assigned them to carry? Might a full appreciation for the splendor of God's holy things have made the burden easier to carry? (Or, might the Kohathites have thought so, at least?)
We're just not told.
One thing we do know, however, is that the Kohathites are not the only ones God has ever tasked with carrying a burden they could not comprehend.
"Have you considered my servant Job?" -- Job 1:8
"For truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it." -- Matthew 13:17
"It was revealed to them [the prophets] that they were not serving themselves but you, when they spoke of the things that have now been told you by those who have preached the gospel to you by the Holy Spirit sent from heaven. Even angels long to look into these things." -- I Peter 1:10-12
From Job to the Kohathites, to the prophets to the angels, the children of God can find kindred spirits in scripture during times of confusion created by burdens we bear but can't comprehend.
Illness, loss, good deeds seemingly unnoticed or even punished, attempts at godly influence spurned. Seemingly aimless periods in which God's direction is sought after, but just doesn't seem clear.
Why doesn't God always supply the full context for these burdens at the time we're carrying them?
Why doesn't he always satisfy our desire to know more, to comprehend fully in this life?
There are deeper waters to dive in search of scholarly answers to those questions, but a sense of His mystery can be found in the story of Jesus' healing of the man blind from birth. (John 9) Jesus makes clear that the man's affliction, his burden in life, was not caused by anyone's sin, but was rather an opportunity for "...the works of God to be displayed in him." (verse 3).
Ultimately, the burdens we bear without full comprehension can only be accepted on faith as God's opportunities to display His work in our lives.
And, ultimately, our ways are not His ways, and our thoughts are not His thoughts. (Isaiah 55:8)
Lord, please sustain us when we don't see what You see, when we can't comprehend what You ask us to carry, when it seems so clear to us that we just need You to tell us Your plan.
Help us to trust you more, Father, and to rest assured that You will never forsake us, even when the burden seems heavy, and the purpose seems unclear.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Without Fear of Persecution
If you've attended worship services in the United States all your life like I have, you've probably heard this, too:
"Thank you, God, that we are able to gather together freely and worship You without fear of persecution."
I'll be honest: It's a sentiment I certainly agree with, but don't often think much about. Freedom of worship is all I've ever known. It's all my parents and grandparents have ever known as well. In fact, I can't say that I've ever met, in all my life, anyone who has ever experienced anything else, or who even knows anyone who has experienced anything else.
That's just how far removed from persecution I am.
So, the prayer quoted above takes on a whole new meaning in the light of this news story.
Imagine it. Gathering together to worship, only to be interrupted by a mob of hateful opponents, bent on not only stopping the worship, but dispersing the worshippers, by whatever means necessary.
Call the police? The government is on the side of the hostile crowd, and the facility you used for worship right up to that moment is now sealed off from your use.
Fight the crowd? Not exactly in line with Jesus' command to turn the other cheek, nor with His reaction to Peter's sword strike on Malchus. To respond in kind would be to forfeit every shred of credibility as followers of Christ, and accomplish the mob's very goal.
Demand of God how He could possibly let this happen to His children? While crying out to Him about such a trauma would be the only normal reaction, the realization would quickly set in that Jesus never promised His followers the respect or support of their neighbors, colleagues, or countrymen, or even their families.
In fact, it's quite the opposite.
"If the world hates you, you know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you." -- John 15:18-19
"...all who desire to live godly in Jesus Christ will suffer persecution." -- II Timothy 3:12
As hard as it can be to accept, there are some things God simply does not promise His children, and the average American Christian's absence of fear of persecution is probably more of an anomaly than a norm.
While it is right to make the most of our freedom to serve God and share the Gospel, our freedom must not be allowed to create within us a feeling of entitlement to the approval of those around us.
And while we should pray for the preservation of our freedom, we should be prepared to follow Jesus even if we are not always afforded a comfortable set of circumstances in which to do it.
A story like the one above might cause you and me to reflect on just what, if anything, following Jesus has really cost us in this life. And what we would be willing to have it cost us if our circustances were different.
Have we prepared our minds for the possibility of following Jesus in a hostile environment? Are we assuming our current favorable situation will endure right up to the moment Jesus comes again? Are we assuming nothing here will ever be different? Are our children developing a faith that assumes it will always exist in a supportive environment?
Lord, please preserve our freedom to serve You, please help Christians who suffer persecution for serving You, and please prepare us for more difficult times, if they are to come.
"Thank you, God, that we are able to gather together freely and worship You without fear of persecution."
I'll be honest: It's a sentiment I certainly agree with, but don't often think much about. Freedom of worship is all I've ever known. It's all my parents and grandparents have ever known as well. In fact, I can't say that I've ever met, in all my life, anyone who has ever experienced anything else, or who even knows anyone who has experienced anything else.
That's just how far removed from persecution I am.
So, the prayer quoted above takes on a whole new meaning in the light of this news story.
Imagine it. Gathering together to worship, only to be interrupted by a mob of hateful opponents, bent on not only stopping the worship, but dispersing the worshippers, by whatever means necessary.
Call the police? The government is on the side of the hostile crowd, and the facility you used for worship right up to that moment is now sealed off from your use.
Fight the crowd? Not exactly in line with Jesus' command to turn the other cheek, nor with His reaction to Peter's sword strike on Malchus. To respond in kind would be to forfeit every shred of credibility as followers of Christ, and accomplish the mob's very goal.
Demand of God how He could possibly let this happen to His children? While crying out to Him about such a trauma would be the only normal reaction, the realization would quickly set in that Jesus never promised His followers the respect or support of their neighbors, colleagues, or countrymen, or even their families.
In fact, it's quite the opposite.
"If the world hates you, you know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I chose you out of the world, therefore the world hates you." -- John 15:18-19
"...all who desire to live godly in Jesus Christ will suffer persecution." -- II Timothy 3:12
As hard as it can be to accept, there are some things God simply does not promise His children, and the average American Christian's absence of fear of persecution is probably more of an anomaly than a norm.
While it is right to make the most of our freedom to serve God and share the Gospel, our freedom must not be allowed to create within us a feeling of entitlement to the approval of those around us.
And while we should pray for the preservation of our freedom, we should be prepared to follow Jesus even if we are not always afforded a comfortable set of circumstances in which to do it.
A story like the one above might cause you and me to reflect on just what, if anything, following Jesus has really cost us in this life. And what we would be willing to have it cost us if our circustances were different.
Have we prepared our minds for the possibility of following Jesus in a hostile environment? Are we assuming our current favorable situation will endure right up to the moment Jesus comes again? Are we assuming nothing here will ever be different? Are our children developing a faith that assumes it will always exist in a supportive environment?
Lord, please preserve our freedom to serve You, please help Christians who suffer persecution for serving You, and please prepare us for more difficult times, if they are to come.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
A Brilliant Idea, Not to Be...
You've probably been there before.
Road tripping through the middle of nowhere, deciding it's time to make a pit stop, pulling into a gas station or convenience store, finding the restroom, and stepping into a biohazard unfit for a sewer rat.
Add to this scene the challenge of helping a small child use the facilities without touching anything, and you've just created the perfect storm.
Carelessly used, sparsely supplied, and seemingly seldom cleaned public restrooms are just a part of the reality of traveling by car across great distances.
Having experienced this many times, I've occasionally reflected on why this is. The answer, of course, is simple. If a restroom is in bad condition, it probably isn't cleaned very often. So, I got to thinking one time, somewhere on the highway while my family slept, about a sure-fire way to provide travelers with clean restrooms without having to rely on an infinite variety of employees to take the time to keep them clean.
It all came together in my mind.
It would be perfect.
Public restrooms would clean themselves. They would be made entirely of stainless steel, every surface. The walls would be fitted with high-powered jets that would spray a potent soapy-water mix all over the room and everything in it, at two or three regular intervals each day. What about the toilet paper? Not to worry. The container holding it would be rigged up to seal itself tight just before the super-jets kicked in, and open up again only after the cleanse was finished and all was dry.
And I, along with millions of conscientious travelers like me, would be able to walk into any public restroom without worry, and without a haz-mat suit.
Pure genius.
Well, it didn't take more than a few miles of highway to come to grips with the fact that this scenario was never going to happen. It would be far too expensive to ever become a reality, not to mention the surefire lawsuit from the first person to get trapped inside the restroom during the jet-powered, scalding-hot cleanse.
So, I was back at square one: Bathrooms get dirty, and they don't get clean again until someone takes brush in hand and does the cleaning. There is no mechanism to make it automatic, no technology to make it less personal, no way to eliminate the risk of getting dirty in the process.
So it is with most other necessary tasks in our lives. They don't get done unless we do them. The lifestyle of the Jetsons hasn't become a reality, even though we all thought it surely would, back when we were looking "way ahead" to the year 2000. Ten years after that milestone, we still scrub toilets in the same old way, (give or take some fancier cleaning tools), and if we neglect the job, we live with the same unpleasantness that has always occurred when this chore doesn't get done.
Everybody wants clean restrooms. Everybody wants a clean home. Everybody wants a nice neighborhood, a good school, a thriving church, a loving family.
Every Christian wants the gospel proclaimed and the lost saved by its power.
These are all good and noble desires, and no one should hope for anything less. But how tempting is it to passively allow ourselves to assume that these goals, far more important than household chores, will be fulfilled any other way than with our personal involvement?
Jesus is not dependent upon our efforts to accomplish His will, but stop for a moment to consider some of His commands and how personal they are:
"Love one another."
"Feed my lambs."
"Make disciples..."
"Teach them..."
"...wash one another's feet."
No matter the time or culture in which these words are read, the commands of Christ are personal. For those who choose to obey Him, there is no other way to do His will than to simply do it. No one else obeys on a disciple's behalf. There is no machine to do the obeying for us. Even in the world of the web, technology cannot obey the personal commands of Jesus for us.
And as with the joy of a task well done, the peace to be found in obedience to Jesus can be truly experienced only by those who themselves personally obey Him, never by anyone who waits for a solution that would allow him to remain passive.
And the consequences of neglecting to do His will are felt by many.
But of course, a life with Christ is not a chore like cleaning the house. It is a love deeper than a marriage and more assured than parenthood. It is a personal walk that will only grow more precious with time.
Who could think a relationship this real could be experienced passively, without personal commitment?
Road tripping through the middle of nowhere, deciding it's time to make a pit stop, pulling into a gas station or convenience store, finding the restroom, and stepping into a biohazard unfit for a sewer rat.
Add to this scene the challenge of helping a small child use the facilities without touching anything, and you've just created the perfect storm.
Carelessly used, sparsely supplied, and seemingly seldom cleaned public restrooms are just a part of the reality of traveling by car across great distances.
Having experienced this many times, I've occasionally reflected on why this is. The answer, of course, is simple. If a restroom is in bad condition, it probably isn't cleaned very often. So, I got to thinking one time, somewhere on the highway while my family slept, about a sure-fire way to provide travelers with clean restrooms without having to rely on an infinite variety of employees to take the time to keep them clean.
It all came together in my mind.
It would be perfect.
Public restrooms would clean themselves. They would be made entirely of stainless steel, every surface. The walls would be fitted with high-powered jets that would spray a potent soapy-water mix all over the room and everything in it, at two or three regular intervals each day. What about the toilet paper? Not to worry. The container holding it would be rigged up to seal itself tight just before the super-jets kicked in, and open up again only after the cleanse was finished and all was dry.
And I, along with millions of conscientious travelers like me, would be able to walk into any public restroom without worry, and without a haz-mat suit.
Pure genius.
Well, it didn't take more than a few miles of highway to come to grips with the fact that this scenario was never going to happen. It would be far too expensive to ever become a reality, not to mention the surefire lawsuit from the first person to get trapped inside the restroom during the jet-powered, scalding-hot cleanse.
So, I was back at square one: Bathrooms get dirty, and they don't get clean again until someone takes brush in hand and does the cleaning. There is no mechanism to make it automatic, no technology to make it less personal, no way to eliminate the risk of getting dirty in the process.
So it is with most other necessary tasks in our lives. They don't get done unless we do them. The lifestyle of the Jetsons hasn't become a reality, even though we all thought it surely would, back when we were looking "way ahead" to the year 2000. Ten years after that milestone, we still scrub toilets in the same old way, (give or take some fancier cleaning tools), and if we neglect the job, we live with the same unpleasantness that has always occurred when this chore doesn't get done.
Everybody wants clean restrooms. Everybody wants a clean home. Everybody wants a nice neighborhood, a good school, a thriving church, a loving family.
Every Christian wants the gospel proclaimed and the lost saved by its power.
These are all good and noble desires, and no one should hope for anything less. But how tempting is it to passively allow ourselves to assume that these goals, far more important than household chores, will be fulfilled any other way than with our personal involvement?
Jesus is not dependent upon our efforts to accomplish His will, but stop for a moment to consider some of His commands and how personal they are:
"Love one another."
"Feed my lambs."
"Make disciples..."
"Teach them..."
"...wash one another's feet."
No matter the time or culture in which these words are read, the commands of Christ are personal. For those who choose to obey Him, there is no other way to do His will than to simply do it. No one else obeys on a disciple's behalf. There is no machine to do the obeying for us. Even in the world of the web, technology cannot obey the personal commands of Jesus for us.
And as with the joy of a task well done, the peace to be found in obedience to Jesus can be truly experienced only by those who themselves personally obey Him, never by anyone who waits for a solution that would allow him to remain passive.
And the consequences of neglecting to do His will are felt by many.
But of course, a life with Christ is not a chore like cleaning the house. It is a love deeper than a marriage and more assured than parenthood. It is a personal walk that will only grow more precious with time.
Who could think a relationship this real could be experienced passively, without personal commitment?
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Need Directions?
Looking back on it now, it's pretty sad that I actually felt this way at such a young age.
But I distinctly remember, somewhere around the age of 8 or 10, becoming seriously anxious that, when the time came for me to learn how to drive and get myself around town, I would become hopelessly lost and not be able to find my way to wherever I was needing to go.
In a way, it wasn't a totally unreasonable fear. Riding along with my parents every day as they navigated a seemingly never-ending labyrinth of L.A. freeways, exits, and twists and turns, it could easily overwhelm a kid to think about taking the helm on his own someday.
I can even remember bringing along some paper and a pencil one time, so I could copy down the route from our house to wherever our destination was. Not surprisingly, I was unable to keep up, gave up the effort after a few turns, and remained alone with my fear.
Never did I mention this nagging worry to my parents, so I forfeited the chance to nip this fear in the bud with their reassurance. It never crossed my mind that they, too, were once children riding along with their parents, not knowing one street from another or how to get anywhere.
But one random day, mercifully, the answer came, and my worries were relieved.
I had never noticed this before, but it all made sense the moment I did. I can't explain the relief and jubilation I felt when I finally saw it!
From my usual perch in the backseat, I could clearly see it: As we approached an intersection, just before my mom slowed down and turned the steering wheel, a little green arrow on the dashboard blinked on and off several times, and kept blinking until we had successfully made the turn!
There it was! Left this time, right next time, we're almost home!
The green arrow was even accompanied by a clicking sound, just to be sure you didn't miss it.
Oh, man! I had it figured out! Why had I been so worried for so long? It was all going to be OK!
The car would tell me which way to go, and when I needed to turn. Whew!
Well, I'm not sure which ending to this story is funnier: the bursting of my bubble when my parents later explained to me that the green arrow on the dashboard actually did not intuitively know your destination and blink on its own, or the fact that now, almost 30 years later, my cell phone does for me exactly what I thought my parents' dashboard did for them all those years ago. (In fact, many vehicles now actually do have this technology mounted into the dashboard!)
You've probably done it, too:
Just open up whatever app you use for maps and driving directions, tell the device where you want to go, and just turn when the voice says to turn. Amazing!
As I write this, I am sitting in a hotel room in Roswell, NM. I have only been here once before, several years back, and have no personal familiarity with the city. But, thanks to my Droid, Google maps, and a robotic, female voice I've named "Betty", I have driven around town with the confidence of a local during this visit.
Kind of funny to sit here while my boys sleep and think that they will have no recollections of a world without Betty. Their experience with navigation will take place entirely after the infusion of GPS technology into the life of the average American. They may end up laughing years down the road at how primitive Betty was, and how excited I was just to have her in my life.
Will they ever purchase the annual Wal-Mart/Rand McNally Road Atlas?
Will it even be printed anymore?
Will the whole stereotype about men not being willing to ask for directions even be relevant in another generation?
It will be interesting to see how those questions pan out. But as long as Betty proves faithful in her guidance, I am sold on following her lead in unfamiliar territory, despite her difficulty with Spanish pronunciation. (It's "Chavez", Betty, not "Chaives"...)
I guess when it comes right down to it, everyone is looking for a guide to the unfamiliar.
Wouldn't it be nice to have GPS-quality instructions for the decisions and dilemmas that vex us throughout life? Compound those head-scratchers with the inevitable questions that will come from your children, and you will definitely be looking for some help.
(A shoulder-tap from reality: Our 5 year-old understands that he began his existence "in mommy's tummy", and just upped the ante tonight by asking how he got there in the first place...)
Betty can't help us there.
While my boys will someday enjoy technology even more impressive than what I am used to, there are some things, the most important things, that will require them to respect and rely upon navigation that remains changeless with time.
They must learn to excel in the ever-changing world around them, making use of its constantly evolving tools and systems, yet remain grounded in the Truth that never needs updating.
As much as Kristi and I relish the chance to be the source of answers for our boys now and for as long as they will come to us with their questions, we know the time will come when they will either have to, or will choose to, work things out on their own.
Here's the scariest part: When someone is desperate for direction, as I was when I pondered the challenge of learning to drive and navigate on my own, almost anything that provides even a glimmer of hope will be awfully appealing.
It's worth a laugh now to think back on my hopes foolishly invested in the green, blinking arrows on the dashboard. But what in this world, equally non-sensical, will seem to my children to be the source of just the answers they are looking for, if their hearts are not trained to look to the Father for guidance?
I shudder to imagine.
But I distinctly remember, somewhere around the age of 8 or 10, becoming seriously anxious that, when the time came for me to learn how to drive and get myself around town, I would become hopelessly lost and not be able to find my way to wherever I was needing to go.
In a way, it wasn't a totally unreasonable fear. Riding along with my parents every day as they navigated a seemingly never-ending labyrinth of L.A. freeways, exits, and twists and turns, it could easily overwhelm a kid to think about taking the helm on his own someday.
I can even remember bringing along some paper and a pencil one time, so I could copy down the route from our house to wherever our destination was. Not surprisingly, I was unable to keep up, gave up the effort after a few turns, and remained alone with my fear.
Never did I mention this nagging worry to my parents, so I forfeited the chance to nip this fear in the bud with their reassurance. It never crossed my mind that they, too, were once children riding along with their parents, not knowing one street from another or how to get anywhere.
But one random day, mercifully, the answer came, and my worries were relieved.
I had never noticed this before, but it all made sense the moment I did. I can't explain the relief and jubilation I felt when I finally saw it!
From my usual perch in the backseat, I could clearly see it: As we approached an intersection, just before my mom slowed down and turned the steering wheel, a little green arrow on the dashboard blinked on and off several times, and kept blinking until we had successfully made the turn!
There it was! Left this time, right next time, we're almost home!
The green arrow was even accompanied by a clicking sound, just to be sure you didn't miss it.
Oh, man! I had it figured out! Why had I been so worried for so long? It was all going to be OK!
The car would tell me which way to go, and when I needed to turn. Whew!
Well, I'm not sure which ending to this story is funnier: the bursting of my bubble when my parents later explained to me that the green arrow on the dashboard actually did not intuitively know your destination and blink on its own, or the fact that now, almost 30 years later, my cell phone does for me exactly what I thought my parents' dashboard did for them all those years ago. (In fact, many vehicles now actually do have this technology mounted into the dashboard!)
You've probably done it, too:
Just open up whatever app you use for maps and driving directions, tell the device where you want to go, and just turn when the voice says to turn. Amazing!
As I write this, I am sitting in a hotel room in Roswell, NM. I have only been here once before, several years back, and have no personal familiarity with the city. But, thanks to my Droid, Google maps, and a robotic, female voice I've named "Betty", I have driven around town with the confidence of a local during this visit.
Kind of funny to sit here while my boys sleep and think that they will have no recollections of a world without Betty. Their experience with navigation will take place entirely after the infusion of GPS technology into the life of the average American. They may end up laughing years down the road at how primitive Betty was, and how excited I was just to have her in my life.
Will they ever purchase the annual Wal-Mart/Rand McNally Road Atlas?
Will it even be printed anymore?
Will the whole stereotype about men not being willing to ask for directions even be relevant in another generation?
It will be interesting to see how those questions pan out. But as long as Betty proves faithful in her guidance, I am sold on following her lead in unfamiliar territory, despite her difficulty with Spanish pronunciation. (It's "Chavez", Betty, not "Chaives"...)
I guess when it comes right down to it, everyone is looking for a guide to the unfamiliar.
Wouldn't it be nice to have GPS-quality instructions for the decisions and dilemmas that vex us throughout life? Compound those head-scratchers with the inevitable questions that will come from your children, and you will definitely be looking for some help.
(A shoulder-tap from reality: Our 5 year-old understands that he began his existence "in mommy's tummy", and just upped the ante tonight by asking how he got there in the first place...)
Betty can't help us there.
While my boys will someday enjoy technology even more impressive than what I am used to, there are some things, the most important things, that will require them to respect and rely upon navigation that remains changeless with time.
They must learn to excel in the ever-changing world around them, making use of its constantly evolving tools and systems, yet remain grounded in the Truth that never needs updating.
As much as Kristi and I relish the chance to be the source of answers for our boys now and for as long as they will come to us with their questions, we know the time will come when they will either have to, or will choose to, work things out on their own.
Here's the scariest part: When someone is desperate for direction, as I was when I pondered the challenge of learning to drive and navigate on my own, almost anything that provides even a glimmer of hope will be awfully appealing.
It's worth a laugh now to think back on my hopes foolishly invested in the green, blinking arrows on the dashboard. But what in this world, equally non-sensical, will seem to my children to be the source of just the answers they are looking for, if their hearts are not trained to look to the Father for guidance?
I shudder to imagine.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Changing of the Spade
My old shovel finally gave up the ghost last weekend.
I plunged the spade into the fresh soil of our garden, drove it in deep with my foot, pulled back on the handle, and heard a low-pitched crack. Sure enough, the handle had broken completely loose at the base, and my dig was stalled.
Honestly, this wasn't a complete surprise.
I acquired this shovel nearly a decade ago. At the time, my parents and I lived in the same town, but when they moved away, I took care of their yard for awhile, and some of their tools ended up migrating to my house. Ever since then, at the three different residences I've called home in that span of time, this shovel has stood in my backyard, leaning against the fence, standing guard against I'm not sure what, totally exposed to the elements season after season.
It is precisely this exposure that weakened the shovel to the point of cracking. It certainly wasn't weakened by extended use. Honestly, I didn't use it much at all. But time and weather took its toll.
So, I made an uneventful trip to Lowe's to purchase a new shovel, but while there, also picked up a hook for the wall of my garage, to give my new shovel a place to stay, safe from the elements that had shortened the life of its predecessor.
Funny how different things are when you're spending your own money on something, isn't it?
It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the previous shovel. I was glad to have it, used it for its intended purpose when it suited me, but took no great care to ensure its longevity or protect it from the wear and tear of time and trial.
That's so often the difference between the one who has paid the price for something and the one who hasn't.
How ironic that some of the relationships we claim to value the most are so often left standing against a backyard fence, exposed to needless wear and tear, yet assumed to be ready for the demand and strain of the dig when called upon.
How do we treat our relationships?
Like treasures for which we've committed our time, our resources, and ourselves? Or like hand-me-down tools to use but not preserve?
Ultimately, how do we treat our relationship with God?
Sunday, May 23, 2010
"Such a Worm as I"
Have you ever come across these words before?
They're among the lyrics to Isaac Watts' 1707 hymn, "At the Cross".
Alas! And did my Savior bleed?
And did my Sovereign die?
Would He devote that sacred Head
For such a worm as I?
I've sung this hymn many a time, and am quite fond of it, though I have to admit that on occasion, the "worm" part has brought a smile to my lips. No disrespect intended, but you can tell this was written in an entirely different era, one in which people's view of themselves before God was probably much humbler than it is today; apparently, folks didn't take offense at being compared to worms in this hymn, which has now been sung by believers for over 300 years.
300 years is quite a stint for any piece of music, so this hymn's survival is more than noteworthy. But this longevity has not come without, shall we say, "modification".
The hymnal in our pews where I worship does include this song, but the "worm" lyric has been updated to read: "...for such a one as I..."
Thank goodness.
No more being compared to worms! I mean, really, who needs that? Rather insulting, don't you think? At the very least, pretty outdated.
Or, is it?
This hymn recently resurfaced in my mind after a heavy rain here in central Texas.
As often happens during a storm, several earthworms were driven out of the grass and out onto our concrete driveway, where they could be seen squirming and wriggling around, not exactly sure of what to do or where to go.
Needless to say, these earthworms face many dangers out on the driveway. They make easy prey for birds, they can be smashed under our tires, or they can simply shrivel up and die from lack of moisture once the sun comes back out and dries up all the rain.
It's a common sight to see the dried-up remains of venturesome earthworms who weren't fortunate enough to make it back to the grass after the rain.
On one of these occasions, I was moved with compassion for one of these squirmy creatures, and decided to intervene rather than let nature take its course.
Feeling rather magnanimous, I got down close to the ground and reached out toward the worm, gently attempting to pick it up between my thumb and index finger.
Boy, was I caught off guard by the reaction to my attempted rescue! I didn't even know worms could move like that!
That thing snapped into action the very second my skin touched his. This slow, poky worm suddenly began thrashing around, snapping back and forth, jumping off the ground, and just generally saying "No!" to my best efforts at salvation. It actually startled me, and if it had been a snake, I'm sure I would have been bitten. The worm's reaction was instant and adamant: He was not to be touched. He apparently had it all under control.
I had to laugh, but was also somewhat taken aback.
Here I was, the only being in this worm's little world with the power to save him, let alone the concern and compassion to even try, and he wasn't even willing to let me do it.
He would unwittingly choose death on his own terms rather than yield control of his situation to the power of the one who could save him from himself.
What was he thinking? What was Watts thinking?
Don't ever compare me to a creature like that.
They're among the lyrics to Isaac Watts' 1707 hymn, "At the Cross".
Alas! And did my Savior bleed?
And did my Sovereign die?
Would He devote that sacred Head
For such a worm as I?
I've sung this hymn many a time, and am quite fond of it, though I have to admit that on occasion, the "worm" part has brought a smile to my lips. No disrespect intended, but you can tell this was written in an entirely different era, one in which people's view of themselves before God was probably much humbler than it is today; apparently, folks didn't take offense at being compared to worms in this hymn, which has now been sung by believers for over 300 years.
300 years is quite a stint for any piece of music, so this hymn's survival is more than noteworthy. But this longevity has not come without, shall we say, "modification".
The hymnal in our pews where I worship does include this song, but the "worm" lyric has been updated to read: "...for such a one as I..."
Thank goodness.
No more being compared to worms! I mean, really, who needs that? Rather insulting, don't you think? At the very least, pretty outdated.
Or, is it?
This hymn recently resurfaced in my mind after a heavy rain here in central Texas.
As often happens during a storm, several earthworms were driven out of the grass and out onto our concrete driveway, where they could be seen squirming and wriggling around, not exactly sure of what to do or where to go.
Needless to say, these earthworms face many dangers out on the driveway. They make easy prey for birds, they can be smashed under our tires, or they can simply shrivel up and die from lack of moisture once the sun comes back out and dries up all the rain.
It's a common sight to see the dried-up remains of venturesome earthworms who weren't fortunate enough to make it back to the grass after the rain.
On one of these occasions, I was moved with compassion for one of these squirmy creatures, and decided to intervene rather than let nature take its course.
Feeling rather magnanimous, I got down close to the ground and reached out toward the worm, gently attempting to pick it up between my thumb and index finger.
Boy, was I caught off guard by the reaction to my attempted rescue! I didn't even know worms could move like that!
That thing snapped into action the very second my skin touched his. This slow, poky worm suddenly began thrashing around, snapping back and forth, jumping off the ground, and just generally saying "No!" to my best efforts at salvation. It actually startled me, and if it had been a snake, I'm sure I would have been bitten. The worm's reaction was instant and adamant: He was not to be touched. He apparently had it all under control.
I had to laugh, but was also somewhat taken aback.
Here I was, the only being in this worm's little world with the power to save him, let alone the concern and compassion to even try, and he wasn't even willing to let me do it.
He would unwittingly choose death on his own terms rather than yield control of his situation to the power of the one who could save him from himself.
What was he thinking? What was Watts thinking?
Don't ever compare me to a creature like that.
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