All the little things He does.

"...the writing of many books is endless..." 

Ecclesiates 12:12

Biographies are one of my favorite forms of literature. I always have a bio on my bedside table or Kindle (currently, I am reading The Narnian, about C. S. Lewis). I have several volumes on Teddy Roosevelt, one of my favorite subjects, and probably fifty biographies overall.

The number of biographies on a specific individual are not always commensurate with his or her popularity, influence or notoriety. In many cases this is true (think Churchill, Hitler, or Lincoln). But in others, there is a glaring lack of production.

Perhaps the most obvious example is that of a man who really revolutionized the entire world, yet the entire eyewitness accounts of his exploits are contained in four small novella-sized narratives. They are woefully incomplete in proportion to his importance. These books record many of his most important acts, dialogues and speeches. Yet surely there were so many other amazing things said and done that are not preserved for our scrutiny and enjoyment.

And the author of one of the books makes an audacious statement in his closing:

Now there are also many other things that Jesus did. Were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written. (John 21:25, ESV)

What does that mean?

If they were said and done, why weren't they written down? And doesn't the claim itself seem a bit overblown?

Suppose you follow a very busy person—lets use the U.S. president—for a single term. You record every speech and meeting. You record his Cabinet meetings and private conversations. What books he reads. You transcribe his conversations on the golf course. Words shared between with his wife and children. How long he sleeps. Whether he dreams. How many steps he takes in a day. Even how many times he breathes.

If you included every bit of minutae from his life, would the results realistically be larger than the Encyclopedia Britannica? Yet the Enclycopedia Brittanica is but a drop in the ocean of books (The Library of Congress contains over 22 million books).

The whole idea seems preposterous.

The comment seems a bald-faced lie.

Unless...


Near the end of another of these mini-biographies, the author quotes Jesus as saying this:

And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20).

The rabbi Paul, author of many letters to the early church, puts it another way:

I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.(Galatians 2:20)

Major W. Ian Thomas, in his book The Indwelling Life of Christ, explains this mystery:

Salvation is so much more than a change of destination from hell to heaven! The true spiritual content of our gospel is not just heaven one day, but Christ here and now. In the economy of God, conversion is only an essential preliminary to discipleship, which is a lifetime of allowing Christ to live in you to do His work through you.

So, according to these witnesses, Jesus Christ is still active, performing acts of love, mercy and service through all those who follow Him. And He has throughout the years since His resurrection, and will until He wraps the whole story up someday in the future. And every one of those followers has countless stories of all the little things He does.

How many books do you think they will fill?

Not exactly combobulated with prefixes

   The English language must be one of the most complex languages around (my Ukrainian friends may demur; they use different words, for the same thing, when speaking to a female rather than a male). One of the complexities of English must lie in its use of prefixes. Some are straightforward, like un-, ultra-, or sub-. Others often seem unnecessary, like be-: isn't becalm the same as calm, befog the same as fog, besiege the same as siege? There is even a word smirch; it means the same as besmirch.

    The most curious one to me is the prefix dis-. According to the rules, the prefix dis- denotes the negation, removal or expulsion of the verb to which it is attached. This can be clearly seen in such words as disappear, disclaim or discolor.

But occasionally the prefix attaches to a verb that, standing alone, would not have an opposite meaning. We have all heard of disgruntled postal workers, but what about the thousands of gruntled postal workers? If you distort something, you twist it, but a tort is a legal term for a wrongful act. If I discard something by accident, and then get it back, do I card it? No I retrieve it, which makes me wonder when I trieved it in the first place. Dissemination seems identical to semination to me. It is easy to disparage someone, but as far as I can tell impossible to parage someone. If I am saddened at something, I may be in dismay. When I am glad, I should say I am in may!

My goal here is not to suade you that English is a ciplined language, nor that we should dain it without question. I just want to make the point that proper usage is not always the aster we think it is. To think so would be showing real cernment.

—Wayne S.

What's inside the package?

    In doing some research on Blu-Ray players prior to a purchase, I was reading some customer reviews on Amazon. They usually prove very helpful, since most customers are eager to describe both disappointments and pleasant surprises. 

    In my reading, I came upon a review unlike any other I have read. In it, the reviewer... well, let me just quote the reviewer, Abe, verbatim:

I purchased this product as a gift to give my youngest, adult daughter for her 31st birthday. Therefore I can't say very much about how the unit performs in relation to video presented on the screen, audio, or Blu-ray loading speed. I can tell you that after I removed it from the shipping box, the manufacturer's packaging was attractive with interesting pieces of information printed on the box. The box itself appeared sturdy enough for the purpose of protecting the unit within and was of a size that made wrapping it very easy. The box surface adheres very well to standard Scotch tape which further facilitates wrapping.

The unwrapping process proved to be quite easy as well. Practially all the wrapping paper came off in one stroke. Opening the box was something even a two year old could accomplish easily. Once opened, the unit came out with a minimum of effort and a minimum of protective material that would have to be thrown away later.

Once all items were out of the box, accounting for each item that was supposed to be included was accomplished quickly.

All-in-all, this unit made for an exceptionally well received gift. I'd give it again and highly recommend it to anyone contemplating this unit as a gift to give to a good friend or relative.

     Of course, what is wonderfully humorous about the review is that Abe says absolutely nothing about the Blu-Ray player itself. Yet he is meticulously true to his experience with the product. I think Abe is either a very sincere man who wants to contribute to our decision-making, or else a very charming joker. Either way, I enjoyed his review.

    Further reflection, though, made me realize something. Regarding my spiritual life, I am almost always careful to describe it in positive terms. I talk about my church, my service to my brother, my Bible study. I talk about what I believe, and even some of what I practice. But I seldom get beyond the "box" and the "wrapping paper." It is rare that I will tell someone what's really in the box: a man with many faults, inconsistent faith, disappointments, debilitating sins and even bouts of depression. A man who believes strongly, strives mightily (not near enough) and who knows he is made to be something other than what he often is at the end of the day. I know some people (like my wife) see that my surface does not always "adhere very well" to the tape of the Gospel of Christ. 

    The real value of the product that is Christ in me must come from honestly appraising my life, first before God, then to myself, and finally to others. We all want to know what I wanted to know about that Blu-Ray player: How well does it work?

--Wayne S.

Repost: Love Like God, or Love of God?

Since the current debate in Christian circles centers around the love of God, I thought a couple of you might find this entry, from 2009, of renewed interest.

Perhaps the most quoted New Testament writer of all is not Paul, but the Apostle John. There are two reasons for this: John 3:16 and First John 4:8.

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." John 3:16

"The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love." 1 John 4:8

   The former verse is, of course, a great promise to believers and unbelievers alike. The latter is a promise, too, that we will know the true spiritual state of our hearts by our actions towards others.

   Unfortunately, many (mostly those outside the faith) want to make the second verse mean something it does not. They want it to mean that "If we love, we know God." But it doesn't. If we love, we are perhaps most like God, but we do not neccessarily know Him. I may sit down and play "Yesterday" on the guitar, but I do not know Paul McCartney.

   John speaks about love a lot. Severty-nine times it is used in his writings. It is obvious that he thinks love is a paramount virtue, and evidence of a true spiritual faith. One would think the writer John would be a perfect text for those who say "the essence of spirituality is love."

   But John also says something else. In the same letter in which he wrote "God is love," he writes this:

"By this you know the Spirit of God: every spirit that confesses that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God; and every spirit that does not confess Jesus is not from God; this is the spirit of the antichrist*, of which you have heard that it is coming, and now is already in the world." 1 John 4: 2-3

Yikes! Suddenly we find that loving one another is not enough. We actually need to confess that Jesus is God, sent from God. Here's where the "God is love" crowd drops back. But in doing so, don't they really negate the love part, too? I mean, if John is dead-set on this Jesus stuff, can we trust him on the love stuff?

   Many Americans, Christian or not, simply choose to ignore the Jesus stuff. A Pew Research Center survey in 2007 found that in all major religions (including evangelical Christianity), a majority felt there were many roads to eternal life. Even our president unashamedly supports this view.  But John doesn't. And neither does the rest of the Bible.

   John sums it up this way:

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. The one who does not love does not know God, for God is love.

By this the love of God was manifested in us, that God has sent His only begotten Son into the world so that we might live through Him. In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.

Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.

No one has seen God at any time; if we love one another, God abides in us, and His love is perfected in us. By this we know that we abide in Him and He in us, because He has given us of His Spirit.

We have seen and testify that the Father has sent the Son to be the Savior of the world. Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God.

We have come to know and have believed the love which God has for us. God is love, and the one who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him.

By this, love is perfected with us, so that we may have confidence in the day of judgment; because as He is, so also are we in this world.

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love.

We love, because He first loved us. (1 John 4:7-19)

Yes, God is love. And Jesus is the evidence. The only evidence.

—W. S. 

*John uses the term antichrist here in a generic sense, as someone who is anti-Christ, not as some prophetic future ruler.

Illustration: Helping Hands by Nadeem Chughtai 

  

Triptych

   I am an admirer of the triptych. A work of art (usually a painting, etching or bas relief sculpture), I appreciate it for its flexibility. It consists of  three separate works, presented as a whole. They may be unrelated to one another (although that is hard to do well), related in some thematic way (color, shape, size, subject), or even contiguous works (a panorama, or a progression of some sort).

   An example of the latter which recently wowed me was Monet's Water Lilies, which I saw at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta. A panorama, it measures an astounding 6' 6 3/4" x 41' 10 3/8".

(Click to enlarge)

 What is most moving about Monet's Water Lilies is this scale. Most paintings illustrate large objects (a landscape, a building) in a much smaller frame of reference. Here Monet has done the opposite: he has made a common pond much, much larger than life. Unlike real life, we must look up—and step back—to see it.

  I think this is true, too, of the triptych that is God. He is three distinct parts, but together He forms the panorama of grace. And we must look up—and step back—to even begin to grasp Him. However, it seems we cannot back up far enough. The canvas is infinite in all directions.

  And most impressive of all, He painted it himself.

—Wayne S.

Prayer

You have 

wisdom and knowledge 

that is beyond 

our ability, 

insight and understanding 

beyond our grasp, 

love and mercy 

greater than our possibility 

of even refusing it. 

You see far

into a future 

that will outlast us all. 

So we cannot ask 

what You are doing. 

Nor would it do 

any good, really, 

to ask why, 

or what if... . 

All we can say, really... is 

please.

In Vino Veritas, redux.

On August 15 of last year, I wrote about a visit to a old high-school friend who has a vineyard and bottles wine near Crossville, Tennessee. I was fascinated by the process of making wine and, although the descriptions and processes came fast and were clouded by my almost constant enjoyment of the finished product, I wanted to write about it.

My friend, Tim, recently got high-speed internet (he lives waaaay out on the Cumberland Plateau, not near any cable or DSL service). Finally able to load large sites in less than a half-hour, he checked out Words of Wayne (my blog at the time) and my comments on my visit to his home. Being the consummate professional in all things wine-related, he felt he should correct some of my previous comments. I am passing some of his email comments along to redeem myself and further show his pride of work. My original comments are in italics.

I did not know that red wine gets its color from those seeds and skin, since all grape juice is white. Most red grapes have white juice so the red wine produced from these grapes extracts its color from the skins. However there are some red grapes that also have red juice. The Marquette I have in the vineyard is an example of that. It would make a rose’ colored wine if fermented off of the skins, but fermenting on the skins gives the wine a much deeper color and extracts many goodies like tannins that give the wine a bigger body. 

Then it is strained and put into oaken casks, where it ages. My red wines are in barrels, not casks. Casks are much larger than traditional wine barrels. 

Tim is a winemaker, and a vintner. A vintner is a winemaker. 

And every one of his wines has won awards—many firsts, many blue ribbons. The only prize to elude him is Best of Show. But it is only a matter of time. I have received three Best of Shows for my wines. Two in the Florida International Competition and one here in Tennessee. The one that has eluded me is the Indiana (Indy) International Amateur Wine Competition. Wines are scored on their on merits such as clarity, aroma, taste, mouth feel, varietal character, etc. You can make a great wine that scores very high, receiving a gold medal from all judges (usually five), as can several other competitors. The Best of Show compares all the best to determine the best of the best. So since Indy is the largest amateur competition (outside of CA) it is the most competitive and the most coveted of the awards. Regarding California: all the competitions out there only seem to be open to CA residents. Snobby bastards! 

White grapes are pressed immediately and the juice is left to ferment in large bins. Red grapes are crushed along with their seeds, skin and stems, and go through primary fermentation as a mush. The concoction of juice, seeds, and skins during fermentation is “mushy” but it is referred to as “must.” This is made in reference to the grapes from the time they are crushed until they are pressed, separating the liquid from the solids. For a white wine this is usually a matter of hours and for a red, it could be weeks depending on the desires of the winemaker. 

Tim continues with these general comments:

Reading books on grape growing over the last several years has been interesting, as it seems they all are about the way things are done in the great wine regions of the world. Well, TN is not one of those regions. I was told long ago by a TN grape grower that you need to take it all with a grain of salt. The books all seemed to indicate that the fruit flowers should be cut from the vine until the 4th season when you would allow your first crop to mature. Here in TN (and probably most of the US) we allow the crop to mature in the 3rd season. What I have found on my own, that I had never read, was the importance of the training in the second season. I didn’t do a very good job in 2010 with the vines planted the previous year so I will pay for it in 2011. 

I am truly looking forward to the upcoming season as every year I get a little smarter and a little more familiar with what it is that I am supposed to do. 2011 will bring fruit from the entire vineyard, and the varietals I have coming in for the first time have got me excited about the potential for some really good wine… Lord willing. I have left about 6-8 weeks before I need to start pruning. At that point my days will be centered on producing some award winning wines. 

Thanks, Tim, for the clarifications. Like a great cookbook, just reading about it makes my mouth water. See you soon!

—W. S.

A Blue Blazer, Conrad Aiken and Death

   Last week, I attended a funeral. She was a long-time friend and colleague of my wife, whom I had only met once or twice, long ago. After I parked the car in the long queue that would follow the family to the gravesite, I slipped on my blue blazer. I felt something inside the right vest pocket. Pulling it out, I discovered that it was a program for another funeral, that of the father of a friend, which had occurred eleven months ago.

   Two things struck me: One, it seems the only time I dress up these days is to go to a funeral. Or, at best, funerals are the only occasion to which I wear my navy blue blazer. And secondly, funerals are the occasion where we bid goodbye to loved ones (or support those who do). And while they are full of sorrow, much effort is made to make these goodbyes full of hope as well. The loved one is, after all, going to a "better place," no?

   That is the crux of human faith: that there exists, unseen, a better world. And better all around: according to the book about it, there will be no pain, no tears, and no more death.

   Part of me agrees with Conrad Aiken. The southern poet is buried in my favorite cemetery, Bonaventure, near Savannah, Georgia. His tombstone is a bench, and on it is inscribed a notice he saw in the shipping pages of the Savannah paper. There, among the notices of ships arriving and departing, was this cryptic notice:

Cosmos Mariner

Destination Unknown

(Click to enlarge)

   The poet in me loves that. The mystic in me agrees as well. While I am well aware of the promises of God to his children about the world to come, nevertheless I realize I do not—indeed cannot—begin to imagine what it will be like. My wife's friend knows. And my friend's father knows.

   And one day, so will I.

—Wayne S.

(photo credit)

One of the Only

Word confusion on the cover of Parade Magazine.

   It's the cover story; an article about Natalie Randolph, the football coach at Coolidge High School in Washington, D. C. The article is assumed to be of interest to Parade readers because there aren't a lot of female football coaches. And it is an interesting article, and Coach Randolph is quite a person.

   But I couldn't help but get tickled at the subhead on the cover. After the heading, "A League of Her Own," the subhead reads "At Coolidge High School in Washington, D.C., Natalie Randolph is making history—as one of the nation's only female football coaches."

   Read it again. According to the editor of this edition, Coach Randolph stands out not because she is female, but she is an only female football coach. This is to be contrasted with what I assume are partially female, or even mostly female coaches, which evidently are more numerous, or at least less unusual.

   Of course, the correct description (which is used in the inside article) is "one of the nation's few female football coaches." It's comforting to know that even the big boys (or girls) miss one every now and then.

—Wayne S.

Can a person without faith be healed?

   This question came up in a weekly reading group I attend. (I call it that, although the only book we read is the Bible. But that's all we do—read a chapter and then comment on it. Sounds like a recipe for disaster, but although we have a diverse group of young and old Christians, Orthodox and Messianic Jews, and the occasional seeker or unbeliever, the comments are uniformly rich, encouraging and challenging. Must be God or something.)

   The general consensus was that yes, a person without faith can be healed. Among the reasons cited:

• God is God. He can do whatever he pleases. He is not a God of formula.
• Often it is only the faith of others, not the ill person, which precedes healing.
• People have been healed who were comatose or dead. (See Luke 8)

   The same question was revived in real-time this week when Christopher Hitchens, my favorite atheist, was interviewed by Jeffrey Goldberg of the Atlantic. Hitchens, the author of God Is Not Great, was recently diagnosed with esophageal cancer. When Goldberg asked him if he were insulted by people praying for him, Hitchens, in typical wry humor, replied:

"No, no, I take it kindly, on the assumption that they are praying for my recovery."

   Hitchens makes it clear that such a result will not sway his unbelief. If gratitude were a requirement for healing, Hitchens might have a point. Yet in Luke 17, when ten lepers were healed, only one came back to say thanks. And we know that, every day, hundreds of things come into our lives which should make us grateful, but we fail to even see them.

   But I will be praying for him. He sees it as late in his story. But perhaps it is finally just beginning.

Google Sky Map, Copernicus, Galileo and Grace

   While recently foraging about for apps for my new Android phone, I came across Google's Sky Map. This fascinating application allows you to point your phone at a star in the sky and, using GPS data and an internal compass, it will label the star or constellation. Fascinating.
   But it got me thinking. What Sky Map does is create a virtual "dome" above you, and like a planetarium projector, it will produce a representation of the sky on that "dome." This is a very pre-Copernican way of looking at the sky.

   Nicolaus Copernicus (1473-1543), as many of us know, was the Renaissance astronomer who first posited that the earth was not the center of the cosmos. He held off publishing this finding until months before his death, fearing both scientific and religious criticism. But the religious criticism was six decades in coming (reason: no Kindle), and it arrived with a vengeance due to the efforts of another smart fellow, Galileo Galilei, and his new and improved telescope, which allowed him to verify many of Copernicus's findings. It was Galileo who suffered for his integrity, found a heretic and confined to house arrest from 1634 until 1642, when he died at age 77.

   What does all of this interesting history have to do with grace? Perhaps this: it is very, very difficult for non-believers (and more than a few believers) to understand grace. And much of it has to do with pre-Copernican thinking. It seems more logical, more personal, and more comforting to understand our relationship with God as revolving around us. The main reason this is so is this is where we are. We see the world from our perspective, not any other. The night sky will look different when viewed from Jupiter, but we will never see it.
   Many people (maybe most) believe that what you do and what you are will make all the difference in how God accepts you. Blessings, heaven, health, all the good things, are the result of a zero-sum game: if you are more good than bad, you will get more good things than bad things. This is the spiritual equivalent of thinking the heavens revolve around the earth. It is old thinking. But again, it is easy to think this way, because this is our default viewpoint, and we are often too lazy or thoughtless to consider another.
   Grace teaches us that the spiritual universe revolves around God, that it is His pleasure and plan to allow us to play, plan and work (and even mess up) in his infinite creation. He has chosen us to be a part of it all. And it has nothing to do with our worthiness or goodness. It has everything to do with His goodness.
   Really, which would you rather have? A static spiritual world where everything revolves around you, yet is always tantalizingly just out of reach, and where your ability to move is severely limited? Or a dynamic world that is spinning at 1040 miles an hour on its own axis, while spinning around the sun at 18.5 miles a second, in a solar system whirling through space at 185 miles a second? A world where you're a valued, loved and needed part of it all. It's enough to make you dizzy.
   That's what grace is like.
   And those of us who have made this discovery should tell about it. We may be skittish, like Copernicus. We may be roughed up a bit (even by the church!), like Galileo.
   But we will be right, like them both.


—Wayne S.

Gilead

   MOST OF WHAT WE REMEMBER of our fathers, either good or bad, is based on our experience with them—those decades spent in proximity. For John Ames, giving his son that chance will not be possible. In 1956, at the age of 77, this pastor of a small church in Gilead, Iowa finds himself facing two incongruous truths: failing health due to heart disease, and a seven-year-old son from a late marriage. So, he decides to set down his story as best he can in a long letter. A novel, Gilead, is that letter, and it is wondrous.

   He tenderly tells of the young woman who came into his church one Sunday and immediately stole his heart (Not easily, mind you. His devotion to his calling was always first, especially since the death of his first wife years ago during childbirth). He refused to say anything to her, though, because of the disparity of their ages, until one day…

“I came near alarming myself with the thought of the loneliness stretching ahead of me, and the new bitterness of it, and how I hated the secretiveness and the renunciation that honor and decency required of me and that common sense enforced on me. But when I looked up, your mother was watching me, smiling a little, and she touched my hand and she said, ‘You’ll be just fine.’ . . .

“She began to come to the house when some of the other women did, to take the curtains away to wash, to defrost the icebox. And then she started coming by herself to tend the gardens. She made them very fine and prosperous. And one evening when I saw her there, out by the wonderful roses, I said, ‘How can I repay you for all this?’

“And she said, ‘You ought to marry me.’

And I did.”

   The marriage is happy for both. Yet as Ames’s health issues loom, another complication arises as the son of his best friend, who once left town in disgrace, returns to Gilead and re-inserts himself into the life of the pastor and his wife. As he watches this man in his 40s bond with his wife—herself near that age—and son, he wonders if he should tell her of what has gone before. And he wonders if it even matters.

   As older men are wont to do, Ames loves remembering the past, and tells thorough histories of his grandfather, a hellfire and damnation preacher who went to Kansas as an abolitionist and fought for the Union Army in the Civil War. His father, naturally, became a pacifist preacher who nevertheless held enough rage to nearly destroy his family. All of this becomes the lineage of a young boy who, Ames hopes, will one day read his letter.

   The book is so luminous and so alive that you simply feel you are reading the actual remembrances of a man such as John Ames, which is a testament to the talent of the writer, Marilynne Robinson. The Washington Post hails Gilead as “so serenely beautiful, and written in a prose so gravely measured and thoughtful, that one feels touched with grace just to read it.” The spiritual musings and perceptions are among the most profound I’ve read in fine literature. Through John Ames, author Robinson shows she understands both goodness and grace. In thinking about his young friend as the prodigal son, Ames describes himself thusly: “I myself was the good son, so to speak, the one who never left his father’s house. . . . I am one of those righteous for whom the rejoicing in heaven will be comparatively restrained.’’

   It is rare these days to find a good book about a good man. This is one.

Book Review by Wayne Steadham.

Days

20,455
days ago
I became the first child of John and Joyce,
the first grandchild of James and Mildred
and Croley and Hazel.

14,874
I found myself a sinner
in need of a Savior.

13,711
well over half my life
I have loved one above all others.

11,976
we started keeping house.

10,917
I became a father
(and again at 10,418, 9650 and 8424).

A mere 86 days ago
I became a grandfather.

And I count each day passed worthwhile
and the days to come
surely less than I wish
yet more than I deserve

as gifts.

So teach us to number our days,
That we may present to You a heart of wisdom.
Psalm 90:12.

"No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die!"

   It's one of my favorite movie lines, from the 1964 James Bond movie Goldfinger. It resonates with me because it is so matter-of-fact. And it also has meaning because it sums up an important spiritual truth.

   So many Christians live tiresome, defeated lives because of one basic reason: they are trying to live a tireless, victorious life. Yet whether you try for a week, a year, or a lifetime, you'll never do it.

   The reason is simple, albeit easily avoidable. No one can please God all the time. Or even most of the time.

   But isn't that what God expects? Isn't the whole point of the Bible, from the Ten Commandments to the Beatitudes, that we should behave and operate in a way that will please God? Isn't that why we're punished by God sometimes for doing wrong, and rewarded for doing right? Shouldn't we, like Agent 007, be asking, "Do you expect me to always do good, to be kind to animals, read my Bible and brush my teeth?"

    The answer to that question, if properly asked of God, is as jarring and as final as Goldfinger's answer to Mr. Bond. And that's because it is the same answer:

"No, I expect you to die."

  
For that is the secret to living a life that pleases God. It is exchanging our soiled, pitiful life for that of the spotless, powerful Savior. It is to surrender (something Bond would never do, I agree) in order to win. As Matthew quotes Jesus:

"He who has found his life will lose it, and

he who has lost his life for My sake will find it."

 
   So what does God expect of us? Good choices? Living right? Nope. He expects us to die. Every day. Every moment. To give all we are aware of that is ours to Him.

 
   Why?

   To please Him? No. Who is pleased by being given what they deserve?

   To get into heaven? No. That ticket requires a different payment, and has already been paid anyway.

   To make life easier here? No, although it should make your life more meaningful.

   Allow me to offer an answer in the words of the always thoughtful C. S. Lewis:

"Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you know that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of--throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself!"

—Wayne S. C. S. Lewis quote is from Mere Christianity.

A lone raindrop in the desert

   After spending a few days on the coast of  Kauai, one can be forgiven for thinking that, in the battle of rock versus water, rock always wins. My wife and I witnessed countless huge waves drive fruitlessly into the ancient lava and rock shores, only to have to regroup and come again. These islands, and these rock shores, have stood for millennia  (sorry, young earthers) and have yielded little.

   But not always. On April 1, 1946, a tsunami raked the northern coasts of the Hawaiian Islands. The giant wave blasted a hole in the middle of a small sandstone island that sits right off La'ie Point on Oahu, leaving behind an unique sight.

Click to enlarge

As La'ie Point proves, on occasion the water comes with such force that even stone cannot resist. Here's an interesting paragraph from the book The Lighthouse Stevensons, the story of the Scottish family of lighthouse builders, and the ancestors of author Robert Louis Stevenson:

When finally finished, long after Louis had departed for more promising places, the breakwater stood intact for four years until a spectacular storm in December 1872 destroyed the entire harbor, shifting one massive block of stone weighing 1,350 tons and folding the whole structure into the sea. Tom was devastated. In fact, his reaction was far more extreme than the incident warranted. But he had based his professional faith on studying the sea, learning its moods, its tempers, and its breaking points, and the discovery that much of his life's work was founded on a miscalculation was almost unbearable. The early studies he had made of the force of waves were based on the movements of ten- or fifteen-ton blocks, not of something that weighed as much as the whole mass of Bell Rock Lighthouse. His reaction was initially incredulous, then defensive. He published papers complaining of the force of the elements the Stevensons contended with, photographs of immense waves smashing against the harbor walls,  anything that might vindicate his position. Eventually, once the disputing was over, the breakwater was rebuilt, this time with a 2,600 ton foundation block in place. In 1877 another apocalyptic storm washed it away. Tom could do nothing but turn away in disgust.

   A five-million-plus pound rock moved by the force of the sea! We must all react with awe at that fact. As my favorite atheist, Christopher Hitchens, says: "Nature is boss, and she is pitiless."

   If there is no God, which is Hitchens's presumption, then we must indeed, allow that Nature is supreme, at least over man. But if there is a God, which is my presumption (to be fair), then the power that spews acidic clouds into the air from Iceland (Hitchens's topic), or punches a hole into an island of rock, or tosses a multi-million pound stone like a toy, is no more than a lone raindrop falling in a vast desert.

         More than the sounds of many waters,
         Than the mighty breakers of the sea,
         The LORD on high is mighty.  Psalm. 93:4.

—Wayne S.

The Stairway to Heaven

   During our recent visit to the island of Oahu, Hawaii, my wife and I were being squired about the island by our resident friend, Bonnie Sanders, and her two oldest children, Tabby and Corbin. After taking the H3 Interstate (yes, interstate—I have no idea) through a tunnel in one of the mountains, we popped out on the other side. While the view to the left of us was commanding (looking down onto Kaneohe Bay), my eyes were distracted by the large and precipitous mountain we had just transected. Suddenly, I saw something that seemed to defy reason.

   It was a stairway—a very narrow stairway—beginning somewhere below the roadway and angling erratically up the large face of the mountain before disappearing in the clouds.

   Our host Paul, an Army surgeon, told us later as he reviewed the video that the stairway is called the "Stairway to Heaven." First built in 1943, the stairway allowed workers to first build and then man military radio equipment on the peak. It was replaced by a metal stairway (of nearly 4,000 steps!) in the 1950s. The military installation was decommissioned in 1987, and the trail was closed. Yet the occasional intrepid hiker will attempt the summit.

   Sometimes my spiritual pilgrimage seems to resemble what a climb like this must feel like. No matter where I look, only stairs remain—either up into the mist or down into the gloom. It seems I may never reach the top, while the bottom seems to grudgingly, slowly drop away. For days I never move at all.

   But my theology tells me a different story. It says that, at the moment I realized my ability to climb was futile, and confessed as much, the Master of the mountain took me from the precarious and never-ending climb and placed me at the summit. It is still misty, and I can't really see what's there yet, but I am safe, in a different place.  A different kingdom, as it were.

   So why do I sometimes wake up and think I am on the path again, trying to scale the unscalable?

   Good question.

—Wayne S.

(Click picture to enlarge. For more info, see here.)

In any language

My wife and I just returned from 10 days in Hawaii--three on Oahu and seven on Kauai. I am resisting the temptation to show you my 700 or so photos (of which maybe 25 are very good). But I would like to tell you of two observations:

God does His best work in small places: The island of Kauai, at 552 square miles, is smaller than the metropolitan Atlanta area where I live. It is only 25 percent inhabited. Some of it is only accessible by helicopter. Yet in such a small place there is variety in geography, ethnicity, climate, altitude and flora and fauna unmatched anywhere else. Beauty and surprises await around every corner.

God loves to astound and delight His Children. One of our dear friends, who along with his wife accompanied us on the trip, made this comment: "When I see this, I can't help but think 'My Father made this.'" Amen. On the last night of our stay, we went to a luau at the next-door Hyatt resort. The Hyatt is a monument to conspicuous consumption (suites go for $4500 a night), and the luau was no exception. Liquor flowed freely, the food was mountainous in volume, and the mood was festive. That why it came as a surprise to us when the emcee announced to the crowd that, before we ate, he would like to offer a traditional Hawaiian blessing for the meal, as most Hawaiians do. What we heard, in a rich, baritone voice, quieted the crowd to silence, and lifted our hearts.

Here is a version performed by the Kamehameha Schools Children's Chorus, along with just a few pictures of my Father's work. Enjoy and be blessed. --Wayne S.

The real point of Easter

   The logic, for want of a better term, of Christ dying for our sins is lost on most unbelievers for several reasons. One, they do not see themselves as sinful enough to warrant a sacrifice on their behalf. Two, they cannot fathom why Jesus dying counts, or what it counts for. And they refuse to use the word sacrifice accurately.





In Romans 5, Paul tells us this: “Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned—“ (v. 12). Paul is making a fundamental statement: everyone is a sinner. It wasn’t a new idea; King David said in Psalm 51:5: “Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my mother conceived me.” This concept of Original Sin (the belief that Adam’s original sin has been passed down to all his offspring, i.e., you and me) has a strong Biblical basis, as well as a practically observable one. G. K. Chesterton once remarked: “Certain new theologians dispute original sin, which is the only part of Christian theology which can really be proved.” You may have trouble with it emotionally, and even cognitively, but if you have lived past the age of two, when you first told your parents “No!” then you have your own sin, and the point is moot.



This pervasiveness and egalitarianism of sin not only escapes modern man; it sometimes even escapes modern Christianity. Think of it this way: Next time someone asks you what your church is like, tell them it is a wonderful community made up of murderers, adulterers and thieves. Strong words but true. Most likely, the differences between me and Ted Haggard, the recent president of the National Association of Evangelicals who had to step down because of sexual impropriety, are more ones of action than attitude. As C. S. Lewis discovered, “For the first time I examined myself with a serious practical purpose. And there I found what appalled me; a zoo of lusts, a bedlam of ambitions, a nursery of fears, a harem of fondled hatreds. My name was legion.” He perfectly describes what faces those earnestly seeking forgiveness and restoration:

“When you know you are sick, you will listen to the doctor…. Of course, I quite agree that the Christian religion is, in the long run, a thing of unspeakable comfort. But it does not begin in comfort; it begins in…dismay.”

This is our dilemma. Sin has destroyed our relationships with one another, our relationship with the natural world, our relationship with ourselves and, most importantly, our relationship with God. I find it curious that most, if not all, of the humanitarian programs and activist groups around the world, from Greenpeace to the Red Cross and even the PTA, are all seeking to heal these fractures. Yet all but a few ignore the root cause. And the thing to remember is it isn’t whether we feel guilty or not: we are guilty. Is there a remedy, a relief from this hopelessness and helplessness?



A few verses later in Romans 5, Paul gives us the answer:

Therefore, as one trespass led to condemnation for all men, so one act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all men. For as by the one man's disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man's obedience the many will be made righteous. (vs. 18-21).

Most of us know and believe this: that Jesus died on the cross, taking our sin guiltiness with Him, and healed the separation between God and man. And hopefully, that healing leads to other healings—within us between our spirits and our bodies and minds; between husbands and wives, parents and children, one nation and another; even between man and the environment.



But here is where I think many believers stumble: they think somehow that, having accepted Christ’s atoning sacrifice for their sin, they are better than those who have not. This is a deadly notion—deadly not only to those you are trying to reach who have not yet come to faith, but deadly to your own humility and usefulness. In his first letter to Timothy, the Apostle Paul, obviously a devoted, informed and thoroughly saved Christian, said, “It is a trustworthy statement, deserving full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, among whom I am foremost of all.” (1:15)



Notice the tense: “I am.”



Charles Spurgeon suggests that you can never experience the fullness of forgiveness until you realize the fullness of your sinfulness: “There never was a man yet who was in a state of grace who did not know himself, in himself, to be in a state of ruin, a state of depravity and condemnation.” Again, C. S. Lewis strikes just the right tone when, in writing to Sheldon Vanauken, he said, “Think of me as a fellow patient in the same hospital who, having been admitted a little earlier, could give some advice." We are not better than anyone else. We are still as helpless and sinful as ever; we are simply forgiven, and expect God to better us. We cannot do it ourselves. Without Christ, we can do nothing.





I love the terms “lost” and “saved.” We’ve twisted them a bit, made them religious words, but in their primary uses, they illustrate so well what grace truly is.



Picture this: You take a small sailboat out into the Gulf of Mexico. What started out as a lovely morning turns nasty. There is a terrible squall, and the boat is torn in half. You survive the storm, but are left adrift, clinging to a decreasingly buoyant piece of flotsam. You have no idea which way is shore, and no way to summon help.



Just as you are about to surrender to the darkening sky and cold water, a deep-sea fishing boat comes by and hauls you to safety. Soon you are on dry land.



You are incredibly grateful to your rescuers. You are exhilarated. You were facing sure death, and someone snatched you to safety.



A year later you hear of another weekend sailor who has become lost in the Gulf. The circumstances are eerily similar. But now that you are on solid ground, what do you think: That you are a better sailor? That you always knew which way the shore waited?



If you’re wise, you’ll realize the only difference between you and the lost mariner (and you and a lost soul) is that you know where you are. It is place you could not find on your own, and could not reach on your own. And you still can’t. The only thing for sure is that you will not ever again risk death at sea. But if you have a heart at all, you’ll aid in the search for all those who are still lost at sea.





It is no small thing to have your sins forgiven. What love it is to be spared an eternity of suffering and separation (and no doubt much in our earthly lifetimes as well). And you can be freed from that constant wondering of whether you are “good enough” to please God. But don’t think you can take credit for it. And don’t think it makes you better than anyone else. If you do, even a little bit, you don’t understand grace. All of what is good and true for us is true and good only because Jesus died in our place, to pay the price we owed. Those who haven’t figured this out are not stupid but, as you once were, merely ignorant. They do not know what they do not know.



In 1981, Harold Kushner, a Reformed Jewish rabbi, published a very popular book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People. The premise was that that God has arranged the universe in such a way that even He cannot solve all of its dilemmas, but that He also, due to his caring nature, suffers along with his creatures.



While I’m sure the book brought comfort to many, it seems to me that it must be a sentimental comfort, not a real one. More important than God suffering along with His creatures is the truth that he suffered for His creatures. That’s the point of Easter.



Why do bad things happen to good people? With apologies to Rabbi Kushner, it is both to our sorrow and our gladness that, in fact, they don’t.



Well, once.



—W. S.

The Celtic Cross

The most enduring symbol of the Christian religion is the cross. In reality, of course, the cross is much more than a mere symbol, but it’s representation graces many things—from churches to hospitals and ambulances, to fine chains hung around the necks of people around the world.

     

One of the most beautiful representations of cross symbology is the Celtic Cross. Most distinctively, a circle is centered around the intersection of the cross. Examples hundreds of years old exist in abundance across England and Ireland. Many symbologists have found examples of the basic shape (cross over the circle) from even pre-Christian times, but the ornate versions we call Celtic Crosses have their genesis in the earliest days of Christianity in Wales, Scotland and Ireland.

      

Also called High Crosses (presumably because many were carved from tall standing stones left by the Druids and other ancient societies), there are still examples dating back to the 7th Century, such as the Cross of the Scriptures (pictured left) on the banks of the Shannon River in Ireland.

     

Characteristic of Celtic art is a highly ornamental style, with an avoidance of straight lines and, even occasionally, symmetry. While some Celtic crosses do incorporate frescoes, most display runes or symbolism that is undecipherable, far from the classical tradition of the Greeks or Romans.



Many traditions exist as to why this particular shape of cross has come to be associated with the Celtic tradition, with explanations running the gamut from pagan symbol to navigational aid. In the absence of consensus, perhaps the favorite one of native sons will suffice: It is said that St. Patrick, preaching to some soon-to-be-converted pagans, was shown a standing stone marked with a circle, symbol of their moon goddess. Partick drew the sign of the Latin cross across the circle and blessed it, making it the first Celtic Cross.



—W. S. 

Ayn Rand and Blaise Pascal

   I recently finished reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. I feel like I ought to get some sort of attaboy just for doing so; there are an arm-wearying 1168 pages in the paperback version I own.

Most people are at least cocktail party familiar with the novel. Published in 1957, the novel describes, in obviously rich (and frankly, plodding at many points) prose the dissolution of the United States into a totalitarian—then anarchic—mess, all under the guise of laws designed to "spread the wealth" and "lift up the poor." Whole organizations have sprung up around this novel, and many accord it a Nostradamus-like prescience about where American society is headed.

   Personally, I found the novel off-putting for two reasons—one unintentional, the other unavoidable.

   The unintentional was that Rand preached too much. She spent page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page telling us over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over that government control over private enterprise was dangerous and ruinous, that taking profits at the point of a gun and giving them to people who won't work is deeply dishonest and unlawful, and that it would eventually bankrupt the nation.

   My willingness to cut her some slack was that this was written in 1957, years before The Great Society, food stamps and the GM bailout. I think she had to hammer it because, in 1957, probably only one in a hundred people would believe it could ever happen. Now, in 2010, polls indicate that as many as 70% of the people believe it will happen. So, to many, Rand is preaching to the choir. And many of the songs have already been sung.

   But the most disappointing aspect of the novel is that the heroes are all men of reason. Reason is king. Not feelings. Not faith. Life is to be governed by a rational moral code. That sounds good on the surface. But the antithesis of coerced self-sacrifice (what today's politicians call "paying your fair share") is not rational selfishness, or what Rand called "ethical egoism." Her philosophy is that intellectual and moral (based on reason) people will naturally lead others to fulfillment and beneficence to society. In other words, man is an upwardly evolving creature, and those more evolved will, and should, lead, although they don't have to.

Rand had no appreciation at all for religion, and detested the notion of Original Sin. But without original sin, we don't even have a basis for moral improvement, much less an objective standard for it. She worshipped the rational, the intellectual, the vaguely moral. She has more in common with Nietzsche than with any other philosopher.

   Her heroes are flawed but oddly likeable. They amass great fortunes, suffer great losses, and the central character, John Galt, almost dies in being reasonable, perhaps at tip of the hat to a suffering savior, at least as a type.

   If all you have is man and his measure, then Rand's utopia should be much desired. But if there is more than man, then Rand's world is simply not possible.

   One of the historical figures most like the heroes in Rand's book would be Blaise Pascal. He was a staggeringly smart mathematician, a scientist and inventor of some note (a calculator, public transportation in Paris, the vacuum, as well as work on probability and barometric pressure—in the mid 17th century!). Pascal would have been a hero in Atlas Shrugged. Except for one thing: Pascal, after his conversion in 1654, realized that intellectual achievement was a distraction in the search for truth and meaning. As he states clearly in Pensées:

What amazes me most is to see that everyone is not amazed at his own weakness. We behave seriously, and everyone follows his calling, not because it is really a good thing to do, in accordance with fashion, but as if everyone knew for certain where reason and justice lie. We are constantly disappointed and an absurd humility makes us blame ourselves and not the skill we always boast of having. But it is a good thing for the reputation of scepticism that there are so many people about who are not sceptics, to show that man is quite capable of the most extravagant opinions, since he is capable of believing that he is not naturally and inevitably weak, but is, on the contrary, naturally wise.

   I really thought I would like the book, and recommend it to others. After all, I am a believer in the "if they don't work, they don't eat" school, even though I usually eat better than I work. But alas, I cannot recommend it. At best I can say it is a cautionary, fantastical tale with an unsatisfying—and equally cautionary—conclusion.

—W. S.