开云体育

Essay, For June 7 roundtable, “Remember When.” Words, 419 Day of disillusion By Winslow Parker “Jesus is coming!” they proclaimed. “He will be here on October 22. Be ready!” They gathered together on that day, in homes, churches, on hilltops to see Him arrive in the clouds. They were ready. He didn’t arrive. The year was 1844. The event is relegated to a minor footnote in scholarly books about that period of U. S. history. At the time, however, it was big news. Those who did not join the movement were a bit apprehensive on that day. Those who did suffered loss of all their worldly goods, ridicule, shunning. Their fields were unharvested, their social relationships strained, their property given away or sold to support the mission work of the group. They woke to ruin and ridicule on October 23. Most left. A tiny handful remained, however, forming the kernel of what became the denomination into which I was born. A doctrinal sleight of hand, a workaround, was proposed, accepted and taught that cast the failure, the Great Disappointment, into a new denomination. This remote event 101 years before my birth, was the event that colored my life for over sixty years. It grew. Three of my four grandparents joined. My parents then I, by default, became members. We no longer predicted an exact date for the return of Jesus to claim us, but we did know all the signs that pointed to His return. We were grateful that we were a part of “The Remnant,” those who knew the truth. We were privileged, special, completely under the spell of this great illusion. Our lives centered on the events of that long-ago day of disappointment. The denomination grew, established hospitals and schools around the world, held evangelistic meetings, drew away many from their denominations. No world event shaped my life so much as that obscure event among the subsistence farmers of New York, Massachusetts, Maine and Vermont. Kennedy and King’s deaths, Vietnam, Watergate, Gulf War, 9/11 were less eventful in my life than that mid-nineteenth century autumn day. It shaped my relationships with friends and family, my world view, my politics and my relationship to God. Nothing fell outside of that belief system. Then came my own day of disillusionment. It fell apart. I discovered nearly Everything I believed was built of sand. When scales fall from the eyes, when that which keeps one blind is seen for what it is, when illusion yields to reality, joy breaks forth. The sun shines anew, Winter becomes Spring. It is a beautiful thing to be disillusioned. Winslow617@... 7/12/18

Lightning Strikes As megavolt spark etches its questing zigzag on ink-black sky; As negative reaches for positive in its cloudy embrace, So, my spirit reaches out to You, the Infinite Positive. I desire the rest and resolution of that crashing, crackling encounter; That thunderous moment of earth and heaven; That infinite explosion of human and divine; That blessed neutralizing of aching desire within: That always and never satisfied longing for union with You. 1/24/10

The Adventures of Ewert Hamberlin in Her Majesty’s Secret Service Or An Inept Spy By Winslow Parker With gratitude to John Cronin, Mitch Lang, and Dawn Suvino for their contributions, all of their suggestions made this a better story. Ewert Hamberlin was awkward. Actually, he was more than awkward. He was clumsy. That’s not quite sufficient, either. Let’s settle on “inept.” Ewart Hamberlin was ineptitude itself, its very definition. He stumbled and fumbled his way through life. Shortly after birth, he buried his pacifier in his nasal passage. He crawled early, but backward. Later, he loved to play cricket, but often flung the bat into the crowd. An elderly Lord sued him after Ewert’s flying bat cracked his skull. He often tripped over even a quarter-inch crack in the sidewalk, leaving him with bloodied face, hands, and knees. Though he double-knotted his shoelaces, they untied themselves at least twice a day. His sister and her friends tried to remedy his clothing faux pas. All their efforts immediately degenerated into chaos when implemented. His buttons unbuttoned without assistance. His fly unzipped at the most inopportune moments. He scuffed his shoes on every curb and decorative flower box. Looking into the mirror, he could see nothing about which they complained. Everyone else saw a near-bum. He asked one of his sister’s friends on a date. Her smile was not a gentle but condescending rejection. Her laugh was not a delicate feminine ––titter. It wasn’t a giggle. It wasn’t a Santa Ho-ho laugh. It was a full-blown, side- splitting, bent-over-double, snot-dripping, tears-in-the-eyes guffaw. He never asked again. All this is to say that he entered Her Majesty’s Secret Service with nine out of ten strikes against him. “At least,” he thought when he applied, “I can die nobly in the service of her majesty.” Much to his surprise, he was accepted. He met R, head of service. M, the previous Head, was many years retired. The most famous authorized-to-kill spy, the suave, debonair, handsome, clever J was long gone, victim of his Alzheimer’s. He neglected to check his Walther PPK’s safety and pulled the trigger at the wrong time and target. Miss Dollarbill replaced Miss Moneypenney, a dour Scottish woman liked by few. Ewert liked her because, though she never smiled, she also never commented on his ineptitude or slovenliness. Ewert was grateful. He was an enthusiastic student. “Your first task,” R directed, “is to retrieve a communication from a double agent.” He gave Ewert directions. Though it was probably just a test,, he took it seriously. The drop was a hole in a large tree trunk, just above head height. Ewert reached into the bowels of the tree just as his legs gave way. Caught between the front lip of the hole and its ceiling, both His ulna and radius snapped. In spite of the pain, he clutched the note between rapidly-bluing fingers. He passed the test. This accident set the pattern for the rest of his time in the service. One day, chasing a suspected Dutch spy, he noticed his shoelaces were untied. He stopped abruptly, bending over to remedy the situation. A would-be attacker, arm raised to stab him in the back, tripped over Ewert. Limbs flailing, the attacker landed on his own head, rendering him unconscious. He was the real spy, the pursued Dutchman a decoy. Jealous colleagues spread the rumor that Ewert’s ineptitude was all an act, designed to draw attention to himself and promote his own promotion. They never proved it. Based on this incident, his service number was decremented from 259 to 130, a long jump toward the coveted double-zero designation. On another chase, He caught his coat sleeve in the iron railing of a school yard. The abrupt stop swung him sideways into the fence, smashing his nose into a picket. Though pain roared through his skull, it was a lucky break for him. The bullet, aimed at him, lodged in the back of the one he was pursuing, a notorious Tongan spy named Oohanu. When Oohanu recovered from the bullet wound, he spilled the beans, outlining a plot to subvert the British monetary system. Ewert’s

Three Mothers They stood a scant few feet from each other, these three women. They did not notice each other. Mary looked up at her Son, seeing the wounds, inflicted by cruel men, etched in his flesh. The other women, too, gazed up at their sons. Their names were not recorded. Neither left us their history. They are unknown. But, we can know this, that, if they knew of his execution, if they could journey to Jerusalem in time, they would be there, standing near Mary, looking into the faces of their own beloved, dying sons. We know this because we know our own mothers. We know their love and dedication and love for those they carry for three-quarters of a year. We know because, no matter what the deed, no matter the opinions of others, no matter the condemnation heaped upon them, that a mother’s love is forever. We know that, even convinced of the guilt of their child, they never stop loving. There is nothing the child can do that will cause her to love more, because she loves, already, to the height and depth of the universe, to the breadth of human experience, to the whole of the human heart. There is nothing that can make her love less because she has carried them next to her heart, nurtured and cared for them, kissed away their tears, soothed their wakeful dreams, carried their lives with them as long as they, themselves, live and breathe. These three mothers in some small measure, open a window on our heavenly Father’s (dare we say, Mother’s?) love for us. For we can do nothing that will make Him love us more and we can do nothing that will make Him love us less.1 4/18/00

Great-Grandpa's Watch My father gave me a family heirloom. It's not worth a great deal, but it came from his grandfather. It's a 19th century pocket watch. Its weight is nearly an eighth of a pound, very solid and impressive in the palm of the hand. On the back is a steam engine with a billowing cloud of smoke streaming in the opposite direction of travel, indicating the great speed and power of the engine. When my dad handed me the watch, he told me its story. It was my great-grandfather's prize possession. His name was George Winslow Parker who was a person of some note in the mining town of Leadville Colorado. There are some footnotes in Colorado history museums about him, though I'm not sure if they portray him as a hero or a villain. Some of those associated with early mining were both, which could have been true of him. At some low point in his financial life, he traded in the solid gold watch body for a silver one, so the case isn't original, but there is still sentimental value in it. Currently, it doesn't work and the story is that, as he lay dying, he forgot to wind it, which he normally did every day at the same time. His wife, thinking to do something that would please him, wound it for him and told him, "George, I wound your watch for you." He answered, "You broke it." Sure enough, it never worked again. He died that night, joining that other famous person whose watch quit the night he died, but who had a song written about him to memorialize the event. Well, all this is a complete sidetrack to my main point, except for the fact that I have a great-grandfather. He is three generations back in history from me. It took two parents, four grandparents, eight great-grand-parents, 16 great-great-grandparents to make me, one individual. Counting backwards from now, allowing four generations per century, there would be approximately 200 generations between me and one of Noah's sons and his wife. I calculated the number of grandparents, grandpas and grandmas.. The number is astronomical. It is 8.03 followed by 58 zeros. Now this cannot be the actual number of grandparents in my lineage, obviously. I have one more step before my real point. A bacterium starts with one cell, divides into two, which divide into four and so on. I calculated the total number of bacteria after 200 generations. It's exactly the same number 8.03 followed by 58 zeros. So, what's the point? The point is just this. A bacterium starts with one and ends up with an incredible number of descendants. Humankind starts with an incredible number of ancestors and ends up with one. The bacterium divides to make more. Humans combine to make less. Unlike a bacterium, we are the product of relationship. Each of those generations all the way back to Mr. And Mrs. Noah, and farther to the original two, were created within relationship, with a merging of two which became one. More energy is required, more steps in the process, more care, more "luck" is required to produce a human child. A bacterium, for example, divides every 20 minutes. 200 generations might take a couple of days. It takes, on average, two lives of 25 years each to come to the point of creating a new life. The process includes cell division, sorting of genes, combining two cells into one--all a very wasteful process in time and energy if there were not some higher purpose served. Again, let me say, we are the product of relationship. In Christ Jesus, also, we are the product of relationship. We who, like our Lord Jesus Christ, are born of the Spirit, are the product of relationship. His Spirit awakens our spirits, birthing in us a new creation, conceived of the Spirit and born to new life. "...however, you are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God dwells in you. If Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, yet the spirit is alive because of righteousness."2 Our human ancestry is one long line of relationships. The Christian church, the Body of Christ, is one short line of relationship since none of us has a family tree in Christ. We are conceived and b

Wives Be Subject... Women are a profound mystery to most of us men. Granted, there are some men who understand the opposite gender, but they are in the minority. OK, I’ll just speak for myself. You women are a profound mystery to me. In that mystery which you are, is hidden some of Father's deepest and most joyous truths. You women are portals into that domain which is of spirit and not flesh. After all, the Body of Christ is called “The Bride, the wife, of the Lamb.” In 1968, I asked Ida to be my wife. Our friendship began in 1961, on a youth camp-out in the Cuyamaca mountains of San Diego county. Her bright brown eyes and Central New York accent intrigued me. We went on one date that summer--a hay-ride to the beach. She returned to New York, being only 15 at the time. We wrote but, of course, long distance relationships at that age don’t weather the separation very well. Later, at age 18, she came to San Diego to attend college. Living with her aunt, attending the same church and working at the same hospital, we became acquainted and began a friendship. I was dating a girl whom I met at college. In long phone conversations, I poured out my traumas with this girl into Ida’s ear. Time passed and the girl decided she didn’t want to be with me. More woes to confide to my friend. Things changed in 1967. Home on vacation, I asked Ida out. I don’t remember what the occasion was, but we began dating. One thing led to another and in 1968, she said “Yes,” to my proposal. She changed schools, transferring to the one I was attending. Then she crashed my world. Being exposed too much to me, she realized how difficult it would be for her to do all the driving--she hates to drive. She broke off the engagement. Finally, in the Summer of 1969, we became re-engaged and were married in June, 1970. The theme I’d like to trace through this personal history is Ida’s response to my askings. She said “Yes,” to a first date, to later dates, to my first and last proposals. The initiative to ask was on my part; the choices, the responses, were on hers. There seems to be, within the age-old relationship of the genders, this common theme--man asks, woman responds. Other than rape, it is the pattern which is repeated from first date, through engagement and is one of the cornerstones of the marital relationship. I believe this to be the resolution to the texts in Ephesians relating to the submissive wife and loving husband.1 Many are the husbands who demand of their wives absolute submission in all things. “I said it, now you do it.” In everything from dress, to friends, to food, to sex, to church, the man’s word is law. The husband uses these scriptures to beat “his woman” into compliance. “Wives, be subject to your own husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, as Christ also is the head of the church, He Himself being the Savior of the body. But as the church is subject to Christ, so also the wives ought to be to their husbands in everything.”2 Sounds pretty pat, at least to us men. First, the injunction is directed to women, for women. It was not intended as a club for men to use over women. The same principle applies later in the chapter where Paul addresses slaves and masters. The slave is told to work diligently as for the Lord. Masters were told to treat their slaves in the same way. These verses were used by slave-holders in the South to justify maintaining slaves and keeping the institution of slavery alive. Each party, however, was to apply the scripture to him or herself. Spouses, families and worker relations were directed to the party, not to be used to coerce or beat the other party into submission, but to guide the relationship from both sides toward the other party. More important, the principle of submission is a mutual one. “Be subject to one another in the fear of Christ.”3 Any advice to wives or husbands, children and fathers or slave and master were to be done in the context of mutual submission. The advice to both is to submit to the other. We could just as clearly turn the words of Paul to wives 180 deg

The Two Incarnations Jesus "became flesh and dwelled among us," the act we call "The Incarnation." Jesus, crucified, risen, enthroned lives within us, a second incarnation; Spirit invading flesh, transforming, revising, renewing, radiating from within these vessels of dirt, a dimmer and secondary-but no less real-light of the world, for it is He the one and only true Light shines Himself out of our flesh, enlightening all who are in the house. 3/5/24

Weather Standing in an open door, on this windy day, I feel the wind push against me, hear its song as it strums the bare deciduous branches and plays the evergreen needles as tiny harps. It is an uncommon weather day in the Northwest. We don't often have wind of this magnitude this far inland. I feel enveloped, immersed in the wind. It surrounds me; I live in its grandeur and challenge. I cannot escape it; I can only shelter myself from it. Weather encloses the world and all of which it consists. I can either shield myself from it or luxuriate in its manifestation. Which I do will depend on my circumstance and disposition. I might hide inside with air conditioning on a hot day or put on sunscreen and sit on my patio. On a snowy day, I might bundle up in layers of clothing, boots and hat or close the windows and turn up the heat. In the same way, we are enclosed and live within You. We cannot escape You; You are all-encompassing and all-invading. I can resist or welcome; hide from or rejoice in Your presence. All mankind faces weather and You from one of these two perspectives. May it soon be that all will rejoice in Your presence; Your undiminished, unfiltered, unprotected presence. 04/07/10

We love Him because… …he loved us first. It's one of those verses that is so familiar that we tend to ignore it as if it is the scenery of the block on which we live. Perhaps for those of us who understand that in the ages to come, all humanity will be swept into His loving arms, it is an answer to an oft-repeated objection. This objection goes something like this: God gave us free will. If everyone becomes a part of His kingdom, He must violate the free will of at least a few human beings in forcing them to accept Him against their will. Valid point; that is, if He coerces our will against our will. Let's take Stalin for example. One of the cruelest rulers of modern history alongside Hitler, Mao Tse Tung and Pol Pot, he sent millions of his own to the firing squad or to the frozen Gulags of Siberia. Some estimate that he murdered some sixty million Russians, suspected of traitorous action or thought against him and his regime. That's more than twice the population of California! Wiped out, most with no grave to mark their resting place. OK, Stalin died on March 5, 1953. He faced the great Judge of all humanity. He is feeling very rebellious, unwilling to yield to His sovereign majesty, the Creator and Sustainer of all things. Let's say he resists for year, two, ten, a million years. What is Father to do? Will this one stubborn human thwart His will and His plan to unite all into one vast harmonious whole? Let's further say that he is the last holdout against God. He stands there, a stubborn fool as all of his erstwhile henchmen bow to Father, tears streaming down their faces and confess that Jesus is Lord to the glory of Father. He refuses. What weapon will eventually win his heart? Father is all powerful. Will He apply pressure as only He could? Will He give Stalin such intense and immense pain that he will yield to have it removed. This was, as history reveals, one of Stalin's favorite tactics to wring a confession from a reluctant prisoner. Certainly, Father could, but He doesn't. His only weapon, His ultimate weapon, His Hydrogen or neutron bomb is not power but love. In increasing doses, He reveals Himself to Stalin in all His love, including His ultimate act of love on the cross through which He reconciles all humanity to Himself. Stalin knows nothing of this tactic. It is alien, almost unfair, and he yields. Now all humanity is one with Father to the last man, woman and child. Now is the time for the great festival, the ultimate feast of rejoicing. And hard-hearted and the most repentant of all repenters, Stalin is at the head of the table, bowing in joyous submission, accepting of God's love and forgiveness at last. This text, 1 John 4:19 points in this direction—that love begins with Him and ends in our returning that love. It is not coercive, but a revelation of Him, His love, that brings the most hardened, the most recalcitrant to their knees. To the praise of His love! 2/26/24 1 John 4:19 Colossians 1:20

Two Sparrows What is the current price for a pair of sparrows? Isn’t it one penny? Did you know that not even one of these two sparrows can falter, stop flying, or fall to the ground apart from your Father? He keeps them flying; He lets them down to their rest gently, holding them in His arms all the way. Think about it: How much more valuable are you than two sparrows? Aren’t you worth many times more? To your Father you have infinite worth, far beyond even a flock of sparrows. Even more than a sparrow, He hold you up, supports you, carries you through life. And when the time comes, He lays you gently to rest, safe in His arms for your nap.1 Trembling and fearful, we fight against the inevitability of death. medicine, surgery, exercise and diet are all enlisted to prolong life. Charlatans and quacks prey on the gullible with life-extending promises of water from the fountain of youth. When the day finally arrives, as it always does, we go kicking and screaming into the long night. But for we who believe, there is an alternative. We need not fear death. It may be even that faith’s first test is to release us from that fear--the fear of what many believe to be the unknown and unknowable. In one dimension, He came to relieve this fear: “Therefore, since the children share in flesh and blood, He Himself likewise also partook of the same, that through death He might render powerless him who had the power of death, that is, the devil…”2 His death saps the strength of the one who claims power over death; He died the death that we might live. As age progresses, as the end looms larger, we can rest in the absolute certainty that there is life just over the horizon. Life’s tempests can lull us to sleep as did the raging waves of Galilee to our Lord. May every sparrow’s chirp be to you today an assurance of our Father’s loving care; of His surrounding arms; of His knowing the way, having trod it before us. 10/30/13

You Don't Know What You're Doing As a senior theology student, I was expected to travel to a local SDA church and preach a sermon which would edify the congregation and give me practice. The college which I attended was atop Mt. Howell, which was, itself, eight miles East of St. Helena California and seventy miles North of San Francisco. I had a problem. Being legally blind, I couldn’t drive and none of my friends had a car. The powers that be found a solution. I was to preach on a Saturday morning at a local nursing home. Angwin, the village in which the college was located, consisted mostly of Adventist. The nursing home population reflected this. On the appointed day, a supporting group of friends and I walked to the care facility. We were welcomed by the harried staff and taken to the dining room. Residents clustered around tables facing me. I was terrified. The television, broadcasting the college SDA church service was turned off and I began my first ‘sermon.” All the carefully-planned, logical thoughts, the beautifully-crafted sentences evaporated. My cryptic note cards made little sense to my anxious brain. My thirty-minute sermon flashed by in seven minutes. It was over. I survived. As I walked through the maze of tables, I overheard one old gentleman say, “Well, good. That was short enough so we can still hear the sermon from the college church.” So, went my debut as a preacher. The second was like unto it. A year later, now a neophyte hospital chaplain at the Paradise Valley Adventist Hospital near San Diego California, I was asked to give the Wednesday-morning staff worship talk. Afterward, the Senior Chaplain called me into his office and said, “Win, I think you need some training in public speaking. Why don’t you take a speech class?” So, I signed up for a Dale Carnegie course. It didn’t help. The next episode of what you are no doubt beginning to see as a pattern, took place the following summer. Ida and I ended up for a summer at Camp Berkshire. This is the SDA summer camp for the New York City SDA churches. I was to speak to the teen-age summer camp staff. Afterward, the camp director told my wife, “You need to help him.” The few times I preached after that, when I was an assistant pastor in Canyonville Oregon and, later, in Portland, I became a bit better, but I was never a great public speaker. It was not difficult to come to the conclusion that I didn’t know what I was doing. This morning, waking from the tumble and jumble of a weird dream, I began musing on my life. What-have-I-accomplished? This morphed into "what am I accomplishing right now? “Not much,” was my conclusion. Then His voice intruded. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” “Exactly,” I said, “I know that I don’t know what I’m doing. Or, maybe more accurately, I’m not doing much at all.” “You don’t get it,” He said. “You have no idea what happens around you as you interact with others. You have no idea what impact your words have. You have no idea what invisible influence you have.” “Oh,” was my only response. My thoughts drifted to the rest of us, to the Body, His Bride. We all live our lives in a tiny sphere. Our friends, our families, our colleagues are a bubble of influence. We usually think only of the negative influence we have on others. What if we don’t see as He sees? He said once, “God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.”1 What is true of skin and character may also be true of the impact we have on others. We see the negative, God sees the positive. We see our actions. He sees the ripples of all that we do, all that we are--those invisible rings of influence which radiate outward, touching now one and then another life. Lest this become yet one more guilt trip, let me hasten to say that all things are working together for good, not just those happy smiley things we project into our family circle. When the Spirit lives within, He radiates an invisible influence around us. As ripples on the still water of a pond radiate from the center outward to the very edge of the pond,

#Dance Me to the End of Love “…having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.”1 “…He loves them unto the end (or: the goal and attained destiny; the finished, purposed product; the accomplished and completed work; the consummation; or: = to the uttermost).”2 Leonard Cohen wrote the lyrics and music to the song, “Dance Me to the End of Love.” Though he was a Buddhist, he often wrote lyrics that were profoundly Christian. "Dance Me to the End of Love" is a song of married love, from courtship to death, passing through wedding, children and old age. Solomon’s Song to his Shulamite bride comes to mind as the poetic story of love unfolds. The phrase, “Dance me to the end of love” is the chorus, so it repeats and summarizes that which goes before. Jonathan Mitchell’s expanded version of John 13:1 opens the many shades of the word telos which is the word usually translated “end.” Jesus loved His disciples to the very end of His life. But He also loved them to the goal…, the finished, purposed product; the accomplished and completed work; the consummation…to the uttermost…”2 Cohen’s song is a ballad of married love. Jesus’ love song is also a song of consummation. Later in John He says: “...that they may all be one; even as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, that they also may be in Us, …that they may be one, just as We are one…I in them and You in Me, that they may be perfected in unity…and loved them, even as You have loved Me.”3 We, the Bride of the Lamb, are, in Jesus, joined to Him in a spiritual union even more real than that of human marriage. It is a continual dance of love. We cry, with Leonard the unbeliever, “Dance me to the end of love.” Our desire is not just to an earthly spouse, but to our heavenly One. Telos not only means to the end, to the consummation, but “to the uttermost.” Here, I believe, is the deepest meaning of John’s thought. Jesus loved them “to the uttermost.” His measure of uttermost is just this, He loved them in just that way and to the extent of His Father’s love for Him. What greater love is there than the Father’s love for the Son? There is no greater love. His love invites us into the dance of His death, which is the utmost demonstration of that love. It is the Father’s love in giving His Son; It is the Son’s love in giving Himself…”for His friends.” He dances us to the end of, to the utmost of, His love. Mr. Cohen, you were on to something, though you only saw it in terms of the limited love of this world. Now that you have passed through that veil, you know.4 You left the world a song which pointed to a destination you yourself never reached while alive. Your pointer was true, however, as far as it went. Come dance the dance of consummation, the uttermost dance of Father and Son’s love for each other and for us. “Herein 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 ought also to love one another.”5 11/27/17

Seeking Jesus came to "seek and to save that which was lost." He both sought and saved. Unless He did both of these, He was a failure. But He did succeed. All humanity is found within the set of "that which was lost." Therefore, all are saved, else, to repeat myself, He failed in His mission of seeking and saving. On the other hand, the enemy goes about "seeking whom he may devour. Like an old, toothless lion, he roars about, seeking the weakest among us whom he hopes to devour. But, sister, brother, the verse has no second phrase. There is no seeking and devouring, no seeking and finding, no assuaging of his vast hunger for souls. He is a deaf and blind predator. His prey escapes him easily for his joints are arthritic, cannot track, much less catch, those whom he seeks. Though the sound of his roar echoes through the jungle of this world, none need fear; he is a defeated, harmless foe. We worship a victorious Lion—the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Lamb of God, the One who claims as His victims, His honored ones, the whole of humanity. To the praise of His glory! 2/19/24

On Judging God In the section of the Bible we Christians call "The Old Testament," He who created and sustains often portrays Himself as cruel, vindictive, and even self-serving. We judge His actions and commands with these attributes. Though we wish things were different, and, in our eyes, better, we wriggle and squirm when these self-revelations are discussed. His enemies, and they are legion, gloat over these perceived anomalies. They either say that the God of the Old and the God of the New are two different gods or talk about the progress, the "evolution" of religion from a blood-thirsty tyrant religion to that of a benign itinerant preacher. Confronted with these accusations, we find it difficult to explain them away, though we would much rather these stories not be included in our scriptures. In this judging of God and our lack of defense, I think we have missed some important explanatory factors hidden in the character, the foundational being of Father and Son. Here are a few. We do not and cannot, know His purposes. We only have that which He has revealed about Himself. In the first place, the fact that He reveals Himself in a light which we humans do not like, He is telling us something, which includes the fact that He is willing to be judged. "Come, let us reason together," He invites. Why else would He reveal His actions in such vivid detail? Could we know all that is in His mind, why He dictated the slaughter of whole nations, why He consumed those who opposed Him in the camp, why He chose then destroyed the nation which He chose…these and many more questions could have been avoided if He'd just not told us so clearly and unequivocally. There are, therefore, two reasons in this first explanation: He has revealed Himself, though incompletely and He has not shared all His plans and purposes with us. Both of these demand that we walk carefully in our judgment of Him. These may not quench the fiery darts of His enemies, but for the believer, these may be a balm and an inner assurance that we do not worship in vain. We recognize various attributes of God such as omni-presence (everywhere present), omnipotent (all powerful), and omniscient (all knowing). To these, I'd like to add another—omnisophia or all wise. Worshiping a God who is all-knowing and all-wise means that whatever He does is the best thing that can be done in this circumstance. Being able to know past and future, He can and does bring about the perfect resolution to the present situation. He knows all consequences of his actions, all causes of those actions. We rest in this assurance. Examined through the Lense of the New Testament, through the God revealed as only self-sacrificing love, the Old becomes a new vision. The God of the Old is working His will through a stubborn and stiff-necked people whom He knows will eventually murder Him. Yet, He goes through many a trial, many a rejection to bring the outcomes of His will to pass. We too often look to the Old Testament to explain the New. The Old does shed light on the New, but one should and cannot view the Old as the end of the matter. It is shadow where the New is the light that was to come. The God of the one is the God of the other. They act in accord toward the fulfillment of their purposes. The humble Servant is the same as the fire breathing God of the Old. We must see this for He cannot be divided. His actions in the Old are just as loving as those of the New. We rarely see this, judging Him in His acts which we consider heinous. God commanded Saul, the king, to destroy entirely the Amalekite nation. Men, women, children, animals, leaving a wasteland behind. We think of the terror of the battle, the horror of dashing babies against stone walls, of stabbing pregnant women. This was war in the way God commanded. But what was the immediate result of their deaths? What happened to the being that existed just before being pierced by a spear, slashed with a sword, crushed under the hooves of horses? Was it not the immediate entrance into the very presence of the One who ordered their deaths? Pro

Pearl's Pearls His name is Pearl Fryer. An African-American of minimal education, little income and yet a great heart and artistic eye, he has made a name for himself in the horticulture and artistic world. His medium is living plants; his art, topiary. My first exposure to topiary was outside the “It’s a Small world” ride at Disneyland. It had just opened, and around the outside were a number of still-growing animal shapes. A skeleton of wire mesh in the desired shape was still visible, revealing the jarring juxtaposition of living and non-living materials which would eventuate in a pleasing and sometimes funny shape. A giraffe and Mickey Mouse were among the shapes. Mr. Fryer’s topiary is of an entirely different nature. First, they are free hand--no supporting wire to guide future trimming. Second, every plant is a finished piece of art when he plants it. His are not always shapes of real things; most are abstract. One tree is even a cube shape. He is completely self-taught. He was catapulted into this by the comments of potential neighbors raising the concern, that, being African-American, he would not care for his yard. Now, his Bishopville South Carolina yard is a mecca for tourists from all over the world. It is the only attraction in his “not-on-the-map” town. He carves his shapes with a chain saw, standing atop tall ladders to reach the sometimes-forty-foot tree tops. “Standing” is probably a poor word to use. “Teetering” would be more apt. He discovered his first trees on the discard pile at the local nursery. From these he began his decades-long art career. How much like our God he is: He finds us on the junk heap of this world; discarded and ready to be mulched into our component elements. He plants us in just the right place, nurtures us, bends our branches just so and then takes His heavenly chain saw to us, trimming here, shaping there. When finished, a glorious unique shape emerges. Others take note and know that a heavenly Pearl has been at work in our lives. But He never stops trimming. We continue to grow and change, and He never stops the process of shaping. Unlike the earthly Pearl, the Heavenly one knows us. He knows the inmost of us and with this knowing creates just the shape He wants. Step outside yourself and see the glorious creation into which the heavenly topiary artist has formed you. He has been, he is, He always will be successful with you. You are and ever will be an object of admiration and pleasure now and throughout all eternity.

God's Sneaky Way of Crucifying Us Our spouses, children and grandchildren; our extended families, friends, acquaintances and enemies, our casual daily contacts, our every circumstance—all are the crosses on which Father brings us to crucifixion. Daily, moment by moment, we are impaled on them, bringing some new part of ourselves into subjection to Him and opening new growth and maturity toward that promised full stature in Christ. "We do not, therefore, despise the chastening of the Lord, for they are light in comparison with the mighty weight of glory which they produce in us.” 1

Smokey's the Cat Chaser Why do dogs chase cats? You have to admit that is an extremely trivial philosophical question. Think about it, though. Dogs chase cats. Cats run. When a dog finally corners a cat, all the power is on the cat's side. Claws and teeth make for a rather unpleasant experience for the dog. Dogs never learn. He chases the next cat which crosses his path. Doesn't speak well for the intelligence of dogs. Don't get me wrong. I have had dogs which were very much a part of my life. The reason I ask the imponderable question comes from observing Smokey, one of my childhood dogs. Smokey wasn't really my dog. One summer, my good bud David Trujillo and I built a tower of scrap wood. When finished, it stood 18 feet high. I suppose you could call it a "holy tower." But I wouldn't if I were you. Fortunately, David was a born builder. He could measure, cut and nail with the ease of a master carpenter. It took a while, since every nail was crooked, having been yanked from the old castaway lumber. That was my job—my skill level. Back to Smokey. David was dog-sitting Smokey for a friend of his, so Smokey came with him every day that we worked on the tower. Somehow, when the tower was built, Smokey adopted me. It was a mutual attraction and neither of us regretted it, as far as I could tell. One morning, Smokey came home from his nightly excursions with a broken right front leg. We took him to the vet, but we couldn't afford to have it fixed. Seeing my distress, the vet casted it for free. There are still kind-hearted people in the world. Smokey limped around for a couple of weeks on three legs. He never chewed on the cast, apparently knowing it was necessary. When the cast came off, the leg was unusable. So, for the rest of his life, he used that leg only as a pivot when a tight turn was needed. One more thing about Smokey. Like Mary's little lamb of childhood rhyme, Smokey followed me to school. He slept by my desk until recess, then played with everyone until the bell rang. That wouldn't be tolerated today, but in the good old days, people didn't sue as often or as easily. One day, we neighborhood kids were playing in one of our yards. It was shaded by a pepper tree which bent from the base at about a 60 degree angle. Suddenly, Smokey came around the corner of the garage in full chase mode, barking and using all three legs to chase a cat. The cat, naturally, climbed the tree for safety. Smokey ran up the incline right after it. I hope the cat didn't have nightmares the rest of its life, thinking that dogs had evolved claws. Smokey ended up 15 feet above ground level. He stopped, halfway out a branch. The cat arched its back and hissed at him. Smokey looked down. Then, I swear it, he looked at us with a puzzled expression on his face as if to say, "How did I get here?" His expression morphed into, "How do I get down?" I don't remember how he did get down from his unnatural perch. The memory of the incident made me ask a similar question of myself. "How did I get here?" By that, I mean, I find myself on a mountaintop of experience with all of you. I am coming to know, really know, the God of creation and salvation in a real and experiential way. Just how did I get here, rubbing shoulders with you and reveling in the experience of fellowship? Last I knew, I was chasing a cat. Like Smokey, I didn't learn from my experience that cats bite and scratch. The repeated pain was not enough to stop the inborn urge to chase an impossible nightmare. If cornered, it only rendered the experience painful. Then, suddenly, here I am, miles above the plains, the lowlands of despair and pain. In this atmosphere the cat cannot live--it is miles below, sleeping contentedly on a warm rock. Here, in fellowship with you, the view catches the breath and dazzles the eyes for, like Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress, we can see the promised land. Even better, we are in the promised land itself. To my shame, I cannot remember what happened to my best friend Smokey. His errant foray into the unexplored and unexpected heights still is a wonder to m

The Tyranny of Beauty Depressed and suicidal, she came to the psychiatric unit on which I worked. "Nothing to live for," was all she said to the psychiatrist and counselors at first. "I've lost everything," she later confessed. "I was once beautiful. I was on the cover of "Life," "vogue" and other popular magazines. I've traveled the world on photo shoots and was very well paid. The best photographers sought me out and paid homage to my beauty with their cameras. I went to the chic parties, was invited to the homes of the rich and vacationed on the Cote d' Azure. Now I have nothing. I am ugly." And she was. Her sun-drenched face was dappled with large brown age spots. Her skin was loose and sagging. Her eyes were dead. Worse still was the darkness which radiated from within. Despair edged every word with a black border; her monotone made one sleepy and inattentive. At 63, she knew death as her only friend. No joy, pleasure or fun awaited her at the next dawn. Hers was a hollow life, full of the transient and shallow. She was surrounded by those of a similar feather; friends of the moment who abandoned when the bright candle of youth faded, extinguished by the inevitable march of time. Such is the first tyranny of beauty. The flower fades and falls. the second is not its opposite, but, rather, an outgrowth of it. Beauty expects. From an early age, male or female beauty learns to use then abuse the perfection of face and form. Reinforced by those close, at first, then classmates, teachers, employers are all alike used and cast aside for the momentary need or desire. Beauty pageants, leads in school plays, the attention of the opposite gender, special favors and roles are all a given. If not rendered promptly, the beautiful learn to exact a hard price for what they consider their due. At 14, in the seventh grade, I was at that age when the magnetic poles reverse, when boys finally turn from their childish play which girls have long ago abandoned. It was the age when beauty becomes the criteria of desirability. I remember well the first time I saw her. She came late to the Junior kid's class in our church. Stylishly dressed, blue cape artfully draped, she walked slowly, seemingly oblivious to the attention she drew. She was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen, so pretty she broke through the fourth-grade fog to which I had assigned all girls. At school, she garnered the same attention. Over time, she gathered satellite classmates to surround her. I was included, but very peripherally. Every Tuesday night, our church sponsored a coed youth club, similar to Boy and Girl Scouts. I walked home a short distance, down one side of a canyon and up the other along what we called, the "tar path." It was dimly lit, a shortcut between the residential areas of the hospital grounds on which we lived and the hospital itself. One night, a girl left the hall with me and fell into step beside me. We were neighbors, so this didn't seem odd to me. It fell into a routine. Every Tuesday we walked home together. Then, one night, our hands brushed and suddenly we were holding hands. At 14, and not the most sought-after boy in the seventh-grade class, I was thunderstruck. "A girl is holding my hand!" We walked on in silence, both a bit intimidated and embarrassed at this evidence of being in like. We began walking home together from school, making our relationship public knowledge. I was happy with the arrangement, but apparently the girl in whose orbit I used to travel was not. Somehow, she conveyed the information to me that she was willing for me to walk her home. She was the prettiest. I fell for it. Abandoning my first "like" I began escorting the prettier. Once she was convinced that she had severed my allegiance irrevocably, she broke off the walks home. Being the male of the species, I didn't understand her ploy until fifty years later. Such is the naiveté of the human male. Such is the perfidy of the human male. Such is the outward-bound tyranny of beauty. "Humankind looks on the outward appearance," said God to Samuel, "But I look on the hear

Expectation and Expectancy I married Ida Newcomb on June 21, 1970. I had certain expectations of Ida; expectations about how she would treat me, take care of me and be a loving wife to me. These expectations came from viewing my parent's marriage and how my mother, in particular, related to us three kids (not "we three kings!"). Mom was a nurse, a caretaker by nature. If we were sick, we went to bed,; she waited on us. My father was ill for two years, confined to bed for most of that time. On top of working full time, she completed her nursing degree, cooked, cleaned and held the family together. But, beneath it all, she was a care-taker. I came to marriage with this expectation. Then I got the shock of my life. Ida raised three of her four siblings, and she wasn't about to add me to her list of needy kids. I was puzzled and angry by turn. My expectations were blown out of the water. It was a wonderfully freeing experience when, finally, I realized that she wasn't going to care for me, she wasn't going to coddle me. Most of all, she wasn't going to make me dependent. I know other blind people whose spouses do this. They are truly handicapped, never learning the skills necessary for independent living. They wait for others to do the work. They live in the expectation that everything will flow to them. They feel entitled and need contribute nothing. This last week, I spent time with a very special group of people. We shared fellowship and worship. My being blind in a new place, meant that they did a great deal for me, for which I'm grateful. But I've progressed enough down this expectation road that it was difficult to accept their generous care gracefully. They, on the other hand, were so very kind and thoughtful. One, then another, took me places, prepared food and made sure I was comfortable. They were very gracious in their giving. We live in a world of expectation. We expect to have our rights observed. We expect that we will receive a fair share of the American pumpkin pie. We expect that our spouses will meet our expectations in all the myriad ways in which married people interact. We expect that our neighbors will honor the property boundaries and will not hire a rock band to play through the night.. Expectation's opposite is expectancy. For example, this past week, traveling by train for six hours, I determined I would come to the gathering with expectancy and not expectation. I came without knowing what was going to happen, what we would do, how the fellowship would progress, what God had in store for me. My wildest expectations could not have anticipated the beauty of the experience. My expectancy made it possible for what happened to flow naturally. I discovered in each moment something new and different. It wasn't dramatic, but it was real. Expectation is a setup for disappointment. Expectancy cannot be disappointed, for it exists without preconceived idea or expectation. Everything is a surprise. Expectancy anticipates good outcomes but is not surprised if it doesn't happen. Expectation places burdens on self and others. Expectancy holds its breath waiting to see how it's going to turn out. Expectation is angered by thwarted desire. Expectancy smiles at every event, knowing it contains a pearl. Oh, Great Giver of all things good, may I come to this day without expectation. May I not anticipate pleasure or profit, new knowledge or insight, pleasant interactions with others or benefit from them, an uptick in stocks and bonds or a big discount at the store. May I come to this day with the expectancy of a child, looking for the beauty, fun and pleasure of opening an unanticipated gift. May I walk through the unfolding of the flower of the hours of this day knowing that each and every one is from Your loving hand, planned from ages past and fitting into that secret plan of Yours which is revealed only moment by moment. May expectancy not guess at how or what Your working in me will produce in my life. May I only live in the knowing that it is from your hand. For You, Father, are only and all good, kind, just and m

Hero Worship Nimrod, Genghis Khan, Noah, Abraham, Joseph, Alexander, Caesar Augustus, Elijah, Elisha, David, Solomon, Luther, Tyndale, George Fox, Napoleon, Victoria, Elizabeth, Henry VIII, George Washington, Kaiser Wilhelm, William “Wild Bill” Cody, Sherman, Lincoln, Grant, Hitler, Stalin, Eisenhower, Churchill, Martin Luther King Jr., Jesus, John Kennedy, Reagan, Mother Theresa, Buddha, Gandhi, Desmond Tutu. Each of these has her or his place in history; each is famous, infamous or both. Each has books written about them. We know their names, can tell their deeds. To some extent, we feel we can identify with them. Therein lies a rub. In some way, as we read their stories, we blend into it. It is I who am conquering the invincible Persian army; Europe; the far, middle near east and eastern Europe; modern Europe. It is I who reign over vast empires or change the course of history with marches and strikes. I am the servant who achieves fame in a Calcutta slum or in a resistor’s prison cell. I become, for the few hours of the book’s read, the hero. In the flyleaf of my first Bible, given to me by my parents at my eighth-grade graduation, my mother wrote: “Someday you will do great things for God.” This one sentence colored the whole of my life from then on. Looking back at that distant time from near-retirement, I realize that I haven’t done great things for Him. On the contrary, I’ve been more trouble to Him than hero in His pantheon of the greats. Now I know that His grace, love and forgiveness are sufficient. I know that He died for me just like He did for you. That is not the point of this essay. In reading biographies and histories; when considering high-sounding and well-meant challenges, I find myself faced with a dilemma. Urged to do and be great, challenged to achieve, led by example and story to expect to accomplish “great things,” I find myself a great disappointment. I have lived an extraordinarily ordinary life: some ups, some downs, some accomplishments in a limited sphere, a dash of being known and recognized among some small groups, a bit of infamy in others. Nowhere in all my days can I point to an experience of either great evil or great good. Humdrum, boring, ordinary, are the adjectives that describe my life. Enough whining. So, what am I; what are we, the ordinary, to make of our lives when faced with so much pressure to excel? How do we deal with our ordinariness; our seeming lack of accomplishments? Are we to feel cheated? Should we feel we haven’t lived up to our potential? Should we do some horrendous deed in order to go out in a blaze of well-televised terror? Just how are we to justify our lives to ourselves? Abraham Lincoln is quoted as saying, “God must love ordinary people, He made so many of them.” Of course, we quote him because He made profound statements, but he was also at the top of his game--president of the United States. Does being numbered among the “so-many-of-them” justify such ordinariness? Are we destined to be ordinary or have we just failed the greatness test? At one time, I owned a crystal (the name of which I cannot remember). Its dimensions were approximately 2' long by ?” wide by ?” thick. The top and bottom surfaces were parallel, but the top layer was skewed as if someone had pressed on the bottom left corner to make the top surface slide up and right. The sides were all slightly angled to accommodate this shift. The crystal was almost clear. Holding the crystal over a line one could see the it clearly. Turning the crystal a few degrees, however, apparently split the single line into two. Rotating it further, the line would once again appear as a single line. This has something to do with diffraction, but don’t ask me to explain it--the optics are beyond my comprehension. Perhaps, viewing our lives against the backdrop of a mother’s hopes and dreams; against our identification with heroes; against the internal dreams of wealth, fame and recognition, our lives appear as a single line--common and pointless. Re-oriented just a few degrees, each life dissolves into an alterna