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Midweekly
Reality Check:
Meditations on the Mountain
“Self-denigration” vs Reality Last week, in my ongoing battle with vanity, I sent my weekly blog, much more confessional than usual, out via email with the following notice at the end, in an effort to expand my readership:
I am trying to cure myself of the shameless self-promotion addiction (SSPA), a malady writers are particularly susceptible to. I post this blog once a week at www.jdwetterling.com –on Tuesday evening. If you think my scribbling is worth reading, you may 1.) visit my website once week, 2.) log my URL into your RSS reader, or 3.) click here to receive by email. JDW
A long-time friend and regular reader, out of the kindness of his heart, sent me the following wakeup call, perhaps unintentional on his part, tucked in a parenthetical observation in his complimentary email: “(Self denigration may ill serve your purpose.)” My lexicon defines “denigrate” as “defame, blacken someone’s character.” If I’m coming across sounding self-denigrating, then I am not conveying the reality of my ongoing struggles with sin. “Blacken” implies a prior lighter color existed. “Defame” denotes fame was the initial state. My character was black in God’s eyes to start with. I was born in sin (Psalm 51:5), infamous since conception before a Holy God. In my pride I have constructed a humble façade that is transparent to at least one forthright reader. Journalists have a rule of thumb: Each letter to the editor represents a hundred readers who feel the same way but lack the will to sit down and respond in writing. Perhaps my purpose will be better served by letting wiser men than I speak to the issue. In the Middle Ages, Anselm (1033-1109), the Archbishop of Canterbury, in a book entitled Cur Deus homo? (Why did God become man?), said, “You have not yet considered the gravity of sin.” If I may transpose that into 21st century English, I would say, “ Every sin, down to the smallest white lie and the briefest lustful or hateful thought, has infinite implications before a holy God. Robert Murray M’Cheyne, a great nineteenth-century Scottish Presbyterian minister who died a young man (1813-1843) wrote in his Diary, published after his death: “I have begun to realize that the seeds of every known sin still linger in my heart.” C. H. Spurgeon (1834-1892), perhaps the greatest 19th century preacher, said, “There is enough kindling in the best of hearts to light a fire that will burn to the lowest hell if God does not extinguish the sparks as they fall.” (Morning and Evening, March 16) Of course they all are expounding on the truth of the Bible: None is righteous, no, not one (Romans 3:10). Our only hope of salvation is Christ’s righteousness in our place through his amazing, atoning act of love on the cross. We are saved by the gift of faith [alone], not works (Eph. 2:8-9). This is the heart of the Doctrine of Grace. Martyn Lloyd-Jones (1899-1981) said. “Salvation is not in any sense God’s response to anything in us. It is not something in us that we in any way deserve or merit. …the whole glory of salvation is that though we deserve nothing but punishment and hell and banishment out of the sight of God to all eternity, yet God, of his own love and grace and wondrous mercy, has granted us this salvation. Now that is the entire meaning of this term grace.” [the underline is my emphasis] In yet another case of God’s perfect timing, I read the following in C. H. Spurgeon’s devotional, Cheque Book of the Bank of Faith (March 22), within hours of receiving the wakeup call from my friend:
Grace for the Humble
He giveth grace unto the humble. (James 4:6)
Humble hearts seek grace, and therefore they get it. Humble hearts yield to the sweet influences of grace, and so it is bestowed on them more and more largely. Humble hearts lie in the valleys where streams of grace are flowing, and hence they drink of them. Humble hearts are grateful for grace and give the Lord the glory of it, and hence it is consistent with His honor to give it to them. Come, dear reader, take a lowly place. Be little in thine own esteem, that the Lord may make much of thee. Perhaps the sigh breaks out, "I fear I am not humble." It may be that this is the language of true humility. Some are proud of being humble, and this is one of the very worst sorts of pride. We are needy, helpless, undeserving, hell-deserving creatures, and if we are not humble we ought to be. Let us humble ourselves because of our sins against humility, and then the Lord will give us to taste of His favor. It is grace which makes us humble, and grace which finds in this humility an opportunity for pouring in more grace. Let us go down that we may rise. Let us be poor in spirit that God may make us rich. Let us be humble that we may not need to be humbled but may be exalted by the grace of God. In God’s own words (James 4:6-10): But he gives more grace. Therefore it says, "God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble." Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded. Be wretched and mourn and weep. Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom. Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you. God’s grace is amazing, isn’t it? It’s an irrevocable gift to believers (whose belief is also a gift!) that makes one humble, which leads to more grace. Chastened, I’ll keep praying for more grace for this infamous, born-black character, a “needy, helpless, undeserving, hell-deserving” writer, desperately in need of Christ’s righteousness in his place. Lord, may this broken, forgiven sinner truly understand all the reasons I have to be humble, and gratefully improve my message of reality and your unfathomable grace. In Christ’s name, Amen.
THE GRACE PLAN I have good news to share this week. I have been on the lookout for a good contemporary devotional for the last few years to add to my daily pre-dawn dose of RC Sproul’s Tabletalk (hardcopy subscription required) and C. H. Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening and Faith’s Checkbook. I have found it—In His Grip—and have been reading it religiously, delivered to my inbox, since the first of the year. The author, Rev. Tim Tinsley, is Senior Associate Minister of Park Cities Presbyterian Church (PCA) in Dallas, Texas. In his March 20 devotional, entitled “Working Out My Salvation,” he talks of “the works plan” and “the grace plan” in exposition of Acts 18:5-6. He’s on the grace plan, as am I. It resonated with me as if God had planned before time began for me to read these words at just the point in my life when I needed most to be reminded of them. (Regular readers will recognize the “tongue-in-cheekness” of this flip remark—I know there are no accidents in God’s providential tending of His creation.) The older I get, the more I experience, the more I read, the more I go to bed at night fed up with my own self-centered self-righteousness, the more convinced I am that the “grace plan” better be the right one…because my works on my own ain’t cuttin’ it. As I lie in self-loathing, reviewing the events of my day and waiting for sleep to come, it is so apparent to me that, though I call myself a child of God, I am guilty of felonious thoughts, words and deeds throughout the day against the God who loves me beyond my comprehension. Spurgeon said, “There is enough kindling in the best of hearts to light a fire that will burn to the lowest hell if God does not extinguish the sparks as they fall” (March 16, Morning and Evening). And mine is far from the best of hearts. There is nothing in me that would merit a Holy God’s choice of me to spend eternity in the bliss of His presence. My faith in Christ and His atoning work has to be a divine gift (Eph 2:8-9). He must have inclined my will to believe the Gospel of Grace (1 Cor. 4:7a). My rebirth must be by the Holy Spirit alone. It can only be due to God’s good pleasure (Romans 9:15-16) that He had compassion on such a sinner as me. The unarguable fact, so clearly stated in the Bible, is that he foreknew me before time began and, for no reason existing in me, predestined me to be called by Him, justified me—made me right with Him—through Christ’s death on the cross on my behalf, and will one day glorify me with him in heaven (Romans 8:29-30). “Preposterous!” claims the pagan. But, in God’s providence, I am witnessing that same amazing act of Grace in the life of another sinner—a new friend. That is the really good news this week. He lives alone with his dog in a cabin on a densely wooded ridge not far from our gatekeeper’s cottage at Ridge Haven. The world would say his life has not been much of a success to date. He grew up in a broken home in the big city and has been in trouble with the law on occasion because of the effects of demon liquor. Recently it happened again and he lost his driving license and may have to suffer a small room and board at taxpayer expense for awhile. As Rev. Tinsley said on March 21, “God’s dark providences are the landscape in which He draws His glory into our lives.” A merciful God brought us together while hiking one day. Actually I was hiking and he was on a brand new ATV. As I got to know him and see his need, I gave him some literature that included a couple of my favorite sermons by Spurgeon, a short gospel presentation in my words in a brochure, and the manuscript of a small apologetic work of mine that will be published later this year that, “as luck would have it” (NOT!), was written for people just like my new friend. Last week we went for a hike together. We sat down to rest high on a sunny mountainside with a spectacular view of God’s Blue Ridge creation, and I pulled a Bible out of my backpack. I read from John’s Gospel: For God so loved the world…(3:16). We talked and talked. My big burly friend cried without ceasing as he confessed the mess he had made of his life. But he demonstrated a startlingly good grasp of God’s will and grace gleaned from the literature I’d given him, and an understanding that God had brought him to this place in his life for a good reason: that he might know that God was his only hope and was drawing him to Himself. We prayed together and I gave the Bible to him to keep with some key passages marked with sticky tabs. We glided down the mountain as if walking on air. This past Sunday he came to Sunday School and church with my wife and me, and it “just happened” that he got a double dose of the Doctrines of Grace to reinforce all that he had been hearing and reading. It must have been like trying to drink from a fire hose for a man who had never been in a church in his adult life, and only a Latin-service Catholic church a few times as a small, clueless child. He has agreed to come again with us next Sunday, praise the Lord. And while he awaits his date with the judge, he’s asked to do volunteer work at Ridge Haven, beginning with the re-staining of our rustic cottage. God bless Him! What a joy to witness God’s grace in action in another’s life, and to know that my Savior could use me, a woefully inadequate tool, as a little pencil in His hand to spell out the plan of salvation to a lost soul. God does the writing, God does the planning, God does the heart changing, and His Spirit works in the heart to will and to work for His good pleasure (Philippians 2:13). Please pray with me that our Sovereign God will fulfill the promise of His “grace plan” in my new friend’s life, that He will complete what He has started, and that the seed planted in his heart will grow as if in good soil (Matthew 13:1-8). And this is the confidence that we have toward him, that if we ask anything according to his will he hears us. And if we know that he hears us in whatever we ask, we know that we have the requests that we have asked of him (1 John 5:14-15).
Springtime, End Time, God’s Time March came into the southern slopes of the Blue Ridge like the meekest lamb in memory, and suddenly crocus purple is everywhere, accented by daffodil yellow. Hallelujah! Buds are beginning to swell. The 50% of our near-rainforest that is not evergreen is still solidly mauve, but anticipation grows with each sunny day for the spectacular, slow-motion green explosion that approaches. Spring is a spiritual experience denied to those who live in the perpetual summer of southern latitudes (including me for 22 years midlife). I think the intensity of the experience is directly related to the severity of the winter. If I lived in Maine or Minnesota I’d probably swoon with the first balmy spring zephyr. It fills me with an awesome appreciation for the loveliness of God’s created order. Spring’s rebirth of dormant nature is a powerful metaphor to me for the rebirth of my own dead heart. In the providence of God, four new church members came before our elder board during the Sunday School hour yesterday to bear witness to that rebirth of their hearts. One was a heart-meltingly precious 9-year-old girl. Another was a retired Navy career man who, by his own admission, was a stereotypical pagan sailor for many years before God broke his heart and remade it. His wife witnessed to the extraordinary fact that he was virtually a new man overnight—a heart-warming, God-glorifying story of Amazing Grace. There was another milestone of Grace that made this spring weekend special. Our long-time, well-loved pastor at Cornerstone Presbyterian Church preached his last two sermons and a memorial service Sunday, finishing strong in a 41-year career of three sermons a week—a rare feat in the modern church. As his son so aptly put it at a retirement dinner at church Saturday night—it was the equivalent of writing and delivering three term papers a week for 41 years. Having delivered a few solitary sermons in my life, with weeks to prepare them, I am in awe of the gifts such requires—unending motivation, focus, and a career-long endurance…all by Grace, as Rev. R. Grady Love would be the first to tell you. Having been an elder in four churches in my life, and a student of the Bible and all things religious, I know that reaching the finish line—retirement age—in the pulpit is not a common thing for those who are called to the toughest job on the planet. As a member of the search committee to find Rev. Love’s replacement, I’ve recently read innumerable resumes of preachers whose careers have been blemished by the slings and arrows of sin, both their own and others. I know from experience that sometimes all it takes to ruin a preacher’s career is one personality conflict with one elder or staff member in one church. Grady would also gratefully confess that his successful race was clear evidence of the providence of the merciful God to whom he bore witness for over four decades. Godspeed, Grady and Gini. What big shoes our search committee has to fill. More Grace, please, Oh Lord, more Grace! Then there was a culminating blessed event to a Grace-filled spring weekend at this wilderness cathedral, called Ridge Haven, that has left my heart full to overflowing with God’s love. A 91-year-old saint, Renee Whitman, one of the first residents of the Ridge Haven community, went to be with her Lord and Savior, and we celebrated her home going Sunday afternoon in our conference center. She fought the good fight, she finished the race, she kept the faith to her last breath, and now she wears a crown of righteousness (2 Tim. 4:7-8) bequeathed to her by her Savior, Jesus Christ. She was the longtime editor of our community newsletter—The Ridge Runner—which she composed on her computer, with a tenacity rarely matched for someone her age, for mastering such a newfangled gizmo. Multiple desperate calls to my bride, the Ridge Haven webmaster/computer guru, were constant reminders of how challenging it was for a daughter of the American Revolution, Bahamian born in the midst of WW I, decades before computers were invented. Her final edition, put out last fall, was typical of her adoring witness to “God’s handiwork” in this “blue heaven.” The service was a moving reminder that four seasons are a recurring cycle in God’s southern Appalachian creation, and will continue till Christ returns, but human life is a single growing season, planned in the throne room of God for every soul before time began (Psalm 139:16). He is in charge of every crocus that blooms, every bud that swells, every breath that is drawn, every soul that is saved.[1] The only thing I contribute on my own is my sin (Romans 3:10-11), but through the atonement of Christ who loves me beyond my comprehension, he even takes care of that, and gives me the gift of faith (Eph. 2:8-9)—belief, trust in Him and repentance—which assures eternal life with Him. Renee is there now. I will be there soon enough—not a millisecond before or after He has willed—and it will make this glorious springtime in the Blue Ridge seem like a brief, boring day in the boondocks. [1] Ps. 103:19; Dan. 4:35, Eph. 1:11, Job 37, Ps. 104:14, 135:6, Mt. 5:45, Ps. 104:21, 28, Mt. 6:26, 10:29, Job 12:23, Ps. 22:28, 66:7, Acts 17:26, 1 Sam. 16:1, Ps. 139:16, Is. 45:5, Gal. 1:15, 16, Ps. 75:6, 7, Lk. 1:52, Pr. 16:33, Mt. 10:30, Ps. 4:8, 5:12, 63:8, 121:3, Rom. 8:28, Gen. 22:8, 14, Deut. 8:3, Phil. 4:19, 1 Sam. 1:19, Isa. 20:5, 6; 2 Chron. 33:13, Ps. 65:2, Mt. 7:7, Lk. 18:7, Ps. 7:12, 13; 11:6.
THE CUP The cup holds a pint-and-a-half when filled to the brim, as per Mishnah rules, and it was filled with red wine mixed with warm water and consumed four times by a first century Jewish family during the Paschal Supper—the Passover meal—celebrating God’s deliverance of the nation of Israel from Egyptian bondage. It was one of the most important of Israel’s religious holidays, and as such even the poorest families were supposed to get the required wine, even if they had to use proceeds from the poor box or the father had to pawn his cloak or otherwise earn the cost of it. No reliable information survives regarding the shape of the cup. In my mind’s eye, based on ancient art, I see a cup with no handles and a short fat stem with wide base. It was to be consumed by all in the family using two hands, denoting an intense desire to drink of this cup. And the entire feast was to be celebrated in Jerusalem, the holy city of Israel. “Four full cups” has various Old Testament justification, but the most commonly held support is Exodus 6:6-7: …‘I am the Lord, and 1.) I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and 2.) I will deliver you from slavery to them, and 3.) I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great acts of judgment. 4.) I will take you to be my people, and I will be your God…’(Exodus 6:6-7a). Not only was the Exodus the most spectacular deliverance in Jewish history, never to be forgotten by Israel, but unbeknownst to most Jews, it pointed to an even greater deliverance from the bondage of sin for God’s chosen people throughout the world throughout history. Passover was a very big deal for centuries for Israel, but this night, as the disciples gathered with Jesus in the Upper Room, the enormity of this feast and the events in the hours to follow, was beyond human comprehension—mind-boggling even with 20-20 hindsight. After the first cup was passed and participants were required to then wash their hands, Jesus changed the procedure. He washed their feet—servants work—an act of humility particularly demeaning to the Middle Eastern mind, even today, but another lesson in how the elect shall live. Both Alfred Edersheim and Frederick S. Leahy contend, with some biblical justification, that there was no fourth cup this night. After the third cup Jesus conducted the original “table-talk,” movingly told in the Gospel of John (13:31 through His great priestly prayer in chapter 17). There is no better summary of the gospel than this, in Jesus’ own words. Get all alone and read it as you prepare yourself for the Easter Season. Then the Son of God went out and drank a cup of another kind, the cup of God’s wrath, undiluted with anything, to the last drop. He drank this cup on behalf of the elect, that they might never have even the slightest whiff of that awful eternal bouquet reserved for the godless. With perfect foreknowledge of the physical pain that he would imminently suffer, and even worse, the separation from God the Father when he was made a sin offering on the cross as atonement for God’s chosen people, he prayed face down in the dust, sweating drops of blood: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). Three separate times he prayed this, then rose to face his approaching captors and, like a lamb to the slaughter, meekly submitted in the greatest act of love the world will ever witness. The Lord’s Supper ended with the third, or “cup of blessing” (1 Cor. 10:16). Then Jesus said, I tell you I will not drink again of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father's kingdom” (Matthew 26:29). Leahy, in The Cross He Bore, calls the fourth cup the “cup of consummation and fulfillment.” It will be consumed at the ultimate Paschal Feast—the marriage supper of the Lamb (Rev. 19:9) in heaven. Spurgeon says it best: Jesus took the Nazarite vow to drink no more, to partake no more of the fruit of the vine, till he should meet us again in his Father's kingdom. He has pledged us once for all in that cup, and now he abstains until he meets us again. Thus he looks forward to a glorious meeting; but he bids us take the cup, and thus remember him until he comes. Whether or not you are an oenophile, that fourth cup will taste like undiluted Divine ambrosia for the ages, non-intoxicating because nothing can dull the senses in heaven. With Christ we shall partake of these pleasures, “multiplied to infinity and expanded to eternity,” as my friend, Joe Novenson, says. We will share forever in the joy set before him (Hebrews 12:2). This Easter Season, as you commemorate the Lord’s Supper, take the sacramental cup with both hands, as if it held a pint-and-a-half, overflowing with the blessings of God…which it does, and was given to you by Christ himself…which it was, and is but a foretaste of what is to come, and give thanks and remember His great act of love until He comes again.
I am blessed with some truly unique, God-fearing friends. Among them is a young lady fighter pilot and aspiring writer. She flew the F-16 in the liberation of Iraq and wrote about it. She paints word pictures that put me back in the cockpit where I experience everything but the ‘g’s. She also has the distinction of being at the controls of the first ever “unmanned” F-117 Nighthawk flight when she transitioned into that invisible marvel two years ago. The following is a story of a recent “Red Flag” night mission in the stealth fighter. Red Flag is an air war game of enormous proportions held regularly at Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada. Nellis is the Harvard of the fighter pilot world, minus the liberal arts and sciences wacko’s. The best fighter pilots in the world go to Red Flag to get even better. It is a big part of the reason why America can fight a war at the farthest corner of the earth and win it less time than the MSM can write the “quagmire” story. Her name is Donna Kohout and her call sign is “Kirby.” Insiders know that call signs stem from an embarrassing story that the fighter pilot would much rather forget about, but one’s peers will not allow it. Without going into the details, Kirby is a brand of vacuum cleaner with one characteristic in common with jet engine intakes…and I’ll let it go at that.
NIGHTHAWK OWNS THE NIGHT Canyon walls framed the stark desert mountains in front of me, highlighted by the late afternoon Nevada sun. All was silent save the soft sand sifting around my feet and the whisper of wind in the golden desert brush. I’m captured by the beauty here. Where am I? In Las Vegas for Red Flag, of course. But it’s Super Bowl Sunday after all the meetings and most people are sitting in front of their TVs so I’m free to run on lazy winding trails north of all local civilization. Once again, I’m flying at night. I leave my painfully bright taxi light on so other aircraft can see the shadow of my landing gear. Otherwise they might not see me at all. Ten minutes later, flying circles in the sky in the sanctuary of my allotted hold airspace, I’m sure no one can see me. I’ve flipped all the switches that enable my stealthy quality and over 70 aircraft pass by en route to their holds, oblivious to my presence. At the appointed time, I “push” across the W115 longitude line and into “hostile” airspace. My preplanned flight path, loaded into the jet’s computers via data transfer module and flown entirely on autopilot, takes me generally westbound away from the luminous orb of the rising full moon. Approaching my target, I focus all my attention on the photo in my hands and the display on my screen, matching the two, and guiding in the bomb. The jet banks hard after my target attack and turns aggressively to exit the band of threat radars and missile systems. Through the night vision goggles I watch as the earth appears to rise around me. This flight plan drops my Nighthawk to just above the stark desert ridges during egress. In my green-and-black night vision I marvel at the detail of shrubs, rock cliffs and dirt roads illuminated by the sun’s twice-reflected light. Deep shadows stretch westward from every serrated ridge – moonshadows. Crossing the W115 line eastbound, I climb and slow down, rapidly flipping switches so that I can talk and be seen on radar, and hence hopefully not have a mid-air rendezvous with any aircraft besides the tanker I’m scheduled for. All goes smoothly and I arrive in the refueling orbit just beneath the formation of converted Boeing 707 tanker aircraft. We circle constantly in the cramped airspace while my jet quenches its thirst in preparation for our second mission of the night – targets of opportunity that have only recently presented themselves. Nearly three hours after take-off, I feel the powerful deceleration as the drag-shoot deploys during landing roll. Back on earth, we have paperwork to fill out, tapes to watch and a series of debriefs during which I fight to maintain consciousness, sated with still more memories of God’s great earth from various unusual perspectives.
Sleep well America. Donna and friends are awake.
Freefall From the Mountaintop The trouble with a mountaintop experience is coming back down. I long so for heaven, when I won’t ever have to come off the mountaintop. It will be the greatest bliss I’ve ever known, “multiplied to infinity and expanded to eternity,” to borrow just one of Reverend Joe Novenson’s vivid phrases. Joe, pastor of Lookout Mountain Presbyterian Church, Lookout Mountain, TN, is one of, if not the greatest living preacher in the Presbyterian Church in America. (Go here and listen for yourself.) Sometimes preachers sound great the first time but the “new” wears off and by the end of the conference, 3-6 sermons later, you’re glad it’s over. I confess that says more about the hearer (this one, anyway) than the gifts of the preacher. Truth be known, it’s the pleasure of a providential God that is determinative. When the Holy Spirits moves, as He did this weekend in me through the animated, passionate preaching (6 sermons in 60 hours) of a man with mangled hands and a mind that mirrors Christ’s, the descent from the mountaintop is a free fall. Joe spoke to 280 youth pastors, directors, leaders and high school students, and a couple of old staff toads—Mo (my boss) and me—here at Ridge Haven on this President’s Day long weekend. We call it YoWAW. It’s an acronym for Youth World Awareness Weekend and is designed is to challenge and equip students for missions and ministry. It is without a doubt the highlight of the winter season in this Wilderness Cathedral. One of my volunteer duties—nay, blessings—here at Ridge Haven, is running the sound board. I am not at all the whiz with machinery I was in my fighter pilot days, and the whine of spinning turbine blades in the belly of the beast I used to fly has wiped out my ear for all the nuances of sound that can be fine-tuned with that control board. But the cost of my time is easy on the budget—nil, if you don’t count gross errors—and consequently I get to hear every great speaker, male and female, who climbs our mountain. The best preacher I ever heard is usually the last one I heard, but judging from the downer I’m suffering now, as the traffic goes by my house headed back to the fallen world below, Joe is going to stay at the top of my list. I know that, in the providence of God, the downer is part of the overall upper—my sanctification (Romans 8:28). In His mercy I’ve been given a glimpse of heaven this weekend, some fleeting word pictures, from a Michelangelo with words, of what God calls me to be, compared with where I now stand…and how abysmal the gap between the two…and how absurd it is to think I can get there through my own efforts. As I was reminded by Joe, Abraham tried to bridge that gap on his own (Genesis 15-17), even though he’d been given a direct, unequivocal promise from God to give him a son and make him the father of many nations. In spite of taking matters into his own hands and sleeping with his wife’s maid, an “illegitimate act that led to an illegitimate son,” God said, I will make you exceedingly fruitful (at 99!)…, I will make you into many nations…, I will establish my covenant with you…, I will give to you…the land…(Genesis 17:6-8). And Bible history makes it crystal clear how God did just that for Abraham’s successors, who turned out to be even more obstinately self-willed than their patriarch. Our covenant—our irrevocable contract—with God, is ironclad because of His promise, not ours. It is our providential God who bridges that gap for his elect, and as if that weren’t enough, he even gives us the faith to believe it (Ephesians 2:8). In my college days I used to skydive, back when it was a brand new sport that only crazy people played with cut-up army surplus parachutes. The feeling was not one of falling, but flying like a bird. I recall maneuvering onto my back and waving with both hands to a friend in the plane as it rapidly became small in my view. I feel that sensation now, as I free fall off this mountaintop weekend and it fades into the fog of memory, and I’m longing…panting for the day when I will never have to leave, when this glimpse of glory is “multiplied to infinity and expanded to eternity.” I hope and pray that 280 young people, fanning across the eastern USA from our mountain, feel the same way. Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Christian History From a Pagan Perspective
Some pagan writers, if they are good enough wordsmiths, can relate Christian history in a most enlightening, fascinating way…if you can handle the occasional teeth-gnashing blasphemies. I think there are valuable lessons to be learned about depravity and who I am in the eyes of otherwise intelligent non-believers. Will Durant comes first to mind. His doorstopper volume 6 of The Story of Civilization renders The Reformation narrative as well as any author I’ve read. He gets inside the mind of Luther and the papal legates, and discusses the nuances of their theological points of view and disagreements as well as anybody. All the while his story of those turbulent times is a gripping read. He could pick out, from all Luther’s encyclopedic writings, the precise quote to best summarize the biblical truths by which he changed the world, then come to the most contemptible conclusions, to wit:
Confident that God was on his side, he faced insuperable obstacles, and won. ‘I bear upon me the malice of the whole world, the hatred of the Emperor, of the Pope, and all their retinue. Well, onward and upward, in God’s name.’ He had the courage to defy his enemies because he did not have the intellect to doubt his truth. He was what he had to be to do what he had to do…. The man was immeasurably better than his theology (page 420).
AARGH! Yet still I loved the book. I just finished rereading another book by an unbelieving author, perhaps more agnostic than atheist, that makes Christian history come alive as well as Durant, but whose opinionated asides are somewhat less maddening and frequent. Alan Nicolson wrote God’s Secretaries: The Making of the King James Bible (Harper Collins, 2003). His worst offenses to this reader were 1.) calling the first two chapters of the Bible “…the legends of creation…,” and 2.) describing a devout Puritan translator thusly: “Nothing about which he could feel pleased gave him any pleasure.” A clueless cheap shot. It, too, tells of a turbulent, corrupt, dangerous, plague-ridden time, in England, when the oddest duck who ever sat on the British throne, James I, directed the creation of the greatest piece of literature ever written in the English language—The King James Bible. James Stuart—James VI of Scotland, then James I of England, to include Scotland—was an “…ugly, restless, red-haired, pale-skinned…impatient, vulgar, clever and nervous” guy whose “tongue…was too big for his mouth. But his virtues, learned in the brutal world of Scottish politics, were equal to the slurs of his contemporaries.” The primary ingredient in this literary miracle was the translation committee, fifty contradiction-laden, clay-footed scholar/preachers (“divines,” save one) with fiercely held convictions, none of whose names are a household word today. They hammered it out over seven years in 6 “companies” of nine (or less) men each, in knock-down drag-out debate on the minutest nuances of the Greek and Hebrew translation into English. It goes without saying that it takes extraordinarily intimate knowledge of ancient Greek and Hebrew to accomplish such a fete. Translation theory ranges from literal—which comes across dead on arrival when put in another language—to dynamic equivalence—putting an ancient language into present day vernacular. Luther was of the latter school when, 80 years earlier, while in hiding, he translated the Latin Vulgate Bible into German. He said, in his inimitable, bombastic way, that it was his intention “…to make Moses sound so much like a German that readers would be shocked to learn he was a Jew.” But then it begs the question: How much of God’s truth gets lost in that process. The challenge of translation is accuracy and readability. King James I micromanaged the “tightly organized, tightly policed” translation that bears his name, and he had the final editorial say. His 15-point checklist of explicit directions still exists today. Rule #4 is instructive: When a word hath divers Significatons, that to be kept wch hath ben most commonly used by most of the ancient Fathers being agreeable to the proprietie of ye place and the analogie of fayth. It was an effort to peacefully unify both the roiling religious factions of the day as well as Scotland and England. A Puritan preacher, conversing with the king on his knees (as all subjects did), proposed the idea out of frustration in a losing debate with the nimble-witted monarch, and the brilliant, wacky King James jumped on it and adopted it as his own idea. He was the self-professed Rex Pacificus. He yearned, “more than anything else,” to rule “an ideal world.” It was a noble but “…vain hope, soon shipwrecked on vanity, self-indulgence and incompetence.” He was a Bible scholar, known throughout Europe for his prowess as a theological debater, having been trained as a child by “…a string of terrifying Presbyterian governors” during the days of John Knox’s Scottish Presbyterianism. Such was Knox’s theological influence on the child king, and the whole world, that 200 years later, when the American Declaration of Independence was published, the British Prime Minister, declared, “America has run off with a Scottish parson.” But James’ Bible doctrine stopped at the foot of his throne. For example, the Bibles used as primary sources for the King James translation (painstakingly crosschecked against the oldest available primitive Greek and Hebrew manuscripts), were the Geneva Bible, written by staunch English Calvinist exiles, and William Tyndale’s admirable solo translation work (the New Testament of which survived 90% intact), both written in the previous century. The word, “tyrant” appears in the Geneva Bible 400 times, versus zip in the King James Bible. The “beautiful Preface” to the KJV was a shameless suck-up to the king, but not at all uncommon in that age. The translators, the brightest men that could be found, including a minority of Calvinists and moderate Puritans but excluding Puritan Separatists and Presbyterians, were described by the author as “…near-anonymous divines, muddled…self-serving, ambitious, ruthless, obsequious, pedantic and flawed….” The chief translator, Church of England Bishop Lancelot Andrewes, epitomized the group, who labored at £20 per year, when and if paid, to pull off this magnificent literary feat. Andrews “spoke 15 modern languages and 6 ancient,” and devoted five morning hours every day to tearful private prayer—he said “anyone who visited him before noon clearly didn’t believe in God.” He was “the greatest preacher of the age,” and a “prose writer of genius” who zealously persecuted Puritan Separatists before James came to the throne. He could “…speak for an hour to an enraptured audience on the multiple significance of a single word.” He turned down ecclesiastical positions that did not pay enough to support his lavish lifestyle, and threw King James a £3,000 party. He preached from his various pulpits that the worst plague in English history, that was ravishing London when James arrived, was divine punishment for evil-doers, who were poor folks (who lived with all those flee-ridden rats, the then unknown carrier of the disease). Most preachers believed this and ministered in their stricken slum parishes thinking they themselves were therefore immune, except for Lancelot Andrewes. He never set foot in his parish until the months long plague was over. After detailing the vast corruption in politics, religion and commerce in early 17th century England, and the barbarous penal system for Christian dissenters in this nation so proud of its laws, the author asks the question this reader had been pondering since page one of the book: How could the King James Bible, “the Bible that sounds like God talking”, that “reigned unchallenged for 270 years,” come out of such a culture? There is only one answer and Nicolson, in spite of his compelling narrative, never figures it out—Amazing Grace. In the providence of God, Shakespeare was writing his literature for the ages as the translators did their work, and a small band of Puritan Separatists was harassed out of England to Holland. They subsequently landed in a new land far away, on a rock in place called Plymouth Harbor…. The England of today is as far removed from the England of the KJV days, when “attendance at sermons was compulsory,” as modern Germany is from the days of the Reformation. If perchance Jesus Christ has a free moment somewhere in all of eternity, I can’t wait to hear the story behind this story of providence. Like all of redemptive history, I am sure it will be mind-bogglingly brilliant and grace drenched.
Lord, let me be a deacon… “Lord, let me be a deacon for the rest of my days.” That was my oft repeated prayer as I drove my loaded pickup truck north from Tampa, Florida, to Ridge Haven, NC, on August 1, 2001. We had a moving company do all the heavy stuff, and my wife and I convoyed our car and truck stuffed with fragile things. We were off to a new life as Resident Manager of a Presbyterian Church (PCA) Retreat and Conference Center in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Deacon-type work is what I anticipated, and 4.5 years of great joy and fulfillment toiling in the Lord’s wilderness vineyard have borne that out. Deacons, along with ruling elders are the two groups of lay leadership in the Presbyterian Church (PCA). Deacons are the elected men of the church who get their hands dirty, so to speak, and get things done around the church, as well looking after the needy and other mercy ministries. Elders, also elected and ordained for life, are the highest human authority in the local church, like the board of directors in a corporation, who make tough decisions and then follow up to see they are carried out, but as servant leaders and hands-on shepherds of the flock, not policy makers removed from day-to-day leadership. I was leaving a ruling elder position, the third church in which I had held that position in my life, and I confess I was overjoyed to be “off the hook.” The PCA is a conservative reformed denomination that believes and practices accountability of its members in their Christian walk, that is, church “discipline for the preservation both of truth and duty” (Book of Church Order of the PCA). That requires knowing more about people—brothers and sisters in Christ—than you really prefer to know sometimes as you deal with human failings and the results of sin. It also entails holding church staff accountable, with the inevitable terminations on occasion, and more than occasional conflict resolution. It is nothing like the wheeling and dealing of a big corporate board, which I also know from experience, but, even though it is the Lord’s work, I find it much more stressful. Decision-making for the King of Kings, where lives can be effected for eternity, is serious business indeed. The church I was leaving had just gone through one of those trying experiences, where painful decisions had to be made and pain was unavoidably inflicted on some dear folks who dearly loved the Lord. There had been much prayer and many sleepless nights. In each of the three churches where I have served there had been some difficult times. If per chance a pagan has surfed by and is reading this, you are probably thinking this just proves “you sanctimonious Christians are no different than the rest of us self-centered folks,” but the fact that we hold one another accountable is one demonstration of the difference. Christians aren’t perfect, just forgiven in Christ, as providentially regenerated new hearts battle the old heart of stone that doesn’t give up without a fight as long as we have breath. Add the devil’s best efforts, and eldership requires an added measure of God’s grace to glorify Him and bless His flock. While I love the teaching part of eldership, I was not, still am not, convinced that the leadership-by-committee skills required are my gift. As I look back over my life and leadership efforts, it seems to me my performance as a leader peaked in my single seat fighter pilot days, when absolute authority was vested in the guy in front. But even there at least one war widow would probably strenuously dispute that claim. For fifty “off-the-hook” months now I have been a Sunday morning pew potato in the warmest, “lovingest” church family we have ever been a part of. Smiling back at the smiling faces in my pew, without having to know anything behind the friendly façade—not the financial troubles, marital struggles, nor any of the sins of thought and deed that may or may not be lurking under the surface, made my worship more joyful than ever. But I confess I was doing some serious wrestling with God. Elders in our denomination are ordained for life, but no other human can force you to take the job of ruling elder—active management of the church body. Annually, since I arrived in these Delectable Mountains, when it came time to elect ruling elders, dear friends in the church had asked me to please consider accepting their nomination to run for election. Well, in our little church of 100 communicant members with an average age of 62.5, to be nominated is to be elected…and I always begged off. I used excuses like, “It’s not my gift…I love the teaching part…and the occasional preaching part, and I’ll never say no to either…but I’m not very effective in committee driven organizations. Surely you can find a better nominee than me.” A year ago I even tried hiding out as a deacon. I agreed to accept a nomination for that position, hoping it would assuage my guilty conscience while keeping my name out of mind by others at elder nominating time. It was no more effective than Jonah’s efforts to run away from his calling (though certainly traumatic). Then two old saints, out of six serving, who had been ruling elders forever at our church, resigned for good reasons effective the end of last year. The Sunday it was announced there was also a call for nominations for men to take their places. I looked around the congregation and didn’t see a soul (under the age of 75) that had any experience in the job of leading the little church that I love so much, accept for me. When the service was over a short, silver-haired angel came up to me and asked, with the sweetest smile, “If I nominate you for ruling elder will you accept.” It wasn’t a face I could say no to, so I stalled with, “I am honored that you would ask. Thank you. I will pray about it.” Somewhere in the middle of a sleepless night I recalled a missionary who preached at our church in Florida several years ago, who had been on the field (Japan) a few years and had borne no discernible fruit whatsoever in soil as hard as bedrock. As he read scripture, I was sitting at an angle where I could see his Bible was full of writing in the margins. When he finished the passage he turned his Bible sideways and said, “I want to read to you what I wrote in the margin a few years ago when I was meditating on this passage. It says, ‘I feel God is calling me to the mission field, I do not want to go.’” His margin note echoed my feeling precisely—a different vineyard but the same aversion. I tossed and turned and wrestled with God until finally I heard a voice in the dark say, “Here am I Lord, send me” (Isaiah 6:8b). It was my voice. Today that missionary’s years of struggle are bearing a rich harvest. He has planted a number of churches in a nation once considered unreachable with the gospel by those of little faith, and he has built up a large team of missionaries to tend his fruitful Japanese vineyard. He will be speaking at Ridge Haven this spring and I am so looking forward to seeing and hearing him again. God willing, my hard lessons learned as a ruling elder in earlier churches will likewise bear a rich harvest at Cornerstone Presbyterian Church. If it is possible to learn from one’s mistakes, I will be the best ruling elder Cornerstone ever had…and I know full well Who will get all the glory. Please pray for me and my little church family. And pray for your church elders. Pray even more for your preachers. The only job in the church tougher than being a ruling elder is being a preacher.
If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself
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