Focus Fights Back Americans United for Separation of Church and State, a “religious liberty watchdog,” says of Focus on the Family founder and leader Jim Dobson: “Although he poses as an avuncular family counselor, Dobson and his empire spread Religious Right propaganda and extreme rhetoric.” They grudgingly rank the “hardcore fundamentalist” number two on their list of top ten “Religious Right power brokers” in America, with empire revenues of $138 million in ’05, nearly all of it donations. Not bad for a child psychologist who takes no pay for founding and growing a non-profit behemoth whose avowed goal is aiding beleaguered families in a culture that often seems at war against them. Its meteoric growth says much about the need it fills—a telling commentary on our times. Political lobbying, which made them a big target on leftist radar, grew out of Dobson’s desire to provide a Washington voice for families faced with a growing body of law unfriendly to their stability. Family support is what they do in abundance. Over 250,000 phone calls and letters come into Focus headquarters monthly, and Dr. Del Tackett, President of Focus on the Family Institute, says they “just make your heart break.” Over 1300 employees answer those calls and letters with advice and help, while also creating and mailing 10 monthly magazines to 2.3 million subscribers, enough postal traffic to qualify for their own zip code. Among many other support services, Dobson also broadcasts a Bible-based family issues radio program over 6,000 facilities worldwide. He’s heard by 5 million Americans daily. I perused their periodicals at the elegant home office campus in Colorado Springs last summer, and it was hard for this family man to believe any rational person could find them ominous or offensive in the manner the America United PC cops maintain. Not that Dobson is remotely intimidated by what they say. At age 70 he’s just launched the biggest and most ambitious program in the organization’s 28-year history, a nationwide effort called The Truth Project. (You could easily spend several hours at this website, and it would be worth every minute of your stay.) “Extreme” indeed! Nothing puts postmodern elites in orbit any faster than that T-word, especially when it’s absolute T. To make it worse, The Truth Project founder and leader, Del Tackett, former White House staffer in the George H. W. Bush administration, is convincingly declaring that T-word to be the foundation of—Are you ready for this?—an exclusive metanarrative! He says the hero of the Bible is the only way, the only truth. Now this may come as another shock to the indignant portside policy police, but this is an old truth claim and millions of Americans are actually staking their eternal destiny on it. AU should take comfort in the fact that America’s number two right side “power broker” is not launching a frontal assault on their version of the America way. The project is aimed at Christians themselves. Barna polls indicate that only 9 percent of professing Christians have a biblical worldview. The rest—91%—live like “practical atheists,” as liberal pundits and Muslim zealots are quick to point out. The Truth Project wants to reach these people with this intensive Bible-based worldview study aimed at “deep transformation” in the body of Christians. Their goal is to have 10,000 trained small group leaders nationwide using Tackett’s 12-lesson DVD series to teach America’s Sunday morning pew potatoes how to live “in truth while living in the world.” That number of leaders is far more than the original dozen ordinary folks who spread the Word and changed the world. My wife and I attended a recent training conference in Colorado Springs, one of several that will be held around the country (the next one is in Metro DC—First Baptist Church in Woodbridge, VA, Sept. 29-30). We sat front row center, a first for this back-pew-dwelling protestant, in an auditorium filled with 1200 people from 39 states who cared enough about the condition of the culture to pay significant travel expenses to become “change agents.” Del Tackett’s presentation was powerfully persuasive. I’ve watched the entire DVD series now and it’s as superbly crafted as any Oscar winning documentary. It could indeed change the culture—the most exciting thing to come along in the American Christian scene in my memory. With The Truth Project the battle of worldviews has been joined…within the ranks of Christians themselves. It’s no longer a battle over competing truth claims, but the reality of truth itself—absolute truth versus the logically incoherent postmodern myths of relative realities that have now infiltrated Christianity. It’s about piety not politics. It’s about living as Christ would have us live, which is a whole lot more than just calling oneself a Christian. If AU were wise, they’d play the disinterested spectator here and not get uppity about this project. After all, if professing Christians would practice what The Truth Project is preaching and live like real Christians, they’d make wonderful neighbors.
A Prayer for a Soul on the Brink of the Abyss It is a spectacular day the Lord has made, just three days shy of the autumnal equinox, with cool nights and “random” fluorescent splashes from our Creator’s fall palette foretelling the glory that is soon to be. The famous blue of the Blue Ridge is dissipating in the crisp air of fall, the better to see and appreciate the glorious death of summer. No other season on this veil of tears so reveals the God of all Creation to this grateful soul, who is likewise in the autumn of his years. I can watch the brilliant colors of dying leaves knowing it is not the end, that there will be a miraculous rebirth in the spring. In the same manner I can, by grace, face my own mortality knowing this is not the end, only the conclusion of the introduction to a miraculous life in the presence of Jesus Christ forever, in a bliss beyond the meaning of words. It is truly a joy that no one will take away, founded on the deepest conviction that what Christ has promised me is the surest thing that exists (John 16:22b). But this fall I am troubled by some one near and dear to me who does not have that joy. I am witnessing with overwhelming sorrow a soul facing death with periodic bouts of sheer terror that sometimes lead to panicked trips to the emergency room. The doctors are calling it anxiety attacks. They can elevate the heart rate and blood pressure to a level that could literally cause an octogenarian heart to explode. Between these bouts there is a confessed unhappiness with life for the last several years, exacerbated by a professed belief that death is just the end, followed by oblivion. How much worse would the terror be if my beloved knew what really lie beyond the grave for those who are not in Christ? Actually I think it is known, that all people know that God is, that all have an instinctive sense of the God-created vacuum that Pascal spoke of that exists within them and can only be filled by Him. As the teacher said in Ecclesiastes 3:11, God has put eternity into man's heart. I think the panic attacks are the unconscious realization of this truth confronting a stubborn refusal to acknowledge same—a manifestation of fearful willfulness. Malcolm Muggeridge vividly described such a spectacle he observed in an old friend as “…the fearful willfulness of the very old when they are not reconciled. The will still beating against the bars, and the strokes becoming more and more frenzied and futile as they become feebler.” What unutterable sadness when I see it in someone I love so much. I know my loved one has heard the gospel since these attacks began. I delivered it with all the passion that grace provided, from the pulpit, staring at that dear one in the pew who was there as an act special kindness to me. Our eyes never met the whole time—her gaze never rose above her lap level—and her laudatory comments afterward were about my delivery, not my content. This dear soul has a small book, entitled “No one…,” that contains the antidote to this suicidal malady, with my handwritten prayer inside the cover: “ I pray that God will speak to you in these pages.” It contains the truth in Jesus’ own words, truth that leads to a joy unbounded, that by the power of the Holy Spirit eradicates all panic. But it remains willfully unread, even willfully unacknowledged as received. Dear reader, would you please pray with me for this lost soul? Our merciful Father in heaven, please regenerate this loving heart. In the twilight of a long adventurous life, open those blind old eyes that they may see the kingdom of heaven. Draw that soul to your Son, by whom and through whom alone it may come to You and therein find that joy eternal, while there is still time. In the name of the sovereign Son of God I make my plea, amen.
Stupefied Intellect “Modern persons will never find rest for their restless hearts without Christ…and [are] driven as a result to ceaseless labor of distraction, or acquisition, or willful idiocy. …our culture of empty spectacle can so stupefy the intellect as to blind it to its own disquiet, and induce a spiritual torpor more deplorable than mere despair.” These words by David Bentley Hart have been echoing in my head since Al Mohler quoted them in his always powerful commentary September 6. No non-biblical words have more accurately described the accelerating descent of our decadent culture, in my view. Then on Friday, September 8, The Wall Street Journal’s Houses of Worship feature turned the reverb up about a hundred decibels on this truth ricocheting inside my skull, with a column titled, “Anything Goes.” Westminster John Knox Press, whose board of directors is elected by the Presbyterian Church USA (PCUSA), has published a conspiracy theory with the US government as the culprit of the 9/11 terrorist atrocity, written by what they call a ‘well-regarded theologian.’ Such “theologian” also thinks God is nonomnipotent and nonomniscient and Jesus was a political activist who wanted to overthrow Rome, and the USA is demonic. “Well regarded” by whom, I wonder, besides the publisher trying to sell his book. The columnist quoted Presbyterians who consider him ‘a total wingnut.’ As Dave Berry would say, I am not making this up. There are Presbyterians, and then there are “Presbyterians,” in spite of the Wall Street Journal’s subtitle, “The Presbyterian Church publishes a conspiracy theory” [italics are my chagrin—I can think of at least 5 different Presbyterian denominations, 4 of whom still endeavor to live up to the name]. The conspiracy author, a seminary professor…really… claims no part of Presbyterianism, but Knox Press thinks his ‘ideas are worth exploring,’ though they offer “zero books on, say, the impact of radical Islam in a post 9/11 world.” ‘A bit outside our scope,’ the publisher says. Say what? Reality is not on the radar scope of a “Christian” publisher, but “over the top” conspiracy theories, “Erotic Justice: A Liberating Ethic of Sexuality,” and “The Gospel According to Oprah” are listed in their catalogue. Lord have mercy. If it were possible to sue from the grave, Presbyterianism’s founder, John Knox, were he not such a godly man, would be litigating at light speed for defamation of character. The PCUSA’s membership roles are declining apace (49,000 a year) with the decent of the culture they have willfully absorbed into their worldview, to no conservative Christian observer’s surprise. The most heinous terrorist attack in modern history, witnessed real time by perhaps more millions than any atrocity that ever occurred, has been explained as a US government conspiracy by what sure sounds like a stupefied intellect, in the guise of “religious scholarship.” And I suppose thousands of similarly stupefied intellects, or those suffering from “willful idiocy,” will spend real money to buy and read a book that purports to tell them what their lying eyes really saw: “controlled demolitions.” The evidence supporting the depravity of man grows like a single landfill receiving all of America’s garbage…for those who have eyes to see. I confess that 20 years ago I was an elder in what the columnist, Heather Wilhelm, called “the foggy world of the PCUSA,” in a church whose membership was in freefall from 1800 to 500, and that was before the fog became pea soup. When I was elected I was given a copy of the doctrinal standards of the church—The Westminster Confession of Faith—but no one told me I had to read it, and I knew no elder who had or even alluded to it. As the columnist so aptly puts it, “The old adage that ‘if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything’ seems to apply to the Presbyterian leadership.” On Sunday mornings back then I recall hearing self-help homilies and Rotarian after-dinner speeches delivered from the pulpit, with pithy quotes from Lutheran pop-theologian/humorist Garrison Keillor. From what I read of the PCUSA today, even Keillor must now be passé in the denomination’s headlong rush to be “relevant.” This latest in a long line of initiatives beyond embarrassing to Presbyterianism by the PCUSA is not the straw that broke the camel’s back for me, it is the brick. I now share the righteous anger of my Old Testament namesake, Jeremiah. I’ll tell you what would make me so happy, as a conservative Presbyterian in a growing denomination—the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA), formed in the fallout of the PCUSA leadership’s first steps toward liberalism three decades ago. It would assuage my shame and selfish desire to avoid being tarred with that apostate brush when my revered protestant label is besmirched in the pages of America’s major periodicals. Given the PCUSA’s “re-imagining” of the faith of John Knox and its continued disregard for the foundational doctrine—The Westminster Confession of Faith—I propose an overture at the next General Assembly to correct a major misnomer: Change the denominational name to something that reflects the leadership's desire to be cutting edge, like, say, The First Church of What’s Happening Now, USA (TFCOWHNUSA), and leave the name and old-fashioned doctrines of classic Presbyterianism to those who still fear God, who are still willing to proclaim and endeavor to live by the same biblical truth that John Knox proclaimed at the risk of his life. And I urge the elect among the PCUSA, some of whom I know and love, to harken to my hero Jonathan Edwards’ plea in the concluding lines of his most famous sermon: “Run for your lives! Don't look back! Escape to the mountain, lest you be consumed!”
Guarding
the Faith Several years ago a friend and fellow Ruling Elder at my church in Florida—a member of the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA)—attended his first presbytery meeting. A presbytery is a regional governmental unit of the PCA, in this case covering western Florida. During that all-day meeting a number of candidates for pastoral positions within the presbytery were quizzed extensively as to their doctrinal beliefs by the elders and preachers present. They are asked questions that many people in the pews on Sunday morning could not answer. Many would not even understand the question. The following Sunday I asked my friend, “Johnny, how did you enjoy the Presbytery meeting?” He didn’t hesitate in that deep East Tennessee accent of his youth that he’s never lost: “Bo-ah [a two-syllable word for boy], they eat their own!” It is precisely that mountain man’s hilarious hyperbolic observation that gives me peace on Sunday morning when a preacher steps into the pulpit to preach the Word. My denomination guards the faith—a rare thing in the liberal Christian world and ridiculed as intolerant in the wider unbelieving culture. You may become a communion-taking member of my church on a credible profession of faith in Christ alone, but to be a preacher or an elder—the two key church leadership positions in the PCA, you must know, believe and be able to defend Bible doctrine as explained in the Westminster Confession of Faith. Further, you must know the Book of Church Order, which codifies the government of the church. And preachers are held to a higher standard than lay leaders. I was reminded of that last night as I attended a presbytery committee meeting where our recently chosen pastor, even though he has been a preacher for 30 years, sat on the board of a highly regarded seminary and several national key church committees, was put through that examination/cross examination. Tonight he will go through it again before all the representatives of our Western North Carolina Presbytery, and any elder or preacher there may grill him till he/they are out of breath. And he must pass before he enters the employ of our church…for good reason. It is the most serious of undertakings to step into a church pulpit, with eternity in the balance, and attempt to expound the revealed Word of the Most High God. As post-modernism, a godless worldview born of a chain of failed godless worldviews in human history, implodes from its own internal inconsistency into nihilism, God’s truth has never been more critical—the only hope of depraved mankind. Also not lost on me last night was the fact that our committee meeting was taking place in a church adjacent to a highly regarded state university campus where student “witches covens” meet regularly, where “liberal” is derided as too weak a word for proud self-professed pagans. If Jesus wept over Jerusalem as he viewed it from the Mount of Olives, what would he do if he viewed this city from Mt. Pisgah? With all the technological advances of the last two millennia, the spiritual battle is unchanged. British journalist G. K. Chesterton said, “Original sin is the only philosophy empirically validated by 3500 years of human history.” That is precisely why closely guarded Truth is so essential. This reality entails a confessed sinner standing before other sinners exhorting them to believe, trust and obey an unseen God who is there and who speaks through the pages of His revealed Word, who changes hearts and minds through the equally unseen working of a Holy Spirit, also part of a mysterious Divine Trinity beyond human comprehension. It's hysterical comedy to the unregenerate pagans. But to the chosen ones who have had their eyes miraculously opened, hearts changed, and understanding enlightened by the God who created and micromanages the universe, it is a reality they will be blessed to celebrate for eternity. One day the argument will be settled with no doubts and no appeals. Every knee shall bow (Romans 14:11) before Him. The pagans’ plight will be no laughing matter—irreversible, unending tears. The chosen will be welcomed with eternal joy unbounded.
Witness to a Miracle
In my worldview nothing happens by accident. When I’m home alone (explained here) I work when I’m inspired and sleep when I’m tired. Last Thursday night I went to bed at 7:30 p.m. Our wilderness cathedral is devoid of guests in this brief interlude of rest between summer season and fall glory. I awoke and stared at glowing red digits in the dark—12:35 a.m.—with nothing particular on my mind. A less self-centered grandfather would have had one question paramount: Has my overdue granddaughter arrived yet? I thrashed in semi-consciousness for an hour-and-a-half, then arose to start the Starbucks Sumatra brewing before it occurred to me. I went straight to the computer to check mail and sure enough, there was a message from grandma in Cincinnati, home alone with grandson Colin: “Lizz and Anthony left for the hospital about 35 minutes ago [11 p.m.], with contractions about 5 minutes apart.” As I read it and shivered the second email arrived. “…she was born at 12:35 a.m.” Then things really fogged up…just like they are as I write this. Praise God for his covenant mercies. This is my story, but there is a far better one, written by Anna’s father just hours after his knee-knocking witness to this miracle, posted at his blog—Justified Sinner: “Are you serious!!!” was my laboring wife’s response to the anesthesiologist, who had just informed her that she was too far along to receive an epidural. Now I know that all of my sympathy was supposed to have been reserved solely for my wife, but when I looked in the eyes of that doctor, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. It was as if he were pleading with me, “Hey buddy, I’ll block if you take up the rear, but we need to go now!” How badly I wanted to take up that offer. I’ve never felt so worthless and helpless in my life as I witnessed my wife screaming through the birth of our daughter. I was extremely grateful that our gracious Lord ordained it to go as quickly as he did. [Three contractions after they wheeled Lizz into the birthing center and two contractions after the doctor made her harried appearance, Anna arrived. jd]
Anna Elizabeth was born at 12:35 AM on Friday,
August 25, 2006. Weighing 7lbs 12 ounces, and stretching to 20 ½
So here I stand, the proud papa of Anna Elizabeth, a most gracious gift from our most bountiful Lord. And here also I kneel, a humble husband whose view of his wife is soaring beyond mere human expression. To our dear friends and family whose prayers prepped Lizz’s body, and guided the hands of the doctors, I am eternally grateful, and I hope you will celebrate with us in this wonderful event. May the good Lord remember his unshakeable covenant as he looks down upon this family, and through his love and mercy, may Anna Elizabeth never know a day when she doesn’t know Christ as her savior. In His Love, Anthony
Anna Elizabeth’s grateful grandpa can only add, Amen.
The Grace Plan, Continued …grace upon grace (John 1:16). The Master’s master plan for my life has called for grace-blanketed mountaintop moments in the waning days of the summer of ’06. Last Sunday night, in a congregational meeting in our little church, we voted overwhelmingly to extend a “call” to a godly man to be our pastor. It was the culmination of 10 months of hard search committee work, intermittent frustration and many anxious moments for this elder of little faith. If that were not enough joy for one Lord’s Day, our new pastor responded immediately in the affirmative when we presented him with the results of our meeting. There was an emotion in the room, a guest apartment in our Wilderness Cathedral, that was reminiscent of the day I proposed to my wife many years ago, as three old men hugged the breath out of a minister and his wife. God willing, he will shepherd us the rest of our days on this earth, burnish our whole armor, expand our understanding of the Amazing Grace of our Amazing Almighty God, and be here to bless our transition to glory. But there is more. Deo volente, granddaughter Anna Elizabeth will be born before next Lord’s Day. Mother, Grandmother, Dad and big brother are with her now in suburban Cincinnati, eagerly awaiting her first squally breath while grandpa works thru the leftovers and wanders these wondrous woods alone. There is a lesson in grace in this lonesomeness, too. How easily this sinner takes for granted God’s great blessings…until he withholds them for a time, all part of the master plan to sanctify his chosen. And there is still more! Next Sunday my dear new friend (see The Grace Plan) will be joining our church. To bring you up to date on him, our merciful God, in response to many fervent prayers, worked through the Holy Spirit in a judge’s heart, who then ordered probation rather than incarceration for his losing bout with demon liquor. He is still coming to church with me—a perfect attendance record—with zero coercion, and the paperback Bible I gave him looks more dog-eared every Sunday. Six weeks ago I sat beside him in church as he filled out the attendance register. The 48-year-old man who had never been to church as an adult before this spring, and only a few times as an uncomprehending child in a Latin-speaking Catholic service, checked the box beside his signature that indicated he wanted to join our church. Never once had I pressed him to do that. My eyes blurred, I chilled from earlobes to toes and the Hallelujah Chorus rang in my ears. After six weeks of intense “Inquirers’ Class” under my tutelage, working through Scripture and the meaning of the gospel with the aid of a little book by some obscure author entitled, “No one…,” he pronounced himself ready to appear before our church elders and witness to his gift of faith. That will happen in the Sunday School hour. In the worship service he will stand before the congregation with two other new Christians and answer affirmatively the 5 questions required of all who wish to join our church. After the service he will return to the front of the sanctuary to be greeted by every member of his new church family. He doesn’t know it yet, but I will be giving him a present when I shake his hand—a leather bound ESV Reformation Study Bible. With his mandated immobility he has lots of time to read and has become an avid student of the Word. And by God’s grace he is whipping his addiction. CH Spurgeon explained his feelings when God drew to himself a poor East Anglian housewife that he had witnessed to as a teenaged parson. He said, “I felt like a …a diver who had been down to the depth of the sea, and brought up a rare pearl.” That implies far more courage than I felt, and far more effort than I exerted. I was just a blessed spectator in the boat who watched, with awestruck wonder, Amazing Grace in action—the Divine Diver as he rescued a lost soul sunk to the bottom of the ocean, saving him from drowning in a sea of his own sin, inexplicably for the Father’s glory and our great joy. Praise His Holy Name. Amen.
MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS AND GRANDDAUGHTERS Like mother, like daughter (Ezekiel 16:44b). Just like her mother, our daughter is expecting her second child and first daughter. Anna Elizabeth is due any day now, and this expectant grandfather (fifth time around) is joyfully pondering the passing of family tradition to another generation. Assuming the genetic DNA string is intact, I’ve been trying to imagine our daughter as a mother of a daughter. She’s one laid-back momma to a precocious two-year-old son, but the mother/daughter relationship is yet to be seen. Dear Anna Elizabeth’s personality should be a combination of her mom’s serene Swede demeanor and her dad’s intense Italian traits, both quite laudable and lovable, but God only knows for sure. In my anticipation, some priceless mother/daughter vignettes have materialized out of the fog of memory with the aid of some yellowed newsprint. In the interest of domestic tranquility I call this particular high drama an historical novella. It happened a long time ago and I was the only witness, but my version conflicts with that of one key participant. My wife, Karen, was forty-something, but acted thirty-something (still does), and looked twenty-something when she'd had a good night's sleep. (Flash forward: On her sixtieth birthday this summer, she ripped through Ridge Haven’s high ropes course, complete with zip-line, like a Marine recruit.) Lizz (it’s a girl thing—the birth certificate says Elizabeth) was fourteen, going on twenty-one, and a knockout in her own right. Ole Dadd (a dad thing to lovingly mock the girl thing—both appear permanent) is a blessed man. To say that Lizz is her mother's daughter is to demonstrate a remarkable grasp of the self-evident, and I'm not speaking just about beauty, as the following witness attests. Surely it is true that our children imprint our mannerisms, our outlook on life, our politics, and our fallen defense mechanisms against depravity and sin. That truism may count double for mothers and daughters during that crisis-ridden passage called puberty. I have witnessed, usually and thankfully as a neutral third party, a number of scenes involving the two most important women in my life, that have demonstrated this physiological/psychological phenomenon with amazing clarity. The following scene occurred in the family room of our home three days before Christmas. “Did you put all the presents under the tree, Mom?” Lizz asked. It was such a harmless question I don't know how it got through my concentration on the newspaper in my hands, but I heard it. I immediately got back into my paper without a thought. Stupid me. The opening round of a major confrontation had just been fired and I, in my favorite recliner, full stomach, and Christmas cheer, was oblivious to it all. From off to my left, I recall Karen saying, “Yes.” There followed the proverbial pregnant pause, and then a sigh. It was a deep, soulful sigh, full of meaning that spoke volumes. The tonal quality, timing, and masterful nuance could only come from my wife, a world-class sigh-meister. She has a whole vocabulary of those sighs, and our kids catalogued them over the years, complete with second and third meanings. But this sigh came from Lizz. I heard it with my own ears. The battle was joined. The million trillion electrons that filled the space of our family room became super-charged with electricity, causing my nose hairs to tingle. I ducked my head and stared straight ahead through my eyebrows at daughter Lizz while pretending to read my newspaper. “Did I do something wrong?” Karen asked. What her tone conveyed was, “I spent hours on that Christmas tree, hours fighting traffic and shopping mall crazies, and hours sitting cross-legged on the floor wrapping those presents. I'm exhausted, my back hurts, and you have the INGRATITUDE TO ASK YOUR POOR OVERWORKED MOTHER IF THAT IS ALL THE PRESENTS????” I wanted desperately to turn my head ninety degrees to the left to watch Karen—this was Academy Award stuff—but I knew I would die in an instant in the cross-fire if I gave either combatant the slightest hint that I was even in the same theater of operations. I raised my newspaper ever so slowly, concealing my grimace while preserving my view. Lizz absorbed that barrage of guilt from her mother in silence for a few seconds and then returned fire with a similar broadside. “No, but usually...you don't put them all out (sniff) till Christmas morning.” Her voice was quavering so much she was barely audible. The hurt in her tone was like a knife in my chest. My heart bled all over my newspaper, and I fought hard to muffle my own whimper. That would have immediately abolished my non-combatant status. Daughters have supernatural powers over fathers in affairs of the heart. “Elizabeth…(sigh)....” This one indicated my wife had sustained major battle damage. “Elizabeth, there was no place in this house to hide them.” Her voice quavered with precisely the same amplitude and modulation as her daughter’s. This was the heavy artillery. There would be no prisoners this time. Oh Lord, I wanted to run, but there was no place to hide. Rarely have these crises caused identical emotions in me toward both sides. Usually I size up the situation, form my own opinion, bite my tongue, and silently root for my favorite. As suburban spectator sports go, it’s not bad. Lizz, sensing victory was in her grasp, sat silently for nearly a minute this time, and then, with exquisite timing, in a tiny, quiet voice delivered the coup-de-grace. “It meant so much to me.” Overwhelmed by the very strategies that had served her so well all these years, Karen stomped off to the bedroom, stifling her sobs. Her parting salvo, and generally her ace in the hole, was delivered from such a weakened defensive position that it fell short of the mark. “I'm sorry.” It meant, “God will never forgive you for such shabby treatment of your mother.” Lizz maintained a stony nobody-loves-me facade until her mom had departed the scene, then, crying quietly, exited stage left—another painful step in her traumatic transition to adulthood. The next morning all was sweetness and light in our house. I was beginning to think I'd dreamed it all, and then I noticed that a number of presents had been removed from under the Christmas tree.... I dashed off a draft debrief and sought the council of our twenty-year-old son, a brighter than average history major home for Christmas. He read it, complimented my courage and assured me that this was a first amendment issue: inquiring minds had a right to study these eternal mysteries. I sat on the story for a full year, then softened the adjectives a bit and handed it to my wife before sending it to a major liberal newspaper where I was the token conservative guest columnist. Karen, my love and editor for life, upon proofreading this story, declared it a work of fiction. She actually thinks I’m clever enough to make this stuff up. So be it. Dear Heavenly Father, may your amazing grace rain on precious Anna Elizabeth, her mother and her grandmother.
Introducing No One With the Old Testament heroes Joel (2:21) and Samuel (12:24) and the Psalmist (126:2), we are rejoicing that “the Lord has done great things for us.” Actually it is a small thing compared to our salvation, purchased with the Son of God’s own blood, but it’s been my passion and this birth followed a long gestation period. A 15-minute Bible study for the Ridge Haven monthly residents’ dinner, prompted by the encouragement of a couple of saints who heard it, grew into a book that has finally been published. It’s a non-intimidating tome (128 pages including the Appendix) called “No one…” just out from Christian Focus Publications. The title comes from six quotes by Jesus in the book of John, all beginning with the unequivocal subject of “No one….” They’re simple enough for a youth to grasp, profound enough to stagger the mind of an intellectual. They comprise the most important message that can ever enter the mind of man. It took one intense month to write it and 35 months to find a publisher, though when I found the right one, I had a contract in my hands in five weeks. It was signed by an aggressive group of literary Scots, living within shouting distance of the North Pole, who love the Lord as much as our mutual hero, John Knox. Now I understand why CFP is making such impressive inroads in the global Christian book market, including America. I’m so honored my hat hurts to be given a stall in this stable of world-class writers and Bible scholars. Nothing uncaps the geyser of my creative juices like success. I’ve been pounding the keys as fast as my fingers can move, trying to keep up with the ideas erupting like Old Faithful in my brain, sometimes in the middle of the night, to the consternation of my bride. Even some heretofore dormant genes from my poetic, saintly mother (first soprano in the church eternal) have been stirred to action. I’ve written a hymn with the same title as my book, and we are “sing[ing] to the Lord a new song” (Psalm 96:1a). Rejoice with us! I am grateful for a gifted young pianist, Annalisa Cloud, who approved of my changing a few notes in a favorite old hymn, and then had the courage to play it for recording and posting at my website with my rhymes and her name attached. I am thankful beyond words for the endorsement of 18 godly men, most with a witness and theological acumen that I and a generation of Christians have respected and profited from for years. Their vote of confidence in my understanding of God’s Word is a divine grace. When an author receives a really nice “blurb” he wonders about the balance between kindness and objectivity. I am hopeful that, in the case of a book that aspires to explain God’s truth, orthodoxy trumps all other considerations for any reviewer who fears the Lord. With the recent retirement of our pastor at my church, and the ongoing search for another, I’ve had the great blessing to stand in on pulpit duty, and have delivered a sermon series on “No one….” God willing, there will many more such opportunities. My passion for preaching and public speaking matches that for writing—I’d rather do either than eat. Witnessing to the Almighty God who created me, who loves me so much he died for me two millennia ere I was born, is as good as it gets this side of the river. The first sermon in that series can be heard here and mp3 downloads for all six will be available soon. In one of my favorite movies, Chariots of Fire, another aggressive Scot, Eric Liddell, said, with a brogue that still echoes in my head, “Gawd made me fahst, and when I run I feel his pleszha.” Well…God gave me this writing passion, so much so I chose early retirement in a humble lifestyle to pursue it, and when I get the words right, I too, know the pleasure of his grace. That pursuit in this servanthood setting, a wilderness cathedral where I can gaze all day on the face of God, has been an exceeding joy. Now if my scribbling “ascribe[s] to the LORD the glory due his name” (Psalm 96:8) and is a blessing for many, my prayers are answered. Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done, Oh LORD. Go here and start with “Greetings” and spend as little or as much of the rest of the day as you can stand. The book is out now in the UK, and US online booksellers are taking pre-orders for a September release, but advance copies are available now through my website. The book retails for $11.99, but if you let me sign it you can have it for $10.00…. I pray that our merciful God will speak to you in the pages of this book. If you or someone you love cannot see the kingdom of God, I pray that Christ’s crystal clear “No one…” declarations will, through the power of the Holy Spirit, do a miraculous work, and grace will give you or your loved one a joy that No one can take away (John 16:22b).
AN OLD TESTAMENT
TESTIMONY, Part 2 [Read part 1 here.] The teacher said: Whoever loves money never has enough money: whoever loves wealth is never satisfied with his income. This too is meaningless. (Eccl. 5:10)
The elder son gave up his killing for hire and joined the race for riches. He walked away from his swept wing lover for good but he maintained the Mach I pace as he raced the rats through Wall Street, LaSalle Street, Threadneedle Street, the Champs de Elysées, the Place du Bourg-de-Four and Pennsylvania Avenue. He ignored his family as he sought the company of financial movers and shakers, in rosewood-paneled boardrooms, limousines, and corporate jets. He plowed new ground with financial innovations, suffered the ridicule of the naysayers, and reveled in vindication when the world accepted them. He rose higher and faster than most, then at an age when most have not yet reached their prime, he walked away from it all because it, too, was meaningless and devoid of fulfillment. The Teacher said: There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down.....(Eccl. 3:1-3a)
It was an idyllic lifestyle on an island in the sun just four degrees north of the Tropic of Cancer—a time to heal the wounds of shooting wars and corporate battles. A time to jog and walk countless miles down that meandering white powder dividing line between land and sea, searching—his life half over and still meaningless. A time to get absorbed in the Scriptures for the first time since his youth. And then...Providence...a time to tear down...all of it...the big house...the plane, the boats, the bank account. The Teacher said, “...a grievous evil under the sun...wealth lost through some misfortune" (Eccl. 5:13-14). And it was there, many meaningless miles and years from that farm he had left, in the crucible of adversity, that he found meaning...or rather God in His providence revealed true meaning to him. It was there, in the depths of despair—the devils best work...it was there, when he reached the point that God was all he had left, that he realized that God was all he needed. That all the money spent was squandered on things that would not, could not last. Worldly possessions, like his bones, would one day turn to dust. And the only things eternal were God and His love and some unquantifiable vacuum within his being called a soul. It was there that he became convicted, like the Teacher, that "there is not a righteous man on earth who does what is right and never sins" (Eccl. 7:20). There is no one who understands, no one who seeks God (Rom. 3:10-11). But unlike the Old Testament Teacher, the farmer's son could rejoice in the knowledge of a Savior named Jesus who said, "You did not choose me but I chose you..."(John 15:16). A Savior who had paid the price for his sins 2000 years before he was even born, who had promised to plead and win his personal case before God his Father, and would assure eternal life for the meager price of faith alone...and even that faith was a gift from God. The Teacher said... ...and [there’s] a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, (Eccl. 3:3-4)
The elder son, like the Teacher, learned belatedly that, "there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God" (Eccl. 3:12-13). And the searcher finally understood the source of the joy that had made his farmer father sing, in a loud monotone, as he went about his morning chores at the dawn of each new day. And he understood that happiness and satisfaction are found in God's saving grace—given freely. They are found in the knowledge that God has ordered all things according to his good pleasure and for His glory—the sun and the rain, the planting season, the growing season, and the harvest season...and even the salvation of unworthy sinners like you and me...for the price of faith alone...the greatest gift...and the greatest joy we can ever know. The Teacher concluded his classic poem:
Now all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed to judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil. (Eccl. 12:13-14)
Friend, pursue not pleasure...or popularity...or riches...but obedience out of sheer gratitude for God’s grace, and, miracle of miracles, happiness will follow. Focus not on freedom...or "feel good"...but on holiness in a fallen world...and you will be freed from the bondage of an empty life. The elder son of this story has not found life to be a bed of roses since that reawakening on the island in the sun, but God did not promise such this side of heaven. The plane now leaves on schedule, not when he's ready…and somebody else is flying it. Today when he goes to the big city, the limousine is yellow and the driver speaks Creole, the elder son now feels blessed when his banker calls him back in a couple days instead of a couple minutes. By God’s grace he has recovered his sustenance. But greater by far he has found happiness and meaning...and peace...and new passions and priorities, and God ordained them all. He is convinced that those Westminster divines four-and-a-half centuries ago did indeed distill the wisdom of the ages out of Holy Writ, the same wisdom the Teacher proclaimed and the Apostle Paul expounded so eloquently, and that is, “The chief end of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.” Today he does that in a wonderful wilderness cathedral where he toils…not for money…but for the sheer joy of serving the King of Kings. Each day at dawn he takes serene, solitary, sunrise strolls up and down and around the humus-cushioned aisles of this wilderness cathedral, called Ridge Haven, where his adopted mountains transcend the firmament. Towering pillars of evergreens, oaks, maples and poplars with lichen encrusted bark and foliage in kaleidoscoping colors crowd the sanctuary. Some mornings the blue sky is so radiant he squints as he looks up at it through jagged interstices of bark-covered irregular rafters. The feathered choir in the spires joyfully chirps and warbles the Gloria Patria in fortissimo. Other mornings the blue is pale and soft and soggy, enshrouding the treetops in silence like the Old Testament glory cloud descended to consecrate this most holy place. Then only the muffled applause of water molecules careening down the mountainside reminds him he has ears to hear. On the sanctuary floor multitudes of rhododendron, mountain laurel, dogwood and holly congregate so closely that the heavenly host could whisper Hosanna’s in his ear without his seeing them. And the ethereal, pine-scented air he inhales is so innervating it must be the Lord’s own mountain-cooled breath of life. It spawns a sense of heightened awareness of a rarefied realm where eternity fills the soul and bliss beyond words overflows the heart—a precursory glimpse of heaven. What grace! What gratitude! What joy fills his heart! And that is the lesson of the Teacher of Ecclesiastes…that God has planned the times of our lives in the minutest detail and he is in control…of the good times…of the times of trial… from our birth to our death…and even the joy we have when we have found peace with God through Jesus Christ…is a gift of our gracious and Most Holy Father. Ten thousand years from now I…will be enjoying bliss beyond the dream of imagination, joy beyond the measure of reason and blessedness beyond the eloquence of words in God’s eternal heaven. You see, I…am the prodigal son, I am the elder son of the soil…and one day I’ll be walking furrows again...golden furrows...right behind my Dad.
AN OLD TESTAMENT TESTIMONY
“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the
Teacher. There was a farmer who spent his days toiling under the sun. In the spring he plowed and planted, and in the fall he harvested. When the barns were full the winter came and the snow blew and the cold crept in to the very marrow of his bones. Then just when it seemed the dull gray days would never end and warmth had been forever banished from the earth, spring would come and he would begin again. Back and forth, back and forth across jet-black dirt in fields as level as a checkerboard. In the spring he walked the furrows...and in the fall he walked the cornrows, back and forth over those same fields in a life-long treadmill of sow and reap, plow and plant, cultivate and harvest. The rains would fall—sometimes too much, sometimes too little. The sun would shine—sometimes too much, sometimes too little. And the fruits of his labors were forever beyond his control. He sired two sons who walked back and forth in those same furrows in the spring and filled those same barns in the summer and fall. And at an early age they joined him on that treadmill of sun-up, sundown, back and forth under a sun that shined on the just and unjust alike. The sons and two daughters grew up and moved away from home and still he toiled. Only now he had to hire the help that his sons had provided. His whole adult life he tilled those same heartland acres. His body wore out from all the wearisome work. His back was wracked with constant pain, his heart required overhaul. And what did he gain by the sweat of his brow and all his labor under the sun? The Teacher said,
Man's fate is like that of the animals; The old man made the last farm mortgage payment, the land was his free and clear at last, and the next winter, he stepped outside the back door of his house…and fell face first into a snowdrift...and into eternity.... The Teacher said:
I devoted myself to study and to explore by wisdom all that is done under heaven…. I thought to myself, "Look, I have grown and increased in wisdom more than anyone who has ruled over Jerusalem before me. I have experienced much wisdom and knowledge.” Then I applied myself to the understanding of knowledge and wisdom, and also of madness and folly, but I learned that this too, is a chasing after the wind (Eccl. 1:13a,16&17). The farmer's elder son escaped from what he called the drudgery of a dirt farm in his eighteenth year and applied himself at a great university where he studied and dreamed of fame and fortune. The world and all the fullness therein was his for the taking. Knowledge was power and intellect the road to riches, or so he thought, but in fact, he gained knowledge but not understanding, information but not meaning. And as in all things that come too easily, knowledge and information were unappreciated and misapplied. The Teacher said: I thought in my heart, "Come now, I will test you with pleasure to find out what is good." But that also proved to be meaningless. Laughter, I said is foolish. And what does pleasure accomplish (Eccl. 2:1-2)?
The accomplishments that came like summer rain were secondary to what the university had to offer in unofficial extracurricular activity and the elder son of the sod sampled all he could. The pursuit of pleasure was paramount. "College is only fifty percent books,” he preached to his fraternity brethren. He tried to fill that vacuum within his being with intoxicants, but it was indeed madness and folly, and an evening's pleasure accomplished only pain the morning after. The Teacher said:
My heart took delight in all my work, The elder son took his degree and slipped the surly bonds of earth, chasing the wind through footless halls of air and riding the ragged edge of sensory overload. Again the accomplishments came too easily—he thrived on speed and reveled in his adrenaline addiction as he danced the wild blue with a supersonic lover with soul of titanium and steel…and he bore the ungodly title of “Top Gun,” with an arrogance that set new standards in a fraternity utterly devoid of humility. He went to war because it was his job, and...not least...because it was the only war they had. And he took great delight in the work of his hands and feet, as man mated with machine on takeoff roll to sire an awesome angel of death and destruction. And the work was its own reward—he would happily have worked for free. He was fearless as only the young can be under the tragic illusion of immortality. He dueled big guns that didn’t need dueling. He dove down the barrels of fire breathing artillery with his finger on the trigger of his own awesome firepower. He stared into the gaping jaws of the Grim Reaper…and laughed. Yet when he surveyed all that he had toiled to achieve, he saw that it was meaningless—bright colored cloth and shiny medals and oak leaf clusters—not badges of courage but the mark of depravity and Godlessness. He saw that nothing had been gained under the tropical sun, that it was madness and folly on a colossal scale, and much had been lost: a million trees turned into toothpicks… unknown thousands of God's Asian children blasted into oblivion by his own hand…tens of thousands of America’s sons died violently, many more maimed for life, a soul brother wingman he had led like an obedient lamb to his slaughter in a real time glimpse of hell on earth, and whose bones have never been found and whose widow lives in haunting wonder. |
inches
long, she came in just slightly smaller than Colin when he was born. After the
birth, as I watched that precious creature being well attended to, I was
stricken with more awe and wonderment than this poor sinner could bear. As I
looked around the room I realized that ever since my anesthesiologist buddy
bailed on me, I was the only male out six people. I felt like a dweeb in a room
full of life’s most supreme jocks; amazed at what I saw, but waiting for them to
turn on me at any moment. To say the least, I felt a little out of place. But
then when I looked over at my sweet daughter flailing in the arms of one of the
nurses, I immediately knew my place…I was Anna Elizabeth’s dad, and I couldn’t
have thought of anywhere else I wanted more to be.