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JD Wetterling’s MIDWEEKLY REALITY
CHECK Suicidal Moonbat The Volokh Conspiracy (HT to Instapundit) quoted another hysterical lefty (the popular title is “moonbat”) warning, in his latest book, of those awful Christians again. The dissonant chorus grows and it is so sad to see another blind man suicidally consigning himself to eternal damnation. In a blog entitled, “The Nation Institute fellow calls for suppression of speech by ‘the radical Christian Right,” Volokh writes:
From American Fascists by Chris Hedges, Senior Fellow at The Nation Institute, former reporter for the New York Times and NPR, and (paragraph break added): This is the awful paradox of tolerance. There arise moments when those who would destroy the tolerance that makes an open society possible should no longer be tolerated. They must be held accountable by institutions that maintain the free exchange of ideas and liberty.
The radical Christian Right must be forced to include other points of view to counter their hate talk in their own broadcasts, watched by tens of millions of Americans. They must be denied the right to demonize whole segments of American society, saying they are manipulated by Satan and worthy only of conversion or eradication. They must be made to treat their opponents with respect and acknowledge the right of a fair hearing even as they exercise their own freedom to disagree with their opponents.
Passivity in the face of the rise of the Christian Right threatens the democratic state. And the movement has targeted the last remaining obstacles to its systems of indoctrination, mounting a fierce campaign to defeat hate-crime legislation, fearing the courts could apply it to them as they spew hate talk over the radio, television and Internet. I’ve never heard a Christian talk like this pagan says Christians talk. In my 63 years I’ve been a part of three mainline denominations and I’ve never heard anyone who calls himself a Christian, even those whom I suspect were fooling themselves with such a title, advocate the eradication of those who do not share their world view. I’ve heard Muslim terrorists vociferously advocate it often, but Mr. Hedges and his ilk do not seem concerned with them in spite of their bloody global track record. Moonbats tilt with windmills while oblivious to the storm closing at their six o’clock. In fact, conversion or eradication is a strategy advocated by the Qur’an, which Mr. Hedges probably has never read, and obviously the Harvard Divinity School graduate is equally weak in biblical doctrine. He is self-evidently blind to the things of God, heaping coals on his own head with this insult to his Creator: “worthy only of conversion,” as if the most important miracle in one’s life is worthless. Jesus told Nicodemus, an educated derelict of his day, also a divinity student, …no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again (John 3:3). Nicodemus understood the Son of God no better, at first, than Mr. Hedges does now. As long as Mr. Hedges is breathing there is hope for his salvation, too. Education does not make one a Christian, nor does native intelligence lead a descendant of Adam to God. J. C. Ryle said, “No man is the author of his own existence and no man can quicken his own soul. We might as well expect a dead man to give himself life as to expect a natural man to make himself spiritual.” Something big and entirely out of our control must happen first: a new birth—a spiritual rebirth instigated, guided, guarded and guaranteed with a divine miracle no less significant than creation itself, mysterious and incomprehensible as the wind that blows (John 3:8). One day every human who drew a breath will know this—every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord (Romans 14:11). And those who have not been born again and given eyes to see by God’s amazing grace will be eternally sorry they were ever born at all.
Full Circle in Basic Education We just returned from a week in sunny south Florida, where I got to talk about “No one…” at Lake Osborne Presbyterian Church in Lake Worth, visit with dear friends in Christ, and make new friends. Thank you, gracious hostess, Carolyn Kullmar! I’m a blessed man. Then we zipped across gater country and spent four days with three grandchildren in Naples. While there the real world imposed: My eldest grandson has been having difficulty dealing with a playground bully at school in Naples, sadly known more as God’s waiting room than as a bastion of enlightened education for children. His mother arranged an appointment with the school principle while we were there to baby-sit. After an eternity in the waiting room, the assistant principal came out and introduced herself and indicated she was filling in (no reason given) for the principal our daughter-in-law had asked to see. The assistant knew none of the facts of the case, got my grandson’s name wrong and mangled his mother’s name, then said the problem needed to be dealt with by the school counselor. After another wait the counselor proceeded to explain that it was against the rules for a counselor to talk about another student while counseling a student and/or parent. Nothing was accomplished and much time was wasted by a busy mother of three. The only good that came of it was Grandpa and Grandma’s joy at baby-sitting the youngest of the three while Mom was sitting and steaming in various school bureaucrat’s waiting rooms. This passes for progress in public education. When I was my grandson’s age, the principal and assistant principal did not exist, nor did the school counselor. My grade school had no athletic program, no band, no extra-curricular activities, no hot lunches, no student counselors, no transportation system, no indoor plumbing, and no central heating system, not even a reliable heating system. There was no librarian, no school nurse, no janitor, no secretary, no telephone, no accelerated classes for the smart kids, no remedial classes for the dumb ones, and no popular chemical solutions for short attention spans. Schoolyard bullies were dealt with swiftly and surely with a well-worn board of education applied smartly to the perpetrator’s backside. It was a one-man show…in one room. Teachers and school administrators who feel harried should jump into a time machine and talk to my teacher. Cox School was one of the last one-room country schoolhouses in the state of Illinois, and I suffered through eight long years of grade school there without a classmate, with never more than fourteen kids in the whole school. I know what’s going through your mind…my kids think it sounds pre-diluvial, too, but it was superbly efficacious education. Corporal punishment, now outlawed in the name of academic progress, was an integral part of the curriculum. In the case of my family there was also double jeopardy—an illegal act according to my fifth grade civics book. A spanking at school guaranteed a spanking at home. The single room measured twenty-five feet on a side and the exterior was clapboard with pealing white paint. It was no different in any fundamental way from the oldest wooden schoolhouse in the nation (built “prior to 1763”) still standing in St. Augustine, that we visited on our way down, except for a ship’s anchor chain wrapped around it to hold it down in hurricanes—the 18th century method of storm-proofing. Concentrating on studies was nearly impossible in one room because there was always something else going on in the folding chairs set in an arc at the front of the room around the teacher's desk—“eighth grade history...third grade arithmetic...first grade recitation.” I was blessed with an inquisitive mind, but I was bored in that setting. I’d rather do anything else than go to school. My grandson has apparently inherited those genes. I fought the boredom in my fourth grade year by passing notes back and forth with the fifth grade girl in the desk in front of me. She initiated it and I responded with enthusiasm. That clandestine operation lasted about two exciting weeks before we got caught in the act. Jasper, the teacher, announced our crime by slamming a wooden yardstick hard on his wooden desk. It popped like a pistol shot, bringing every juvenile bottom in the room up off its seat in fright. “Bring that piece of paper up here, young man.” He was a big man with a voice like rolling thunder, and breath that no freshener could cut. I tucked the note under the girl's armpit, raised both hands, and gave him an Academy Award, “Who me?” It would have worked except for the girl. Her face was glowing like a red neon sign. I could feel the heat as I walked by enroute to my doom. The double jeopardy rule was enforced when I got home. Dad applied the rod of Proverbs 13:24—I recall the handiest ISD (improvised spanking device) that time was a hammer handle. Then Mother took me away for a lecture. We went upstairs to my room and she proceeded to nervously make my already made bed while she lectured me on the birds and the bees. I sat on the edge of a hard wooden chair, totally bewildered. What she said made no sense but the manner in which she said it indicated it was really serious stuff. The parent/teacher conference lasted all of five cordial minutes in the driveway of our farm. The teacher stopped by on his way home from school and briefed Dad, a member of the school board, on the details of the incident. All over a lousy note! I don’t even remember what I wrote on that note…or why, but it never happened again. Such a misdemeanor today would generate a thick dossier and many hours of bureaucratic work, and probably a lawyer or two if some school staffer laid a hand on a board member’s son. Cox School is now a dilapidated storage shed on a nearby farm, but it will always be remembered by the alumnae of western Raritan Township, including four Wetterling siblings. We were an average farm family in terms of intellect and motivation. That basic education was the foundation for our four college degrees, three graduate degrees, a lay preacher, a Presbyterian elder, two school teacher/counselors and zero welfare recipients, all good citizens. I hope and pray that, in spite of the war stories I hear, my grandchildren will get as good an education. Our daughter in another part of the country is seriously considering home-schooling. It’s just a few degrees removed from one-room school houses and growing like leaps and bounds in America, for all kinds of good reasons in addition to the one above. It is amazing to me that basic education in this modern era could come full circle in just two generations, but the Lord has always worked in mysterious ways for the good of those who love Him, and I am grateful.
MY KIND OF WINTER It's 63 degrees midday in mid-January in my neck of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and aside from a few errant flakes that melted on contact, there’s been no snow on the ground thus far this winter. It’s a far cry from the frigid land of my youth, praise the Lord. The only thing that separated that farm in Western Illinois from the North Pole in the January was a two-strand barbed wire fence. Such adolescent misery had everything to do with my migration to the Gulfcoast of Florida for a two-decade sojourn in my middle years. These days I live in a place where the term “winter” just barely qualifies, to my everlasting joy, and I rise and shine whenever I feel like it in a warm abode where tranquility reigns. Fifty years ago it was the opposite of all this. “Jerry, rise and shine!” Those were the most hated words to a thirteen-year-old at 6 a.m. on a cold, dark winter morning, delivered by Dad from the bottom of the stairs. But not to worry, that was just the first call. There would be a second, perhaps even a third call, spoken in ever increasing volume and irritation. The first one merely required an acknowledgment that I was still part of the world of the living, whether unconscious or otherwise. “M-m-m-m-m-p-h.” The idea was to deliver that response with the least amount of effort so that blissful slumber would return as soon as possible. There were four Holstein cows out in the barn that had to be milked by hand, but a few minutes either way wouldn't make any difference to them, at least not that I ever noticed...and those few minutes of sleep were worth any price to me. Dad was a stern disciplinarian in all respects, except when it came to wake-up calls—a mystery. It was the winter of ’56. Our ancient, two-story white clapboard farmhouse was drafty as a barn, and my upstairs bedroom bore the brunt of north winds unimpeded by hills or trees in the flat Midwestern prairie. The heating system consisted of a fuel oil-burning stove in the living room in the center of the house, and a coal stove in the kitchen. The precious little heat that made it to the second story bedrooms arrived by way of heat registers in the floor. It was not sufficient to keep my bedroom any warmer than a meat locker, or the linoleum floor from feeling like a slab of ice to bare feet. I slept in a squeaky old double bed under a suffocatingly huge pile of blankets, arranged in such a way that only my nose was exposed to the brutal elements. The windows were glazed over with a layer of frost and the sills contained random wisps of snow that had blown in through the cracks. “JERRY, GET UP NOW. THIS IS THE LAST TIME I'M GOING TO CALL YOU.” That jolted me, but just for a second. It still lacked, by the slimmest of margins, the tone of patience exhausted. “I'm coming,” I lied. It was a risk, but I decided to take it. Dad and I had been playing this game for years now—my milking career began at age eight—and my semi-conscious brain had learned to analyze the nuances of his tone of voice and send a message to the vocal cords without disturbing the rest of the sleeping body. It would only buy another minute or two of refuge from cold, cruel reality—one more moment to savor the warmth of the womb and that heavenly feeling of yielding to a totally relaxed, immobile, adolescent body crying out for more of same. “IF YOU'RE NOT DOWN HERE IN ONE MINUTE I'M COMING UP.” That was it. Those were the magic words...and there was no doubt about the tone. Dad practiced the carrot and stick approach to discipline—the carrot was you didn't get the stick. “Awright, I'm coming.” My left hand worked its way over to the edge of the bed, traversing the icy, unused area of the sheet, and snaked its way out from under the covers and down to the pile of clothes on the floor, strategically placed there the night before. It groped around till it had a firm grip on everything laying there and then, with a supreme effort of self control, I flung back the covers, jumped out of bed, flew down the stairs, and raced across the living room to the sanctuary of the rectangular stove. My shivering, skivvy-clad body sucked up the heavenly heat of the stove as I laid my clothes on top of it to thaw out. Younger brother John, on the other side of the stove, mirrored my pitiable ritual—there was a cow in the barn waiting for him, too. No words broke the silence of all that misery. Dad had headed for the barn when he saw that we were getting dressed. I struggled into my long underwear, insulated boots, sheepskin coat, and stocking cap, and stumbled toward the back door. I turned the knob and leaned my shoulder into the door. It creaked open with a sound that only thoroughly cold-soaked frost-covered wood can make. The frigid air stung my nostrils and took my breath away. I marched across that snow-covered barnyard like an Antarctic penguin, my head sucked down as far into my sheepskin as I could get it. The snow crunched loudly under my feet—a sure sign the temperature was below zero. The refuge of the barn improved the wind chill factor only. Victoria greeted me with her usual regal air, as she chewed contentedly on a breakfast of Henderson County's best alfalfa hay, her bovine BTU’s the only source of heat in the milking parlor, just enough to abate the shivers. Dad had fed the cows and cleaned out their soiled straw bedding before we arrived. I grabbed a five-gallon pail, hunkered down on a one-legged milk stool, and snuggled my head into the hollow of Victoria's flank. Removing my gloves, I breathed on my cupped hands for several seconds before getting down to business—insurance that Victoria would remain regal and content with all that intimacy. Dad sat two cows over, singing “Shuffle off to Buffalo” in his inimitable monotone. His hands drew forceful streams of milk that echoed off the metal bottom as he built a massive head on his pail of milk. My own bucket filled much more slowly. The aroma of warm milk soothed my cold, dripping nose. A dozen cats sat patiently at my side as they awaited their morning ration. As was my practice, I took aim and fired a stream of milk at one of them, splattering it in the face and allowing it to have breakfast ahead of the rest while entertaining me with that intriguing process by which a cat cleans himself. The top half of the barn door into the milking parlor was open, revealing the magnificent dawn of a new day, but it was beyond my appreciation. As I stroked away I stared glassy-eyed at the brilliant orange sphere, shimmering in the steam rising from the manure pile outside the door, and prayed for a land where there was 1.) no winter, 2.) no cows to milk, and 3.) no wake up calls. It took a half-century and a most circuitous route, but the Lord led me to that place of my dreams—Ridge Haven. Today I live with 2.75 out of 3 of those frostbitten dreams fulfilled. I continue to rise and shine early but without all the pre-dawn trauma of my youth, with no wake-up call (not even an alarm clock), and no anxious cows awaiting. I spend a quiet hour in our snug gatekeeper’s cottage reading God’s Word and my favorite devotional books while leisurely consuming coffee, and life is better than I deserve or thought possible this side of the river. God is gracious indeed.
Greek
Lessons at a Codger’s Pace Sooner or later in a Christian’s sanctification, the desire to understand the original language of the Bible will at least pass through the mind. If you are anything like me, a junior grade codger who’s last study of a second language was sophomore Latin class 49 years ago, it’s an intimidating thought. I’ve heard for years now how rich and enlightening the Greek language of the New Testament is, and how difficult it is to translate it into pedestrian English when there is no word-for-word equivalence, but my desire for such enlightenment never overcame my sloth. Dr. J.D. “Doc” Watson, pastor of Grace Bible Church in Meeker, Colorado, has solved my problem. That’s “JD,” in the literary tradition of Salinger, MacDonald and Wetterling…. His daily devotional is entitled, A Word for the Day, published by AMG Publishers. One new foreign language word a day is just the right pace for a three score and three-year-old mind. Doc has done a wonderful job explaining each word with scripture support and historical linguistic background in a single page per word per day. But you won’t get the full effect unless you begin each reading by going to Crosswalk’s New Testament Greek Lexicon “based on Thayer's and Smith's Bible Dictionary plus others,” plugging in the Strong’s number that Doc provides, and listening to it spoken correctly. As I replay the audio of the Greek word, I envision myself as a small boy sitting on the end of the dock beside a wizened old Greek fisherman as he repeats the words for me, complete with just the right degree of roll on the “r’s.” And I realize that most of the preachers I have heard doing Greek work studies as part of their sermon mangle the pronunciation. For example, when a true Greek pronounces Abba (Mark 14:36 et al), the accent is on the second syllable, not the first, and the modern idiom translation—“daddy”—is a bit hyperbolic. Hearing Greek spoken by a Greek is also an excellent memory device. I write Crosswalk’s phonetic spelling of the word under Doc’s title word on the page as a further aid to memory. Of course you could, without buying the book, just read the Greek definitions at Crosswalk, but the words will not come alive and become memorable—and God’s amazing grace will not shine—the way they do with Doc’s word study and application for practical living. I’m just loving this devotional.
I know I just offered what some of you considered a daunting reading
regimen as a suggested New Year’s resolution in
last week’s blog, but my
enthusiasm won’t allow me to keep quiet till next year. In the interest
of full disclosure, I have an endorsement in Doc’s book, as if that is
worth anything. When I finished the manuscript last spring for Doc, whom
I know only through his
website and email, I
exacted a price for my blurb—a free copy of the book. Here’s my
endorsement: In my early morning devotional reading, I prefer red meat to cold cereal and milk. In A Word for the Day, Dr. Watson provides rare steak for breakfast with his wonderful daily devotional, an excellent means for a deeper understanding of Truth through the original language of God’s Word. I highly recommend this book. Now that I am savoring this book one Greek word at a time, my blurb sounds tepid. When the book arrived last month, I began it right then with the appropriate date, and you can do the same. Little is lost by starting anywhere in the book. As the back cover says, “These brief devotionals will enrich the mind, stir the soul, and empower the life of God’s people.” Taste and see if you don’t deepen your understanding of how blessed you are to be a kainos anthropos (2537, 444).
Three Godly Mentors for the New Year It’s a New Year. Here’s an idea for a resolution for a new beginning in your spiritual life: Rise an hour earlier each day and spend an hour with your Bible and three godly mentors from England—C. H. Spurgeon, J. C. Ryle, and Martin Lloyd-Jones. All three are long in the church eternal, but their words will remain in print till Christ returns, for the best of reasons. Each has a powerful daily devotional book chock full of spiritual insight and awesome exegesis eloquently written. Do it faithfully every morning and if you are the same person December 31, 2007, as you are today, email me and tell me my idea stinks. CHS’s Morning and Evening is a double morning shot of undiluted truth for me—I’m too tired to comprehend in the evening, so I read them both before sunup. I’ve worn out three of these books, yet still each reading seems powerfully new each year, and it is amazing how often the chosen scripture providentially strikes at the heart of what is troubling me on a given day. Steady usage, at least the way I use them, leads to broken spines and pages falling out after 3-4 years. I underline and/or highlight in a different color every time I read it, so each page look like a rainbow. If I’m really grabbed by CHS’s biblical insight, I dog-ear the page. After 2-3 years, nearly every page is dog-eared and I’ve defeated my own system. There are several editions in addition to the original in CHS’s 19th century Puritan language. My current favorite is “An Updated Edition of the Classic Devotional in Today’s Language,” edited by Roy H. Clarke. If you prefer you can read the original online or find it in your inbox every morning…if you don’t get up too early. J. C. Ryle was a contemporary of Spurgeon and equally profound and insightful, though perhaps not as metaphorically creative for this 21st century reader. His Daily Readings From All Four Gospels (arrived from the publisher in England in 5 days after ordering) is also a morning and evening format, also a single page for each. The publishers at Evangelical Press have forced a discipline on me by printing the scripture reference, by book, chapter and verse, at the top of each devotion, requiring me to go to the Bible to actually read it, along with suggested further reading. Excellent! It is, after all, God’s word that changes hearts, not CHS, MLJ or JCR’s superior expository gifts. Evangelical Press did another clever marketing thing to hook me. They allow the shopper to download ten days worth of daily devotional reading. I ordered the book passing day three. Dr. Martin Loyd-Jones’ Walking With God Day by Day has just a single reading per day, but it, too, is all red meat that engages both the heart and mind, just like his British brothers in Christ from the century before him. If there is a downside to this reading regimen, it is that the profundity of three of the greatest exegetes since Peter and Paul is sometimes more than one medium-sized mind like mine can absorb at a sitting. If you have such an overload problem, and are still alert after an evening meal, try the evening portions in the evening—novel idea. Personally, I can think of no greater way to start the day than by seeking His face in the predawn hours—my favorite part of the day—and being overwhelmed by His truth and an explanation thereof filtered through a mental and theological capacity so much greater than mine. Spend this year standing on the shoulders of these theological titans and you’ll never mingle with the midgets again.
Christmas? So what’s the big deal? This Christmas Day is as big as deals can get. It celebrates the greatest story every told, the only safe way out for your eternal soul. Do not trifle with it, nor pass it off as a quaint cultural custom. The Son of God made himself nothing…being born in the likeness of men in the meanest of circumstances, humbled himself to the ultimate, a horrible death on the cross out of his great love for his own, and one day every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that he is Lord of all (Phil. 2:7-8, 10-11). Author Dorothy Sayers said, “The Christian faith is the most exciting drama that ever staggered the imagination of man….” If you don’t think so, if you don’t know Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, I urge you this moment, for the sake of your never-dying soul, to read the following words written by the Apostle John, and honestly confront these truth claims by and about Jesus Christ, the Son of God. John, the “son of thunder” who wrote a Gospel, three epistles and the Book of Revelation in the New Testament, was one of Jesus’ 12 disciples and as close to him as any other person during his earthly ministry—an eyewitness to his words, deeds, miracles, death, resurrection, and ascension back to heaven. If you have never read this before, here are two helps: 1.) “Word” is Jesus Christ, the Son of God (read a detailed explanation here), and 2.) “John” in verse 6 is John the Baptist, not John the Gospel writer.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness about the light, that all might believe through him. He was not the light, but came to bear witness about the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth (John 1:1-14). “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (Jesus’ own words, John 3:16). And this from John’s first letter: Whoever believes in the Son of God has the testimony in himself. Whoever does not believe God has made him a liar, because he has not believed in the testimony that God has borne concerning his Son. And this is the testimony, that God gave us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have the Son of God does not have life. I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God that you may know that you have eternal life (1 John 5:10-13).
No matter the state of your soul, no matter the mess you have made of your life, no matter how little time left, no matter how depressed, dark, empty and cold your heart, this Christmas Day you may start again. That babe in the manger is the Son of God who gave up an existence you can’t imagine to come to you because you would not come to him. Such mercy is a mystery buried in the mind of God, but yours for the asking. He came that you might start your life afresh, forgiven of sins you don’t even know you have, born again to a life that will never end, because God so loved the world…(John 3:16). Spurgeon said, “The stupendous condescension of this act would overcome our hearts if we could understand it.” This is your gift this day, if you will but believe in Him. If this has even the slightest appeal to you, please pray this prayer composed for someone just like you by one of my favorite preachers, the late James Montgomery Boice of 10th Presbyterian Church in Philadelphia. “God (if there is a God), I want you to know that I am an honest seeker after the truth concerning you—or at least I would like to be. And I know that I come to spiritual things as if I were blind. Still, I come. I am as open to the truth as I can be. If you exist, I want you to speak to me. And furthermore, I want you to know that if you do exist and if you convince me that Jesus Christ is really your Son and died for my sin, then I promise to submit myself to him and follow him all the days of my life.”
If you prayed this prayer and sincerely meant it, then God is already leading you, my friend. Consider re-reading the above Scripture, in my view the most powerful in the whole Bible, and then just keep reading the whole book of John. Taste and see that the Lord is good. Then come! Spend eternity with Jesus in the most exciting drama that could ever stagger your imagination. And may the grace of God overwhelm you. Thanks be to God for his inexpressible gift (2 Cor.9:15)! Thank you for stopping by my blog this year. I pray He has used it in some small way to work in your heart, and the hearts of those you love. Grace and peace to you.
The Light of the World
And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping
I saw a heavenly light once, on a dark fearful night, and my terror turned to joy and overwhelming gratitude, just like those shepherds keeping watch in their fields a long time ago. But instead of a heavenly host singing Glory to God in the highest, I heard the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter the angel was flying on which the spotlight was mounted. There were six of us junior executives decompressing in the tranquility of a sailboat belonging to one of us, one summer evening in Lake Michigan offshore from Chicago. After dark the skyline was beautiful from two miles out, with the towering candles of the Sears Tower on the left and the John Hancock Building on the right accentuating the City of Big Shoulders. Then the wind died down, the sails hung limply from the mast…and the motor would not start. The owner jumped below to check it out and landed in ankle deep lake water—we were sinking and the engine was already underwater. It was too far to swim to shore in the frigid lake water. By God’s grace the battery that supplied the radio was still dry and a mayday call, delivered in suddenly very sober but less than calm tones, had Chicago’s finest overhead an eternity later. That heavenly light illumined our sloop as bright as day till the Harbor Police arrived in a cruiser with a powerful portable pump and a tow line, and at least one of us was thinking, “Glory to God in the highest.” The light the shepherds saw 2000 years ago rescued far more than a handful of undeserving souls, and in the sovereignty of God it came without being called. That great light shown in a land of deep darkness (Isaiah 9:2), and in two millennia since it is still deep darkness, a land in the shadow of death, but the darkness still has not overcome it, and never will. It was the true light, which enlightens everyone, [that] was coming into the world (John 1:9). And that light was the Son of God incarnate. In him was life, and the life was the light of men (John 1:4). And yet…and yet for all the miracles, for all the Old Testament prophecies he fulfilled, in spite of his own declaration— I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life (John 8:12), very few of his own people, the nation of Israel, received him. Far too few receive him today. But, to those then and ever since…who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God (John 1:12). What an amazing thing! A gift! He gave them the right to become children of the living God. The rest of that sentence is even more amazing. They became children who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. (John 1: 13). It was not a physical birth (“of blood”), not a result of a man and woman attempting to conceive, not an act of willpower by anyone, but an act of God alone. Born…of God. No one can [even] see the kingdom of God unless he is born again (John 3:3), unless he is born…of the Spirit (John 3:5). One does not have to be a very astute observer of the human condition in the 21st century to see that man apart from Christ can do nothing (John 15:5). God had to make the first move—no one was then or is now seeking him (Romans 3:11), absent a miracle within his heart. The birth we celebrate this season was an essential part of a divine plan to save a people so depraved they didn’t and still don’t want to be saved by him, until he changes their heart and they are born of God. The gifts we give this season commemorate this greatest gift ever given—salvation that is all of God for those with whom he is pleased (Luke 2:14). Every Advent season, in the middle of the night, I am vividly reminded of such amazing grace. My bed is near a sliding glass door onto a balcony. Sometime after midnight, when the blue of the Blue Ridge has gone south with the birds and the leaves have fallen from the deciduous half of these deep woods, the heavenly light of a full moon is in just the right position—the only time all year—to shine so brightly on my face that it wakes me up. There is no physical warmth from moon glow, but the glorious sight of that heavenly light in this land of deep darkness sure stokes the fire within me that is the indwelling Light of the World. Along with a devout young lady chosen by God so long ago, My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior (Luke 1:46-7). And I know, I know that I will not walk in darkness again, nor will I spend eternity in the outer darkness. After a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving that such an unworthy should be so blessed, I roll over, with a joy that no one will take away (John 16:22b), and sleep in heavenly peace, just as my Savior did in a manger that silent night so long ago.
What Manner of Love is This? Have you ever ridden on a donkey? Imagine straddling a moving 2 X 4 turned edgeways, a 1 X 4 if he is not well fed—you can count the vertebrae from 10 paces, even if he is healthy. Imagine doing it while 9 months pregnant…all day…for 6 days or more in a row, and sleeping on the ground at night with no indoor plumbing. Maybe it is somewhat mitigated by a blanket for padding or maybe a very pregnant lady could manage some kind of side-saddle position, but for days on end? This sounds cruel and inhumane. A long time ago a teenaged girl did this. I am sure she had no idea what all she was agreeing to when she told the angel, “…let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). Do you suppose at anytime on the agonizing journey on donkey-back, cross-country from Nazareth to Bethlehem, she ever wondered if that angel was real or was it all just a weird dream. Did she ever rack her brain on that trip trying to remember some traumatic event in her life—a rape, for instance(the story the naysayers keep trying to sell)—that her traumatized mind simple blocked, that was the cause of this suffering? With our 20-20 hindsight, our conviction that the Bible is God’s inerrant word, and the Holy Spirit’s minimalist literary style, we take all the trauma out of this historical drama of the ages. In every crèche you ever saw Mary looks as beautiful as a Barbie Doll and even the animals have a serene look. How about Joseph, the husband? What must have been going through his mind as he trudged along? Suppose he had any seconds thoughts or twinges of self-pity? His wife on the burro, pregnant not by him or any man but by what she claimed was an act of God. He’d has some nocturnal visitors of his own that sounded convincing enough, or was it just a bizarre vivid dream? What kind of cruel tyrant would force this trip because he wanted to take a census? Why couldn’t he send a census taker around to knock on every door in Israel. The gross national product that was lost in those days away from work by many citizens traveling throughout Israel to the city of their birth to be counted would have generated substantial tax revenue, especially at the confiscatory rates charged by the Roman emperor. There must have been a lot of questions running through his mind as he trudged along. Would the baby be born along the way…under the stars? He probably knew zip about midwifery. Would there be anyone to help? Had there even been time to fall in love with Mary? It was an arranged Jewish wedding and he knew her not before the child was born. A birth is one of the biggest traumas a parent goes through. What kind of crisis must this one have been? Our daughter had a baby a few months ago. The baby came so quickly there was no time for painkiller. I am trying to imagine how I would have reacted if she had called me on a cell phone to tell me, between gasps and grunts and screams that the baby was about to be born and she was in a filthy old barn standing in ankle-deep stinking steaming manure with no doctor in sight. I used to hang out in a 75 year old barn in my agrarian youth, working far harder than I wanted cleaning up after livestock. It’s no maternity ward. I can envision Mary hunkered over an animal feeding trough for support, her body wracked with pain, not one antiseptic square inch anywhere in sight, no epidural, no pain killer of any kind. Was there any light? It would have been uncommon, an oil lamp or candle among all that highly combustible hay and straw bedding. Did they have to move a cow or donkey to clear a birthing space? Were there any good Samaritans to help? Would Joseph have dared leave his wife at that critical point to race through the inn shouting, “Is there a midwife in the house?” How utterly useless and fearful must he have felt? Were the cows mooing and the donkeys braying, rolling their eyes in fear and straining at their tethers, and did the mice scurry into their holes when the screams of Mary pierced their ears? Was it pandemonium in that filthy barn? The Bible story is replete with holy men who suffered mightily. Why should we expect it to be any different with Mary and Joseph? The true light of the world was born in a dark reeking squalid stable because the world had no place for him. He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him (John 1:11). There can be no greater condescension, no more humiliating appearance in history, than the Son of God leaving his throne room, where he is waited on hand and foot by countless cherubim and worshiped and adored by countless saints, enjoying incomprehensible happiness in an intimate relationship with his Father, and entering the world through the womb of a young peasant girl writhing in filth on the floor of a dingy barn in an obscure Middle Eastern hamlet in a barbarous age. No novelist could make up a story like this. No other religion in the world, all imagined by various creative charlatans, would ever allow it’s deity such an ignominious entrance into anything. What manner of love is this…? It is infinite, beyond human imagination or comprehension. It is the love of Almighty God for his elect. And he did it so his chosen could spend eternity with him. When the Son of God was killed, miraculously rose from the dead and returned to that magnificent throne room, one of his best friends on earth wrote, …the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth (John 1:14), and …to all…who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God (John 1:12-13). The Son of God was born in a barn, that I might be born of God. He has my gratitude forever, faulty and paltry but growing to perfection one heavenly day, and by his grace, not my efforts, no one will take away my joy, this season and for all eternity.
Peace is Impossible
I have a question for the victorious left as they sober up and attempt to apply campaign rhetoric to reality: If you think peace is possible, where have you been the last 7000 years? Mohammad, a dear Muslim friend, was a retired general officer and fighter pilot in the Afghan Air Force when his country was a Soviet client state, but when we connected he was living in exile in Pakistan. He bought my semi-autobiographical Vietnam War novel, Son of Thunder, through Amazon and emailed me after reading it. It was friendship at first email, born of that special bond among men who have gone to war in any nation in any era. Over an extended period we had a wonderful, enlightening cross-cultural conversation. He wrote a delightful style of English learned in British boarding school. We swapped many war stories, flying anecdotes and idiosyncrasies of Migs vs Super Sabres. We also shared stories of grandparenthood. He called his grandchildren his “life’s breath,” and I couldn’t agree more. In an effort to understand his worldview that I might witness to him, I built a library on Islam, complete with two translations of the Qur’an, that was sobering in the extreme. I am convinced that if Islam had to “compete” for hearts and minds the way Protestants and Catholics in west do, it would decline dramatically. I also think the average Muslim is as nominal and unknowledgeable about his religious doctrine as your average American Christian. That is what has historically allowed unbridled extremism and led to the rap that religion is the greatest cause of war. When the heinous acts of 9/11 shocked the world, I received an email of condolence from Mohammad before the day ended. He was as sincerely outraged as any rational person anywhere. As the resultant Afghan war sped to a conclusion, he made a short visit to his homeland. In a humorously related but telling anecdote on the Afghan culture, he said his party was held up by bandits on the road to Kabul, but the bandits recognized him, laid down their weapons and sat down to a convivial “spot of tea” instead. He found the American soldiers he met to be “pleasant chaps” with whom he struck up an instant rapport, even though they were standing in “a field littered with the dead.” But, alas, he dejectedly confessed to me his pessimism, based on his experience and outlook inside the whirlwind, about peace on earth for his grandchildren. He thought peace was impossible. And again we could not have agreed more. My Bible even tells me to expect it: And when you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed. This must take place, but the end is not yet (Mark 13:7). The 19th Century’s greatest preacher, British Baptist C. H. Spurgeon, expounding on the final victory of good over evil as apocalyptically proclaimed in the last book of the Bible (Rev. 20:7-10), states this in his usual lucid fashion: “Peace between good and evil is impossible. Even the pretense of it would be a triumph for the powers of darkness…. War rages, and to dream of present peace is not only futile, but dangerous. But glory be to God; we know the end.” For no known reason on this end, my communication with Mohammad terminated abruptly, I fear with extreme prejudice, but will probably never know. Our friendship—two old warriors with diametrically opposing worldviews—provided a flickering light of optimism for me against a darkening world. I hope and pray, as American leftists get their long awaited turn to try some different strategies to avert global conflagration, that, in spite of their campaign rhetoric, they realize the great danger in assuming any real lasting peace is possible. Hubris annihilates nations as inevitably as craven governance. 9/11 should have taught us all never to underestimate the creativity of man when destruction is his avowed goal, no matter how limited his resources, how lopsided the odds. Peacemakers who think inside the box die in the box. The bloodiest century in history, just ended, categorically demonstrated the utter failure of utopian schemes based on the perfectibility of man. Now, to swing to the other extreme and ignore evil or run from it in a shrinking world, or reclassify it as just another point-of-view while it is desperately (and what is more desperate than war by suicide attack?) trying to destroy us, is to invite another record-breaking century of bloodletting. The veracity of the biblical text—wars...must take place—irrefutably documented by 7000 years of human history, is clear to the most casual objective observer of the human condition. The end is not yet. But I know the end. God wins the war. It’s not a wager, it’s a promise…through the Son whose birth we celebrate this season, born to make peace, by his own blood, between God and his elect. Glory be to God.
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