JD Wetterling, Author.xml

Sunrise, sunset...

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 11:59:43 -0400

Tevye fiddled on the thatched roof of his house at sunset, singing about the cycles of life and pining for worldly riches. It’s a scene from the stage play, Fiddler on the Roof, that Karen and I saw in London’s West End in 1971. The milkman in early 20th century Tsarist Russia struggled to maintain his family traditions and religion while the world around him was changing rapidly, just like a Christian father in 21st century America.

Funny how some snapshots of life’s experiences are so perfectly preserved in the grey matter and float to the surface at the most opportune times. That mental image revealed itself from the archives during another one that is overwhelming me with God’s grace. This scene is a 10x10-foot tent pitched in Myakka River State Park, Florida, as I lie in a sleeping bag with my wife, 9-year-old son, and 3-year-old daughter beside me. Somewhere in the middle of the night a full moon shined right in my eye through the screen window of the tent, a Hillary (as in Sir Edmund) brand purchased from Sears for the then princely sum of $110. It woke me up. I lay there counting my blessings to the heavy breathing of my sleeping family, which was barely audible above the angry zing of a billion skeeters outside the tent, voicing their frustration at not being able to dine at the smorgasbord of warm Wetterling blood inside.

This Saturday night my thirty-something son and family will be camping in that very same park…same campground…same tent! It’s a life cycle that warms my heart and an investment that is still paying dividends three decades later. My grandson, Logan, has joined the Cub Scouts, a family tradition—his father went all the way to Eagle Scout. I have a number of delightful memories of camping with my son, and I recall how sad I was when he advanced to Boy Scouts and dads could not go along on campouts…unless they were willing to be scout leaders, a civic duty outside the parameters of my personal sloth. These days not just dad but the whole family is invited along when a Cub goes camping, a wonderful idea! Logan is beside himself with anticipation.

I cannot wait to hear all about it next Sunday night. We will be making a quick visit to his home near Naples after a speaking engagement at a Presbyterian Men’s Retreat at Lakewood Retreat in Brooksville, FL, on Saturday and teaching a Sunday School class at Westminster Presbyterian Church in suburban Tampa on Sunday morning. Perhaps you recall I’d rather write and speak than eat. Enroute to Florida we are stopping for a day (Thursday) at the Atlanta RV Show (danger, danger!). I am at least as excited as my grandson at the upcoming adventures of this weekend. God is so gracious to this unworthy and his family!

Confluence

Tue, 4 Sep 2007 07:18:32 -0400

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good,
for those who are called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28).

This confluence of outwardly unrelated events happens with some regularity in my life, for the good of my spiritual life if not also my physical life.  Actually I know it works this way in every believer's life. The Navigators Military Ministry held a conference here again at Ridge Haven this Labor Day Weekend.  The vast majority of the group was young soldiers and their families. I took part in more intense conversations—peppered with “Sir”—and overheard more passionate discussion on the great commission (Matt. 28:18-20) by young men with high-and-tight haircuts, than I hear the rest of the year at Ridge Haven by men and women of any other age or hairdo. What an encouragement to this aging passionate patriot/Christian zealot!

Simultaneously two disparate pieces of excellent writing presented themselves before me.  The first was a periodical entitled, The Intake: Journal of the Super Sabre Society, by a newly formed group of ever more doddering former F-100 pilots, of which I am a charter member. The F-100 Super Sabre was the first plane to break the sound barrier in level flight, one of the first widow-makers in the Air Force’s expensive learning curve for pilots and aeronautical engineers of swept-wing supersonic fighter aircraft.  I served in one of the last USAF F-100 squadrons—the 494th Tactical Fighter Squadron, 31st Tactical Fighter Wing, at RAF Lakenheath, England in 1971-2—long after the lessons about prevention of adverse yaw, unrecoverable flat spins and other such unpleasant esoteric events were learned at catastrophic cost.

Contributing Editor and former F-100 pilot Bob Krone wrote (Summer 2007 edition) about a recent interview between Tom Wolfe, author of The Right Stuff (an American classic about fighter pilots and astronauts—the movie was a classic, too) and a reporter on Fox TV News.  Bob wrote:

He was asked, “Wouldn’t you say that one can also speak of ‘The Right Stuff’ in journalism or in the business world where everybody’s up against tough moments?”

Tom Wolfe replied: “The Right Stuff is a very specific term applied to the code of military pilots who have the moxie to hang their hide over the great gulf of death, be smart enough to bring it back, then go out again tomorrow and do it all over again. People don’t know how dangerous it is just to take off in an F-series airplane.  When a businessman dies it’s usually choking over a hunk of chateaubriand in a classy restaurant.  The Right Stuff has no application to anyone but pilots and astronauts.”

I think it was a pretty presumptuous question from a reporter who apparently did not read the book, but with my forty years of hindsight and God-given sanctification/enlightenment in His providence, I no longer share Wolfe’s eloquent hyperbole—I know “the stuff” was not of my own manufacturing. I also vividly recall, when “the stuff” was not sufficient, the Super Sabre responded in ways that had nothing to do with my adrenaline drenched inputs…or in spite of them. The Apostle Peter drew his sword and was ready to take on the world in Jesus’ presence in the Garden the night he was betrayed (John 18:10), then a few hours later was  a craven coward in the presence of a peasant girl who fingered him as one of Jesus’ followers (John 18:25-27).  Then again, 51 days later, on Pentecost, he was a courageous preacher who delivered one of the most efficacious altar calls in history (Acts 2:14-41). By the grace of God I am what I am…, as Paul told the Corinthians (I Cor. 15:10).

  I also think Wolfe applied the term to far too small a segment of the warrior class.  Robert Kaplan makes that plain in an insightful think-piece for The Atlantic Monthly (August 24, 2007) entitled “Rereading Vietnam,” that also profoundly moved me this weekend.  A better title might have been “Rejudging Vietnam.”  I happen to personally know some of the warriors Kaplan wrote about—Medal of Honor winner Bud Day and the Vietnam era Misty pilots (F-100 pilots)—and I am so grateful that at least one highbrow, highly regarded liberal establishment periodical is finally seeing the light about the debt America owes it warriors in the modern era’s “unpopular wars.” Yes, it would be too much to expect such a secular source to declare that courage in the chaos of combat is a God-given gift to an undeserving nation, but one day we will all understand, we will all be sophisticated theologians (John 16:8), some eternally grateful, some eternally sorry (Matt. 25:31-34).

The soldiers—military laborers—here at Ridge Haven this Labor Day Weekend, many of them Army Rangers, are of that “Right” warrior class, and their courage is simultaneously directed toward another, greater war, the one between good and evil, witnessing to God’s truth in a hostile culture that worships such absurdities as atheism, diversity and politically correctness. By grace it extends to a willingness to die for a citizenry, a significant segment of which, in their self-absorbed rush to judgment, holds them in contempt, both for their career field and their faith.  It is indeed the Right Stuff from the Right Source, the source of all truth and the only Judge that matters. It was a my great blessing to serve them.

Attitude

Wed, 29 Aug 2007 08:06:39 -0400

We ended two weeks vacation with the blessed birthday celebration of our 1-year-old granddaughter, Anna, in Cincinnati, then returned to the real world just in time for an equally blessed funeral of an 82-year-old saint, Carolyn Boatright, in our church the next day. Life seems nearly that short looking back on the last half-dozen decades. Two weeks of mountaintop and lakeside decompression/contemplation/meditation, after an intense summer, do wonders for one’s priorities. I am sorry I never did it before in my life, but, on the flipside, getting into the daily grind again after a hiatus that long, even in a vineyard in suburban heaven like Ridge Haven, is a major adjustment. Perhaps that is all part of the Divine plan. Only our heavenly rest is eternal, the one saint Carolyn is now adapting to and the one that every Christian looks forward to. Hearing my pastor, Dr. Andy Silman, from the pulpit at the funeral, even at the funeral, after missing him two Sundays, was surely an antidote for an attitude. And this much I know, my Lord and Savior never had and never will have an attitude problem or mood swings, and one could easily argue that, as fully man, He had far better reasons than I. Next week I’ll be more verbose....

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Back to Basics: Ten Days in a Tent

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 10:40:04 -0400

No phone. No internet. No 112-volt wall outlets. No indoor plumbing. No current Wall Street Journal, just old issues because they make such good kindling for the campfire, twisted tightly. Karen and I agreed it was the greatest vacation of our lives, which says a lot, given our global travels. My reading material was my Bible, J.C. Ryles’ and Martin Lloyd Jones’ devotionals, Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, and a grim but gripping account of the prosecution of King Charles I (simultaneously with the creation of the Westminster Confession) by a Puritan lawyer named John Cooke, entitled The Tyrannicide Brief (recommended). There were several reading/writing/meditation settings, but the best was under towering hemlocks and rhododendron at water’s edge of Price Lake in Julian Price Memorial Park at mile marker 297 (Tent site A16, nonreserveable, but keep it under your hat and arrive before noon if you want a glimpse of the nearest thing to heaven on earth). In God’s providence we got a fabulous view of it at the base of Calloway Mountain on one of our hikes.

The Blue Ridge Parkway is a 460-mile-long national park. We lollygagged along a third of it and never got out of North Carolina. The creation of the Parkway, a government program to employ starving men back in the Great Depression days of the 1930’s, may be the best government program ever, a magnificently beautiful legacy to the citizenry of the land of the free for those heirs who spend their time racing the rats down the streets of its crowded cities. We stayed in four different campgrounds on or near the Parkway, explored as many more for future reference, and hiked a few miles of trails nearly every day.

“Back to basics” is a relative term that Daniel Boone, a sojourner in those parts, would scoff at. I lit the campfire with a butane lighter, made the coffee on a two-burner propane camp stove on the concrete picnic table provided, dwelt in a palatial two-room 10x16-foot tent—nap room and screen room (unneeded, praise God) by day, and bedroom and bathroom by night. I blew up the air mattress with a battery-powered air compressor, lit and cooled the place (rarely needed) with a ceiling mounted light/fan. And this one would have blown Daniel’s mind: a cleverly disguised inside porta-potty that eliminates the skeeter bites of nighttime getups, a critical codger issue.

The last time I took a bath in a bucket was in the Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho, in a simulated POW compound, in a box in which I could not quite stand up in…nor lay down in, enroute to the war zone of Southeast Asia 39 years ago. And I wasn’t grilling New York Strips over the campfire back then either.

God is so gracious. My bride and I absorbed His Word at the dawn of every day while simultaneously glorying in the visual feast of His creation—a wonderful worldly-care blocker. I don’t recall a vacation this long or so thoroughly decompressing in my life—a great mistake, I confess.

There is only one negative to this lifestyle. When making of one of my mandatory getups off the floor in the middle of a moonless, starless night in the woods, the interior of a tent is dark as the inside of a cow, a treacherous balancing act for a codger. But an investment matching the new truck can eliminate that, along with the bath in the bucket… and North Carolina’s biggest RV dealer just happened to be along our route home….

By His Grace

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 05:16:35 -0400

It’s a mountain man’s Cadillac, and it cost more than the only Cadillac I ever owned (back when early business success made yielding to my own ego way too easy). You could say that after six years in these magnificent Blue Ridge Mountains I am finally fully acculturated. It’s a full-sized Ford F150 truck, bottom-of-the-line styling but with the big Triton 5.4L V8 suck/blow. That phrase is fighter pilot lingo for a hot jet engine, but actually it just feels that way after driving a bottom-of-the-line 2.2L, 4 cylinder Chevy S-10 for the last 12 years. I’m gonna have to learn to get a light touch on the gas pedal—that monster keeps trying to get out from under me. That Ford, my lord, is a towing moe-sheen with 300 horses that will lug an 8800 pound RV past just a few more gas stations than it will stop at.

It happened this way. We get lots of RV visitors at Ridge Haven. Many of them belong to SOWERS, a wonderful organization of RV’ers who work at non-profits around the country in return for free RV hookups. There are a handful of similar organizations, and some folks just do it on their own, like our favorite RV servant/saints—Cliff and Barbara Mudge, retired farmers. Our tent campground is named Mudgeville in honor of all their hard work as unto the Lord there. These saints put the lie to Emerson’s observation that travel is a fool’s paradise. Sowers always ask us to lead them in daily devotions at the start of their abbreviated work day, so 2-3 of us rotate in that divine duty, often in their RV’s. Thus I see the inside of a lot of RV’s…and now you can figure out the rest of this story.

We decided a travel trailer, versus fifth wheel or motorhome, would fit our “needs” best, and they require something bigger that an S-10 to tow them, if you want one big enough for two people to turn around in. Well, truck marketing is all about meeting ego needs. The vast majority of new trucks that roll off a dealer’s lot in these mountains is a gargantuan 4-wheel-drive, four-door, “crew cab” with as many extra’s as the dealer’s finance man will allow, and they can pull more than the John Deere I learned to drive on back in the last century, and they cost more than my first house. I see many of them parked in front of western North Carolina houses or singlewides that appear to cost less than the truck. I get off-road a bit as a Resident Manager of Ridge Haven, but in a mostly sane manner and have never gotten stuck in my 4 cylinder 2WD S-10, and snow is minimal in these here southern slopes of the Appalachians, so I have never found a need for the expensive, gas-economy-killing gears required for 4WD. I had to drive 65 miles down into the foothills of South Carolina to find a dealer with a new no-frills-work-truck with 2-wheel-drive.

I researched the used truck market but quickly learned that basic work trucks get used for…uh…actual work, and get driven till the crankshaft quits cranking. Though I’ve bought very few vehicles in my life, I long ago learned that model-year-end is the season when dealers deal most agreeably for new vehicles, especially after a gas-price-induced bad season for gas hogs like this past one. And the “instant depreciation” of owning last year’s model is a non-economic issue if your drive them long enough.

After some preliminary email and phone conversation we walked into the dealership with fear and trepidation, steeled for a high pressure pitch, and met a low key Christian young man who made it almost joyful to write a big check for a depreciating asset.

On the way home I stopped at the truck accessory store, ordered a cap for the bed, and made one impulse buy over which I agonized not one second—a $30 stainless steel plate for the front license plate holder that says, “By His Grace.” That says it all. Just as that truck requires continual copious quantities of gas to keep going, so do I require continual copious quantities of grace through Christ in whom I live and move and have my being.

As you read this we’re breaking it in on the Blue Ridge Parkway for the next couple of weeks, stopping at every overlook and every tent campground, and hiking every trail in God’s creation we can between Mt. Pisgah and Stone Mountain State Park up near the Virginia border. God willing, two weeks in our 10X16 foot two-room tent with screen room, costing less than two tanks of gas for that new truck, will take the irrationality out of the RV research….

Reign of Grace

Tue, 7 Aug 2007 09:04:28 -0400

My bride and I sat on a rocky ledge at 6000 feet, our feet dangling over the edge, above the tree line and just below the brow of Black Balsam Knob. We were celebrating the end of the summer harvest season at Ridge Haven, 2/3 of a mile below and 7 miles south, as the falcon flies, of our semi-private picnic spot. Our famous Appalachian blue was particularly opaque. The twelve ridgelines/four states view was limited to two ridges and a portion of Transylvania County from our granite perch in a “bald” of wildflowers in two shades of yellow atop broadleaf greenery. Air traffic was heavy and noisy, from basso profundo buzz to a high whine as all kinds of air freight carriers lugged loads of pollen from feast to feast. We co-existed famously with our not always friendly fellow creatures. Give a bee a field of wildflowers and a human cannot provoke him to sting. Perhaps it is because his leg sacs are so full he cannot squat to apply his stinger…or perhaps he is just too happy to be provoked in his field of dreams.

In all my years of marveling at nature up close, I’ve never seen a mid-air collision of God’s flying creatures. Even the silent butterflies, likewise enjoying the yellow smorgasbord, never collide with other air traffic in spite of their seemingly erratic flight paths. I wonder what kind of radar God gives these creatures. Their pinhead-sized (or smaller) brains are better than human ones in that regard. And how do the bees fly, violating all the rules of aerodynamics taught in engineering schools? And whence cometh the strength to flap their wings so fast they sound like a propeller? It’s simple in reality: With my new heart and eyes to see (John 3:3), my Creator is gloriously self-evident in endless details of His magnificent creation. Any other explanation is a lie.

I lay back and stared straight up at blue sky thru tall grass. What a worshipful perspective for a temporarily earthbound mortal enroute to a heavenly home. Blindingly white ragged clouds tumbled and swirled in all directions in the mountain air currents and eddies. The sun peeked out from behind churning cumulus billows and steamed the sweat off my T-shirt. High overhead a buzzard glided upward in tight circles inside a thermal. I could barely make him out, though he was probably counting my chin whiskers and trying to judge, from the aroma of my T-shirt, how long before I’d be lunch. I sat back up and met the caress of a cooling zephyr just above the tall grass.

A mile away, from ten to two o’clock low, the silver ribbon of the Blue Ridge Parkway snaked thru the variously vertical greenery of our near-rainforest. Closer in, hikers with half-legs emerged from the evergreen tree line and meandered up the knee-deep mountainside trails worn by years of foot traffic and gully-washing rains. The occasional distant shrieks of happy school children on guided nature hikes were the only other human sounds aside from the superlative-laced conversation of us two lovers on the ledge. Superlatives in spite of dozens of Kodak moments in these mountains in the last six years. It wasn’t just from the visual stimulus. There is a soul-deep sense of the nearness of God in such a setting, as mysterious and overpowering as the Triune God Himself, that only the elect can know, invoking a humble adoration that saves all the superlatives for the King of Kings, whose love and mercies are new every morning (Lam. 3:22-3). This past summer I concluded my summer camper teaching with the admonition, “Don’t ever quit being amazed at grace!” When God’s reign of grace allows one to live in a wilderness cathedral like this, no effort is needed to comply.

Danger Danger!

Tue, 31 Jul 2007 11:08:35 -0400

The Croc Man, Steve Irwin, pronounced it “dine-ger dine-ger” in his inimitable Aussie accent before that very danger did him in at an early age. My grandchildren introduced me to his TV show and I enjoyed it as much as they and a few million other souls did. I recalled his warning voice as I read my devotions this past weekend. I never cease to be amazed at how often Divine Grace schedules my daily devotional readings, written years ago, with events occurring in my life today that require precisely those truths.

I was basking in the afterglow of a successful summer camp program at Ridge Haven, remembering many precious moments and trying to tally in my mind how many young hearts were changed by God’s grace. It was also a time to catch up on some periodical reading, and World’s July 28, 2007, cover story caught my eye: Big Bucks Ministries. The story was an embarrassment to me as a Christian, to use a polite word, as it detailed the private lives of televangelists who lived the lifestyle of the rich and famous while refusing to publicly account for their stewardship of viewer donations.

“How ready Christians are to be puffed up with success!”  J.C. Ryle said in his Daily Readings From All Four Gospels, expounding on Luke 10:17-20.  It could not have been more timely for my correction and sanctification. “Let it, however, never be forgotten that the time of success is a time of danger to the Christian’s soul…. Then is the time that the seeds of evil are sown in us by the devil which may one day astound us by their growth and strength. There are few Christians that can carry a full cup with a steady hand.”

I rushed immediately to judgment of the puffed up big bucks boys (and girls). How dare they live such lavish, self-indulgent lives on the backs of many widows’ mites. Don’t they know that the lives they live drown out the words of the sermons they preach? But then Jesus’ words struck at my heart:

The seventy-two returned with joy, saying, "Lord, even the demons are subject to us in your name!” And he said to them, “I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven. Behold, I have given you authority to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing shall hurt you. Nevertheless, do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven” (Luke 10:17-20).

The seventy-two exulted in what they knew was God’s power given to them—…subject to us in your name. Jesus’ comment, I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven, was his way of saying he saw their success, then he reaffirmed that it was his power given to them that made it happen. Matthew Henry infers an “only” in Jesus’ next sentence—do not rejoice in this [only]… but rejoice that your names are written in heaven. Ryle explains it even better: “Gifts and [even] the power of working miracles are very inferior to grace…. The disciples were right to be thankful. But it was a far higher privilege to be converted and pardoned men and to have their names written in the register of saved souls.”

Being used of God in the lives of other people is heady stuff, and the danger of self-exaltation and self-satisfaction is very real, as World magazine sadly details. But our own wisdom and might, absent grace, procure no victory. It is God’s Word, applied to hearts and minds by the Holy Spirit, that wins souls.  Salvation, a gift for which no one is worthy, no one can earn, is of the Lord from first to last. That is what Jesus called his disciples, and televangelists and teachers today, to rejoice in (Luke 10:20).

“In the midst of our triumphs let us cry to God for humility” (J.C. Ryle).

Four Point Rolls Over Ridge Haven

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 11:57:08 -0400

We are in the seventh and last week of summer camp at Ridge Haven.  Teaching campers has been the most wonderful experience in my six years in this Wilderness Cathedral, which were already the best six of my life.  I look forward to my classes this week as enthusiastically as the first.  And of course the teacher always learns more than anyone else…on a subject I thought I already knew pretty well.  God’s grace is amazing. His Word is living…sanctifying.

The challenge this summer has been to effectively communicate with youth from age 8 to 18 simultaneously.  This is the first summer we have tried combining worship for all age groups into one, and we were not without naysayers, some of whom chose to stay on the sidelines when we planned it.  I’ll have to wait till the end-of-summer debrief to get the collective opinion of savvier folks than I as to its effectiveness.  From where I stood, all ages seemed to be paying attention. Any experienced speaker can tell if he has his audience or not.  Either there is roomful of statues or a fidgeting, whispering, elbowing milieu of uninterested adolescents.  One or twice this summer I noted a few cases of sleep deprivation winning out over my words, but on balance they were statues.  And the comments after class or as I signed kids’ books were just worth more to me than 100% royalties in any currency.

But retention is the acid test of teaching, and the votes on that may not be in till long after the T-shirts are worn out and the “scruffy-bearded codger” who taught has joined the church eternal…and it’s in God’s hands, not the teacher’s anyway.  I worked at creating mnemonic devices with the objective that God’s word eternally etched in an 8-year-old mind may, God willing, one day be understood, even if it is beyond comprehension when heard. My own experience with catechism class and worship liturgies from the Psalms as a kid in a heartland Swedish Lutheran church has made me a believer in the classical model of learning. Interestingly, of all of Luther’s catechism I memorized, I remember none, but of Scripture, the memorized verses still come to mind right when I need them the most, without my immediately realizing they have been retrieved from 50-year-old grey matter archives.

One device I used with the aid of my PowerPoint videos.  I introduced the first one by explaining what a 4-point roll is in an airplane, then showed what it would look like from the cockpit of a jet fighter using aerial photographs of the Ridge Haven horizon.  Then, at the end of each study of one of Jesus’ No one… quotes ,we did a 4-point roll with that quote superimposed on the picture from the cockpit.  The kids then shouted out the quote every time it appeared on the screen  Go here and use your imagination now, as this is not a PowerPoint slide show.

Well, anyway, it seemed to hold their attention, and God willing it is in their hearts and minds for the ages.  This Friday we’ll do our last 4-point roll over Ridge Haven and I’ll be doing victory rolls into some vacation time. That Super Sabre I flew so long ago has served me again, long after it ended up in the USAF bone yard in the Arizona desert.  But, better by far, I’ll be spending eternity in the company of my Super Savior and—please dear God—as many of my 750 students from the summer of ’07 as your sovereign grace allows.

One Woman's Witness

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 12:15:42 -0400

For the fifth year in a row it was my great joy, this past week at Ridge Haven, to serve missionaries just home from the field at the Mission to the World Summer Conference. I’ve made many friends through this conference and many other MTW gatherings, but none dearer than Paul and Jan Kooistra. Paul heads MTW, one of the best run missionary operations anywhere and the most financially sound agency of the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA), while Jan bears a quiet but no less shining witness to her Lord and Savior. This is Jan’s story, told at the women’s luncheon while the men and children enjoyed a cookout:

When Steve Collins asked me if I would give the devotional at this luncheon, the answer came quickly and easily—No! I’m not a public speaker…getting up in front of a group absolutely terrifies me!  But the Holy Spirit started talking to me just as quickly. In essence, He said, “Jesus went to the cross for you, you know.” He did not have to say more and here I am, in front of you. I could do no other.

First of all, I want to thank all of you for the prayers you have offered up on my behalf, as well as prayers for my husband and family. Those prayers have given us the strength and encouragement to keep on keeping on, to trust in the only wise God and to love Him the more as we walk through our Gethsemane. Because this is way out of my comfort zone, this is probably more a sharing of my life than it is a devotional.

Everyone knows, I’m sure, that I’ve been living with metastatic breast cancer for almost 4.5 years now. It’s the one word, in any language, that strikes fear in everyone. The original diagnosis in 1995 was frightening, but after 2 surgeries and 5 years of oral medication life returned to what seemed “normal.” We had almost forgotten that I HAD cancer. But then….
A scan revealed a lump on my clavicle. A doctor palpated my neck one Monday afternoon and said, “I can tell you right now, you’ve got cancer!”  And he left the room. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. We went home in shock, returning the next week for more biopsies and scans. And he was right. It was metastatic breast cancer, which is incurable—I would be kept alive as long as possible.

My mind was numb and at the same time in a whirl. I wanted to grow old with my husband. I wanted to see my grandchildren grow up to love and serve the Lord. I didn’t want my aged mother to have to watch her daughter die, nor did I want my children to have to watch. I wasn’t ready to leave this world. And the questions that raced through my mind…. Who would take care of my husband? Wash his clothes…iron his shirts…cook his dinner…pay the bills…make sure the taxes were paid…and on and on I would go.

All that took about another week, but then the word spread and we started hearing from people all over the world. It was obvious they were all praying, for we found peace—peace in knowing we were in the loving arms of the Lord Jesus. Peace that could not be conjured on our own, peace that only He can give. Peace in knowing that God was in control.

And so the endless trips to Winship Cancer Center, this doctor, that doctor, this scan, that scan, this chemo, that chemo. Some chemo’s worked, some did not. Cancer is tricky—it changes properties. There were hospital stays for blood clots in my lungs, a long bout in the hospital after finding that my liver did not have the enzymes needed to metabolize the chemo I was taking at the time. It destroyed the mucus membranes, from my lips and mouth all the way down through my intestinal tract. That was a very frightening time, though again, knowing I was in the hollow of His hand brought the peace that can only come from Him.

There are those in the medical field who have urged me to join their support group and can’t understand why I decline. My family is my great support, and of course the faithful prayers of so many. Frankly, it has amazed and humbled me to hear of the people who have not tired of praying for me, so many that have prayed daily and continue to do so.

Paul Jr., our son. moved his wife and 3 little girls from St. Louis to within 5 miles just so they could be near us. He is always full of questions about the latest treatment, cat scan or bone scan. He’s fed us many of his gourmet creations, gives great hugs and calls just to say, “I love you, Mom.” His wife is always ready to run errands for me or bring her famous chicken and cheese soup. And who can resist a 2-year-old’s sloppy kiss on the cheek, two chubby hands holding your face and the words, “MY gramma.” Or watching her 6-year-old sister push herself to the limit on her swim team to bring home a first place ribbon.

Shary, in St. Louis, calls daily and keeps me posted on Sam’s Little League games and Maggie’s last craft project. Though I think she finds it difficult to talk about my cancer, I know she is daily in prayer for me and would cheerfully run the vacuum or clean the bathroom for me if she were about 600 miles closer.

Sidney, who is here with me today, was living with us from last Christmas until just a couple of weeks ago, when she and her husband found the house the Lord had for them to move into. She has been a great help with cooking meals, being my personal nurse, and ever my cheerleader. Their children have kept me smiling with questions like, “Gramma, is your hair falling off?” Or when 8-year-old Alysia, upon asking me to remove the scarf covering my bald head, gave me her most horrified look and then quickly wrapped me up in her arms and said, “You’re still beautiful to me, Gramma.”

And of course my husband. THE example of “Husbands, love your wives as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” His constant prayers, love and encouragement have been unfailing. And he’s learned how to use the washing machine, where to find the vacuum cleaner, and has advanced his culinary skills way beyond peanut butter sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. Other than my own salvation, he is God’s greatest gift to me.

The Lord has given me a wonderful doctor. Though not a Christian, he is the most caring and compassionate man. He never enters or leaves the room without a hug…for both of us. Believe me, he has heard much about the Lord, and though he’s  firm humanist, the seeds have been and are being planted.

The nurse who has taken care of me week after week is a Christian and has become a dear friend. In the unbelievable maze of Winship Cancer Center, she has cut through many obstacles for us and made our trek through that maze a little easier. Unfortunately for us, she was recently promoted to Assistant Director and we are now left to God’s divine intervention in other ways.

We’ve become friends with the pharmacist there, who is a Christian and very active in mission work in Kenya.

Of course there are those around me in the other chemo chairs. Some know the Lord, others do not. We meet their loved ones, we share stories, we weep together, we rejoice together, we laugh together. We share terrible chemo jokes, like “Why don’t they have an express lane at the grocery store for cancer patients? After all, we don’t have as much time as other people.” Or, more seriously, we questions things like, “Should I buy a new pair of shoes? After all, will I be here to wear them?” It’s amazing the things you think and talk about when you have cancer.

Sometimes I go in and find that one of those friends has died. Those are really bad days. I’ve known one who left life with no interest in the Lord whatsoever, another who claimed to once know Him but over time rejected Him, and one who was filled with the love of his Savior and was a testimony of God’s love and care until his home going.

It is very fascinating as God weaves the fabric of my life, bringing His people, and some who are not, to minister to me in a variety of ways. And if God has used me in any way in that place, then it is my privilege to be there.

So, how do I walk with cancer day by day, week by week, month after month and year after year? First of all, I take one day at a time. I remember the blessings throughout my life. I remember how good life has been…and still is. I remember that I was not created for this world, but for eternal life in heaven, with my God and King. As the old spiritual aptly says, “this world is not my home, I’m just passin’ through.”

I remember Tim Keller once said, “Never, never, never think that God is not at work because you cannot see it. And never, ever, ever, ever think you can figure out what God is doing.”
Do I ever have fears, do I have doubts, do I have anxiety? Of course…there are moments, hours, and sometimes days  when I wonder if I can keep going. I am human, I am frail, I am imperfect and in constant need of the Savior. I need to begin every day anew with Jesus. He is my comfort, my strength, my peace. And I remember  Psalm 139. “You formed my inward parts, you knitted me together in my mother’s womb…your eyes saw my unformed substance, in your book were written, everyone of them, the days that were formed for me.” I remember Moses telling Joshua, “be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”
I remember John 14:1-3. “Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” I remember Isaiah 26:3. “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.”  And I remember Psalms 31:14-15a. “But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hand….”

Amen.

The Brook is Drying Up

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 11:35:53 -0400

“And it came to pass after a while, that the brook dried up, because there had been no rain in the land. (1 Kings 17:7)

Some days the news is so grim I’m sorry I read it. Monday morning was one of them. Only Phil Johnson’s blog, Pyromaniac, on the above scripture rescued my attitude. The New York Times, in a front page editorial, declared with glee that the President is beginning to loose his own party’s support for helping a major Mideast nation nurture its precious American-blood-bought freedom. A fledgling USA had a second major war with England 36 years after its War of Independence, enroute to the world’s longest running experiment in government by the people, but a transition from decades of bloody despotism to democracy must happen in a relative heartbeat or liberal politicians want outta there at any price. God-forbid that Iraq joins Vietnam, Beirut, and Somalia on the list of American allies abandoned on the battlefield by the world’s greatest superpower. In some cave on the Afghanistan/Pakistan border there must be much laughter. The terrorists knew all along that the most potent weapon against a few hundred billion dollars worth of military might was the most basic of human attributes—will power. The most heinous attack on American in its history wreaked horrible death and multi-bullion dollar destruction with nothing more than cardboard box cutters as the highest tech weapon, at less cost than a  load of GPS guided bombs on one F-16, and suicidal willpower.

History reveals national prosperity breeds hubris, sloth, decadence and weak wills. That is overwhelmingly obvious to the most causal objective observer, friend or foe, of Europe and American culture today. Rome, the former great superpower, in the fifth century was rotten within when the barbarians approached the gate, making it a walkover for an inferior force with willpower far short of suicidal.

Old Testament Israel was in similar self-induced straits when Elijah’s life-sustaining brook ran dry, but he had God-given willpower, a living faith chronicled in the Bible as a testimony to all mankind, that God’s grace is sufficient for the day, one day at a time. The MSM’s penchant for ballyhooing bad news ignores God’s grace still at work in the world. In spite of the liberal conceit that the Middle East is not ready for democracy, a tiny nation a few hundred miles south of Iraq and 100 miles west of Iran in the Persian Gulf is demonstrating otherwise. The small island nation of Bahrain, with a 98% Muslim indigenous population, a Shi’a/Sunni Muslim mix similar to Iraq—the supposed oil and water combination that ostensibly prevents freedom’s success there—and a 34% foreign population (half of whom are non-Muslim), is thriving economically as a constitutional monarchy, with both male and female suffrage and relatively persecution-free religion. The Heritage Foundation’s Index of Economic Freedom rates it “one of the most open economies in the world” over the last decade. A US military presence—US Fifth Fleet Headquarters—on 79 downtown acres in the nation’s largest city, lives in peace with the population.

But long before the US Navy (in 1944) and even big oil companies (in the late 1920’s) arrived in Bahrain, a handful of Dutch Reformed American missionary doctors arrived in 1893 and built the American Mission Hospital in 1903. It thrives without headlines to this day. The Holy Spirit requires no MSM support—he is efficacious where he wills. AMH’s mission statement proclaims it’s power source, and it is not the point of a sword: “American Mission Hospital maintains a century-long commitment to provide quality, affordable medical services to all who seek our care, to carefully manage the process by which quality care is delivered, and to embody the Biblical principles of grace, truth and love.”  It is demonstrating to the world that Christians can serve Muslims in love and work together in peace in the Middle East, that the greatest sermon a Christian can ever preach is the life he lives. If those pioneering Dutch Reformed missionary doctors could return from the grave they would not call today’s free Bahrain and AMH’s century-old compassionate commitment to Biblical truths an historic coincidence.

America’s influence in the world may well wane, the ocean will ebb and flow, brooks may run dry, depraved mankind will kill with hate till the end of time, but God’s grace and truth and love will endure forever.

To a Wayward Soul

Tue, 3 Jul 2007 13:52:18 -0400

I believe one can speak from the grave…if he is a writer. By God’s grace I have been far more edified by dead writers who loved the Lord than contemporary writers on any subject. During this intense harvest season at Ridge Haven, amid the turbulence of a fallen world, Robert Murray M’Cheyne, a young 19th century Scottish pastor, in his memoirs, has been stirring the depths of my soul and speaking to me right where I hurt. Perhaps you hurt in the same place, or know someone who does…. M’Cheyne wrote this letter to “a youthful parishioner, for whose soul he felt much anxiety.”
“Larbert [Scotland], August 8, 1836

My dear G,

You will be surprised to hear from me. I have often wished to be better acquainted with you; but in these sad parishes we cannot manage to know and be intimate with everyone we would desire. And now you have left your father’s roof and our charge; still my desires go after you, as well as the kind thoughts of many others; and since I cannot now speak to you, I take this way of expressing my thoughts to you. I do not know in what light you look upon me, whether as a grave and morose minister, or as one who might be a companion and friend; but really, it is so short a while since I was just like you, when I enjoyed the games you now enjoy, and read the books you now read, that I can never think of myself as anything more than a boy. This is one great reason why I write to you. The same youthful blood flows in my veins that flows in yours, the same fancies and buoyant passions dance in my bosom as yours; so that when I would persuade you to come with me to the same Saviour, and to walk the rest of your life ‘led by the Spirit of God,’ I am not persuading you to anything beyond your years. I am not like a grey-headed grandfather,—then you might answer all I say by telling me that you are a boy. No; I am almost as much a boy as you are; as fond of happiness and of life as you are; as fond of scampering over the hills, and seeing all that is to be seen, as you are.
Another thing that persuades me to write you, my dear boy, is, that I felt in my own experience the want of having a friend to direct and counsel me. I had a kind brother, as you have, who taught me many things. He gave me a Bible and persuaded me to read it; he tried to train me as a gardener trains the apple tree upon the wall; but all in vain. I thought myself far wiser than he and would always take my own way; and many a time, I well remember, I have seen him reading his Bible, or shutting his closet door to pray, when I had been dressing to go to some frolic, or some dance of folly. Well, this dear friend and brother died; and though his death made a greater impression on me than ever his life had done, still I found the misery of being friendless. I do not mean that I had no relations and worldly friends, for I had many; but I had not a friend who cared from my soul. I had none to direct me to the Saviour—none to awaken my slumbering conscience—none to tell me about the blood of Jesus washing away all sin—none to tell of the Spirit who is so willing to change the heart and give the victory over passions. I had no minister to take me by the hand and say, ‘Come with me and we will do thee good.’ Yes, I had one friend and minister, but that was Jesus Himself, and He led me in a way that makes me give Him, and Him only, all the praise. Now, though Jesus may do this again, yet the more common way with Him is to use earthly guides. Now if I could supply the place of such a guide to you, I should be happy. To be a finger-post is all that I want to be—pointing out the way. This is what I so much wanted myself; this is what you need not want, unless you wish.

Tell me, dear G., would you work less pleasantly through the day—would you walk the streets with a more doleful step—would you eat your meat with less gladness of heart—would you sleep less tranquilly at night—if you had the forgiveness of sins, that is, if all your wicked thoughts and deeds—lies, thefts and Sabbath-breakings—were all blotted out of God’s book of remembrance? Would this make you less happy, do you think? You dare not say it would. But would the forgiveness of sins not make you more happy than you are? Perhaps you will tell me that you are very happy as you are. I quite believe you. I know that I was very happy when I was unforgiven. I know that I had great pleasure in my sins—in Sabbath-breaking, for instance. Many a delightful walk I have had—speaking my own words, thinking my own thoughts, and seeking my own pleasure on God’s holy day. I fancy few boys were ever happier in an unconverted state that I was. No sorrow clouded my brow—no tears filled my eyes, unless over some nice storybook; so that I know that you say quite true when you say that you are happy as you are. But ah! is not this just the saddest thing of all, that you should be happy whilst you are a child of wrath—that you should smile, and eat, and drink, and be merry, and sleep sound when this very night you may be in hell? Happy while unforgiven!—a terrible happiness. It is like the Hindu widow who sits upon the funeral pile with her dead husband, and sings songs of joy when they are setting the fire to the wood with which she is to be burned. Yes, you may be quite happy in this way, till you die, my boy; but when you look back from hell you will say it was a miserable kind of happiness. Now do you not think it would give you more happiness to be forgiven—to be able to put on Jesus and say, ‘God’s anger is turned away?’ Would you not be happier at work, and happier in the house, and happier in your bed? I can assure you, from all that I have ever felt of it, the pleasures of being forgiven are as superior to the pleasures of an unforgiven man, as heaven is higher that hell. The peace of being forgiven reminds me of the calm, blue sky, which no earthly clamors can disturb. It lightens all labor, sweetens every morsel of bread, and makes a sick bed all soft and downy; yea, it takes away the scowl of death. Now, forgiveness may be yours now. It is not given to those who are good. It is not given to any because they are less wicked than others. It is given only to those who, feeling that their sins have brought a curse on them which they cannot lift off, ‘look unto Jesus,’ as bearing all away.

Now, my dear boy, I have no wish to weary you. If you are anything like what I was, you will have yawned many a time over this letter. However, if the Lord deal graciously with you, and touches your young heart, as I pray He may, with a desire to be forgiven, and to be made a child of God, perhaps you will not take ill what I have written to you in much haste. As this is the first time you have been away from home, perhaps you have not learned to write letters yet; but if you have, I would like to hear from you, how you come on—what convictions you feel , if you feel any—what difficulties, what parts of the Bible puzzle you, and then I would do my best to unravel them. You read your Bible regularly, of course; but do try and understand it and still more, to feel it. Read more parts than one at a time. For example, if you are reading Genesis, read a psalm also; or, if you are reading Matthew, read a small bit of an Epistle also. Turn the Bible into prayer. Thus, if you were reading the First Psalm, spread the Bible on the chair before you, and kneel, and pray, ‘O Lord, give me the blessedness of the man,’ etc. ‘Let me not stand in the counsel of the ungodly,’ etc. This is the best way of knowing the meaning of the Bible, and of learning to pray. In prayer confess your sins by name—going over those of the past day, one by one. Pray for your friends by name—father, mother, etc. etc. If you love them, surely you will pray for their souls. I know well that there are prayers constantly ascending for you from you house; and will you not pray for them back again? Do this regularly. If you pray sincerely for others, it will make you pray for yourself.

But I must be done. Good-bye, dear G. Remember me to your brother kindly, and believe me your sincere friend,
R. M. M.

Memoir and Remains of R. M. M’Cheyne, First published 1847. First Banner of Truth Trust edition, reprinted from the 1892 edition 1966, ISBN 0 85151 084 1, page 47-50 .
________________________________________

The LORD's Battle

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 11:11:46 -0400

Ridge Haven summer camp is not yet half over—three weeks down, four to go—but I can say with conviction that teaching the Doctrines of Grace in Jesus’ own words to kids four days a week has been the highlight of my life at Ridge Haven. I will not soon forget the summer of ’07.  The thrill of dancing the wild blue with a supersonic angel, the adrenalin rush of jinking in the crosshairs of the enemy, and the exhilaration of being shot at and missed, were never like this. To be used of God in the lives of children, to see in vivid, knee-knocking real-time the Holy Spirit’s power to change a life, is to be blessed by God beyond all expectation or deserving.

Never has it been more apparent to me that the battle belongs to the LORD, that it is God’s Word, not mine, applied to depraved hearts, that transforms lives. Harvest time in full swing at Ridge Haven has drawn the attention of the evil one, as is often the case. The devil only counter-attacks where he is loosing the battle. Other responsibilities I have as a member of the family of God have intruded at the most inopportune time. The fruit of human shortcomings producing serious problems that appear to have no solution absent a powerful dose of Amazing Grace, have kept me sleeplessly staring up into the dark of the night from my bed and thwarted my focus in class. This week I stepped on my tongue, drew blanks in the middle of key points, mangled syntax, and contradicted myself, disrupting the flow of God’s truth to eager, enthusiastic young minds, and yet…and yet God used it all efficaciously for His glory.

If only I spent as much time on my knees in prayer as I spent this week getting down on the kids’ level to write a verse of scripture and sign their copy of my book and give them a brief word of encouragement. It took maximum self-discipline not to hug every one, kiss every cheek, but even in a church camp such is not prudent in this darkening PC culture.

I had hoped that after three weeks my presentation would be so set that I could relax between sessions, but such has not been the case. Thoughts for improvement flood my mind and I can’t wait till the next class to try them out. When lamenting the lack of a respite in the intensity and my constant editing of my lessons, my associate, Pastor Curt, relieved me of that naïve expectation. He said, “Of course!  The Word of God is living!”  Now I understand more fully what the Puritan divines were driving at when they spoke of the “experimental [experiential] acquaintance with the grace of God.”

The week’s classes ended with my prayer that all the kids there—177 of them—might remember Jesus’ No one… declarations long after they had forgotten the old codger in the scruffy beard who taught them. After class a young lad came up, shyly stuck out his hand and said, “I would never call you a scruffy codger.”  He received a man-to-man handshake and a watery-eyed “thank you” in return.
* * *
Note: The heart of my friend, Emery Bunn, quit hurting and his faith became sight last Thursday at 4 p.m.  His daughter, Anne, told me he lived out what I wrote about him (Candy Man) to his last breath.  The LORD gave, and the LORD has taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD (Job 1:21).

Dad's Day Grace

Tue, 19 Jun 2007 11:42:19 -0400

Another week of amazing grace and kids—spiritual grandchildren in class all week, culminating with some hearts born again by God’s amazing grace, and five of my own flesh-and-blood grandchildren, all together for the first time in their lives for Father’s Day Weekend at Grandpa’s house in the mountains. I am truly blessed. God willing, some forever memories were made in more than just Grandpa’s mind.

The night before Father’s Day we camped out with the oldest 4 grandchildren, one girl and three boys aged 6 to 2.  The key to successful tent camping with young grandchildren is exhausting activities, full bellies, dads along—my son and son-in-law, better fathers than I ever was—for loving discipline at bedtime, the acid test of parenting, and a big tent. In all, seven souls in a tent made for 12.

Saturday afternoon began with a family hike to our favorite waterfall, followed by climbing Ridge Haven’s new “Bouldering Wall.” Supper was another outdoor adventure—brats and wieners roasted over an open fire using whittled maple branches (as opposed to those metal branding irons you get at the hardware store) followed by S’mores till there were no more. Exhausted little bodies and full tummies quickly overcame the excitement of the first-ever sleepover in the woods with grandpa and the cousins. Having a tent already pitched, part of Ridge Haven’s Great Adventure summer camping program was a significant part of the blessing for Grandpa. It seemed no time at all after hitting the sleeping bag atop the air mattress that all I heard was the night music of the woods and a babbling brook. God was gracious and I slept like the dead!

Next morning I slipped out of the tent at twilight, got the fire and the coffee going and stretched out alone in a folding camp chair with footrest, an incredibly comfortable high-end ($15) piece of camp furniture.  Looking up from my reclining position at blue sky through 100-foot-tall pines, their tops drenched in sunlight, while listening to an ecstatic avian choir of yodeling wood thrushes high above, accompanied by the crackle and pop of burning pine pitch at my feet, is about as worshipful a setting as you can find anywhere on a Lord’s Day dawn.

  Then a small blond angel came stumbling sleepily across the forest floor from the tent.
Heaven-sent Hope is the most prayed over baby in the family tree. She arrived three weeks early, after a few dry runs to the hospital, just before midnight on July 24, 2002, after a high risk pregnancy—prenatal tests indicated Downs Syndrome and only one umbilical cord, an indicator of a dreadful list of possible maladies.  It was then that her prostrate parents called on their only hope and proclaimed this tenuous life would be a testament to their faith in her merciful Creator. Her name would be Hope…and God blessed us with a perfectly healthy little girl.

Dragging a well-used security blanket, she wordlessly climbed into my lap by the fire to get warm. All the worst days I ever had as a parent, combined, were worth it for that one cuddly moment by a campfire in the woods at dawn on Dad’s Day with my beloved grandchild. Thank you, Lord.

The Voice of Angels

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 11:28:02 -0400

I heard angels sing this week. What glorious music it was, and in God’s providence, what perfect timing! This week John MacArthur’s jolting National Day of Prayer message—“A Nation [the USA!]Abandoned by God”—got worldwide dissemination through the Focus on the Family daily radio program. Dr. Del Tackett’s blog, Truth Observed, headlined it with a three-day blog follow-up entitled, When God Abandons a People. Everyone who calls himself a Christian needs to hear and read these messages. No one who reads the Bible and follows the daily news can deny that the USA is going down the road of Old Testament Israel, or that our culture is a high-tech replay of Sodom and Gomorrah. And MacArthur anchors his assertion of Divine abandonment solidly in scripture.

MacArthur did not leave us without hope, Christians never are and good preachers constantly remind them, but in my beloved Blue Ridge Mountains I got an extraordinary antidote—the voice of angels. It was my first week of teaching Ridge Haven Summer Campers from my book, No one…. I was prepared to teach, more so perhaps than anything I have very taught, but I was not prepared for such enthusiastically teachable children. Summer camp is not Sunday School. With God’s grace and long hours of planning, preparation, and training of godly counselors, Ridge Haven summer camp is a 24/7 immersion in the kingdom of God. The beauty of God’s creation in this magnificent wilderness cathedral, passionate worship leaders, and doctrinally-sound great music all put the kids in a teachable mindset, and I was the recipient of all that hard work. There were more frantically waving hands in the air than I could respond to and still achieve my lessons objectives in the allotted time.

I’m using a lot of PowerPoint visuals in my teaching, but without all the distracting bells and whistles and fancy fades and spins—just Jesus’ plain and simple language—a visual reinforcement to the verbal communication of God’s word to aid recitation and retention.

Kids love stories—“felicitous illustrations,” Andrew Bonar called them—that illustrate God’s truth. The challenge is to keep the story short, vivid and complimentary, not dominant, to imbed truth by grace in nascent grey matter. Spurgeon is my mentor here. He could find Jesus in every verse of scripture and a vivid felicitous illustration in the most mundane detail of daily life.

But the angelic visitations occurred after class and in the informal moments of the week, when, for example, a seraphic smile framed with black pigtails tentatively approached and said, “Mr. Wetterling, I like your class,” then proceeded to tell me how God was working in her heart, melting mine in the process. I got down on one knee to better look her in the eye…and because my knees were weak.

My wife tells me I can be an intimidating codger. God willing, a summer’s worth of this angelic antidote will put an end to such off-putting arrogance. Perhaps I learned more than the children did this week….

John MacArthur may well be right that God has abandoned America, in fact I think he is—God has. There is abundant evidence pointing in that direction. But I also know this: He never vacates born again hearts. And God is till calling out His chosen from this depraved world. He is still regenerating hearts and opening eyes to His kingdom (John 3:3). We can never know for sure, but I am pretty confident I met several of His elect this week. I pray that God used me in their young lives as much as He used them in mine. Dear God, may the cup of cold water I offer these little ones (Matt. 10:42), living water from the spring from which I have drunk, water the seeds of your truth planted in their souls and produce a bountiful crop for your glory. In this growing season in the summer of ’07, may I be invisible as your covenant children at Ridge Haven feast on Jesus (John 12:21). In His name, Amen.

menõ

Tue, 5 Jun 2007 14:09:35 -0400

J. D. Watson has been blessing my socks off this year.  I’ve been reading his daily devotional, A Word for the Day, sandwiched between J. C. Ryle’s Daily Reading From All Four Gospels, and Martin Lloyd Jones’ Walking With God Day by Day.  It’s world class theological company, but J. D., small-town preacher from deep in the Colorado Rockies (Meeker) more than holds his own with these two British titans from the last two centuries.  His daily one-page exposition on a year’s worth of the most important Greek words in the Bible—a word a day—has convinced me of the importance of understanding scripture in the original language.  English words simply do not carry the etymological clout, finely-tuned grammar or nuanced definition of the Greek language.  Add to that the challenges of translation between any two languages and you have no trouble understanding why any seminary worth its salt sets Greek as a first semester required course.

  Here’s a daily sample from the June 3rd reading that, in God’s providence, I found particularly profound and timely in my life:

"Another glorious application of the word abide [menõ, 3306, pronounce it like the little fish you use for bait. jdw] is that God abides in the believer.  In other words, as the meaning of menõ indicates, God remains in the Christian; He’s always present there, and He never leaves.
John 15 is the most graphic passage on this truth.  This word appears to be one of John’s favorites, in fact, as he uses it twelve times in verses 4-16, and is also translated “continue” (v. 9) and “remain” (v. 11).  The picture here, of course, is our Lord’s analogy of a vine that illustrates how He abides in us and we in Him. Verses 4 and 5 declare, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.  I am the vine, ye are the branches; He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing.”  As a vine gives life and sends nourishment throughout the entire plant, so Christ gives us life and sustenance.

"Another vivid example of this principle appears in John 14:16: “And I [Christ] will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you forever.” We’ll examine this verse in more detail June 5 and 6, but the wonderful truth here is that the Comforter (the Holy Spirit) abides in us and will always abide in us (since “forever” is a long time).

"God makes the same promise in Hebrews 13:5: “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” This is actually a quotation of Deuteronomy 31:6: “Be strong and of good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them [i.e. your adversaries]: for the LORD thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.” What a promise! And we can be assured of the promise because “God…cannot lie” (Titus 1:2; cf. Num. 23:19).

"What peace there is in knowing that God is always with us!

"Scriptures for Study: John again uses menõ many more times in his epistles.  Read 1 John 2:6-28, for example, noting each occurrence of abide and continued. [I would add that Crosswalk.com reports the word appears 34 times in the Gospel of John and 105 times in the whole New Testament in a KJV verse count.  Repetition is a sign of importance in God’s Word.  jdw]"

The June 4th reading expounds on what it means for the Christian to abide in God (Abide in me, and I in you.), but you’ll have to buy the book to read that one.  I urge you to do so.

*     *     *

I began my teaching from “No one…” to covenant children and their friends, from ages 8 to 18, here at Ridge Haven Summer Camp this morning (There are still some openings for your children and grandchildren!).  It will continue every Tuesday thru Friday morning through the end of July. God willing, these children will say, with the hymnist, at summer’s end,

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile;
And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee,
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me.

I covet your prayers, dear reader, that I might be our LORD’s witness with all the passion and plain English He wills to provide.  And I pray the Holy Spirit will take the words of a flawed old codger and do a mighty miracle in the hearts of these dear children, that they and their friends might go home abiding in God and He in them, with a joy that No one will take away…ever.

A Memorial Day Lamentation

Mon, 28 May 2007 05:56:57 -0400

As I write this on a Sunday afternoon, 4-500,000 motorcycles are making their way slowly in three columns from the Pentagon parking lot into Washington DC and down Constitution Avenue to the Vietnam War Memorial, there to park on the grass of The Mall and pay their respects to fallen soldiers.  It’s the 20th anniversary of Rolling Thunder, a massive veterans tribute to fallen veterans.  A few years ago I was there as a spectator and found it moving in the extreme. The sound of a half-million idling  motorcycles—like rolling thunder—vibrates every bone in the body in frequency with those in the middle ear. It was my first pilgrimage to the Vietnam War Memorial thirty-nine years after I returned home from that war. I had been awestruck by the half-scale-model traveling version when it came to our town two years earlier, but it was inadequate preparation for this.

My thirty-something son, who accompanied me, allowed me to wrestle with my demons in silence as we shuffled in respectful procession, amid that flowing river of humanity, along the overwhelming black onyx wall. I rubbed my fingers over the names of three friends indelibly engraved on that wall: Lance at panel 57W, line 037, Lynn at panel 51W, line 032 and Vince at panel 27W, line 103. It warmed my soul with electrifying, gut-wrenching gratitude to God for such courageous patriots.

The sky that day was a dirty galvanized tub inverted over the seat of the world’s greatest superpower. It matched the mood of the hushed cortege while anointing bowed heads with drizzle. Cool drops diluted hot salty ones on ruddy cheeks of middle-aged vets, mine included, for whom the Vietnam War was the watershed event of our lives, perhaps our post-modern culture. It was the first time in our nation’s history that we abandoned an ally on the battlefield, compounding the grief of 58,200 lost lives.

On this Memorial Day, 2007, it appears we are about to do so yet again.  Mitt Romney, a Republican candidate for President, this week summarized the liberal strategy of political-posturing-over-patriotism better that any I’ve read:

“Voting against our troops during a time of war shows the American people that the leaders of the Democrat Party will abandon principle in favor of political positioning. Their votes render them undependable in the eyes of the men and women of the United States military and the American people.”

I would add “unworthy” to “undependable.” The liberals’ push for surrender by the world’s greatest nation to tenth rate despots and stateless Muslim terrorists is the most despicable form of cowardice, even treason. How long, O Lord, will we continue to squander the lives our nation’s brave young men by walking away from wars we start with the noblest of intentions? Every terrorist tortoise in the world knows he can win the race over the Yankee hare, who can’t sprint past the next election. The only help the turtle needs is a cohort of suicidal dupes and a press agent. Until and unless we elect politicians with the selfless courage of our soldiers, America will go the way of every other world power in history, doomed by its political leadership’s own hell-bound hubris.

My fears, expressed to my son at The Wall that day, have grown enormously in the intervening eight years.  We have an enemy now that has vowed to destroy us, has demonstrated its ability to wreak havoc on us with nothing more than evil ingenuity, with a rabid development program for weapons of mass destruction. The enemy’s advance party is now among us, awaiting orders, with reinforcements clamoring ominously at the gate, and the majority party on the Potomac ties itself in knots over…the weather.  It makes Nero’s fiddling while Rome burned seem sane.  God help us.

  I told my son I could envision that awesome granite wall as radioactive lava just a few blocks from ground zero and some old soldier somewhere repeating Jerome's shocked cry for an earlier world superpower—Rome—1600 years ago: “My voice falters, sobs stifle the words I dictate; for she is captive, that city that enthralled the world.”

Another ancient eyewitness lamented over another fallen city, Jerusalem in 586 B.C., its sins so similar to 5th century Rome and 21st century America—blatant God-defying sin and covenant breaking rebellion—that this Christian is driven to his knees in fear for his country and his grandchildren.  But the prophet Jeremiah, witness to Jerusalem’s fall, after some of the darkest poetic lamentation in all the Bible, expresses the only hope of depraved mankind:

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, "The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for him." The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him (Lamentations 3:21-25a).

This Memorial Day I am grateful to my pastor, Dr. H. Andrew Silman, who preached so powerfully on this passage precisely on the national holiday weekend when my grief for my heroic friends and fears for my country peak, and every annual summit seems higher than the one before.  With my namesake, Jeremiah, I have no hope in man or governments in this wearisome, sin sick world, and I groan for the holiness of heaven.  My hope is in God’s faithfulness, and biblical hope is hope with assurance based on a sovereign God’s promise that it will come to pass. As Dr. Andy says, “Life is hard, but God is good.”  His compassions never fail. Thereon I stake my eternal soul.

Adopted

Tue, 22 May 2007 11:44:52 -0400

North Carolina native Charles Kuralt said, “If a fella is a mountain man, he’ll tell you. If not, why embarrass him by asking?”  I saw his quote printed on a beautiful poster of these mountains in my cardiologist’s waiting room in Asheville this week. I was there proving to the doc, via a nuclear stress test, that I had the “heart of a thirty-year-old,” to quote a smiling nurse. That’s less than half my chronological age, for those who don’t know. I attribute that diagnosis to these mountains, the God-breathed mountain air I inhale, the exercise I get on this topsy-turvy topography, and the serenity my soul absorbs by grace in this Blue Ridge wilderness cathedral. Above all I owe it to the providential God who made them and me and everything else I see here. If you ask, you won’t embarrass me—I’m a recovering flatlander and I’ve adopted these mountains.

This was the last free weekend till sometime in August and my bride and I took advantage of the freedom, severe clear blue skies and a perfectly moderate temperate to explore this suburban heaven, something we never tire of. We began by tying a bright red table cloth among the trees of our eagle’s nest, shot a compass heading on the Devil’s Courthouse (352°), a famous rocky promontory on the horizon, then spent the next 40 minutes driving up to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Courthouse to see if we could see our eagle’s nest as clearly from the opposite direction. I know, you’re thinking I have too much time on my hands. But, if I may paraphrase Voltaire’s rhymes in response, it is in every respect / a luxury fit for the elect (The Man of the World).

The 4th Commandment requires us to worship and contemplate God one day in seven.  The glory of these mountains generates a spontaneous Sabbath in me much more often than that. If there is a better way than this to prepare for the next (eternal) life while gratefully enjoying the God-given gifts of this (transitory) one, I don’t know it. Anyway, we could not see the bright red cloth from 12 miles away, but I was able to just make out, with binoculars from the devil’s overlook, using the reciprocal of the compass heading, a couple of neighbors’ houses.
After our picnic lunch we went exploring mountain byways unknown to us and discovered a delightful place (it’s a pdf file and the pics are worth the wait!). It was a house on a hilltop overlooking a small trout-filled lake (minus a dozen or so on a fisherman’s stringer), with a near and far horizon view to die for—gaze down on the lake, up on the mountaintops—well away from humanity and perfect for a family reunion getaway (sleeps 16). I had actually discovered the lake from Wolf Mountain Overlook on the Parkway an hour earlier, a few miles west of the devil’s place as I swept the mountains below me with my binoculars. It wasn’t on my map, but the lakeside sign read Balsam Lake. It appears a landowner bequeathed it all to the guv’ment.  It’s now a State Park and the house can be rented out for overnights or weekends. These mountains are full of surprises like this.

We also took a trip up over the spine of the Appalachians from Asheville on the southern slopes to Johnson City, Tennessee on the northern, one of the most beautiful one-hour freeway drives (US 26) in America. Kuralt, a lover of 2-lanes for 25 years for CBS, said freeways are a means of getting across America without seeing it, but this freeway was not completed when he was on the road. It took years and millions to drastically rearrange some mountains to carve out four lanes and a wide green median, but it’s been completed long enough now that the non-granite scars have all healed with fresh green. It is so spectacularly gorgeous you need to swap designated drivers periodically to absorb it all and not run off the road, which in some places would result in a freefall to terminal velocity.

When I lived in Florida I used to scoff at northerners who claimed to prefer four seasons. Well, now that I am back among them, yet significantly further removed from the North Pole than in my earlier years, I apologize for my arrogant apostasy. A great part of the thrill of the resurrection green of spring is the winter of dormant non-green that preceded it. New life every spring is a soul-stirring form of Blue Ridge typology. I’ll have a new life of my own one bright day, in heaven with God who graciously adopted me, through Christ who makes all things new. It will be a shorter trip than for non-mountain men.

Quiet Beauty

Tue, 15 May 2007 14:42:01 -0400

Summer arrived this Sunday just past. We spent the Lord's Day afternoon at our mountaintop aerie, basking in the holiness of His Blue Ridge glory. The hymnist said it best:

Heaven above is deeper blue,
earth around is sweeter green,
that which grows in every hue
Christless eyes have never seen.

Only about 20% of the mountain laurel buds have opened thus far to accent my favorite color—the new green of spring. And the beauty of Heaven’s deeper blue, punctuated with blinding white cotton wads, overpowered even our expensive digital camera’s ability to capture reality. The play of the cloud-cast shadows on the mottled green of the mountain ridges and peaks was mesmerizing. Such a glorious panorama can only be fully appreciated by being here in the flesh with Christ-opened eyes (John 3:3). Surely this is the kingdom of God. The best of the season is yet to be, and all is but a shadow of the promised glory we await (1 Corinthians 2:9).

There was even more to make this particular worship time special—stillness, as in, be still and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10), another of my favorite things. I have been disappointed to discover that mountaintops and mankind don’t usually make for heavenly quietude. All sounds seem to float to the top—dogs barking, ATV’s defiling the tranquility of the woods, trucks grinding up steep grades in the distance, or guns being fired. Even loud voices carry surprisingly far in the mountains. Perhaps all the noisemakers were inside honoring mama on this special day. The loudest noises we heard were nature sounds—a squirrel high overhead in an oak, chastising us for disturbing his tranquility, (but we outlasted him) and a brief outburst from a crow fussing over something. The only other sound was the baritone buzz of a bumble bee as he feasted on the mountain laurel blossoms all about us, his leg sacs bulging with pollen. Unbeknownst to that aerodynamic anomaly, he was guaranteeing a bountiful crop of mountain laurel blossoms for next season, just one of a billion similar serendipitous scenarios in nature that proclaim the glory of the Divine Designer to all but Christless eyes.

Intermittent sweet smelling zephyrs caressed the cheeks and delighted the olfactories with a heavenly incense. The Psalmist says, Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him (Psalm 37:7). What a joyfully easy thing that is to do on a summer Sabbath Mother's Day in the quiet beauty of this Wilderness Cathedral, with the mother of my children, a beauty in a class of her own. I’m a blessed man.

Grace and Good-by's

Tue, 8 May 2007 12:16:41 -0400

It was two-and-a-half years ago that Brother Jack and I said good-by for the last time. If you don’t know about my dear friend, Annapolis grad, WW II hero, nuke sub commander, Regan staffer and born again child of God at age 79, then please go here first. He was living in an apartment in one of southern California’s most elegant retirement communities at the time and it was a profoundly moving good-by.

But God had other plans. Jack Bennett is still with us, as you can see. As I write this I’m at 33,000 feet eastbound over Texas, (If this were an F-22 I’d be home by now.) returning from a wonderful weekend with Brother Jack, now age 89. He’s proving what I already knew—he’s one tough sailor.

In the last two-and-a-half years he has progressed through all the standard stages of retirement community life, from independent living to assisted living to the skilled nursing section, “the last stop,” he said with a smirk. He now needs assistance for everything except thinking and talking, his towering intellect trapped in a languishing body. He’s been unable to communicate via email the last few months, and even phone conversations have been a struggle. Hearing aids just don’t hack it when talking on the telephone. But man to man in the flesh it was like the good old days, though in slow motion. We spent the weekend studying the 14th and 17th chapters of the Gospel of John, interspersed with war stories from WW II and Vietnam. I had some help on my side from our mutual friend, Paul Otto, a retired Navy fighter pilot who lives nearby and dropped in. Brother Jack still insists he wants to be a fighter pilot, probably the only lifelong dream he has not fulfilled. I think he’d be bored after what he’s lived through. God willing you’ll be able to read all about his amazing life in a memoir in search of a publisher, entitled No Time to Waste, about God’s amazing grace in our lives in two wars and His providence in bringing us together.

We discussed plans for his memorial celebration. A Navy Captain may retire, but he never quits planning. He has asked me to officiate at his funeral, and I offered to handle the graveside service as well. It will be at the opposite end of the country, the cemetery at Annapolis, where he’ll be interred with his beloved wife, who predeceased him many years ago, and his classmates (USNA Class of ’41). It’s an honor for which I am unworthy but joyfully eager to do. It was such a blessing to witness this self-described “poor student” of the Bible calmly discussing such grim details with all the assurance of a born again child of God.

There were bountiful blessings this weekend. Between the San Diego airport and Jack’s place, on Friday, I had lunch with Tim Lickness, an attorney, Vietnam vet, and likewise brother in Christ. We have been email friends for nearly 11 years and this was our first face-to-face meeting. Tim ministers to the Marines in basic training at Camp Pendleton near his home. Sunday morning I addressed the adult Sunday School class and worshiped at Grace Presbyterian Church (PCA) in Orange County, where my friend, Dr. Ron Gleason, shepherds a thriving flock. Brother Jack, Tim, Paul, Ron and the family of God at Grace put the lie to Gallagher’s old joke that SoCal is a bowl of granola. I never met a single fruit, flake or nut all weekend, but I sure met a lot of folks who love the Lord. I still prefer the blue of the Blue Ridge to SoCal’s occasional yellow/brown haze, and dirt under my feet rather than all that concrete, and 2-lane roads over 16-lane parking lots, but God is building his church in sunny SoCal, and the gates of hell will not prevail. As Tim tells his young Marines, “There’s a cosmic battle going on, too, you know. Why not enlist on the side we know is going to win [no matter which way Congress votes]?”

Monday morning Brother Jack and I once more said good-by for the last time on earth.

“You're blessed to be able to live in such a beautiful place with such a caring staff, Brother Jack.”

“I'm blessed for a whole lot more than that.”

I concluded with, Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also (John 14:1-3). That will be a wonderful day, Brother Jack, where…no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9 ).

“I…am…so grateful.”

“And the best, by far, is yet to come! I will see you there, if not before.” My flip response, as I gripped his shoulders, belied the anguish within. I found my way out of my brother’s room and navigated down the wide, carpeted hallway on autopilot, blinded by the Amazing Grace of the Light of the World. Our God reigns.

A Teacher in Word and Deed

Wed, 2 May 2007 06:21:19 -0400

He’s a southern gentleman in the classic sense of the word, right down to referring to his wife as Miss Lois. In his ninth decade of life he’s a walking lexicon of comparative religion and a passionate professor of reformed theology. Sitting in his Sunday School class these last five-and-a-half years has been like attending seminary without having to pay tuition. There’s a good reason for that. Dr. Morton H. Smith is a founding professor of two seminaries. After studying under John Murray at Westminster Theological Seminary and earning his Ph.D. under G. C. Berkouwer at the Free University of Amsterdam, he helped start Reformed Theological Seminary in Jackson, MI, where he taught for 15 years, and then Greenville (SC) Presbyterian Theological Seminary, where he still teaches one day a week. Between those two professorships he sandwiched 16 years as Stated Clerk (Chief Administrator) of the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA), where he was intimately involved in writing the Book of Church Order. It’s been quite a productive life for a World War II throttle jockey—he was an instructor pilot in Curtis AT-9’s (shown) and AT-10’s, the twin-engine advanced trainer for B-26 bomber pilots, during the war and flew his own small plane long past the time when airline pilots are required to retire.

Dr. Smith is currently teaching through one of his many books, entitled Harmony of the Westminster Confession and Catechisms. I believe it is the best of the many classes I have heard him teach. What a blessing it is to sit under a theologian in the twilight of his years whose inner light burns brighter than ever after a lifetime of teaching God’s word and mentoring men to teach it. To the extent mere man can model Christ as he teaches God’s truths, Dr. Smith comes the closest of any “preacher man” I know.

One of his students from seminary long ago, my friend, Rev. William H. Smith (no relation), had this to say in a tribute to Dr. Smith on his 80th birthday surprise dinner:

  I thank you for your teaching me as a seminary student over thirty years ago. You grounded me in a system of doctrine that has been the foundation of my ministry since I was ordained in 1972. I have told several seminary presidents, as well as others, that, while other professors have their distinctive gifts and contributions, the remarkable thing about your teaching is that you have been able to get across to students a theology they understood, believed, and used in ministry. I am never embarrassed to say, “Morton Smith gave me my theology, and it is that theology that has guided me and that I have preached and taught in every place that I have served as a minister of the Gospel.”

I am appreciative, as well, that you have modeled before many of us and encouraged us to have the courage of conviction. You have stood for what you believe in all the seasons of your life and without fear or favor in the life of the Church. All this you have done as a godly man and a Christian gentleman.

         This grateful elder/Sunday School student can only add, “Amen.”  But you don’t have to take Rev. Smith’s word or mine for it. Go here and listen to Dr. Smith yourself. The last lesson this past Sunday, April 29, 2007, from Chapter Nineteen of the Westminster Confession (with questions 98-105 of the Larger Catechism) was profoundly moving.

This 350-year old Confession, created by 151 godly Englishmen over a five year period beginning in 1643, at the direction of Parliament, is the doctrinal standard of my denomination, the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA). It is subordinate to God’s Word, but it is a guide, a roadmap, a scintillating summary of scripture that by God’s grace changed my life a few decades ago. It turned on lights, put puzzle pieces together, and brought coherence to all of God’s Word, with abundant scriptural proof-texts, and I have referred back to it with regularity ever since, both in private study and corporate worship. So it’s not that I am hearing new information in Sunday School class these days, rather I am basking in old truth presented afresh after a lifetime of study by a fellow aviator—convicting, inspiring, sanctifying—delivered with all the passion and plain English an octogenarian seminary professor can muster. And its mega-wattage enlightenment from one of the greatest living reformed theologians, my Sunday School teacher, Dr. Morton Smith!  I'll fly on his wing anywhere.

A Little While

Tue, 24 Apr 2007 11:59:28 -0400

Gone is that demonic device, called a TV, from our gatekeeper’s cottage. According to my pastor you could call that a form of fasting (hear his sermon on Matt. 6:16-18) , but I think that would imply there was some want and willpower involved. There is none on my part, only a sense of freedom from revulsion. Thanks to the antidote of Willy and OJ’s transgressions dominating the evening news at the tail end of the last century, I easily, joyfully overcame that addiction. A few months ago my wife realized she hadn’t turned her TV on in her office for several months. She cancelled the satellite service and now only raindrops bounce off our rooftop dish.

The only tangible link left to my former life is a hard copy subscription to The Wall Street Journal, going on 38 years now, and that’s in addition to an online paid subscription. I pay serious bucks by periodical standards, even more so measured against the income this “job” provides, and it is not just because, twisted tightly, it make great fire starter, be it campfire or fireplace. I cannot envision ever opening my mailbox to the sound of rushing water and not seeing it folded up there. It’s the only MSM voice of reason left worth real money. It has the only editorial page that is not afraid to quote Scripture and unashamedly espouse biblical principles. God bless ‘em. (In the interest of full disclosure, they have paid me for my scribblings twice in my life.)

A few months back they added a Saturday delivery, and that 118-year-old world-leader newspaper got even better. The Saturday edition seems to focus more on the business of life than the business of business—soul food versus money and manna. That is something I desperately needed back when I was trying to corner the world’s money supply and found a two-day weekend a hindrance to achieving my goals.

Last Saturday’s edition (April 21, 2007) was a case in point. There were two front-page case studies on the wages of sin in business and politics, and, in one of them, a modicum of redemption. But what most grabbed my attention and caused me to ponder long was a front page article about a 61-year-old high-tech tycoon who cashed in a few years ago. He pierced his ears, spiked and frosted his hair, got tattooed with his friends on an impulse, acquired a 23-year-old girlfriend and now spends his time with his friends flying around the far Southwest US desert in an ultralight airplane. That’s when he’s not building himself palatial homes. I was drawn into the story by the picture of the ultralight because in truth I do miss my flying days, which predate my business days, which I’ve never missed for a microsecond.

I confess I lusted over his ultralight—I watched the online video (subscribers only) several times—but by the time I finished the article I had tears in my eyes. I think I would genuinely like this guy—aviators do have a unique rapport. Perhaps one day we’ll meet and get to fly together. But…I felt an overwhelming sadness.

When I took early retirement at 57, with far less than a tycoon-class net worth, so that my wife and I might flee to the mountains and Ridge Haven, we discussed at length how these years working not for money but for the things that last were a God-given opportunity to prepare for the life to come.

I’m in the middle of a wonderful book by Iain H. Murray entitled A Scottish Christian Heritage.
One of the spiritual titans featured in the book is Dr. Thomas Chalmers, the Scottish preacher/professor who’s statue in Edinburgh calls him, “the greatest spiritual force Scotland saw in the nineteenth century.” Chalmers believed that a man in his sixties should give himself chiefly to preparation for heaven, likening the seventh decade of life to the Sabbath rest from worldly pursuits. He prepared right up to the last evening of his life, mentoring the generation of young preachers (M’Cheyne, Burns, Bonar, Summerville, et all) who were used by God to lead the early 19th century Scottish revival.

The providential juxtaposition of my preparation-for-the-next life reading with the secular reading is becoming so commonplace it is no longer remarkable. My food for thought, as I hiked these woods these last few magnificent spring days, has been comparing and contrasting a man like Chalmers with a man who “has it all” by worldly standards and is playing his life away. Now it is possible the tycoon knows the Lord, but, if so, it is atypical of the WSJ not to comment on such an important aspect of who he is. Aside from using the word “heaven” to describe a flying scene, the fruit that he bears, as reported in the story, would not be classed as good as the Bible defines good fruit.

C. H. Spurgeon said, “A little while—a little while, and then glory forever.” Natural man is not a rational man. How sad that a brilliant man in a position of complete freedom from material want would spend his most precious wasting commodity—the dwindling minutes of his life—focused on maximizing pleasure in the decreasing “little while” rather than infinite joy for eternity.

Christ’s warning is crystal clear:

“Even now the axe is laid to the root of the trees.
Every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit
is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
(Luke 3:9)

For this Reason?

Tue, 17 Apr 2007 16:28:59 -0400

It’s 7 weeks till the first of 7 weeks of Summer Camps at Ridge Haven, when the woods of this wilderness cathedral come alive with the joyful sounds of covenant children. Deadlines loom in all directions for our new Ministry Director as he strives to find and hire all the key people needed and makes decisions on a hundred other critical planning issues. Generally summer is a slothful time for me, as camp counselors pick up a lot of the guest services duties that fall to the Resident Manager the rest of the year, but this summer will be different. The theme of Summer Camp is “No one…” based on a little introductory apologetic book I wrote that was published by Christian Focus Publications last year. I will be the teacher of all age groups—800 to 1000 kids from age 8 to 18, four times a week for 7 weeks. I have done a lot of public speaking all over the country in my life, before a variety of groups, and taught a lot of Sunday School classes and preached a number of sermons (I’d rather write and speak than eat.), but none of them ever excited me like the prospect of this.

Since this decision was made, far above my pay grade at Ridge Haven earlier this year, I have been consumed with the prospect of presenting God’s plan of salvation, in Christ’s own plain and simple words, to young hearts and minds. Virtually every passage of Scripture I read these days I see a connection to one of Jesus’ six quotes beginning with “No one…” in the Gospel of John. Memories from my out-of-the-ordinary life come to mind at any hour of the night or day that demonstrate one of these quotes and I ponder ways to tell the story to our campers in a winsome way that drives home our Lord’s truth. I have scribbled notes to myself in a dozen places—notebooks, scraps of paper, margins of books. I wrestle with ideas for visual aids that will help engrave God’s Word for the ages in young minds. I awoke at 3 a.m. this morning, early even for me, with ideas I just had to get recorded in my computer.

It is by grace alone that I’m still breathing, let alone planning such a summer. Thirty-eight years ago last night I got into a hellish post-midnight gunfight as a young fighter pilot in Vietnam. I dove through a fire hose of glowing red bullets in my face that looked far too thick to fly through…and survived unscathed. My soul brother wingman did not. I watched him die in a massive fireball, and plane and pilot have never been found. Few days have passed since then that I have not wondered why God spared me and not my friend. There were other survival-by-the-grace-of-God-alone battles, like this one. It doesn’t take much thought for me to come up with some wonderful possible divine reasons to every combat survivor’s question, “Why me?” There have been 38 more years of wedded bliss to the beautiful bride of my youth, two God-fearing adult children married to God-fearing spouses, and 5 grandchildren who are my life’s breath because He chose to spare me. I doubt I will ever know how God prioritized His reasons (if He does that kind of thing) when he planned my life. Perhaps, just perhaps He brought me through it all so that one summer in the autumn of my years I might witness to His Amazing Grace, that I might preach His truth with all the passion and plain English He is pleased to provide me, before 1000 spiritual grandchildren. And one day, long after the “No one…” summer camp T-shirts are worn out, when they are grandparents themselves, they will look back with gratitude on their life and remember the summer of ’07 and that codger with a scruffy beard at Ridge Haven who taught them God’s plan of salvation in Jesus’ own words. Lord willing, they will think, “That man pointed me in just the right direction—the gospel according to Jesus—and “‘No one’ has and no one will take away my joy!”

Dear Lord may it be so for Your glory alone.

An Easter Always Strategy

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 16:06:40 -0400

My bride is in Colorado helping her mother move from a beautiful home on Cheyenne Mountain into a condo with a magnificent view of Pike’s Peak. I spent Easter afternoon alone, pondering what I could do, by God’s grace, to make this spiritual mountaintop of Resurrection Day into a plateau that stretches all the way to the horizon. How can an adopted child of God, redeemed with the Son of God’s own blood, sealed unto eternal life with Christ’s resurrection, maintain the passionate joy of Easter morning all year long? With such a list of amazing grace-filled accomplishments by the Son of God, how can I not?  I disgust myself. Why do I let the minor irritants of life in this fallen world, the spiritual skirmishes that are in reality just mopping up patrols against an enemy in his death throes, bring me down off this mountaintop?

The truth is the old man and the devil in his death throes are still formidable foes—in fact, my old man rarely needs the devil’s help—and with John Owen I must work to mortify the sin still in me. It’s that God-is-providential-but-I-am-responsible truth that seems like such a conundrum to natural reason. But rather than share any more of my post-Easter angst with you, I’d rather offer some practical helps that I’ve discovered and am endeavoring to employ to level the mountain without reducing its altitude. God in his providence has put some great words from my favorite icons of the faith before my eyes this past Holy Week.

Phil Johnson at Pyromaniacs quoted one my favorite Baptist preachers of the 19th Century, Charles H. Spurgeon with some help-for-the-ages in this regard:

"O blessed morning! not to be celebrated by an Easter once in the year; but to be commemorated on every first day of the week, more than fifty times in each year. Every seven days that the sun shines upon us brings us a new record of his resurrection…. The first day of the week stands for ever as the remembrance of our risen Lord, and on that day he renews his special communings with his people. We believe in him; we rise in him; we triumph in him…."

The Christian Sabbath became the Lord’s Resurrection Day, the first day of the week instead of the last, as in Old Testament days, out of the sheer joyous spontaneity of the disciples, the joy that Christ promised them could never be taken away (John 16:22). It was the fulfillment of the Psalmist prophesying, in the present tense to emphasis the certainty of it: The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it (Psalms 118:22-24). By the time the Apostle John was an old man imprisoned on Patmos this day was enshrined till Christ returns as the “Lord’s Day” (Rev. 1:10). The Puritan sage, Matthew Henry, explains it best:

"…it may very fitly be understood of the Christian sabbath, which we sanctify in remembrance of Christ's resurrection [my emphasis], when the rejected stone began to be exalted [He arose!]; and so, (1.) Here is the doctrine of the Christian sabbath: It is the day which the Lord has made, has made remarkable, made holy, has distinguished from other days; he has made it for man: it is therefore called the Lord's day, for it bears his image and superscription. (2.) The duty of the sabbath, the work of the day that is to be done in his day: We will rejoice and be glad in it, not only in the institution of the day, that there is such a day appointed, but in the occasion of it, Christ's becoming the head of the corner. This we ought to rejoice in both as his honour and our advantage. Sabbath days must be rejoicing days, and then they are to us as the days of heaven….

"Thus highly has God exalted [Christ], because he humbled himself; and we, in compliance with God's design, must make him the foundation of our hope, the centre of our unity, and the end of our living. To me to live is Christ. (3.) The hand of God in all this: This is the Lord's doing; it is from the Lord; it is with the Lord; it is the product of his counsel; it is his contrivance. Both the humiliation and the exaltation of the Lord Jesus were his work, (Acts 2:23-4). He sent him, sealed him; his hand went with him throughout his whole undertaking, and from first to last he did his Father's will; and this ought to be marvelous in our eyes. Christ's name is Wonderful; and the redemption he wrought out is the most amazing of all God's works of wonder; it is what the angels desire to look into, and will be admiring to eternity; much more ought we to admire it, who owe our all to it."

One cannot savor Henry’s thought and be anywhere but at the pinnacle of the mountain. I had been attending church for many years before I realized I went to church on Sunday instead of Saturday as in Old Testament times because it commemorated Easter. Now, too often I forget it. Too often, as a Ruling Elder, I drive to church as if it were a business meeting. I mentally itemize my to-do list—must talk to so-and-so between Sunday School and worship…must tell whathisname thus and such, must not forget to drop memo in pastor’s inbox…ad nauseum. It’s some of the old man’s best work. Lord, have mercy. By your grace may I celebrate your resurrection, honor you alone the first day of every week until you return. I have proven my solo incapability repeatedly, to my great shame.

How then to stay rooted at the summit from Monday to Saturday?

This Holy Week I read a biography of a man who appeared to do just that. Alexander Smellie has written an excellent biography of Robert Murray McCheyne, a nineteenth century Scottish Presbyterian pastor. McCheyne “…was enrolled among the volunteers and athletes of Christ who have prayed for ‘a short life in the saddle’ rather than a ‘long life by the fire,’ and to whom their Lord has granted their request.”  He “burned out for God” with an intense flame two months shy of his thirtieth birthday. At the risk of offending some dear friends, I don’t think they don’t make preachers or laymen like McCheyene anymore. At age 23 he planted (in modern terminology) a church in Dundee that had over 1000 Scots in the pews for the first service, and it grew from there. He had wanted to be a missionary, but in 1830’s Dundee “there was a paganism as dense as that of Central Africa (Does that sound at all like 21st century America?), and early and late he strove to dissipate and vanquish it.”  He was driven—“haunted”—by Paul’s admonishment to the Corinthians, Behold, now is the favorable time; behold, now is the day of salvation (2 Corinthians 6:2b). He even paraphrased Shakespeare with a better choice of words than the bard’s. “‘There is a tide in the affairs of grace, which, taken at the flood, leads on to safety; omitted, all the voyage of our souls is cast in shallows and in miseries.’ As much as in him lay, he persuaded men to take advantage of that blessed tide.”

Here is his practice that resonates most with me, and I am striving to emulate him. “…he waited; he expected; he thirsted [italics mine] for more holiness, more illumination, more fitness for obedience and service. So prayer became the initial necessity of the day. ‘I feel it far better to begin with God,’ he said, ‘to see His face first, to get my soul near Him before it is near another.’ And as habitually, he listened  to hear what Christ revealed and commanded. His acquaintance with the Bible grew rapidly into a singular intimacy.”

I start my day in the Word long before sunrise, my favorite time of the day, and with my weekday schedule it can be pretty open-ended, and often is—an enormous blessing!  I have assembled the best devotional reading ever (here and here) this year to accompany my Bible reading. I hear McCheyne saying I must make prayer the “initial necessity,” I must request the enlightenment that comes when the Holy Spirit applies Scripture to my heart before I open the Word to read it—I cannot receive if I do not ask (James 4:2). Then I must listen and strive for singular intimacy with God’s Word, a noble goal indeed that will take much grace.

In my Berean proof-texting of the ideas of these great but fallible men of God, with the invaluable (free with a paltry fee for nifty add-ons) productivity enhancing help of Instaverse and e-Sword Bible software, I followed the electronic cross-references to the last book of the Bible, where I found the Son of God’s powerful “altar call” to the Easter mountaintop. In perhaps Holy Spirit’s favorite modus operandi, old familiar Scripture reveals enhanced meaning in the context of my study. In the seventeenth verse of the last chapter of the last book of the Bible, after 66 books of God-breathed revelation of absolute truth, the Son of God says, Come…come…come (Revelation 22:17). Repetition is a common method of emphasis in God’s Word, but here is the unprecedented urgency of triple emphasis. …“Come.” And let the one who hears say, “Come.” And let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price. How can words be more magnetic than this?

Lord, make me always thirsty on your mountaintop. In your Grace make me thirsty 24/7 for that water of life that is free. Sanctify me, that I may come closer and drink more of your life-giving water every day. And please make those I love who do not know you thirst also. Now is the favorable time; now is the day of salvation. Make them to thirst sooner than soon, that they might come and be with me on this Resurrection mountaintop before your Word’s concluding thrice-over promise is fulfilled:

Behold, I am coming soon (22:7).
Behold, I am coming soon (22:12).
Surely, I am coming soon (22:20).

With the Apostle John, I pray to my risen Savior, Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

The Offense of the Cross

Tue, 3 Apr 2007 08:41:29 -0400

“…twenty-nine Messianic prophecies [in the Old Testament] were fulfilled in the final 24 hours of [Jesus’] life alone,” according to John Blanchard in Does God Believe in Atheists? The statistical probability of these prophecies coming to pass, made by various men over a thousand-year period ending 400 years before the Son of God came into the world as a babe, is 1 in 1 followed by enough zeroes to make it impossible, absent God’s Providence. Various Bible scholars put the total Old Testament prophecies fulfilled by Jesus in his brief life as high as 425. No other religion makes such an extraordinary truth claim. There is more written about the historical Christ, both before and after he lived, by more people than any other person of antiquity. No other Holy Book details so many eyewitness accounts of miracles. No religion proclaims a Triune God, incarnate by a virgin peasant girl, who raised people from the dead and himself rose from the dead.

That the Bible is not fiction is evident from the sheer impossibility of the human imagination to create such a story. At least 10 of Jesus’ closest friends, whose lives he dramatically changed, died horrible deaths themselves because they could not be forced to deny the truth that Jesus was the Son of God. In 1973 a dozen men surrounding the President of the United States, “some of the most powerful politicians in the world,” couldn’t keep a lie for more than three weeks, though none were threatened with the fate of the common men who were Jesus’ disciples (Chuck Colson, in A Dangerous Grace). There can be only one explanation: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:8-9).

The antithesis is to call a lot of authors liars, indeed calling God himself a liar (1 John 5:10). It takes willful denial to call Christ a myth, willful suppression of the truth (Romans 1:18). The fool says in his heart, “There is no God” (Psa. 14:1). Such brazenly unrighteous rebels will reap what they have sewn in everlasting anguish—God is not mocked (Gal. 6:7).

At Jesus’ trial, Pontius Pilate said to him, “You are a king, then!” Jesus answered, “You are right in saying I am a king. In fact, for this reason I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth” (John 18:37). And what is truth? Just a few hours earlier, in the Upper Room, Jesus had explicitly defined truth for his disciples, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6)—the ultimate in extraordinary, exclusive truth. As Matthew Henry said, “…greater, better, surer, sweeter truths can nowhere be found than are found in Christ, by whom grace and truth came.” One of Jesus’ closest friends on earth said in the introduction to his gospel, 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 1:14). Any other worldview is a lie.

And yet many of those first century Israelites who witnessed Christ’s miracles firsthand obstinately refused to believe in the testimony of God’s own Son. On that day when God the Father sacrificed God the Son for ...the iniquity of us all, (Isa. 53:6), the pitch blackness at midday as …the Lamb of God (John 1:29) died meekly on the cross, the earth quaking, rocks splitting, the massive curtain in the Temple’s Holy of Holies audibly tearing within hearing of thousands, and dead men coming to life and walking about the streets of Jerusalem did not convince the masses the way it convinced the centurion—“Truly this was the Son of God” (Matt. 27:35-54)! Not even Christ’s resurrection, which defies any explanation other than divine intervention, witnessed by hundreds, was convincing to those who refused to believe what their eyes and ears were telling them. This onslaught against the truth, this denial of the real with great zeal, is undiminished this Passion Week, 2000 years after the cosmic battle was won.

How can this be? God’s truth is unreasonable, the cross offensive—a stumbling block and folly (1 Cor. 1:23)—to natural man, but Christ explained how his plan of salvation deals with willful skeptics, blinded by their presuppositions, early on in his ministry: Jesus told Nicodemus, “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again” (John 3:3). Of all the miracles that Christ performed on earth, none are greater than the miracle of spiritual rebirth the Holy Spirit performs in those God has chosen to adopt, the same ones whose sins Christ atoned for in his death on the cross (Romans 8:28-39). The same power that raised Christ from the dead that first Easter morning likewise still creates new life in those who are spiritually dead, unable and unwilling to come to Christ on their own, giving them sight and insight, a new repentant heart, a will inclined to Christ, and the gift of faith in action unto eternal life. Therefore, I say with the Apostle Paul this Holy Week, ...far be it from me to boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ (Galatians 6:14). It is all of God, all of Grace, from first to last. The closer to glory I get, the more sanctifying, soul-stirring Passion Weeks I am allowed to experience, the more the Holy Spirit enlightens my feeble mind with the profound meaning of this pivotal event in history, this voluntary act of no greater love by our Creator, the more stunningly, self-evidently awesome this reality becomes.

Amazing love! How can it be,
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?
Charles Wesley

Out of Darkness

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 10:39:00 -0400

A visual dose of a far horizon at dawn is my preferred palliative, no matter the malady. Perhaps it’s because I spent my growing season as a flatlander. The quarter section of western Illinois farmland where I grew up was so flat…when my dog ran away I saw his backside for three days…. Some of the most memorable moments of my life are far horizon views at dawn, when light overcomes the darkness and all nature shouts for its Creator, “This I have done for my glory and your joy.” One of the earliest entries in my grey matter archives is from the perspective of a John Deere Model A tractor seat, pulling a three bottom plow through some of the flattest, blackest shiniest gumbo in God’s creation, a quarter mile from the barnyard, watching the sun come up over the barn and climb the windmill. It was an early spring in the mid-50’s, before tractors had heated cabs, when the only way to stay warm in western Illinois was to put on so many clothes I could hardly walk. Another warming strategy, or at least distraction from the cold, was to sing at the top of my lungs, my courage bolstered by the knowledge that no one could hear the a cappella awfulness of it above that two-cycle two-cylinder John Deere engine. I even recall what I was singing. For the first time in my life I was smitten by a girl and I was singing from the musical, Oklahoma, “I’m as corny as Kansas in August….” Indeed. Everyone knows Illinois is far cornier that Kansas or even Iowa in August.

Another early image of a far horizon at dawn is from a 20-foot wooden boat, laboriously driven down the mighty mile-wide Mississippi River by a 25-horsepower Evinrude outboard motor in duck hunting season with Dad and my younger brother. Cold again. It penetrated all the layers of clothes, inducing an involuntary reciprocal motion in my lower jaw and turning my cheeks to parchment. Overhead, V's of mostly Mallards raced us down the river. A dense grey forest of denuded elms, oaks and willows huddled at the far riverbanks and on scattered islands. The eastern sky was an abstract painting of broad orange and yellow and white horizontal brush strokes on a powder blue canvas. In the stern, Dad clutched the steering arm of the outboard with an ever-present dead cigar angled out of a grinning, ruddy face. His eyes sparkled below devilish eyebrows as the frigid rushing air drove tears back toward the flapping ear tabs of his hunter's cap. I’m sure I got my love of a far horizon at dawn from my lifelong farmer/father, but, thank God, never the love of chewing on dead cigars.

Calvin called nature “this most beautiful theater” (Institutes, I.xiv.20), and those slothful souls who sleep past sunrise miss so much of it.  Sunsets offer their own unique beauty, and I love them too, but missing there is the sense of new beginnings, of a future filled with bright promise through the love of the Light of the World, a powerful metaphor of the gospel in my mind.

A decade later another far horizon dawn, and the terror-filled night that preceded it, halfway around the world, was archived for the ages. Two of us young F-100 fighter pilots were scrambled off the alert pad post-midnight to aid a Special Forces camp under attack in the Central Highlands of South Vietnam. Night close air support is the scariest kind of graveyard shift work, an interactive fireworks display with maximum carnage as the objective of all parties. Flares dropped from a C-130 high overhead the beleaguered floated down under parachutes, lending an eerie illumination, as if from a giant flickering candle, to the desperate scene. The enemy was coming over the concertina wire and the first line of defensive trenches, and the margin of error was zero as we laid rolling fireballs of napalm on them. The key to our survival and accuracy was intense concentration at high airspeed, low altitude and shallow dive angle, releasing bombs at fifty feet above the ground while avoiding bullets in the face, and, not least, the ground. After twenty sweat-soaked, hyperventilating minutes of edge-of-the-envelope human performance, the perimeter was covered with the ashes of the enemy and 100 grateful Green Berets were celebrating their salvation. Cruising home at 15,000 feet, we met the sun at twelve o'clock level. The eastern horizon was a spectacular work of art, a celestial canvas of broad horizontal brush strokes of orange and yellow and red and blue on a black background. God’s light show blotted out the man-made terror of the night while residual adrenaline, a manifestation of grace, staved off exhaustion. I felt born again with the dawn and thankful beyond words for my Lord’s mercy.

A few months later, perhaps the most memorable far horizon fix of all engraved itself on my brain. It was the morning I flew out of the combat zone—Tuy Hoa Air Base on the beach of South Vietnam. The dawn came up like thunder after a year and 268 combat missions in the valley of the shadow. The ground trembled as 33 F-100’s, five seconds apart, roared off the runway, across the beach, and out over the South China Sea, climbing into the rising sun. On the eastern horizon a line of towering deep purple clouds stood shoulder-to-shoulder before a brilliant orange sky that slowly turned powder blue from the top down. From somewhere on that  stage, above the muffled whine of spinning turbine blades, I could hear a choir singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” in fortissimo:  The “...Lord God Omnipotent reigneth...,” and He was bringing me home…alive.

The very next morning, after a sleepless night (get-home-itis) at Andersen AFB, Guam, the island shuddered as the same 33 F-100’s idled impatiently in the staging area amid the soul-rattling roar of 3 monstrous eight-engine B-52’s taking off for the war zone at dawn, pointed at a huge orange fireball off the end of the runway. Their bomb bays were  full and additional bombs hung from multiple ejector racks mounted on every available wing pylon. There’s a significant cliff at the eastern end of that runway—instant altitude for the lumbering bombers. The B-52’s sank below sight after takeoff, then slowly rose again a few miles out to sea.

In the serenity section of my archives is a summer morning on that mighty Mississippi again,
with the river a moving mirror, the sound of an oar thumping on the bottom of a wooden boat carrying for miles below a fog lifting to treetop height, and the horizon not so far but expanding before my eyes. We three young cousins sat out of harm’s way—flailing fish hooks—in the bow of the boat as Dad and Uncle Ed hauled in trot lines, set out the evening before, loaded with thrashing catfish who found our cheese ball-baited hooks irresistible. The night had been spent in a sleepover in  Uncle Ed’s rustic hunting/fishing cabin on one of the tree-covered islands. It was a time of merriment—I can hear Dad and Uncle Ed laughing as I write these words—high adventure and male bonding for a pre-adolescent country kid.

Then there is a dawn with my wife on a green finger of a flat-glass Atlantic Ocean, with the sun rising through the rigging of our sloop off Man-a-War Cay in the Bahamas, and another when the sun rose above the red and white striped lighthouse at Hope Town, Elbow Cay. We spent the rest of the day in an upwind beat to reach the harbor there.

There are numerous dawns viewed from the deck of my mother-in-law’s house on Cheyenne Mountain overlooking Colorado Springs and the prairie states, probably the highest and farthest far horizon view at first light I’ve ever had with my feet on the ground. There are also some spectacular long view daybreaks in the UK, during my last tour of duty as a fighter pilot. For winter days on end the only way to see the sun and a horizon more than a few yards away was to get airborne and watch the sun rise into a blindingly blue sky from high above an endless snow white field of cloud tops. That’s when I became convinced I am photosynthetic—my heart and soul require the light of the sun, even more so the light of the Son. The thought of the outer darkness of eternal hell holds a special terror for me. The knowledge that I live in the full sunshine of Christ’s countenance, now and forever, is an inexpressible joy.
This morning’s far horizon fix—about 25 miles, 9 ridgelines and countless peaks—viewed from the tranquility of my mountaintop eagle’s aerie, has a grandeur that does not diminish with familiarity. The sun rises behind me there and illumines the Blue Ridge Mountains from the top down, chasing enormous dark shadows and dark blue haze away and replacing it with dazzling cobalt. And, like a sacrament, I remember those other sunrises in my life and marvel, with undying gratitude, at my Lord’s blessings. But most importantly of all, I am overwhelmed by the remembrance that, by grace alone, this unworthy has been called out of darkness into his marvelous light (1 Peter 2:9b)...forever!

A Mountaintop Busman's Holiday

Tue, 20 Mar 2007 12:05:48 -0400

Last week we joined the masses making a March migration to a Christian Conference.  It was, as always, a mountaintop experience.  Ours was the Greenville Presbyterian Theological Seminary’s Spring Theology Conference. When we lived in Florida we attended the Liggonier Conference a number of times and were always edified, but that’s a major trip from our wilderness cathedral in the Blue Ridge Mountains of western North Carolina.  The GPTS Conference is at least equal in quality of teaching, but with fewer celebrities, and easier on the wallet in all respects—admission fee, dining, overnight accommodations, and, for those who live in the Appalachian area, travel expenses. The crowd is also easier to handle—400 versus 6000.  It was held at Woodruff Road Presbyterian (PCA) Church in suburban Greenville, SC.  The sanctuary has a circular vaulted ceiling, an acoustical teepee-shaped marvel that takes the rising sound of hymn singing with gusto, concentrates it at the peak of the ceiling and redirects it back onto the worshipers so magnified in volume it feels like a scene from Revelation (chapter 4) describing the throne room of God.

It was a busman’s holiday for me, but a joyful one as I could focus on the teaching and worship without being distracted by the duties I have here at Ridge Haven during such conferences.  I have yet to tire of them, and look forward to the day when I can worship forever in the throne room of God.  The conference theme was Worldview, and we heard some dynamic expositors expound on competing views of truth.  Dr. Scott Oliphant, who holds Cornelius Van Til’s apologetics professorship at Westminster Theological Seminary, spoke on “The Reformed Worldview.” I found him as knowledgeable as Van Til and even better in communicating (at least to this laymen) just how Christ would have us defend our faith. We came home with his latest published book, The Battle Belongs to the Lord, and I’ve nearly finished it already.  In the highly competitive worldview wars, the view of God’s truth that shows, by unequivocal scriptural proofs, that God micromanages his creation without turning men into robots, for his glory and the joy of his chosen, is the only comfort in life or death in this darkening world in which we live.  And we are called to defend that truth by our deeds as well as our words.

Prolific author, classical school administrator, world traveler, and church planter, George Grant, [Dr. Pipa GPTS President, introduced him as a “ten talent man” (Matt. 25:14-28) in reference to how much he does with his God-given gifts] spoke passionately on “Islam, Hamas, and Peculiar Providence.”  Hamas is an Islamic  terrorist group that won the Palestinian Authority's last general election.  It’s an Arabic acronym meaning “zeal,” but Dr. Grant explained it is also an Arabic word meaning “senseless violence.”  Like Old Testament names, it surely appears to characterize those who claim the name and should serve as a warning of what we face in the battle of worldviews.  It is a cosmic battle, and in this listener’s opinion, it will not diminish in ferocity till Christ returns. The success of the Hamas strategy is having an impact even on the civilized western world, as rage and outrage are now in high fashion in our political circles and the main stream media.

Dr. Anees Zaka, a native Egyptian graduate of Westminster Theological Seminary and founder of the Institute for Islamic Studies in Philadelphia, PA, endeared himself to the audience with his beautifully accented, passionate plea to reach out to Muslims, but with no punches pulled as to the veracity of Islamic doctrine and the challenge Christianity faces in the process. His punch line, triumphantly delivered in a basso profundo voice behind a stubby index finger pointed at my heart: …victory belongs to the Lord (Prov. 31:21).

Dr. Gary Demar provided the practical application of apologetics in this post-modern world in his teaching, with a phrase that will be forever engraved on my grey matter—“press the antithesis, ” attributed to Van Til with shades of Frances Schaeffer: The way to defend God’s truth is to ask leading questions of the nonbeliever, forcing him to realize the contradictions and absurdities of a worldview without God, chief recent failures of which have been modernism (science is the way to truth), to post-modernism rising from its ashes.  It’s based on perhaps the ultimate absurdity—there is no such thing  as absolute truth, its whatever you want it to be today.  Standing opposed to it all is Christ declaring absolutely, I am the…truth… (John 14:6).  All other worldviews are a lie.

Non-believers ridicule the family of God, but we cannot compromise on Christ and who he was and what he did. That does not mean we kill those who have not received the gift of faith (Eph. 2:8-9), nor even quit reaching out to them. Dr. John Carrick, Homeletics Professor at GPTS, profoundly pressed home that absolute truth as he leaned over the pulpit with his British accent, in his teaching entitled, “The Exclusivity of Christ.”

There were more speakers, all great.  These are just the thoughts still competing for my attention four days after I returned.  Greenville, South Carolina is in the Blue Ridge foothills, but as my wife and I drove back up to Ridge Haven, I felt like I was coming off the mountaintop. What a gracious God we serve!

Moving Up

Mon, 12 Mar 2007 20:16:27 -0400

My Blue Ridge aerie has by necessity been relocated, and it’s better than ever. It used to be up in a tall pine on our three acres of mountaintop, but I suspect someone felt he was being spied on, because the tree, with my tree house in it, got expertly dropped with a chain saw while we were in church one Sunday. Folks are big on privacy in these here parts, and the Bill of Rights is just a cover. For a significant portion of the last century, moonshine was the number one cash crop after the chestnut trees all died out. As recently as thirty years ago, before Ridge Haven existed, a committee for the PCA walked the property to ascertain it’s suitability as a retreat, conference center and residential area. They found a thriving industrial park consisting of 17 working stills. I’ve never seen one myself, not even from my tree house before it went down. Last fall a forest fire nearby was started by a malfunctioning still. And in case you didn’t know, NASCAR got it’s start in the south when winning meant you didn’t have to do hard time for runnin’ shine. They say if you’re hiking through the woods and get a whiff of a really odd odor, prudence demands an immediate, if not sooner, U-turn. As I write these words on a sunny Saturday afternoon in my new eagle’s aerie, it sounds like civil war being re-enacted in the wooded hills and hollers just south—probably happy hour at one of the clandestine distilleries, and these mountain men love to play with guns. Anyway, whoever the felonious soul was who slew my tree, and why, God only knows exhaustively.

I know that all things work for the good of those who love the Lord (Romans 8:28), so perhaps God was telling me 1.) I’m too old to be climbing tall pines, 2.) in spite of the propaganda I’ve been accused of passing, this Blue Ridge Beulah Land* is not heaven, nor is it walled off from the world, 3.) I need more practice in forgiveness—it’s taken me well over a year to write, with a calm Christian perspective, about what was done unto me—or 4.) all of the above. C. H. Spurgeon, who could make a biblical metaphor out of any misfortune, said, “We are all trees marked for the axe. Those who do not prepare for death are more than ordinary fools, they are mad.” Personally, in my war, I saw many men cut down in their prime, and not all were prepared.

The same motivations for the tree house still apply, and no other tree matched the attributes of the ill-fated one, so this spring I built an upscale aerie, higher up the mountain and much larger, but on the ground. It comes much closer to being OSHA compliant. If I fall out of my chair, 8 inches of wood chips will cushion my very short fall. We have this wonderful wood chip clearinghouse out on Highway 64, right at the edge of civilization. Anyone who turns trees and brush into wood chips deposits them in a pile beside the road and anyone who needs woodchips helps himself. It’s a wonderful capitalist/socialist innovation, with zero marginal cost on both ends.

Another advantage of my new nest is that I no longer have to run a weight and balance check if I have more than one guest—the load limit exceeds the weight of all the friends I have. And it has an even better view than my first aerie because it’s higher up and unobstructed by tree branches—about the same elevation as the top of the slain pine, but at the foot of an oak tree in a mountain laurel patch.

Making a level spot is not the easiest project in this terrain without earthmoving equipment. The first 4-6 inches of the soil is a 3-D web of hair-like roots with the tensile strength of titanium, with larger roots intermingled, so digging requires an axe as well as a strong-handled shovel. God was gracious and I retained all ten toes in the excavation phase. I was blessed to find logs on the ground large enough and close enough to make a retaining wall and all they cost was an aching back.

So what I have is a 6 X 10-foot semi-level space on the north side of Claypole Mountain (2900’), just over the brow of the peak, tucked out of the wind amongst the evergreen laurel. It has a 110-degree, northwest through northeast drop-dead view of my beloved Blue Ridge Mountains, accentuated by the Devil’s Court House, Black Balsam Knob (6214’) and Mt. Pisgah on the far horizon, western North Carolina’s tallest, most popular peaks and among my favorite hiking destinations. When the sun is just right there are occasional flashes of light on the horizon as it reflects off cars traveling the Blue Ridge Parkway. And sometimes, when the atmospheric conditions are perfect, I’m pretty sure I can see the golden spires of the Celestial City in the blue haze just beyond the farthest ridge.

Had I not elected to splurge on $6.13 worth of weed protection fabric under the woodchips, my total investment would have been sweat, minimal blood (cat briars and dropped logs) plus zip. I think H. D. Thoreau would have been envious.

With a clear blue sky for a ceiling, the early spring sunshine made for a delightful aerie-warming with our first guests, Arnie and Gini. When summer comes and direct sun is not so desirable, the leaves will be out and will shade it. It’s amazing the way God works all this stuff out (see Romans 8:28 again) for His glory and our great joy. Come May, if it’s a normal spring, we’ll be surrounded by mountain laurel blossoms—my favorite—so thick we won’t be able to see any green leaves on the bushes. My heart skips a beat….

With a breathtaking blood red sunset celebrating Christ’s atonement for a sinner like me, our first day in our new aerie ended with reverential awe and gratitude. For over a decade midlife I lived a shamelessly self-indulgent life in an overlarge house at water’s edge on a sub-tropical island, a slave to extravagant toys floating at the end of the dock and a fixed-wing turbo-charged toy parked at the airport, then God retrieved his wandering sheep. It was not without pain, but I am grateful beyond words. Bishop J.C. Ryle said, “Open transgression of God’s law slays it thousands, but worldliness slays it ten thousands.” A trophy of God’s grace in spite of my efforts to the contrary, I now have an abundance of all that I have sought in my pilgrimage.** It’s a simple life on a Blue Ridge mountain top, in a laurel patch with a Bible, bag of books and writing tablet, absorbed in God’s amazing creation (Isa. 6:3b), pondering ways to proclaim His love and grace through the insufficiency of words. It is precisely why I took early retirement and fled to the mountains five-and-a-half years ago. God has blessed my schemes beyond my dreams. Fixing my eyes on this grandeur fixes my heart and mind on eternity, a blessed state now, an even better one to come (John 6:27a). All sola deo gloria.

* * *

* Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the pilgrims were got over the Enchanted Ground, and entering into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant, Isaiah 62:4-12; Song 2:10-12; the way lying directly through it, they solaced themselves there for a season. Yea, here they heard continually the singing of birds, and saw every day the flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice of the turtle [dove] in the land. In this country the sun shineth night and day: wherefore this was beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of Giant Despair; neither could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle. Here they were within sight of the city they were going to; also here met them some of the inhabitants thereof; for in this land the shining ones commonly walked, because it was upon the borders of heaven. In this land also the contract between the Bride and the Bridegroom was renewed; yea, here, “as the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so doth God rejoice over them.” Here they had no want of corn and wine; **for in this place they met with abundance of what they had sought for in all their pilgrimage. Here they heard voices from out of the city, loud voices, saying, “Say ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh! Behold, his reward is with him!” Here all the inhabitants of the country called them “the holy People, the redeemed of the Lord, sought out,” etc. (Pilgrim’s Progress, the Tenth Stage, by John Bunyan)

Flawed Friends

Tue, 6 Mar 2007 09:36:06 -0400

Never have I known such flawed friends that I love so much.

I live in a Presbyterian ghetto in the mountains. I mean ghetto metaphorically as classically defined—the term has “slum” connotations today that are not found in my lexicon. Though not a slum, this place is far from the opposite extreme. I can see, usually without covetousness from my three acres of mountaintop, the opposite extreme—lavish castles on a distant mountainside, one including a private heliport. But my life is spent exclusively among people who call themselves Christians who live unostentatiously by modern American standards. My neighborhood and my officially “part-time” retirement job are in and with an agency of the Presbyterian Church in America. My excursions into the real world—“town” (population 7,500)—are limited to church whenever the door is open, and shopping when absolutely necessary. Having lived in the world around the world, having raced the rats down Wall Street, LaSalle Street, Pennsylvania Avenue, Threadneedle Street, the Champs de Elysées and the Rue de Lyon, Genève, I dearly love this lifestyle. I think I would have been a merry monk had I lived in Luther’s day…until he taught me his theology.

My friends are saints, and again I want to define my terms. Easton defines saint as “One separated from the world and consecrated to God; one holy by profession and by covenant; a believer in Christ.” That defines my friends to a “T.” But…to be candid about it, I battle Aesop’s old saw, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” I have been back on the job as a Ruling Elder in my church one year now, and have of necessity dealt with the human failings hidden behind those beatific smiles in the sanctuary on Sunday morning. And I feel so inadequate to the task that I question my calling as an Elder.

I've sat on corporate boards and worn the letter titles—CFO, COO, CEO—and my church and the church agency where I am employed are not run like corporations. My experience in both leads me to believe that few church or agency leaders would survive in the unforgiving, highly competitive corporate world. I confess that is my conceit. To be fair, different gifts are required, and true leaders are rare everywhere, but here is the great sanctifying lesson for me in all this:  My church and the agency in which I live and work are a day by day, minute by minute testimony to God’s sovereign Lordship over his creation. He is clearly, unequivocally in charge. How else to explain the survival of these seemingly fragile institutions I love so much?  Christ looked pretty fragile and powerless on the cross…and none of the original disciples God used to change the world would have passed for a corporate kingpin. So much for appearances.

Perhaps my love of flawed friends has to do with the clarity of vision that comes with sanctification, with age and experience.  The more I learn the more I realize I do not understand, like exactly how the Holy Spirit works within me.  As J. D. Watson says (quoting an anonymous source), ‘Knowledge is the discovery of ignorance’  Or, and here is where I will forever stake my claim: God’s grace. From first to last the Bible explains how Christ is building his church with clay-footed, fallen rascals redeemed from their headlong hell-bound ways, and hell’s gates shall not prevail (Matt. 16:18).

Holy Writ also commands and explains how I can love my flawed fellow saints. The most imperfect person I know is the guy I see in the mirror when I shave. If my friends knew my true arrogance, my condescending thoughts, my hyper/hypocritical judgments, my slothful ways, my lustful dreams, my egomaniacal aspirations, my uncanny ability to see their flaws around the log in my eye, they would not want me as a friend. I cannot count the times I have recalled, with self-loathing at the end of the day, or on my way home from church or a meeting, the words I wished I could take back. And sometimes my random daydreams astound even me. I wish I were better at taking the contempt that wells up in me from the old man’s polluted spring and pouring it on my own pride….

If I can be forgiven seventy times seven by a God who owes me nothing, if Christ can love such a fallen wreck enough to die for me, then by his grace I can, and do, love my friends, warts, clay feet, inadequacies and all.

What Sin Has Wrought

Tue, 27 Feb 2007 13:16:04 -0400

…in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate pool…lay a multitude of invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed (John 5:2-3).

Jayne is in her first year at Greenville Presbyterian Theological Seminary. She was a star athletic in our local high school, graduated valedictorian of her class and went to college on a basketball scholarship, then injured her back playing volleyball. In the last several months the pain of that mystifying (to the doctors) injury has grown beyond the reach of painkillers. In short order she has gone from walking with one cane to two to bedridden at age 22, forced to drop out of seminary and praying with all of us for a miracle.

My friend, Jack Bennett, WW II hero, later nuclear submarine commander and Reagan staffer in Sacramento, is also bedridden in southern California. For 11 years we have emailed, often more than once a day. Just over 9 years ago God regenerated Jack’s heart. Now, at nearly 89 his eyes don’t work well enough to read his email, and his hearing comes and goes. My friends Jack and Jayne are two sweet saints, children of God with towering intellects imprisoned in languishing bodies, and my heart bleeds for them.

The unbeliever’s standard reaction to such sad cases is usually, “If your God loves you, why does he do this to you?”  Some children of God wonder why he puts some of his own through such trauma and not others. Both quandaries focus on the wrong issue. Sickness and deformities of all kinds, and death itself, were both introduced into God’s creation when Adam and Eve sinned. If you’re wondering, “Why such a fuss over a  lousy apple,” read Genesis 3:14-24. See God’s reaction to disobeying the only restriction he put on our first parents in paradise. Or read the Son of God’s view of sin at Matthew 5:29-30. It was an earth-shattering fall!  They lost paradise.  All creation was corrupted. Sickness and death—physical and spiritual—ensued for Adam and Eve and all their descendents through the propagation of original sin. Clearly God hates sin, and his hate of it is as infinite as all his attributes, including his love for his chosen. From Genesis 4 through Revelation 22, the Bible explains what God the Father put his Son through to accomplish and apply redemption to fallen sinners.

   It’s a love story to end all love stories. In his infinite love, God the Father sent God the Son to die a horrible death on a cross as an atonement for sin. He did it because there was no other way fallen mankind could make itself perfect enough for admission into eternal life in heaven. Only the Son of God’s perfectly sinless sacrifice, credited to his chosen people, is adequate to gain admission into everlasting bliss in God’s presence.

J.C. Ryle said,

When we read of cases of sickness [like Jack and Jayne], we should remember how deeply we ought to hate sin! Sin was the original root and cause and fountain of every disease in the world. God did not create man to be full of aches and pains and infirmities. These things are the fruits of the Fall. There would have been no sickness if there had been no sin…. Surely if men would only look at hospitals…and think what havoc sin has made on this earth, they would never take pleasure in sin as they do.

Think about this the next time you are tempted to sin. God hates, really really hates what you are tempted to do. Why would you lust after what God, whom you owe everything, calls evil?  It is the measure of residual sin’s power in a born-again heart, and it takes lifelong wrestling with one’s old self, as the Apostle Paul described in Romans 7:15-25, and John Owen explained in The Mortification of Sin. And it ain’t easy, as Paul and one of Puritanism’s greatest intellects goes to great lengths to explain. In fact Owen says you can drive yourself to despair if you try to stifle personal sin without the Holy Spirit’s help. Therein lies my battle plan. When I am tempted, when I want what is sinful, when I think sinful thoughts, I plead for the Holy Spirit’s intervention. O Lord I want it even though I know it is wrong. Please don’t let me have it, don’t let me think about it. Please give me more grace to strengthen my scrawny resolve….

The Apostle Paul said, …we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28). Nothing in creation happens by chance. Ryle said, “Every sickness and sorrow is the voice of God speaking to us.” Jack and Jayne know the voice of God, and are great witnesses to His grace in their suffering, and I know it is all part of God’s purpose. But there is another way it works for good: in their sanctification as well as mine. I know it is a minor thing compared to their pain, but praying for them reminds me that all their agony was caused by sin—the “fruits of the Fall” for all creation. Witnessing my friends’ suffering leads me to hate sin more, and the more I hate sin the greater the motivation for mortifying it. The more I mortify my sin, the more I glorify my Maker. I wish it were as easy as writing about it.

This I know: this earthly struggle will end when Christ returns. Ryle said, “Then, and not till then, shall there be no more curse on the earth, no more suffering, no more sorrow and no more sin.”  In the interim, more grace, O Lord, more grace. More grace for Jack and Jayne, more grace for me.

YoWAW VI

Tue, 20 Feb 2007 13:42:48 -0400

YoWAW, Ridge Haven’s annual youth missions conference, ended thirty minutes ago and 280 kids are moving down this mountain like hot lava, on fire for God. And one rookie codger is sitting here smoldering, trying to read the sentences forming on his screen through the smoke.  I’m exhausted, but what a sweet exhaustion!

It’s called Youth World Awareness Weekend, the sixth one in my tenure as the RH gatekeeper and volunteer sound-room “techie.”  Truly the Holy Spirit has had a standing midwinter gig at Ridge Haven for at least the last 6 years I’ve been sitting, mesmerized, witnessing His Amazing Grace through these conferences.

One thing has even improved over those 6 years—the quality of what is called contemporary praise and worship music.  I am personally hooked for life on the Trinity Hymnal.  It’s chock full of Watts, Wesley, Newton, and Toplady classic hymns, and many others with profound theological lyrics.  But, in recent years, some really great modern hymn writers, steeped in the Reformed worldview, have emerged to dominate contemporary worship music.  The result has been a major movement to the faith of our fathers among youth, particularly noticeable on college campuses.  Reformed University Ministries, a PCA campus ministry, and reformed Southern Baptist college ministries are reaping a bountiful harvest in the heart of enemy territory, the American college campus, and this music is getting a lot of the credit by those in the know.  My personal experience from the sound room doorway at Robeson Hall this past weekend affirms that finding.  Red Mountain Music, a gifted group of young musicians from Birmingham, AL, are admirably doing their part in that musical war of worldviews, to the glory of God and the edification of His young worshippers. I think Isaac, Charles, John and Augustus would be proud of them.

Perhaps for the first time in my tour of duty at Ridge Haven, two speakers turned Robeson Hall into a roomful of statues, with no twitches, fidgets or trips to the bathroom…for two-and-a-half days!  Dr. Paul Kooistra, long-time head of the PCA’s Mission to the World (and before that long-time seminary President) challenged all to prayerfully consider a career of making the Gospel known to the world. I’ve been listening to Dr. Kooistra at Ridge Haven for 6 years now, both in the pulpit and on long private hikes in woods, and his passion for lost souls grows with each passing year.

No one is in a better position to see God at work around the globe than my brother Paul, and what he sees is a bountiful harvest of souls coming to Christ in the next 25 years that will exceed any 25-year period in the history of mankind.  What encouraging news to an elder who’s faith in mankind’s future, absent God’s grace, declines at a dreadful rate with every headline!

Actually there was a third spellbinding speaker that Ridge Haven got for the price of two—Mrs. Paul Kooistra.  Dr. Kooistra interviewed his wife Jan, (click on Dr. Kooistra #3 audio), who has been battling a particularly virulent strain of cancer for 11 years against enormous odds.  Public speaking has been a lifelong fear for her, but no one could tell as she gave her extraordinarily rare public testimony to God’s grace while exuding a peace that defied understanding.  She was the most powerful witness of the weekend.

Last among equals was David McNeely, who told a rapt audience of his youth as a rebellious preacher’s kid, a modern day prodigal son whom God led to repentance and an extraordinarily fruitful youth ministry at Perimeter Church in Atlanta, one of the PCA’s megachurches. He fit right in with his audience, as you can see in the picture, but the surprising truth is he's been in youth ministry longer than these boys have been breathing. His was an animated, passionate, unscripted, note-free presentation of God’s providence in his life that generated an exponential synergism with Dr. Kooistra’s message. David’s final admonition, as the Presidents Weekend drew to a close midday Monday, was “Know God and make Him known.”

You could not find three better mentors/role models for your teenagers.  Author/seminary professor John Murray once told a class of prospective preachers that what separated a sermon from a lecture was three P’s—a passionate personal plea.  Years from now, when my feeble mind has forgotten the audio portion of this mountaintop YoWAW weekend, I will still remember with profound gratitude that I heard the passionate personal pleas of three humble, gifted elect of God who know Him and have dedicated their lives to making Him known.
(Pictures at website.)

Sam the Man

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 11:46:35 -0400

He’s a bit vertically challenged, but if you go by collar size and heart, he’s a big man.  He has the hairdo and demeanor of a Marine.  Early on in his post here at Ridge Haven, in our  radio communications, I tried to hang the call sign “Jarhead” on him, but his associates with radios were just too naïve to know what a cool call sign that was, and it never caught on. Folks who have been around the military know that Marines, the toughest of the tough, are proud to be called “Jarheads.” Anyway, he just might end up hanging around Jarheads if the Lord leads him into one of his short list of career inclinations—military chaplain.  He would have to become a Navy chaplain to hang around Jarheads, because they do not have their own chaplains and look to the Navy to fill those billets, but I’m confident he’d fit in very well.

His name is Sam Brown and he’s just a kid a few years out of college, but he’s been filling some big shoes here at Ridge Haven the last 2.5 years.  Mack Griffith, the Ministry Director and Army Reserve Chaplain (Colonel), got called to active duty and Sam, as his assistant in our summer camp program for the previous two years, stepped up to fill the void.  He now tells us we had no idea how clueless he was in the beginning, but it didn’t show on his granite-jawed facade.  That bodes well for a military future, too.  Actually there is more management than ministry in the Ministry Director position, and such experience will serve Sam well, no matter where he ministers.

He’s on his way to Covenant Theological Seminary in St. Louis in a few weeks, and I am confident my friend Bryan Chapell and his staff will whip him into superb shape for the awesome task of proclaiming God’s Word to the world.

Ridge Haven can be a lonesome place for a single soul on a long winter night, but Sam has persevered.  Now that he’s survived all this solitude in this wilderness cathedral, he’s gone and complicated his future by falling in love.  Jenny was one of his counselors in the summer youth camp program. It was one of those infamous office romances (our “office” here being about 600 variously vertical acres).  Our summer camp program has always been a “target rich environment” (as Marine fighter pilots would say) for marriage-eligible Christian youth counselors looking for like-minded lifetime relationships. It makes for a delightful spectator sport for the rest of the staff. I confess I did not see this one coming, so covert was Sam’s courtship of Jenny, another good Marine attribute. Ridge Haven’s youth counselors on fire for the Lord are the primary secondary cause in leading covenant children to Christ in impressive numbers, and sweet Jenny was one of the best, from where I stood.

A few days ago, on one of those rare snowy days on the southern slopes of the Blue Ridge, when there was just enough snow to close the office, little brother Sam and I dug out my mint-condition vintage Wal-Mart bottom-of-the-line plastic toboggan for some downhill kicks and man-to-man conversation.  With snowflakes as big as goose down falling all about us in this deserted wilderness cathedral, we managed to hold all the curves on all three runs, which is no small thing without a steering wheel in the mountains.  Then, amid the heavy breathing of the uphill trudge, we had some serious guy talk about being a godly husband.  Sam the man is far more godly-minded and level-headed than I was at his age.  It was a real blessing for this three-score-and-three-year-old husband, with two-score years of tenure with but one wife, to be reminded of what a wonderful blessing it is fall in love for life, and of the amazing grace that designed such an institution.  We talked about the practical application of biblical guidelines, as if I were some kind of guru because I had survived in the institution in spite of a dozen easy reasons for why my bride should have given up on me long ago.  I shared with him my not so secret weapon: GRACE.  I also felt a wave of gratitude that I was past all those very tough decisions that one wrestles with in picking a mate for life.

God willing, he’ll continue to make wise choices, for his career in the Lord’s vineyard and for his soul mate for life.  Godspeed, little brother, and if you end up with the Jarheads, keep your head down, your eyes on the cross, and always wear the whole armor of God.  And preach the Gospel, in season and out—the combat zone produces a wonderfully attentive congregation.

A Eulogy for Ren Schmidt, Soldier of the Cross

Tue, 6 Feb 2007 05:47:05 -0400

Last Thursday night, Feb. 1, 2007, my brother in Christ, Rene Schmidt, Soldier of the Cross,
was honorably discharged from the battle of this life at age 89. It appeared God just stilled his great heart and his soul departed in peace. What an uncommon blessing for an uncommon saint! I know he’s never been happier, nor I for him. Without ever shirking God’s call on his life, he spoke often to me, in the five years I knew him, of his longing to be in heaven with Jesus and reunited with “my Virginia,” his beloved wife and co-heir. I have not smiled so, through so much selfish sadness, since my saintly mother joined the church triumphant eight years and two days ahead of Rene.

Frances Turretin said, “The belief that we shall never die is the foundation of dying well.” Everyone who knew Rene knows he died well. And God’s man in the trenches died in the manner we would all choose if we were in control—physically active, with a mind as sharp as a bayonet point, until the night he lay down on his bed and woke up in heaven.
By way of eulogy for the greatest saint I have ever personally known, I’m reposting an earlier blog about him from ‘05, rewritten with added thoughts and details from his personal testimony delivered again, in the Old Testament style, just three weeks before he died, at the Ridge Haven residents’ dinner meeting:

My friend, Rene (pronounced "Ren"), was with General Eisenhower when the above classic photograph was taken on an historic day with some of America’s finest warriors—D-Day and the 101st Airborne Division “Screaming Eagles.” He was standing near the photographer, across from his friends Billy Hayes (hatless, chin on Ike's thumb) and platoon leader Walter Strobel (tall guy in front of Ike). The picture hung on the wall of Rene’s den in his mountain home at Ridge Haven, where Rene lived as a widower with his three dogs. He remembered that moment vividly, as he did seeing Ike, standing illuminated by his car headlights half-way down the runway, saluting as the C-47’s full of paratroopers took off before dawn. Ike was there perhaps because airborne troops were expected to suffer the heaviest losses in the Normandy invasion against heavily fortified enemy troops. Advance estimates ran as high as 80% casualties for the paratroopers in the high winds and awful weather that had already delayed the invasion by a day.

With the humility and expository economy of a gospel writer, Rene told of his heroics that night (a term that he would never use and would surely embarrass him) as his unit was dropped helter-skelter behind enemy lines in the chaos of nasty night weather and withering antiaircraft artillery fire. A teeth-rattling opening of his parachute and a rough landing in a tree in the dark left him with only one hand grenade and his trench knife as weapons.

A German machine gunner began to perforate his parachute. Knowing it was only a matter of seconds till the gunner corrected his aim, Rene cut the risers of his chute. He had no idea how far above the ground he was, but he knew he was a dead man if he did not immediately cut himself free. He was not a Christian in those days, but with the hindsight of a now regenerated heart, he said, “God knew that all I needed was that trench knife.” He does not know how far he fell, but he was uninjured.

Then he heard a movement in the dark near him. He reached for his only hand grenade and pulled the pin before it occurred to him that he might be hearing one of his fellow paratroopers. With his free hand he dug out the equivalent of a child’s metallic device that made a sound like a cricket, carried by every paratrooper that night. He bent the flat metal spring once—chirp chirp—and almost immediately got a chirp chirp in reply. (Rene kept his US Army issue cricket chirper. I played with it three weeks ago and gave myself chills.) He teamed up with the other soldier and, having lost the pin for the hand grenade in the dark and having no other options, heaved it in the direction of the machine gunner. Then he retrieved a weapon and ammo from a fellow paratrooper who had fought his last war and stole away on his mission. Rene had long ago learned resourcefulness. He had outwitted bureaucrats to overcome US government policy against first-generation German immigrants fighting on the front lines against Germany. And his ability to speech German was a great asset in a later heroic endeavor. (a)

It was the Screaming Eagles’ mission to clear the canals behind the beaches at Normandy so that follow on troops could come inland more quickly by water…if the beaches could be secured, a goal that was very much in doubt for several hours on one of the most horrific killing fields in the history of warfare.

Like a Michelangelo with words, he painted the scene of the massive Allied armada as it filled the English Channel all the way to the horizon at dawn, viewed from his hiding place on a rise behind the enemy dug in on Utah Beach. He remembered thinking that surely the German soldiers watching must realize this was the end for them, and certainly it was the beginning of the end for one of history’s vilest despots.

Three months later Rene participated in the airborne assault on Holland and three months after that the successful defense of Bastogne. Digging through the records (because Rene would never talk about this) I learned he was awarded two Bronze Stars for his “heroic achievement in action” and the Bronze Cross from the Queen of Holland.

With equal economy he spoke of his first sight of the Statue of Liberty as he and his mother sailed into New York Harbor in August, 1921, when he was a fatherless 4-year-old immigrant. He saw it again sailing out as a Private First Class with the 101st Airborne. Left unsaid was how he  rose to the highest enlisted rank in the Army, an exalted position reserved for only the best of the best, the toughest soldier the world’s greatest military can produce—sergeant-major.

Then, in a reverent tone, Rene explained how, in his mid-40’s, two well-dressed strangers came up the front walk of their new home one evening, just as he and Virginia were leaving to a see a movie. Rene said to his wife, “O God, don’t invite them in or we’ll never get to the movie! I knew I shouldn’t have signed that guest register at that church we attended last Sunday!”

Two hours of intense conversation later (the Evangelism Explosion model) the Holy Spirit worked a miracle in their hearts. Shortly thereafter Rene and Virginia started a Bible study in their home in Ft. Lauderdale. It turned into an extraordinarily fruitful evangelistic ministry. They had to buy a bigger house with more space inside and out when the neighbors complained about the crowds and all the parked cars. For 25 years it was a golden harvest of souls for God’s kingdom, called The Greenhouse (His Tender Grapes, ISBN #0-877841-00-3, available in the Ridge Haven bookstore). By grace it helped build Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church in Ft. Lauderdale, FL, into a megachurch, where Rene served as a Ruling Elder for many years with Dr. D. James Kennedy, Senior Pastor. Rene was also one of the founding fathers of the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA).

As usual, the bulk of this tireless evangelist’s conversation was a heartfelt presentation of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He never assumed anyone was a true Christian. He told me once, “There are too many near-Christians masquerading as Christians. Only God knows for sure.”  Jonathan Edwards would have agreed, and so do I. The first time I heard Rene give his testimony to a men’s group, I went up afterward and gave him a bear hug, a rare thing for me and an embarrassment for him.

Rene spoke for every senior Christian alive while teaching a Sunday School class at our church a while back. “I don’t understand a lot of this world today, but when it comes to the things of God, there is a clarity….” And he mutely pointed an index finger at his own head.

As I now ponder his testimony to our group just three weeks ago, and his impassioned plea to pray for revival in a dark world that is growing darker and increasingly dangerous, I think that he was aware that this might be his final public witness. Like Joshua in his covenant renewal at Shechem just before he died (Josh. 24), Rene recounted the extraordinary blessings in his life and gave all the credit and glory to God, and he reminded us of God’s promises and our great commission. The microphone I had asked him to hold was mostly ineffective because, in his intense delivery, he was waving it like a conductor’s baton in 2/4 time. He didn't really need it anyway with his deep authoritarian German tone of voice. As our friend Janie observed, “he was passing the baton.”

I know I am but a single molecule of a great cloud of witnesses grateful to God for bringing Rene Schmidt into my life. He was such an inspiration, a mentor and role model to me. As I rewrite this story within hours of his death, that highly decorated soldier is attending the greatest award ceremony of his eternal existence. There is no new hero medal on his chest, but a crown of righteousness on his head that he did not earn (2 Tim. 4:8) and a pristine whiter-than-white robe (Rev. 7:9) awarded out of infinite love by the only hero truly worthy of the title, Jesus Christ our Savior, whom he served with passionate gratitude.

O dear God, may this unworthy walk the trail Rene blazed, cross the river his way, ditch my bifocals forever in the same golden trash bin with his...and hug him again? And there may we sing your praises together, on key, on tempo, forevermore?

Endnotes

(a) CITATION FOR THE BRONZE STAR MEDAL

Private First Class Rene A. Schmidt, Parachute Infantry, while serving with the Army of the United States, distinguished himself by heroic achievement in action. On 19 September 1944 near Best, Holland, when a group of about 450 Germans succeeded in moving around the Battalion's flank, endangering the rear of the Regiment, Private First Class Schmidt and a companion voluntarily took a German officer out into an exposed coverless clearing and, in plain view of the enemy, had this officer call on his men to surrender. Private First Class Schmidt's calm assurance had a demoralizing effect on the enemy. A small group threw away their weapons and came into our lines. The remaining enemy, seeing themselves deserted, although being threatened by the one remaining officer, soon followed the first group into captivity, thus removing a serious threat to the Regiment's success. His actions were in accordance with the highest standards of the military service.

A Memorial Celebration will be held at Cornerstone Presbyterian Church, 400 Elm Bend Road, Brevard, NC, on Wednesday, Feb. 7 at 3 p.m. If you feel moved to send flowers, please instead make contributions to Ridge Haven, 191 Ridge Haven Road, Brevard, NC 28712, in Rene’s name.

Suicidal Moonbat

Tue, 30 Jan 2007 13:08:52 -0400

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

Tue, 23 Jan 2007 12:17:29 -0400

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. When Dad got through applying 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

Mon, 15 Jan 2007 20:46:54 -0400

Its 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

Tue, 9 Jan 2007 15:48:02 -0400

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

Mon, 1 Jan 2007 08:11:48 -0400

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? What's the Big Deal?

Tue, 26 Dec 2006 09:54:44 -0400

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. 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

Tue, 19 Dec 2006 11:11:25 -0400

And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them.  And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”(Luke 2:8-10, 13-14).

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

Tue, 12 Dec 2006 14:07:50 -0400

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 for the Son of God to 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 enter 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

Tue, 5 Dec 2006 11:07:13 -0400

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.

A Christmas Gift Idea from Monergism Books
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Truth From a Child's Lips

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 11:35:56 -0400

Yesterday my wife and I returned home from a long Thanksgiving weekend in sun-drenched Cincinnati, the new home of our daughter, son-in-law and two small grandchildren, Colin (2.75 years old) and Anna (0.25 years old). It was my first meeting with laughing Anna and her expressive eyebrows. They were furled in a frown at the sight of a scruffy-bearded old man, but soon enough they turned to wide-eyed happy arches, occasionally accompanied with actual laughs. And precocious Colin…well, I will save the best till last. What a great blessing grandchildren are! Grandparenthood has made all the struggles of parenthood worthwhile. And watching our children parent their children, I marvel at God’s grace in making them such good mentors in spite of one lousy role model in their formative years.

Catching up on my periodical reading last evening, after a scenic, sunny, seven-hour-drive south from Cincy through my beloved Blue Ridge Mountains, I was immediately disposed of my euphoric, so-grateful-to-God demeanor for all the blessings of my wonderful life. The culprit was Publishers Weekly’s Hardcover “Religious” Bestsellers list. I wasn’t on it…again…, but that wasn’t the reason for my instant depression. Atop the list are two hostile atheistic screeds by pompous professors vying for the throne of the late Carl Sagan, who boxed with God all his life but now knows the truth. Those two books are as anti-religious as books can be. I suppose whoever is in charge of the list considers atheism a religion, though both authors would deny it. Both publishers are large old line secular publishers, not Christian publishers, yet I’m sure there are some self-styled “religious” booksellers who would have the courage to sell the books anyway, the rent having to be paid and all. The #1 bestseller is The God Delusion, by the renowned British evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins. The #2 book is Letter to a Christian Nation, by Sam Harris. Both have more reviews written, 200+, and more comments to those reviews than I have very seen at Amazon.com. I gave up reading them after 40-50, but they all appeared to be choir members of the First Godless Church of the Cosmos (“it’s all there is, was, or ever will be”), whistling for all they were worth past the graveyard. I’m hard-pressed to think of any better proof of the depravity of man. Nothing I’ve read of late more negatively reinforces Christ’s middle-of-the night comment to Nicodemus: No one can see the Kingdom of God unless he is born again (John 3:3).

In the providence of God my early morning devotions today included a quote by an Englishman who does share my worldview—Martin Lloyd Jones, minister of London’s Westminster Chapel for thirty years and called by many the greatest preacher of the twentieth century. He said, “The newspapers give publicity to anything that denies the faith; they know the public palate.” We could add to that, in Dawkins’ case, the cover of Time and a feature article in US News ? Publishers Weekly breathlessly declares “the debate is sweeping the country.” If so, I haven’t found the other side of it yet, nor have I ever met a soul who was debated into the kingdom of heaven.

As I consider the world our five dear grandchildren will inherit, where hate abounds and hostility flourishes against those who love the Lord, I pray with all my heart that they will know God’s truth, that they will have the gift of discernment, and that they will not be of this world in this cosmic nanosecond of human life. Praise God they are learning under godly parents who are teaching them to put on the whole armor of God. My diaper-clad grandson Colin spoke more truth from the Westminster Children’s Catechism in thirteen seconds Sunday than those two bilious bestselling authors spoke in both books combined:

(audio) Mom asks, Colin answers.

Come next Sunday, Colin and his whole family will be lighting the first Advent candle at their church, commemorating the birth of the most precocious baby ever born. I am so thankful my grandson knows our sovereign God’s Son.

Come Before WInter

Tue, 21 Nov 2006 04:36:07 -0400

“Autumn is the parable of everything that fades.”

Dr. Clarence Macartney, a Philadelphian Presbyterian preacher, said that back in 1915 in a classic sermon entitled “Come Before Winter,” based upon the Apostle Paul’s poignant plea to his beloved Timothy from a cold dungeon in Rome, recorded in 2 Timothy 4:21. Come before winter, and bring my cloak. Dr. Macartney deftly, movingly exegetes that phrase with the surrounding text as a call to all those who are not in Christ to come to him, to come before winter. Max McLean has narrated it on a CD just out as a “free gift from Ligonier Ministries & R. C. Sproul .”  I got mine at the Western Carolina Presbytery meeting held here at Ridge Haven last weekend.  The fringe benefits of my “job” are a never-ending blessing.

I’ve heard over 50 sermons in this high holy season just ended at Ridge Haven, but rather than take a break from all that preaching, I listened to Max’s mesmerizing bass voice recite that sermon four times in 20 hours. I don’t know about you, but that’s a record for me. A dear friend gave me a set of Bose earphones a couple of years ago, the Rolls Royce of earphones, and they allow Max McLean to communicate God’s basso profundo truth direct to my soul from somewhere deep inside my cranium. In the providence of God I heard Come Before Winter just before winter came, as autumn faded in rusty splotches.  In the providence of God, Liggonier has graciously put this truth in my hands at the appropriate season, both of the year and of my life, and at a time when I am alone to meditate upon and savor its powerful message. What follows is inspired by that message.

Dr. Macartney says, “autumn engenders an urgency in me.” I share that feeling. In my case it can be a melancholy urgency, when I let it. When the leaves begin to fade from their beautiful peak, they remind me of those lost souls whom I love, who are dead like the autumn leaves and do not know it. They think that that momentary glorious flutter from branch to ground is life. They think they are flying under their own power and cleverness, when in fact they are captive to the gravity of their sin.

Last Sunday afternoon, at the end of the busiest busy season we’ve seen in my tenure at Ridge Haven, I was home alone. I wandered into Robeson Hall. That is the venue of those 50 plus sermons I’ve absorbed this fall and the setting of nearly every sanctifying experience I’ve had in the last five years. In the serene silence of that cathedral ceiling-ed, window-walled holy place, empty chairs in neat rows, the podium up front with the microphone stand in place, all ready, by the sweat of my brow, for the next group of guests, and devoid of humanity but for me, I felt the knee-knocking presence of God. Yes, it is a bit bizarre, even to me, but it is not the first time it has happened in this hallowed wilderness cathedral. It only happens when Ridge Haven is empty and I am here alone. Now you know I am not a mystic or a charismatic. If I am not the most orthodox Presbyterian you ever met, then you must have known John Knox personally.

Something held me there in that meeting hall, empty of everything except the solitude of the presence of God. I pulled a chair off the neat stack in the corner and placed it against the back wall, sat down, stared out the windows in the front of the room, and pondered Paul’s plea to come before winter.

My saintly mother, who taught me all the important lessons in life, taught me her final lesson in the midst of winter seven years ago—how to die in peace and assurance in Christ, with literally a song, a hymn in her heart as she silently mouthed the words. She sings first soprano in the choir of the church eternal now, and when we sing her favorite hymns at Cornerstone Presbyterian Church or Robeson Hall, I can hear her angelic voice singing just a little louder that everyone else in the room.

There is another one near and dear to my wife and I, whose unsaved soul has weighed heavily on me this autumn. As her health fails she is experiencing panic attacks, with soaring heart rate and blood pressure. She has heard the gospel a number of times, the last on a Sunday evening at Cornerstone Church last spring when I was in the pulpit. Not once did she raise her gaze out of her lap and make eye contact as I explained God’s grace with all the passion and plain English I could muster. After the service she made the kindest remarks about my presentation, but said nothing about my content. She has an unbelieving friend, also in poor health, and together they shuffle toward the abyss which, they convince each another, isn’t there.

I know…I absolutely know that God is sovereign in the salvation of men. I am my own best proof. He chose me, purchased me his with blood, agonizingly let, and subdued me, in spite of my best efforts to resist. And I know that as long as there is life there is hope for us all. My wife and I pray without ceasing for that lost soul, and we keep trying different approaches. But, as I watch, from up close, this eternal tragedy unfold, I battle profound sadness.

I got up out of my chair in Robeson and did what I do on rare occasions these days when my soul is sorely troubled. I walked over to the sound room and put Bill Gaither’s Favorite Homecoming Songs in the CD player. I turned the volume up to half-a-decibel below window shattering range, slumped back down in the chair, stared out at the faded remains of fall against a severe clear blue sky, and let Vestal Goodman, singing What a Lovely Name, soothe my tormented soul. I played it over and over and over again. I know, you’re thinking, boy is he weird, but it used to be a lot worse. Years ago, in the war zone, when breaking things and blasting souls to eternity was my daily duty, and grief was commonplace, I did this often, to different music, sometimes supplemented with copious quantities of alcohol. But God was gracious….

I do not listen to music normally, outside of church. Those of you who have ridden in my truck know I do not even have a radio…on purpose. I special ordered that truck 11 years ago without one. I did not want to pay for what I would never use. But in troubled times music is cathartic for me, I think because my mother sang all her life, and it was a great comfort to me. I have a vivid scene filed permanently in my gray matter, from back in my mandatory nap days, lying in my bed on a summer afternoon in an ancient western Illinois farmhouse, studying the dust motes floating in the sunbeam and listening to the comforting music of my mother singing hymns as she went about her housework. All the times we were together, right to the end of her life, if the conversation lagged for 10 seconds she would begin to softly sing or hum a hymn.

I sat there in Robeson Hall, all alone with God and Vestal’s great lungs and golden vocal cords and nothing else, and prayed for the salvation of my unsaved loved one, and proceeded to make a mess of myself, the extent of which will forever remain a secret between God and me. My deeply held reformed theological convictions slammed head-on into my desperate wants, and I wrestled with my sovereign God.

I am a blessed man. God has blessed me far beyond my deserving, but I want what I want, and what I want, with all that is within me, is for my loved ones to be with Jesus and me where we spend eternity.

And that brings me back to  2 Timothy 4:21. Come before winter. In the providence of God, there is a season for everything. Spring is the planting season, summer is the growing season, and fall appears to be the dying season, but in fact it is the season of preparation, as trees, for example, prepare for winter and a time of protective dormancy, for the miraculous resurrection that follows in the spring. But unlike nature, man has but one cycle of seasons, and no resurrection to new life, unless…unless he is in Christ. You must come to Christ before winter, or there will be no glorious spring for you (John 3:16).

Dr. Macartney, in his classic sermon, in a riff on a famous Jonathan Edwards metaphor, said, a spider’s most attenuated strand “is a steel cable compared to your hold on life.” And its a life that fades all too quickly, like leaves in autumn.  Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ alone, that lovely name, is the only hope, the only truth, the only way to resurrection in the spring.

Do you have unsaved loved ones? Have you personally invited them to come to Christ? Do it now. Always, always, do it now. With all the love that is within you, invite them to come to Him. Come before the heart grows cold, come before the snow obscures the way, come before the door is frozen shut forever. Come before winter…..

A Prayer of Dedication

Tue, 14 Nov 2006 08:48:38 -0400

In the providence of God an extraordinary thing happened in our little church in the French Broad River Valley of the Blue Ridge mountains last Sunday evening.  A great man of God was officially installed as the shepherd of our flock.  In a denomination—the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA)—that takes great pains to guard the faith, this is the most serious of ceremonies.  Vows are sworn, oaths are taken, and solemn charges to keep are made, by shepherd and flock.  Our new pastor’s son-in-law delivered the sermon, and his son delivered the “charge” to a dad who has been preaching longer than son has been breathing.  It was not the first time son had participated in Dad’s worship service. That occurred shortly after he learned how to walk, and he found his way out of the nursery and into the sanctuary, headed for Dad in nothing but his Sunday diaper.  All three men are Presbyterian (PCA) pastors, all three are powerful exegetes, all three exude the assurance that the living God satisfies their souls—grace upon grace!

  It is a rare thing when there are three pastors in one family, it is rarer still when all three are in the same church on Sunday, as Dad told the congregation.  Dad is Dr. H. Andrew Silman, our new pastor, the son is Rev. A. Campbell Silman, and son-in-law is Rev. P. Clay Holland. (I think that middle name emphasis is a southern cultural convention—for sure it’s a family thing.)

  This wordsmith cannot find the words to explain how I feel. I could not sleep and sat at my computer trying to clarify my thoughts on the screen and praising God long past midnight.  My eyes keep flooding but I was not sad—the opposite in fact.  It was simply the most moving, meaningful worship of the living God I have ever been blessed to participate in.  By “meaningful” I mean convicting…transporting…humbling…gratitude inducing to the point I want to bawl my eyes out (I’ve never seen more tears in a church that was not conducting a funeral), that the God of the universe would so bless this little flock in the boondocks, and so bless a bum like me.

  Admittedly, part of my feelings have to do with the fact that I sat on the search committee that called Dr. Silman, a long, stressful, wearisome, emotional roller-coaster of a task, and partly because I am an elder in this little church, a leadership burden that sometimes feels like it is about to break my back.  For one night at least I was walking on air and I am most grateful.

I prayed the “Prayer of Dedication” in the service.  I share the deepest longings of my heart with you, dear friends, as I shared it with my church family that night:

O Lord God of all creation, there is no God like you, in heaven above or on earth below, keeping your promises forever and showing infinite, everlasting love to your chosen ones, who walk before you with joyful hearts.  (I Kings 8:23)  The highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that we have built!

Hear our prayer, as we here gathered dedicate your house, your adopted family and this ministry to your glory.  May this church in these magnificent mountains be a beacon of light, that light of the world that is our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.  May Dr. Silman’s ministry be an efficacious voice of truth crying in the wilderness of this decaying culture.  And may every saint in this sanctuary glow with love and throb with hope immortal for all to see in our community, bringing you glory and honor, and drawing in anxious unsaved souls.  Shadows they are and shadows they pursue—longing, searching without vision for the peace and joy in Christ that we by grace have received.  Guide us as we endeavor to declare, by our deeds as we move among them, that the living God satisfies our souls.

Lord bless this ministry with winsome witnesses.  You have already blessed us unworthies by placing us in this prelude to heaven, where there is no direction we can look without seeing your glory proclaimed to the world. Never let us stray, with our eyes, our thoughts, our words or our deeds.  Keep us secure in the palm of your hand as you have promised. Fill our being with that peace which the world cannot give, and the world cannot take away.

O Lord, you have blessed us with a passionate, articulate man of God to teach us and lead us in your ways.  Now be pleased to bind us together with bonds of love and respect and compassion and consideration.  Keep us ever mindful that we are all flawed vessels, cracked pots that leak so badly we need  perpetual filling from your ever-flowing fountain of grace…and we need your forgiveness with every breath we draw.

Dear God, we are your grateful elect.  It is in you we live and move and have our being, and it is in you and through you, by the Holy Spirit that dwells within us, that we perform the work and worship of this ministry, knowing that whatsoever comes to pass is according to your will, for your glory and our good.

Expend us as you will, and bring us to your bosom when we are spent.  And we will shall praise your name forevermore.

In the name of him who loved us, died for us, rose from the dead—the first among many—intercedes for us and leads us to your throne with great joy, our savior Jesus Christ, we pray, Amen.

Go here and left click on “The Benediction” and let your heart be warmed by a humble man of God as he accepts this awesome responsibility.

The Mean Season

Tue, 7 Nov 2006 11:35:00 -0400

This time I’m not talking about the diminishing of the fall colors that, even though now faded, are still such a spectacular testimony to the God of all creation. I’m talking about the sad spectacle of this election season. Late tonight and tomorrow I suppose very close to half the electorate will be dancing in the streets and half will be muttering with hang-dog conviction about how America is hell-bent for imminent self-destruction. I tend to the latter category, especially when Churchill’s black dog strays into my backyard. Perhaps I could blame the accumulated battle damage of six decades in a decadent world as the reason for my three-score-and-three-year-old intermittent melancholy, but it sure seems to me the culture’s descent into meanness accelerates with each election season. And like the tourist season in my old home state of Florida, it gets harder with each passing year to differentiate between in season and out.

Perhaps my skin is wearing thin with age, but it seems being a Christian increasingly makes me the preferred butt of ridicule and mockery in America. I have witnessed an openly Christian American president becoming the world’s largest lightening rod for vicious charges by liberal pagan politicos. Hate is high fashion and outrage a commonplace response to differences of opinion and faith. Terrorists have become the temper trendsetters in this fallen world. A civil in-depth conversation on politics or religion with an unsaved sister-in-law whom I love is an impossible dream, absent spiritual rebirth by God’s grace (John 3:3).

Ah, yes…therein lies the solution to this depressing stream of cultural consciousness: Grace.

Am I suffering any more than the Apostle Paul? I don’t recall ever starting a riot by my witness to God. Although my Dad was adept with any tool within reach when needed for discipline, I’ve never been scourged once, let alone “forty lashes less one” five times, nor have I been beaten with rods or stoned (1Cor: 11:24-5). After all of that Paul ended up losing his head to a naked Roman executioner for his faith, and all the disciples save one died gruesome deaths—mentors all. If God gave them all the grace to suffer heroically for Him, can He not also freely give me the relative smidgeon of graceful fortitude needed to endure the verbal slings and arrows of life in the greatest nation in the history of Planet Earth?

Christ died in the most horrible manner man could invent out of love for me. If He could die for me long before I quit hating Him, can I not muster the gratitude to tolerate some unloving name calling by lost souls so blind they cannot see the reality of God? If the world sneered at, scourged and viciously slew the Son of God incarnate, and He willingly accepted a judgment he in no way deserved, what right have I, His adopted child, an unworthy recipient of such astounding atonement, to expect a life on Easy Street?

Hate and rage is not an innovation of the modern era. Jesus said, Do not be surprised, brothers, that the world hates you (1 John 3:13), and If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before it hated you (John 15:18). In the Gospel of John, also written two millennia ago, the words “hate,” “hates” or “hated” are used ten times to describe the world’s response to the followers of Christ, and in John’s first epistle it appears five times. All three synoptic Gospels quote Jesus saying, you will be hated by all for my name’s sake… (Matt 10:22, Mark 13:13, Luke 21:17). Not a millimeter of room for doubt or quibbling there.

Martin Lloyd Jones, yet another Englishman, considered by many the Spurgeon of the twentieth century, said:

…the world [does not] hate us because we are good. Let us be quite clear about that. The world does not hate good people; the world only hates Christian people. That is the subtle, vital distinction. If you are just a good person, the world, far from hating you, will admire you, it will cheer you….. The world, we are told, hates Christians, not because they are hateful, not because they are good, not because they do good, but specifically because they are Christians, because they are of God, because they have Christ within them. (Walking With God Day by Day, page 121)

And here is the consolation, here is the reward, from the lips of the Son of God incarnate: Blessed are you when people hate you and when they exclude you and revile you and spurn your name as evil, on account of the Son of Man (Luke 6:22)! I know I am blessed when I summon the will to quit dog-paddling in the Slew of Despond, dragging an anchor of self-pity, and open my eyes to these beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains where I am blessed to toil. I am so grateful the God who loves me with a lavish compassion beyond my comprehension allows me to live in this Wilderness Cathedral, where the density of sinners is lower than any place I have ever lived, and those that are here humbly know they are saved by grace. I am overwhelmed by a God who would chose, with no preconditions whatsoever, to wrap His truth around what Wordsworth called “the foul rag and bone shop” of my unworthy heart. When I remind myself of all this amazing grace, it becomes clearly absurd to spend a nanosecond nurturing my grudges, burnishing my bitterness, or cherishing my misery. There’s only one bona fide response—the joy that no one will take away (John 16:22b). The sovereign God who gave me faith (Eph. 2:8) and joy will provide my next elected officials, and it will all be for my good and His glory (Rom. 8:28), whether or not I understand it all right now. And one day, for those of us who love the Lord, the mean season will be no more forever.

Note: If you missed the Keenagers Conference this year, or if you would care to listen to a short devotional I gave on the background to “No one…,” you may go here and listen.

Revelation on Reformation Day

Tue, 31 Oct 2006 04:00:01 -0400

It’s my first day off in forty.  The high holy season in this Wilderness Cathedral is over, the sleep deficit is getting made up in great gobs, and the mind is trying to digest all the nearly nonstop teaching and preaching (here’s a sample) that goes with God’s spectacular Appalachian Autumn Art Show.  I am the most blessed unworthy soul of anyone I know to be a part of this.

    But what rocks my skull the most on this Reformation Day entered not through my ears but through my eyes in one of my long-time favorite daily devotional readings in the midst of all this sensory overload.  It was a weekend reading in the October edition of Tabletalk, from Ligonier Ministries and R. C. Sproul.  In an article entitled, “The Laughter of Abraham and the Joy of Jesus,” author Warren A. Gage, associate professor of Old Testament at Knox Theological Seminary in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, attributes the following paraphrase to pastor, professor and mega-selling author, Eugene Peterson:

Eugene Peterson observed that Genesis was the book of the ancient church and Augustine, that Solomon’s Song was the book of the medieval mystics, and that Romans was the book of Luther and the Reformation.  He suggests that  a new Reformation is asleep in the book of Revelation.  That Reformation will come through a new Luther whose comedic imagination is robust enough to recognize who Babylon’s whore truly is, and who, like Abraham, can delight in God who makes all things possible.  The next Reformation will recover and deepen the joy of Paul, Augustine, and Luther.  It will rediscover a biblical understanding of grace so radical that many will condemn it as blasphemy.  But it will sweep the world once again with the laughter of the Gospel based on an even greater understanding of just how amazing grace truly is.

As one who reads extensively about God’s grace and writes on the subject with passionate conviction, I still find this to be a jolting declaration.  I set to work to learn more.  I found this most excellent piece of research:  The John-Revelation Project, by Dr. Gage and Dr. R. Fowler White, New Testament Professor at Knox Theological Seminary.    It’s book length and it is all there at the website for the reading.

Revelation has long been a mystery to me, in spite of hearing a number of sermon series and reading several  commentaries about it.  I even tried the Left Behind Series of end-time novels, perhaps the best-selling Christian fiction of all-time, but could not muster enough verisimilitude to get past the first chapter of the first book.  It just did not begin to square with my worldview.  But, hallelujah, Drs. Gage and Fowler are turning on lights all over the place!  Go there this Reformation Day and spend the time you normally spend digesting my drivel.  Their scholarship produces some astounding revelations.  If you need more motivation, here’s the intro, and don’t let those big words scare you off…:

At the beginning of the 21st century virtually the entire American evangelical community has been captured by a dispensational, pretribulational, and premillennial eschatology. Best-selling book series and sensational movies, reinforced by endless radio talk programs, promote these fantastic interpretations of biblical prophecy as events coming to pass in our generation.
Unfortunately, the response of the Reformed church to this, thus far, one-sided discussion has been to caution that fantastic interpretations of biblical prophecy, especially concerning the book of Revelation, should be skeptically received. But it should be frankly admitted that we have not offered what we could credibly claim is a defensible interpretation of the last book in the canon.

This faculty forum is an attempt to rectify this omission....

Taste and see if you don’t get the first shivering glimmers of “just how amazing grace truly is.”

Postscript: Thanks to Tim Challies for his Reformation Day initiative.  And thanks to all those who helped make "No one..." #5 at the net's top reformed Christian bookstore.

Candy Man

Tue, 24 Oct 2006 13:53:19 -0400

In 5+ years at this Wilderness Cathedral, I’ve never had the Monday morning blahs. And this clear crisp colorful autumn morning is as far from blah as you can get on this earth. The Master’s fall canvas is full of spectacular fluorescent colors set against knock-your-eyes-out blue sky. I spent the first half of the first morning of the “work” week at Inspiration Point, my favorite spot in this Conference Center. Nothing speaks to me like silence in the midst of the mountains. Nothing more profoundly expounds Psalm 46:10a than a few mute moments perched on a half-log pew in my outdoor chapel: Be still, and know that I am God.

The seasons have a typology all their own in God’s perfect design. Autumn is just full of symbolic scripture for one in the autumn of his years…and I think three score and three years is considered autumn for humans, even if it doesn’t feel like it. The beauty of dying leaves is not unlike the beauty of a saint approaching death serene in his assurance of God’s promises. My brother in Christ, Emery, is in that category. I prayed for him this morning at Inspiration Point. I think he would agree that he and I are not the most beautiful leaves that fluttered in the autumn breeze, but he has a God-given faith that outshines the most fluorescent fall color. He ran the candy stand for summer campers here at Ridge Haven for a generation of covenant children. He heard, “Hey, Candy Man,” in some surprising places in his travels when former young customers spied his unforgettable face. He finally had to give up that volunteer work a year ago when congestive heart failure left him too out of breath to climb the stairs to the second floor candy counter.

A few Sundays ago we worshiped the Lord without him, as doctors in the emergency room fought to keep him alive. They succeeded, and when I saw him the next day, wired up in intensive care, his serene, smiling demeanor belied the life and death battle he had just fought. The only indication of his ongoing trauma was the digital readout of his pulse on the heart monitor—steady at 147. A week later, the angiogram showed a heart artery blockage in a nearly inoperable spot.

The decision was his—take a high risk chance on bypass surgery or put his life in the Lord’s hands and go home to live out his allotted days. He chose the latter, moving out of his Ridge Haven home with his wife to a retirement center in South Carolina near his son, a brand new widower who’s spouse was recently released to glory while playing the organ for a Sunday worship service.

Nothing speaks louder, nothing is more profound, nothing demonstrates true faith in a way that glorifies our Lord more than the comfort with which a child of God faces death. This morning as my eyes feasted on faded flowers, falling leaves, withered grass and multicolored mountainsides, I was filled with awe and overwhelming gratitude for a gracious God who planned the seasons of all life down to the precise landing zone of every leaf that falls…and in amazing love chose to save a no one like me, lead me to a suburban heaven like this and give me friends like Emery. And I prayed that if I am blessed to see my death coming, that I will, by His grace, be able to witness to my faith with the serene assurance of the Candy Man.

RUTH

Tue, 17 Oct 2006 14:05:06 -0400

One of several great blessings of my calling as Resident Manager of Ridge Haven is that every week is like a family reunion. Believers are, after all, the family of God. Our “clientele” is very loyal, returning year after year. I get so much practice remembering names I should be a whiz at it. However, being an incorrigible kid in a codgers’ body, I am far from a whiz.

Once in a while, though, a guest’s witness to God’s grace is so powerful that I could not forget his/her name if I were lobotomized. Ruth is near the top of that short list. She home schools two young sons and loves to sing. Her angelic singing voice has blessed me as sound man in the meeting hall when she’s done solos in years past. And her leadership gifts put her in the vanguard of ladies from her large church group who always come a day early to set up and decorate the meeting room.

This year, as I spied Ruth across the large room, headed my way, she looked more radiant, even from a distance, than I recalled from the year before. As she got closer, something else was different. She was a bit thinner, a bit older, and I thought I noticed a bit of distortion in her facial profile. When she greeted me, her voice led me to believe that perhaps her dentist had just pulled a molar.

She said the kindest things about my writing and my new book, adding, “It’s on my wish-list.” Then, perhaps because there was a quizzical look on my face, she explained that since I saw her last she’d had cancer surgery and part of her jaw had been removed. (Only later did I learn about the feeding tube and the “ongoing, graciously unceasing” pain she’ll live with for the rest of her days.)

I am sure my countenance clouded as she spoke. My heart went out to her.

Then she said, “I can’t sing any more.”

I choked into speechlessness…me, the writer who is never stuck for words.

Ruth came to my rescue. She tilted her head, raised both arms with palms up and out in a giant victory sign, and through her new saintly smile said, “I can still sing in my heart.”
This combat veteran who thinks he’s so tough melted into a puddle on the carpet.

Ruth got a free copy of “No one….” Inside the front cover the inscription reads, “Ruth, your witness is so much more profound than this little book.”

At the end of the weekend Ruth gave me a DVD entitled “Testimony” and a card with her Caringbridge URL. I guess she knew this former fearless fighter pilot couldn’t handle all her testimony in one conversation. Spend some time there and learn how a real witness lives. And be amazed at the Grace of God.

Riding the Tide to Perdition

Tue, 10 Oct 2006 13:07:51 -0400

I’m not the most buoyant person who ever jumped into the river.  Skin and bones don’t float like avoirdupois.  To keep my face above water when I float I must arch my back as much as I can, keep my lungs as full of air as possible, and take small breaths.  As I write this I can vividly see in my mind’s eye a bright full moon above me as I lie immobile on my back on the surface of the mighty muddy Mississippi. It was great middle-of-the-night summer fun in my teenage years growing up on a farm in western Illinois, when my friends and I overnighted at a friend’s family cabin on the river. Though I had no sensory perception of movement, we were actually going with the flow, moving downriver at a pretty good clip.  To take the work out of getting back to the cabin, one of the guys rode in a small open boat which floated with us.  When we’d had our fill of fun, we’d all climb into the boat, fire up the outboard and motor home in the moonlight.  Only then did we realize just how far down the river we’d been swept.

Sin is like that.  An unbelieving sinner doesn’t feel like he’s being swept down a river that will pitch him over a disastrous cataract into an eternally dark, moonless, starless void—eternal damnation.  He is blind to the kingdom of God and the crisis caused by his sin, and oblivious to the hell-bound current he rides.  Just like the Mississippi, it feels pretty good, just going with the flow, or going on gonads, as we said in those days of raging testosterone.  The water is mesmerizing, the effulgent moon is beautiful, the company is great, just swimming in sloth with the guys.  Sin?  Not me, man. I’m better’n most. Repentance?  What’s to repent?

That’s often the reaction, is it not, when you witness to an unsaved person.  A lost soul has no perception of his or her personal sin against a Holy God, no realization of his desperate straits.  You tell him he must believe that Jesus Christ is who He said He was—the Son of God who died to pay for the sins of His chosen—and that he must repent of his sins to be saved…and he just gives you a blank look, if he’s polite.

There is only one way your witness will have a positive impact on a lost soul, no matter how polished, persuasive and passionate your presentation.  God must work a miracle.  And he must work it FIRST…or what you say will make no sense to one who is perishing.  It must be a miracle of sovereign grace in the heart of a sinner before the good news of the Gospel can be effective.  That miracle is spiritual rebirth.

Jesus told Nicodemus, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again (John 3:3).  Unless God miraculously generates a spiritual rebirth in a sinner, he cannot see God’s reality.  Nonetheless, the majority report in Christianity today is that God puts the offer of salvation on the table and the “seeker” either accepts it or rejects it.  They say the choice is his. If he accepts it then, according to their scenario, God does his part, leading to spiritual rebirth.  That, however, is clearly NOT what Jesus is saying here.  He is saying, in mostly monosyllable simplicity, that no one can see the reality of God, let alone choose to believe in Him unless he is born again .  God must choose first (Romans 8:29, 1 John 4:19) ) to give a sinner the spiritual rebirth which opens his eyes to see His holiness and infinite love and mercy, and his own desperate need for a Savior.  A person cannot choose what he cannot see and does not know.

Jesus says, as clearly as words can convey, that rebirth must precede the seeing, and just as we had no choice or control over our physical birth, likewise we have no choice or control over our spiritual rebirth.   No one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.  Yes, this is indeed hard to understand the first time you hear it.  As Nicodemus, a bright guy and a leader in his church, said, “How can this be?”  The Greek word translated “born again” is literally “born from above,” or spiritual rebirth. And it makes perfect sense in hindsight to the recipient of such an amazing miracle, so plain you want to exuberantly shake your unsaved loved ones and shout, “Can’t you see what is so obvious?” One has to reinvent grammar and redefine words to get any other meaning out of Christ’s plain-spoken declaration.

I think this has significant implications for the way we witness.  It seems to me we should therefore focus first on what God does rather than what a sinner must do.  The gift of faith (Eph. 2:8) and repentance are essential to our salvation, but to the one who is perishing there is neither the gift nor the understanding of what sin is or why he needs to repent…unless God opens his eyes to the truth.  Thus we must pray that God will do His miraculous work in a stone cold heart first if our witness is going to be efficacious to a lost soul.  Talk to God about the man before you talk to the man about God.  Unless our audience can see the kingdom of God, our words are just so much incomprehensible scare mongering.  The warning of that bottomless abyss at the end of the river of sin is just so much Chicken Little chatter to those who cannot see.

Then tell, with humility, passion and plain English, what a merciful God has done for your soul. (Psalms 66:16).  And rather than the sinner’s prayer, why not first lead him in a prayer for spiritual rebirth?  Ask our merciful God for a new heart in your listener, and vision to see the truth, to understand why a Holy God hates sin.  Lord willing, an understanding of the awfulness of sin in the eyes of a loving God we owe everything will lead a sinner to true repentance, and a prayer from the depths of a contrite heart.

Spiritual rebirth, as the phrase implies, is just the start of a pilgrimage to heaven that is generated, guided, guarded and guaranteed by a sovereign God.  It requires swimming against the current in a culture that makes the muddy Mississippi look like a crystalline mountain stream by comparison.  In spite of some dark nights when the moon doesn’t shine, and ridicule from the clueless lemmings riding the tide to perdition, victory is never in doubt.  Our strength is in the Lord, who never changes, and neither do His mind or His promises. Deo volente, in the joy that is set before us, we’ll convince some of those lemmings to roll over on their bellies and swim to glory with us, grateful former lemmings rescued by Grace. Think on these things as you pray with me for those lost souls who are near and dear to us.

Just Something That Happened

Tue, 3 Oct 2006 15:52:53 -0400

One of the great blessings of writing a book is the feedback from folks who read it.  When the feedback is kind, laudatory and appreciative, the challenge is to remember who really is responsible, and who gets the glory for any heart or worldview that is changed.  Then there’s the other kind of feedback, not so pleasant, and by grace that can be a learning experience too.  In line with C. J. Mahaney’s teaching in Humility, I will try to remain silent on the ego strokes and blog a bit about the latter kind of feedback.

A reader, who received “No one…” as a gift from a friend, wrote that friend (and mine) a letter with a self-addressed, stamped envelope included, to be passed along to me, the author.  It was an inducement to answer a query that cast aspersions on my literary endeavor:  How did I know I was saved?  Hmmmm.  You see, from first to last “No one…” is an apologetic—a defense of my faith, resting on God’s sovereign grace alone.  This little book is all about God’s plan of salvation for sinners, using six of the simplest, most unequivocal statements from Christ’s own lips.  But, at least through page 26 (and I suspect he stopped there), it had no impact on one reader.  With no further explanation whatsoever, Jesus’ words are simple enough for an adolescent to understand and profound enough to stagger the mind of an intellectual.

No one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again (John 3:3).
No one can come to me unless the Father Who  sent me draws him (John 6:44).
No one comes to the Father except through me (John 14:6).
No one takes it (life) from me, but I lay it down of my own accord (John 10:18).
No one can snatch them out of my hand (John.10:28).
No one will take away your joy (John 16:22b).

I admit it takes some chutzpah to presume these plainspoken words by Christ could be further clarified by this flawed vessel’s wordsmithing, but obviously I convinced one publisher to take a chance.  And at least one reader, while professing saving faith, remains a skeptic as to my explanation of the how and why of salvation.  He told our mutual friend, “I started to read Mr. Wetterling’s book, and for the first 26 pages I was breezing along.  Then a question kept popping into my little pea brain.  He would say something to indicate he was saved, and then say something else to lead me to think it’s just something that happened to him.”  He then asked me to please use the enclosed envelope to send along a letter explaining to him how I knew I was saved.

Well…uh…after the endorsement pages, title pages, preface and introduction, page 26 was only 4 pages into Chapter 1.  My first thought was sinful, a snotty retort—suggest you read the rest of the book…with particular attention to Jesus’ “No one…” quotes. Then I turned to page 26.

The same thing that stopped Nicodemus in his tracks stopped my inquiring reader.  In response to Jesus’ first “No one…” quote above, Nicodemus asked “How can this be?” (John 1:9).  I think my reader is as perplexed as Nicodemus was.  But in his incredulous comment the reader spoke a mighty truth—my spiritual rebirth just happened!  No one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again (John 3:3).  One cannot control one’s birth…or spiritual rebirth.  And if Jesus said it, he meant it.  My reader apparently thinks that because it was just something that happened I cannot be saved, as if I have to initiate the process of salvation or it doesn’t count. Then he enthusiastically painted a vivid word picture of the actions he took on the day he chose to believe.  Not once in all his exuberant self-assurance did he give God any credit for anything that happened.  It appeared he believes his salvation rests on his choosing to believe in Christ.  As I read the first “No  one…” quote, it seems unequivocally clear to me that God did the choosing before I could even see what my choices were.  And He did not just kick start this process and leave the rest to capricious me. The rest of the “No ones…” clearly indicate that God, in His immutable will, is the prime mover and guarantor of every step of my salvation, from my rebirth to eternity with Him.  This is not an original interpretation of Holy Writ.  I’m standing on the shoulders of some icons of orthodoxy here—the Apostle Paul, Augustine, John Calvin, Martin Luther, the 130+ theologians who authored The Westminster Confession, Jonathan Edwards, George Whitford, and Charles Spurgeon, to name a few of my favorites.

I wrote my friend’s friend back.  “This may come as a shock to you, but it did just happen….” I then explained, I hope with Christian charity, how Christ’s “No one…” quotes reveal that my salvation was through a loving God’s sovereignty.  It was His initiative, not mine.  God did the choosing.  He chose to open my eyes and change my heart (John 3:3), then chose to draw me irresistibly to faith in Christ alone (John 6:44, 14:6), chose to pay the horrible ransom for my hell-bound ways (John 10:18), and chose to guarantee my salvation (John 10:28) and eternal joy (John 16:22).  All six steps are inseparable in our sovereign, unchangeable God's plan of salvation for sinners.  I love Him because He chose, for no good reason that exists in me, to love me first (1 John 4:19).

Then I challenged my friendly skeptic to carefully consider over 200 scripture quotes in that little book in support of the self-evident truth of these six “No one…” quotes:  God is in charge of every step in His plan of salvation for sinners, and no one else. What a foundation on which to stake one’s eternal destiny!  Joy indeed!

If God doesn’t make it happen, it doesn’t happen.  The “just something that happened” is something indeed—a miracle of Amazing Grace!  Wow!  I like that thought!  Profound! Thank you, skeptical reader!  God willing, when this snail mail exchange is over we’ll be theologically kindred spirits and best of friends.

Focus Fights Back

Tue, 26 Sep 2006 09:49:18 -0400

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

Tue, 19 Sep 2006 20:36:50 -0400

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

Mon, 11 Sep 2006 20:18:27 -0400

“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 leaderships 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

Tue, 5 Sep 2006 12:02:22 -0400

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 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

Tue, 29 Aug 2006 16:17:07 -0400

In my worldview nothing happens by accident. When I’m home alone 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 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.

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

Tue, 22 Aug 2006 06:16:05 -0400

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 Grandaughters

Tue, 15 Aug 2006 19:48:19 -0400

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?” thirteen-year-old 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

Tue, 8 Aug 2006 05:55:48 -0400

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

Tue, 1 Aug 2006 14:04:25 -0400

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 Presbyterian 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

Tue, 25 Jul 2006 11:00:43 -0400

Part 1

“Meaningless! Meaningless!” says the Teacher.
“Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless.”
What does man gain from all his labor
at which he toils under the sun?
generations come and generations go,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises and the sun sets,
And hurries back to where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
ever returning on its course.
All streams flow into the sea,
yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
there they return again.
All things are wearisome,
more than one can say (Ecclesiastes 1:2-8).

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 same fate awaits them both:
As one dies, so dies the other.
All have the same breath;
man has no advantage over the animal.
Everything is meaningless.
All go to the same place;
all come from dust, and to dust all return.
(Eccl 3:19-20)

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)?

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,
and this was the reward for all my labor.
Yet when I surveyed all that my hands
had done and what I had toiled to achieve,
everything was meaningless,
a chasing after the wind;
nothing was gained under the sun.
(Eccl. 2:10a-11)

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.
[Part II next week]

A Man's Man Making Music for His Maker

Tue, 18 Jul 2006 09:28:52 -0400

He looks like a middle-linebacker just past his prime, with a wide, light-up-the-room smile in a round ruddy face half-framed with sandy hair, mounted, without benefit of a neck, on shoulders that fill a doorway. His belt buckle resides in moderate shade. Beefy hands overwhelm yours in a handshake, and if he blesses you with a bear hug you’ll quit breathing till his exuberance passes. But Lord a’mighty, those unlikely he-man hands can finesse a keyboard. When this graduate of Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary sits down at the piano, I hear Roger Williams, Nina Simone and Jerry Lee Lewis rolled into one great gifted artist making beautiful music for his God.

In my protestant denomination, so sure of the seriousness of worshiping God that debate over permissible music never ceases, Greg Hill is the best argument I’ve heard for contemporary worship music. Greg can coax new meaning and nuanced feeling out of the great old church hymns of our fathers, but he also writes his own. He composes new music to old lyrics as well as original words and music that come “immediately wed” into a mind he describes as a “dangerous place.” He confesses this usually occurs during a sermon. Once he sang and played the new hymn to the congregation as soon as the sermon was over. His multi-tasking mind can improvise background music while he reads scripture, the musical equivalent of patting your head while rubbing your belly.

It is a rare thing to see such passion transposed onto ivory, but there’s even more to this music ministry. There’s an angelic voice standing behind the baby grand, unhidden by a raised lid (Greg’s music has no trouble finding its way out of that ornate box when it's closed). Kristi is Greg’s wife and mother of a busy 2-year-old with bountiful blonde curls named Cooper, and theirs is a musical and marital union made in heaven.

They were both with us this week at Ridge Haven as Mission to the World held its summer conference for missionaries back in the States on home leave. Its always been a high point of my year in this wilderness cathedral. Serving missionaries on R&R from what too often is literally a war zone these days is the most fulfilling thing I do as Resident Manager. Hanging around such committed Christians always leaves me wrestling with extreme ambivalence. It's a battle between my sense of satisfied servitude of the most rudimentary variety (I’m an MBA errand boy for God’s real warriors) and the feeling of guilt about my puny productivity for the Kingdom compared to theirs. There’s no biblical justification for a burned out businessman skating to glory. Try a biblical word search with “retirement,” or “semi-retirement” or “part-time work.” I’m a blessed man to be exposed to such Godly servants, and I am called to work this all out with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12), and I will.

My new friend, Greg Hill, is Director of Music Ministries at Westminster Presbyterian Church in Gainesville, GA., moving to Christ Church in Atlanta next month. Kristi and Greg’s presence here this week just heightened the spiritual mountaintop for the missionaries and me. For the first time in over a decade, I purchased a music CD. You can go here and do the same, or go here and hear two samples of their wonderful music. I can’t wait for their return to Ridge Haven—twice more before the year is out!

There's No Redemption in a Momentary Blur

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 06:40:51 -0400

The pagan press is having a heyday with the tragic life and sudden death of Ken Lay.  The fallen corporate chieftain called himself a Christian, you see.  At the Huffington Post, where I found myself by accident, Dr. Peter Yost gleefully headlined his snarky screed about Lay and other corporate crooks who called themselves Christians:  “God's Men: Guilty, Guilty, Guilty!”  The NY Times, in its obit, was quick to point out his biblical quote to the press after his conviction:  “We believe that God in fact is in control, and indeed he does work all things for good for those who love the Lord.”  The grey lady must have been dancing in the editorial aisles with her literary sucker punch to those dangerous Christians.  Personally, I have no trouble believing the providential God who used Balaam’s ass to speak the truth (Numbers 22:28) can just as easily use a convicted swindler to remind us moderns of eternal verities.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes, nor (I can vouch) in the cockpit when dancing in the crosshairs of the enemy, nor apparently on the courthouse steps after the guilty verdict is read. If only Lay, instead of prefacing his Romans 8:28 quote with, “I firmly believe I am innocent of the charges against me,” had followed that scripture with a statement of repentance.  But such a confession would have precluded any earthly appeal in the courts, I suppose.  Quoting God’s absolute truth with an unrepentant heart must surely stir the infinite wrath of an infinitely Holy God.  Now Ken Lay faces the court of no appeal.

Peggy Noonan, an outspoken former Reagan speechwriter who often showcases her Catholic faith in her usually excellent columns, strangely took a sabbatical from same in her WSJ OpinionJournal piece on his death, inexplicably titled, On Finding Peace.  She chose to focus, sans a hint of God, on incorrigible humanity’s need for third and fourth chances.  Now Ken Lay is out of chances. I pray that with his dying breath he begged the God of third and four and seventy times seven chances for forgiveness for making such a hash of his life and ruining so many others.

There are lessons in this tragedy for those with eyes to see. Following so closely after our attendance at Focus on the Family’s The Truth Project Training Conference in Colorado Springs, it reinforced in my mind Dr. Del Tackett’s worldview admonition that, if “you really believe what you believe is really real,” then it will really be reflected in everything you do, including, not least, your work.  In spite of postmodern protestations to the contrary, a Christian worldview applies to every facet of our lives, not just to Sunday morning when we paste on our beatific smile and piously perch in our pew for an hour.  There is no direction we can go where God has not spoken, as Del Tackett passionately declares.

Sadly, the Barna polls reveal that the pernicious lies of the culture have so infiltrated the ranks of Christian soldiers that the lifestyle of one who considers himself a Christian is indistinguishable, statistically, from the unbeliever, and Ken Lay is the media’s current poster boy.  Only 9% of those who said they “had confessed their sins and had accepted Jesus Christ as their savior” also believed the most basic tenets of the Gospel (see note below), which is, by definition, a Christian worldview.  Thus 91% of those who call themselves Christians are not living out God’s truth in the world.  The crux of our culture’s decline is the desperate need for reform within the ranks of Christians.  I shudder when I remember that quote by Jesus.

Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven…. On that day many will say to me, 'Lord, Lord, did we not…do many mighty works in your name?'  And then will I declare to them, 'I never knew you; depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.' (Matthew 7:21-23).

Godspeed to The Truth Project and the thousands of change agents it is training, of which I am enthusiastically one.

    Noonan lamented the gold fish bowl in which Lay spent his last days.  “Now, with modern media, there's no place to hide.” Real Christians know there never was a place to hide from God, and if those who claim the title would remember that, they could avoid the ash heap of wrecked lives.  A few thousand years ago a king who committed some heinous sins—adultery and premeditated murder—repentantly prayed (Psalms 139:7-10):

Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.

Peggy thinks “it’s obvious Ken Lay died of a broken heart.” If so, it was self-inflicted.  Fallen man, including especially this writer, has always been his own worst enemy.  That’s why a merciful God sent his Son to atone, with a horrible sacrificial death, for sins that we are not really sorry for, if we acknowledge them at all, and could never pay for, absent a divine work of amazing grace on a cross and in our hearts. No one is beyond His grace, including Ken Lay and Peggy Noonan and you and me.

  Noonan curiously concluded, "The only relief in this area will be here: when every embarrassment is famous for a day and every scandal known worldwide for a week, they'll all start to blend into a big blur. And you can hide in a blur for a while."

There’s no redemption in a momentary blur.  It’s not exactly a Christian solution to what is clearly a sin issue.  I go with one of her heroes… and mine.  A guy named Augustine, 16 centuries ago, said,

  Everlasting God, in whom we live and move and have our being: You have made us for Yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You.

Therein I shall restfully, gratefully, joyfully hide for eternity—no momentary blurs, no embarrassment, no shame, no broken heart.

Note: For purposes of Barna’s research, a biblical worldview was defined as believing 1.) that absolute moral truths exist; 2.) that such truth is defined by the Bible; and 3.) firm belief in six specific religious views:  a) Jesus Christ lived a sinless life; b) God is the all-powerful and all-knowing Creator of the universe and He stills rules it today; c) salvation is a gift from God and cannot be earned; d) Satan is real; e) a Christian has a responsibility to share his faith in Christ with other people; and f) the Bible is accurate in all of its teachings.

No fireworks for me, thanks

Tue, 4 Jul 2006 06:54:18 -0400

I’ll be as joyful as any American today, and more grateful to God than most just to be here to celebrate our nation’s birthday, but count me out for the fireworks.  They hold neither beauty nor thrills for a vet whose gray matter holds enough vivid images of war.

In the spring of 1969 my wingman and I were young fighter pilots sitting alert through a sweltering tropical night at Tuy Hoa Air Base on the beach of the South China Sea in South Vietnam. Sometime after midnight the command post called, "Scramble." The enemy was overrunning a Special Forces camp in the Central Highlands and if we didn’t hurry a hundred Green Berets might not see the light of another day.

We sprinted across a dimly lit apron toward the revetment where two F-100's squatted, armed and “cocked” for quick takeoff. Moments later we were climbing through 5,000 feet into a moonless sky. My wingman’s plane was snuggled in so close to my wing tip that he could spit on it were it not for a Plexiglas canopy and a 400-knot airflow rushing by his cockpit. Over my shoulder the Big Dipper pointed at the North Star at two o'clock high, and an awesome Milky Way proclaimed God’s handiwork, but the task at hand prevented my appreciating heaven’s declaration of the glory of God (Psalm 19:1).

This was the scariest kind of graveyard shift work, an interactive fireworks display with maximum carnage as the objective of all parties. Under our wings hung silver canisters of napalm, the most ghastly kind of sound and light show.  Each could generate a tidal wave of fire that could incinerate everything on a football field.

The beleaguered special forces camp sat atop a hill in a clearing surrounded by trenches and accordion folds of concertina wire. A C-130, flying above the range of small arms fire, dropped flares under parachutes, attempting to take the night away from the enemy. It lent an eerie illumination, as if from a giant flickering candle, to the desperate scene. From the inky sea of the surrounding jungle we saw the flash of mortar rounds and rockets arcing into the camp and exploding.

At the direction of the Forward Air Controller—the “FAC”—in his small plane circling overhead, we prepared to drop our napalm inside the concertina wire, just fifty meters from where our soldiers hunkered in their secondary line of trenches. The enemy already held the first line.
With “friendlies” so close there was no margin for error. The key to survival and accuracy was intense concentration at high airspeed, low altitude and shallow dive angle, releasing the napalm at fifty feet above the ground, the  logic being that if you are standing close enough to the back side of the bull, and you’re swinging a base fiddle, you can’t miss.  I dove out of the protective blackness of the sky, dodging the parachute flares and fervently praying that no burned out ones would float unnoticed into my path. An F-100 ingesting a nylon parachute reacts like a sprinter inhaling a sock. Hundreds of fireflies—muzzle flashes from enemy AK-47 rifles—were winking at me. Their small bullets were invisible, but just one hit in the lips and plane and pilot would be interred in the same grave. As my dimly glowing gun sight moved up to the first line of trenches, my right thumb mashed the pickle button and released a napalm bomb. Immediately I buried the control stick in my crotch and rocketed back up into the sanctuary of the night, peering over my left shoulder to check my work.  A boiling avalanche of fire engulfed the outer trench. It was a real-time view of hell on earth.  Twenty sweat-soaked, hyperventilating minutes later the hillsides were covered with the ashes of the enemy and the grateful Green Berets were celebrating their salvation at the summit.

Cruising home at 15,000 feet, we met the sun at twelve o'clock level. The eastern horizon was a spectacular divine work of abstract art, a celestial canvas of broad horizontal brush strokes of orange and yellow and red on a purple and black background. Nature’s light show blotted out the man-made terror of the night while residual adrenaline staved off exhaustion.  Ecstasy reigned.  I felt born again with the dawn and thankful beyond words for the Lord’s amazing grace that saved us all. Thirty-seven years later I still feel that way at sunup in my mountain aerie…and I miss nary a one.

So I’ll opt instead for the Wood Thrush vespers at twilight from my back porch pew at Ridge Haven on the Fourth, giving thanks to God that by His grace I am alive, free and residing in the best part of the best possible country to endure this troubled world.  Then I’ll rise on the fifth with that same avian choir singing to the muffled applause of a waterfall in deep woods down the mountainside, and celebrate my favorite sound and light show—the birth of a new day.  Its glory far exceeds the fireworks of the Fourth, yet its only a faint precursor of the greater glory to come, when the sun will be superfluous as a choir of angels leads the grateful host surrounding the throne of grace.

The Truth Project Debrief

Thu, 29 Jun 2006 20:08:28 -0400

This week’s Midweekly Reality Check: Meditations on the Mountain comes to you from a different mountain. This is one is Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado, on the front range of the majestic Rockies—1,243 miles WNW of, and 4000 feet higher and 70 % less humid than our Blue Ridge aerie. As I sit on my mother-in-law’s deck under an orange and black predawn sky, the twinkling lights of Colorado Springs sprawl to the eastern horizon at 12 o’clock low, Pikes Peak towers at 6 o’clock high and the jagged red rocks of Garden of the Gods stand mute at 8 o’clock level. I’ve been enjoying delightful interludes here for 40 years now, ever since Brigadier General John E. Frizen escorted his eldest daughter, a stunning brunette, up the aisle of what used to be the Ent Air Force Base Chapel, just below the horizon on the other side of town, and delivered her to my side for life. The following Monday morning in 1966, after a memorable sojourn in the The Broadmoor honeymoon suite a little further up the mountain, I was 20,000 feet over Oklahoma with my tail on fire, trying to master loops and Immelmann turns as an Air Force student pilot, my bride was ensconced in a tiny apartment in Enid, and the general was back at work inside Cheyenne Mountain, in a massive steel box on giant coil springs called NORAD Headquarters. Two years later, we men were both fighting a war on the other side of the world while mother and daughter lived together here as war widows. A lifetime of memories lived at mach one…but this blog is not about me.

It’s a spiritual mountaintop that I want to share with you this week, one that has my head still spinning and my brain unwilling to shutdown and sleep through the night three days after the event. My bride and I spent last Friday night and all day Saturday at the Focus on the Family’s magnificent campus, on the north side of Colorado Springs, in view of the awesome silver spires of the USAF Academy Chapel, for The Truth Project Training Conference. Twelve hundred people from 39 states and five countries filled the high-tech “cafetorium” to hear our host and Truth Project founder, Dr. Del Tackett, also an alumnus of that steel box inside Cheyenne Mountain and former White House staffer in the first Bush administration, passionately define the mission and the strategy for fighting the “cosmic battle” that faces Christians. It’s the battle of truth versus the “pernicious lies of the culture.” Christianity has been losing this battle because these lies have infiltrated the ranks of its soldiers. The Barna Research Group has “found that only nine percent of professing Christians have a biblical worldview.” Christians are “living with an increasingly secular mind-set,” a pagan worldview.

To stem this alarming tide, “Focus on the Family is launching one of the most ambitious and powerful projects in its 28-year history of ministry—The Truth Project—comprehensive biblical worldview training with the goal of “exponential change within the body of Christ, as thousands will be transformed through this curriculum.”

Twelve hundred folks with a heart to see this change come about and obviously willing to spend significant sums to get to this training for “Impact Partners,” were spellbound by the presentation. These were not Sunday morning pew potatoes and this was not your average bible conference. My wife and I, along with a Silicon Valley headhunter and his wife from San Jose, CA, and an early retiree from Proctor ?

In the words of Del Tackett, my reaction was, “WOW!” Here am I Lord, send me! If everyone who attends these conferences is as pumped as I am, there could be, God willing, true revival in America and the world. I can’t wait to get back to the front lines of my Blue Ridge rainforest, armed with a battle plan, burnished armor, specific prayer cover and excellent logistical support for this cosmic battle for truth. Go here and view the long trailer, then click on “LAUNCH Interactive lesson guide” and get a glimpse of the program, then sign up for a training conference nearest you in the coming months. Hitch hike if that’s the only available option. …be transformed by the renewing of your mind (Romans 12:2), and “make an eternal difference in our world.”

Air combat was just boot camp compared to this cosmic warfare.

King David

Tue, 20 Jun 2006 16:16:42 -0400

King David
by Justified Sinner
Simul justus et peccator

I have a son-in-law I could not be more proud of if he were my own flesh and blood. He’s in the US Air Force flying an important desk, but soon will be a civilian executive. From his well-spoken words below, it is clear the Lord has been teaching him humility lessons at the same time as He’s been teaching me. This really tugged at my heart. I hope it does the same for you. JDW

Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another,
for ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’
(1 Peter 5:5)

It was just one of those days. Even before I had a chance to plant my feet on the floor and rub the sleep from my eyes, Satan attacked. Not to imply that he ever telegraphs his blows, but this one in particular caught me off guard, and was distinctly malignant. Slung from the Bow of Despair, Satan’s arrow must have been well saturated with the poisons of unrighteous anger and self-righteous pride, for nothing seemed to be sufficient for me that morning. Even my beloved cup of coffee tasted sour, and was consumed not out of gratitude or joy, but merely out of lust for the drug. Not only was the proverbial rain cloud suspended above my head, but there was a thunderstorm raging in my heart. It was just one of those days, when the last person I wanted to cross paths with was David…whose path I crossed almost immediately upon arriving at work.

David is the “happy guy” at work. You know who I mean. He’s the guy who, no matter the circumstance, epitomizes the role of the joyful worker. If he’s not smiling ear to ear, it’s because he’s quietly singing or humming a pleasant tune. David is not simply joyful at work, but in his work. As a matter of fact, to say I admire the delight he takes in his job would be a lie; I covet it. The best part: David is a janitor (or sanitation engineer as we prefer to call him because it makes us feel better). In addition, David is mentally challenged, or in the crudest of terms, retarded. Normally I really enjoy being around David, but on that day it was reminiscent of staring into the sun after having just awakened from a long nap in a very dark room. Well, that morning I was in David’s office (the bathroom) when I looked up in the sink-mirror to see David entering. In an effort to evade his piercing glow, I quickly dried my hands, hastily made for the door, and in passing, mumbled, “Good morning.” At that moment, David could have selected anyone of his usual greetings from his repertoire, ranging from: “Hullo,” to his favorite: “Have a grrrreat day!” Nope. Neither of those. Instead, David uttered the most astonishing words: “Jesus loves you.” I was so shaken that I literally hit my head upon opening the door, and the most profound reply I could conjure up was a garbled, “Yeah.” I’d love to say that I cheered up immediately and went about my day glorifying and honoring God. However, as I walked towards my office Satan gave a twist to the arrow by whispering in my ear, “What does he know?” Rather than taking delight in the words of encouragement from a friend, I excused them as gibberish, and reduced them to the mumblings of an inept fool.

It wasn’t until the next morning, broken on my knees, did I realize that God’s glory was right in front of my face; revealed by, and contained in a most beautiful and precious vessel. In our society David is handicapped, incompetent, and weak. However, through the stirring of the Spirit within my soul, and in light of the Gospel, I came to realize that I’m the handicapped, inept fool. Standing before an unexpected preacher in the halls of a most humble sanctuary, the sweet tones of the Gospel rang in my ear, but instead of savoring its beautiful chimes, my sinful pride interpreted it as nonsense. In this life, David may be the subject of pity, but in the Kingdom of God, he’ll be the authority over many.

Oh Lord, destroy our pride that we may be more aware of your glory. As your children, fill us with spiritual wisdom and understanding, and make us competent; not in the schemes of this world, but in the wonders of your grace that we may truly hallow your name.

In His Love,
Anthony

Folly and Self-Delusion

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 16:17:23 -0400

If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives
generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.
James 1:5

He was a somewhat scruffy, curmudgeonly old Air Force fighter pilot with the gold oak leaves of a major on the shoulders of his never-ironed flying suit. When his conversation became intense, which was often, he unconsciously removed his flight cap with his right hand, and with the same hand scratched his salt and pepper crew cut with the intensity of a dog with flees.

Major Ferguson was approaching 20 years in the service and it was obvious to all, even to him, that there would not be another promotion in his Air Force career. It made for one relaxed old throttle jockey who cared for nothing more than flying his beloved F-100 for as long as the U.S. government would let him. He was my instructor in fighter pilot school at Cannon Air Force Base near Clovis, New Mexico, situated in the midst of a thousand square miles of beach with no water. There was a stockyard at both ends of town, and no matter which way the wind blew you knew Clovis was cow country. The airborne cowboys of our training squadron all worshiped the ground the old ramrod walked on and imprinted his love for inanimate flying objects.

One day I was number four in a four-ship flight of single-seat F-100's—three student wingmen with Major Ferguson leading—taking off headed for the gunnery range, a large bull’s-eye painted in the desert. It was only my fifth flight in an F-100, and I was far from one with the aircraft. We had taken off five seconds apart. Major Ferguson went first and was in a climbing, shallow-banked turn to the left circling the airbase while waiting on the rest of the flight to join up on his wing. Now it may sound simple as you visualize three airplanes catching up with another circling airplane. It is not. It requires an acute recognition of just the right cutoff angle and rate of closure, and making the airplane do what you want it to do to achieve that, a real challenge for a rookie fighter pilot who had not yet mastered life in three dimensions.

I was enthusiastically giving it my best shot when I heard that gruff, gravely old voice of Major Ferguson over the radio, where God, my erstwhile rookie associates, and anyone else on that frequency could hear: Number Four, can't you see what you're doing to yourself? (His language was far more salty than this sanitized paraphrase.) The unspoken answer to the question was no. I had just graduated first in a class of 50 pilots at basic flight school, and this was maximum mortification for my inflated ego—I might not ever have the nerve to show my face at happy hour again.

A few seconds later even I could see what I was doing to myself. Instead of sliding gently up in formation on his wing tip, I went screaming right on by Major Ferguson's plane, a confused passenger in an out-of-control F-100. What courage it must have taken for him to sit there watching me closing on him at a far-too-great speed and cutoff angle, prepared to duck in whatever direction to avoid my ballistic F-100. After the flight, Major Ferguson, with sweeping motions of his flattened hands and X-rated epithets, explained to me (and my smirking co-wingmen) precisely how I did what I did to myself.

I have lost track of the number of times I have repeated this lesson in my life, how I have been my own worst enemy, how my self-delusion kept me from seeing what was self-evident to others, until it was too late. Spurgeon said, “I am a mass of folly.” Chuck Colson said, “Man is the master of self-delusion.” Both are right on. I have likewise lost track of the innumerable times I have watched others, even in church, come to ruin in this same self-delusional mode.
Most churches are governed by committee, in the slower pace of church life, to mitigate these errors of self-delusion. There are those who say committees make the same mistakes as individuals, it just takes them longer. But if that committee (or board or session) is much in prayer, is open, honest and above board with one another in all their dealings, humbly seeking consensus without manipulation, the collective wisdom of Holy Spirit filled minds will do great things for the Kingdom.

The authoritarian leadership essential in air combat has no place in a committee structure. A few years ago, the wingmen on one of our nation’s premier military flight demonstration teams unquestioningly followed their errant leader to their deaths in a fiery four-plane collision with the ground. I have witnessed the same, figuratively speaking, in church committees.
Pride and ego—the ravages of sin in a fallen world—while not as blatantly obvious in church committees as in the fighter squadron, are nonetheless there and even more insidious.  Absent grace, they can lead to self-delusion that even hindsight will not cure, from which mistakes provide neither learning nor contrition, and from which no good thing comes to glorify God—the Christian’s mandate.

   Major Ferguson had a problem with his eyes—he needed glasses—but he had a bigger problem with his ego. It would not allow him to admit to himself that he was not immune to the aging process. He refused to wear glasses. In the end my mentor was defeated by the same malady he pointed out in me when I was a rookie fighter pilot—he could not see what he was doing to himself. As a Forward Air Controller—a FAC—in Vietnam (his third combat tour of duty), he flew a small, slow, unarmed plane the size of a Piper Cub over the battlefield, controlling air strikes.  In an effort to better see the enemy on the ground, he flew too low and was shot down and killed.

As in all of life, God’s Word has an answer for avoiding personal ruin from folly and self-delusion.

But if any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him (James 1:5).

C. H. Spurgeon says of this truth, “No man will ask for wisdom till he knows that he is ignorant.” Pride is the devil’s disease that prevents acknowledgement of  ignorance. We must abandon the broken cisterns of our own wisdom and earnestly, humbly seek the only Fountain of Truth, whether we are church members or leaders. The man who would be a great leader in the Lord’s battalions is the man who sincerely shares the Apostle Paul’s self-abasement—wretched man that I am (Rom. 7:24a)—and distrusts all human judgment, including his own.

CHS urges,

…say unto Him, “Lord, I have discovered now that I am not so wise as I thought I was; I am foolish and vain. Lord, teach me.” Make a full confession, and this shall be a good beginning for prayer.

It will also make a good beginning prayer for every church committee meeting.

The For-Profit Prophets

Mon, 5 Jun 2006 20:27:00 -0400

… the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect.”
Matthew 24:44b
[Jesus] said to them, “It is not for you to know times or seasons
that the Father has fixed by his own authority.”
Acts 1:7

I am sure Jesus said these words, and I am sure he meant them.  There are many more lik
e them.  Jesus Christ went to great lengths to make it plain that God did not want anyone to know when Christ was to return in judgment so that we might be watchful and live each day of our lives as if this were the day.  Why then do today’s self-styled prophets try so hard to figure out what God has so clearly said man cannot ascertain? Could it be for the profits?  It must be.  The biblical prophecy business is booming.  Even Ann Coulter’s new sure-to-be bestseller, Godless, comes out today—6-6-6—in a clever marketing spoof, but I doubt the antichrist or any other beast will be revealed (Rev. 13:18).  With each new mini-Armageddon or tortured date based on numbers from Revelation passing without the predicted cataclysm, another best-selling book explains how it fits the re-revised end time scenario.

Hal Lindsay spawned the modern version of this centuries-old industry when he wrote The Late Great Planet Earth in 1970. Events proved him wrong but did no harm to sales of the genre—quite the opposite in fact, and he’s as popular as ever. The Left Behind series, based on Tim LaHaye’s similar end time theories and written by Jerry Jenkins, has rocketed Christian literature into the mainstream, topping the charts.  Imitators abound. Advertisements for prophecy seminars are sprouting like old Burma Shave signs on country roads in my beloved Blue Ridge boondocks.

But there’s an exegetical problem with this abundant cash flow—the prophecy on which it hinges may well have substantially all come to pass a long time ago. The key biblical prophecies are found in Jesus’ Olivet Discourse recorded in three Gospels—Matthew 24, Mark 13 and Luke 21—John’s Revelation and the Book of Daniel.

Jesus vividly describes an apocalypse that will leave “not one stone upon another” in the towering white granite Temple and buildings in Jerusalem, preceded by extraordinary supernatural signs. He said, “This generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened.” John introduces his apocryphal “revelation of Jesus Christ…to show his servants what must soon take place…because the time is near” (Rev. 1:1-3)

The prophecy entrepreneurs ignore first century history and redefine Jesus’ term, “this generation,” as well as John’s Revelation time references to make these prophecies seem applicable to events today, 2000 years later. Jesus ties his prophecy to that of Daniel, who accurately foretold the end of Jerusalem in 490 years. With the most convoluted reasoning, these zealous capitalists contend Daniel’s prophetic time clock has been halted for two millennia at the 483-year mark.

There is an another interpretation, called preterism, that makes a powerful case for the fulfillment of all or nearly all (partial preterism) of these prophecies in 70 A.D., when the Jews were slaughtered and Jerusalem leveled by Roman legions, forty years after Jesus’ prophesied it. It fits Daniel’s 490-year prophecy of Israel’s apocalypse. Modern theologians R.C. Sproul (The last Days According to Jesus), Kenneth Gentry, Jr. (Before Jerusalem Fell), and Gary Demar (Last Days Madness) have examined preterism and the supporting evidence is compelling.

Jewish historian Josephus, an eyewitness to that first century holocaust with no axe to grind for Christianity, wrote about it in The Jewish Wars, a word picture as gripping and grisly as any modern thriller. To read it is to be overwhelmed with the prophecies of Jesus, John and Daniel and the divine inspiration of the Bible. Sproul, who classifies himself a partial preterist, calls Josephus’ magnum opus “…a chronicle of fulfilled biblical prophecy,” and his description of Jerusalem’s destruction “a radical fulfillment of Jesus’ prophecy in the Olivet Discourse.”
Some of Revelation’s most mystifying and gruesome metaphorical depictions of the apocalypse become clear reading Josephus’ work. For example, Revelation 14:20 foretells of blood “rising as high as the horses’ bridles.” Josephus narrates a Roman massacre of the Jewish multitudes on the shores of the Sea of Galilee that turned it red with mutilated bodies of humans and horses (Wars 3:10:9).

In Revelation 16:21 John prophesies, “From the sky huge hailstones of about a hundred pounds each fell on men.” Josephus writes of white stones from Roman catapults, each weighing a talent (75-125 pounds), that rained devastation on besieged Jerusalem (Wars 5:6:3). Supernatural signs like those Jesus predicted are chillingly described by both Josephus (Wars 6:5:3 et al) and pagan Roman historian Tacitus (History 1:3).  There is much more to this centuries-old preterist debate that is worthy of a Christian’s time and effort to explore, as the above mentioned tomes attest.

In the Olivet Discourse Jesus emphasized that “the day or the hour” of his return is unknowable, yet the for-profit prophets persist in their presumptuous prognostications, unabashed by failure, consequent ridicule by non-Christians, and embarrassment by fellow Christians.

Literature that keeps folks mindful of judgment day can be beneficial in God’s providence, but the primary message of Jesus’ Olivet Discourse and Revelation is the manner in which Christians are to live in a difficult, dangerous and uncertain world in preparation for Jesus’ return. Focusing their entrepreneurial prophet motive on that, rather than the impenetrable subordinate issue of timing, would be much more in step with Jesus’ marching orders to “make disciples…teaching them to obey,” to “love one another” and live as if he were returning today in judgment. But it probably wouldn’t pay as well…as the world knows pay….

“Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”
(Matthew 25:13)

How Long, O LORD?

Mon, 29 May 2006 10:06:37 -0400

War will continue until the end…(Dan 9:26b).
You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed.
Such things must happen, but the end is still to come (Matt 24:6).

My sweet, 85-year-old mother-in-law is visiting, and she and my wife are calling on an old friend from 50 years ago who resides in a retirement home about six ridges west of our gatekeeper’s cottage at Ridge Haven. Home alone suits me fine on Memorial Day. I’m a veteran of both a hot war and a cold war, and I’m not much fun to be around, given the melancholy that always attacks me on this day. The hot war was the most traumatic for me personally. The cold war was longer by far than any hot war America ever fought, and civilization hung in the balance, but by God’s grace planet Earth was not turned into a radioactive cinder hurtling through space.

I went directly from hot to cold, Vietnam to Turkey, the long way around. Christmas, 1969, at Incirlik Air Base near Adana, Turkey was as sad and lonesome as the previous Christmas in Vietnam when a 24-hour truce was unilaterally called. It was my job in Adana to be spring-loaded to fight a nuclear war against the evil empire from the homeland of the Apostle Paul, a concept that would have boggled his mind but confirmed his divine vision of depraved mankind. It entailed hanging out with three other fighter pilots for a 24-hour shift in a modest bunkered bungalow called an alert shack, surrounded by four metal open-ended gable-roofed hangers—“barns”—all enclosed with a barbed-wire-crowned chain link fence. Each barn housed an F-100 with a sleek nuclear bomb slung on the centerline pylon, cocked for quick takeoff and held in place with spiked wheel chocks.

My target in the USSR, whose WMDs—weapons of mass destruction—matched ours, was a military facility in what is now Ukraine. When the klaxon blew we never knew if it was for practice or for real until we ran and jumped into the cockpit and checked in with the Command Post on the radio. If it were for real I would have flown northeasterly across Turkey and the Black Sea as close to the ground as I had the nerve to fly—staying below enemy radar was our only stealth strategy in those days. The trick was to find all the memorized turning points while flying low and fast without getting lost enroute to the target. So we trained flying low-level a lot, a delightful way to see the world…when it was only for practice. My prayer in those days was “Dear Lord, if I have to go to war like this, please let it be in the daytime.”

If my navigation came out right, the next challenge in that old-fashioned way of nuclear air war was pulling up smartly into a Half-Cuban Eight maneuver just short of the target, tossing that hell-on-earth weapon “over the shoulder” in the middle of the half-loop. Then, inverted at the top of the loop, I would pull the nose down through the horizon, roll right-side-up and head back toward the deck in the opposite direction…quickly, being very disciplined not to look back to admire the fruits of my labor. Doing so would melt the eyeballs. If the calculations were correct, my jet would not run out of fuel until I was well outside the nuclear fireball, whereupon I would prepare for flameout, bailout, and a long walk home, which may or may not have been there if and when I arrived.

Praise God that I never had to be an American kamikaze. Thanks be to him life in Adana was mostly sheer boredom when I wasn’t tearing around the Turkish countryside just above the treetops with my tail on fire, scaring sheep and angering shepherds, practicing for a nuclear war that never came. By amazing grace alone the world avoided a return to the Stone Age without a shot being fired. The evil empire simply imploded. It was arguably America’s greatest victory.

I have witnessed, from the point of the sword, the hand of God at two momentous turning points in the history of mankind. The world’s greatest superpower’s stunning success in the Cold War followed in the same generation as its ignominious defeat by a tenth-rate tyrant, where the sword was borne in vain and an ally was abandoned on the battlefield in Southeast Asia. It has been like reliving Old Testament history with high-tech violence, a testament to God’s providential and mysterious ways.

Today WMD’s have proliferated beyond our knowing, the cycle of war has accelerated and the world has never looked more dangerous. In the first six years of the third millennium after Christ walked the earth, an unprecedented homeland slaughter by a small band of demonic zealots was followed by two lightening-quick, spectacular American victories on the battlefield—the fruit of painful lessons learned in Vietnam. More wars appear eminent. The reasons are unchanged since the prophets of old.

John Winthrop and the Puritans of 1630 would consider the “city upon a hill” they came to establish on these shores to be an abysmal failure 376 years later. While our country may be the best of a sorry lot among the nations of the world, relative merit procures neither salvation nor eternal dominion by God’s decrees.

Twenty-first century America looks alarmingly like ancient Israel with its ways “utterly detestable” to God (Ezekiel 8:6)—its idolatry, false prophets, corrupt leaders, rebellious spirit, religious infidelity, and legal sanctioning of abominable lifestyles. Heathens boast in their high-fashion atheism, personal ambition is the highest form of motivation, and self-trust is the only arbiter of what passes for truth. Christians are condemned as intolerant, and “tolerance is perverted into a radical secularism that is anything but tolerant,” as Al Mohler so clearly observes.

In spite of its special status with God, Israel was severely punished time and again for its sinful ways, with its final horrific destruction inflicted by the Roman Legions in 70 A.D., exactly as Christ predicted in the Olivet Discourse (Matthew 24, Mark 13, Luke 21) forty years earlier. Yet, in America annuit coeptis—God has favored our undertakings—and has thus far continued to shower his favor on a people who likewise deserve his wrath. The Lord told Ezekiel that in time a nation’s sin will so condemn it that even a righteous remnant of its citizens will not preclude the disaster he brings upon it (Ezekiel 14:12-23). If that day comes, all the heroic patriots America has ever sired will not be sufficient to make a difference.
How long, O Lord? (Psalm 13:1)

A Memorial for Vietnam Veterans

Tue, 23 May 2006 10:47:49 -0400

It was the twilight of the last century, and, unbeknownst to those assembled, also the twilight of a great nation, when Rudyard Kipling penned a poem for Queen Victoria’s jubilee celebration. Before a self-congratulatory crowd of nobles, lords and viceroys of a far-flung British Empire at its peak, Kipling recited these prophetic lines:

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
(Recessional 1897)

We gather here today before this awesome traveling memorial lest we forget—lest we forget these men and the God who numbered their days.

It was four years ago in this very place that I first visited this mobile half-scale model of the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, DC. It had been twenty-seven years since I returned home from Southeast Asia to a life abounding in blessings. I have never had any lingering trauma from my combat missions as a fighter pilot there, nor do I know anyone who has, but I have four friends, whose names are etched on that wall, including a wingman, Robert Vince Willett, whom I watched die in an grisly midnight gunfight. There is a unique, unbreakable bond of brotherhood among combat veterans, forged in the hellish chaos of the killing crucible, and it was way past time for me to pay my respects.

I came home profoundly moved and poured out my soul on paper. The Wall Street Journal published “Still the Noblest Calling,” followed by reprints in several other periodicals and today, I’m still getting mail from readers. Our brotherhood reached 30 years beyond the grave, launching my writing career. And lest we forget, as long as I have breath and my fingers can find the keys, the memory of Vince and Lance, Lynn, and Larry, four brave, selfless citizens who epitomize all the names on that wall, will not fade. These men are extraordinary heroes who answered the call of God, duty, honor, and country…and died. They are extraordinary, even among heroes, because they were willing to fight and die in a war our nation’s leadership was unwilling to win, extraordinary because the fashionable thing to do was dodge the draft, demonstrate in the streets, and ridicule those who did not. In my view the men on this wall are the greatest generation, and I’ll go to my grave in gratitude to God for having spent a season in the company of such courageous men of honor.

As a grandfather, my horizon of concern now extends to another generation. Given our cultural decline and apathy about our national defense posture, historically an ominous trend, how will our grandchildren live? With international terrorism rampant, the next killing crucible could be our own neighborhood. Why do these perils seem to resonate only among those of us who know first hand the price of freedom?

Kipling warned his nation:

Far-called our navies melt away
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Ninevah and Tyre!

Ninevah and Tyre—two great cities that are no more. Think on these things as our morality melts away amid the self-absorbed pomp of unparalleled prosperity.

On behalf of my brothers-in-arms on The Wall, thank you for being here and showing that you care. And, lest we forget—lest we forget, close your eyes and etch this moment in your memory. Take a deep breath of the fresh, free air of liberty in the spiritual company of American heroes who answered the call of God, duty, honor and country. Sense the electricity in that gentle breeze that caresses your face—the ionized presence of unabashed patriotism in the highest degree. Feel the hallowed ground beneath your feet, consecrated by the blood of 58,219 selfless citizens who gave the full measure of their love for country. And silently ask the Almighty to reawaken their spirit in our nation, that selfless, passionate patriotism might be born again in America, and that we might elect similar courageous men and women of honor to lead our nation. Perhaps, then, God willing, this will not be the twilight of America, our children and grandchildren will enjoy the blessings of life in the land of the free…and these brave men will not have died in vain.

The Psychology of Book-Birthing

Tue, 16 May 2006 11:09:47 -0400

The lust to write for publication is a psychosis, maybe multiple psychoses.  Bipolar disorder is almost assured.  The mood can swing so far and so fast the head spins.  Post partum depression is a given when a book is published.  So is narcissism.  One typo in the finished product and the author becomes suicidal.  I think I’ll just stop here.  This is the diagnosis in postmodern terms, but at the heart of it all a three-letter biblical word says it best: sin.

It was a Friday frenzy as my next book— “No one…” —was trying to go to press in Scotland (Christian Focus Publications Ltd.).  I do not know how books ever got published before the internet.  CFP is a highly regarded publisher of Christian literature for world-wide consumption from offices in an old mansion called Geanies House, commanding a “glorious view of the Moray Firth,” on the North Sea coast in the northeast Scottish Highlands, 40 miles northeast of Inverness.  That’s a lot of north, anyway you look at it.  My office is in a rustic gatekeeper’s cottage in a remote, dizzying corner of the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina—ask any pale guest when he arrives here.  I’m not bothered by my editor’s look of exasperation from this distance—3,852 miles, if the crow flies an initial heading of 282 degrees on a great circle route.  We communicated real time at a marginal cost of zero—the blessings of modern technology!

Emails streaked both ways across the North Atlantic, sometimes crossing enroute, as author and editor conversed at the speed of electrons. Last minute edits kept popping up, a combination of 1.) my eagle-eyed live-in editor finding things that the professionals had missed, 2.) cross-cultural variations in generally accepted punctuation and grammar, 3.) a communication glitch between editor and cover designer, and 4) the fact that, after a few hundred readings it was all looking like alphabet soup on my screen.  Did I mention author ego, perhaps the biggest boulder of all? (See “sin” above.)

It was past quitting time at the end of the week in Scotland and in my mind’s eye I saw a harried editor trying to put out brush fires and get out of the office on a spring day.  In the midst of it all the cover design arrived, for the first time, for my perusal, created entirely outside my domain, as is the rule for all but a handful of mega-selling authors.  It hit me like a burst of flak in my face.  My literary baby, after an extended gestation period, was being born cross-eyed.  The cover was a silhouette of a hand the color of dried blood on an off-white background, palm out and fingers spread, as if a traffic cop was signaling “Stop!” In bold white letters overlaying the palm were the words, “No one…”

What?????

My little witness, containing all the passion I could proffer in 128 pages about the Son of God who loves me beyond human comprehension, was being graphically represented by a bloody hand of rejection.  How winsome is that??  It was gonna be embarrassing.  It would gather dust on bookstore shelves across America and the UK and who knows where else until it was sent back, unsold—the dreaded “returns” of bookselling’s bizarre way of doing business.  The misery was total and immediate—my witness was stillborn through circumstances beyond my control.

A few funk-filled hours later my wife came home from her part-time work as church secretary, her third volunteer job after Ridge Haven bookstore manager and my personal editor.  With much foreboding I brought her into my office and showed her what was on my screen.  With maybe two seconds of study, she said, “If I were browsing a bookstore I’d reach for that book.”  That is, of course, the primary goal of book cover design.

Well, it took a night’s sleep for me to see what she saw instantly (she shoulda spent her career in retail instead of keeping me out of trouble).  “No one…” is a politically incorrect title to start with.  Every modern shrink knows negative reinforcement can lead to mental illness.  It can’t get any more self-evidently negative than “No one…,” but they are Jesus’ words.  He used them six times as quoted in the book of John and he didn’t leave a cubic centimeter of quibble room.  And it is as far removed from a negative message as the east is from the west—the gospel in pure white bold font, written on the bloody hand of my Savior, visible from at least ten feet away in a bookstore.  The designer’s graphic art has precisely captured the essence of this book.  God bless him.

There will be many folks who will reject this book and reject the Son of God’s undeniable declarations.  But one terrifying day all our thoughts and deeds and psychoses will we exposed before our Maker.  Those who reject him in this life will stare into the palm of a bloodstained hand and, with eternity in the balance, they will hear the voice of The Ultimate Authority saying, “No.”

With that diagnosis there will be no second opinion, no cure.

A Pernicious Pandemic

Tue, 9 May 2006 06:01:23 -0400

“…how great the lust to fashion constantly new and artificial religions.” These words are over 450 years old, penned by one of the greatest Christian theologians who ever lived outside the Bible—John Calvin—in his Institutes of the Christian Religion (1.vi.3). Our times are proving the timelessness of this truth. I was reminded of it as I opened the May edition of Tabletalk and read all the articles about “The Da Vinci Conspiracy,” as R. C. Sproul’s lead article was titled. It’s a sad commentary on modern man that his worldview can be formed by novels and fairy tale movies. As one who has unsaved family and friends who believe in gods of their own design, my concerns were best put into words by Dr. James R. White at the conclusion of his Tabletalk article entitled “The Fool’s Folly Uncovered.” He said, in reference to the hugely popular novel’s author, “One shudders to consider what it will be like to stand before the God who authored the Scriptures to explain this kind of money-driven slander of the Word….”

That is the second flavor of “neo-gnosticism” that I have tasted in the last few days. While the novel-based “special wisdom” discussed above is the most outrageous, the second bitter flavor that impacted me is the most common and insidious. Recently, in the midst of a profoundly moving missionary conference here at Ridge Haven, when my heart and soul were elevated far above the heresies of everyday life in this culture, an old friend sent me some of his writing—a brief passionate memoir—and asked for my opinion of it. Nothing is harder than wrestling with truth-in-love-candor that may fracture a friendship versus polite ego-stroking untruths. In this case I was not tempted to lie. The writing was good, but utterly devoid of any acknowledgement of the God who created him, brought him through some harrowing wartime ordeals, and mightily blessed his life. It brought tears to my eyes. I told him so and why and asked him to please read my personal invitation.

My intellectual friend replied that I should relax, that his God and mine were the same, but that he had a different deal. He said his deal does not require him to constantly prop God up for all to see…he’s so powerful he doesn’t require that kind of vanity, “heaven forbid.”

That is not a unique, or even a new “deal” (nor did my friend claim it was). This secular/sacred, fact/value, public/private dichotomy, tracing its origins to Descartes in the 17th century, is the pervasive dogma of the day. It’s a tactical strategy of the secularist culture to put God in a locked box in the closet and turn “the very soul into a ghost that haunts its own house” (Walker Percy quoted by Nancy Pearcey in Total Truth). Many who call themselves Christians today have been intimidated into silence about their faith, without even realizing it, by this irrational dualism. The pagan culture thinks it has won this skirmish, but the war is not over. The end was foreordained (the ultimate in power)—God wins. Two Bible passages came to my mind: For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be glory forever (Rom. 11:36), and So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God (1 Cor. 10:31). They are just two of twenty explicit references to “the glory of God” in the Bible. And the most casual reading of His Word, from Genesis to Revelation, makes it crystal clear that (as the Westminster Catechism answers in the first question ), “The chief end of man is to glorify God….”

Since my personal invitation begins by asking the reader to consider the reality of hell, my friend responded that his god would never threaten him with hell for not following his commands exactly. A quick search of the Gospels reveals 17 quotations by the Son of God “threatening” hell. My friend did not mention God’s amazing grace (Ephesians 2:8-9), which is the heart of the gospel and the overriding theme of my personal invitation. I suspect he did not read that far, but he professed that his private conversations with his god were a source of great comfort.

I’m haunted by the realization that I deserted the battlefield (Peter 3:15). I replied to my friend that I must have done a poor job of witnessing to the God of the Bible, and that “…I do not recognize your God.” But fearing I would forever lose his ear and his friendship, I couldn’t even bring myself to ask what informed his view of God. In my self-justification I chose to rely on John Calvin again. He said, “But those who wish to prove to unbelievers that Scripture is the Word of God are acting foolishly, for only by [God-given] faith can this be known.” I would have been at peace based on Calvin’s truth had I not concluded our email conversation on politically correct middle ground: “One day we will both know the right answers.” That is a truth that does not save. May God have mercy on me.

My friend has much company in our postmodern culture. George Barna, the pollster, says that 88% of adult Americans feel “accepted by God,” but “only 5% of adults have a biblical worldview.” Barna’s definition of a biblical worldview matches mine:

"It requires someone to believe that absolute moral truth exists; that the source of moral truth is the Bible; that the Bible is accurate in all of the principles it teaches; that eternal spiritual salvation cannot be earned; that Jesus lived a sinless life on earth; that every person has a responsibility to share their religious beliefs with others; that Satan is a living force, not just a symbol of evil; and that God is the all-knowing, all-powerful maker of the universe who still rules that creation today."

Barna’s findings sure explain a lot about what ails America. Only 5.6% of those who think they are right with God have a Christian worldview. The rest have personally designed their own theology, taken in by the postmodern myth that truth is whatever you want it to be. This pernicious pandemic of relativism ravages the faith of our fathers. This is no time to relax! God-fearing Christians have eternity in the best of company to do that. A. W. Tozer said it well, as quoted by Paul Kooistra in Following God:

"A real Christian is an odd number, anyway. He feels supreme love for One whom he has never seen; talks familiarly every day to Someone he cannot see; expects to go to heaven on the virtue of Another; empties himself in order to be full; admits he is wrong so he can be declared right; goes down in order to get up; is strongest when he is weakest; richest when he is poorest and happiest when he feels the worst. He dies so he can live; forsakes in order to have; gives away so he can keep; sees the invisible, hears the inaudible, and knows that which passes knowledge."

With designer gods so high-fashion and absolute truth on the cultural ash heap of relevant ideas, it takes God-given courage not only to cling to this “odd” reality, the scorned antithesis of today’s secular mandate, but to integrate it into every aspect of my life. I pray that my view of God and my friend’s view are indeed closer than it appears to me at this point, and that in His providence He will one day reveal Himself more fully to him. God willing, he will taste and see that the Lord, as He reveals Himself in His Word, is good (Psalm 34:8a), and joyfully tell the world so.

Go, Send or Disobey

Tue, 2 May 2006 03:53:26 -0400

It was early—an hour before civil twilight—when he knocked on my door, but that was no hardship for me—the coffee pot was already empty. It had been 38 hours since he’d rolled out of his bed in suburban Tokyo, Japan, and he hadn’t been horizontal since…nor had he gotten reacquainted with his luggage. Just getting to my boondocks door in the dark had taken Marine Corp flexibility and quick thinking due to time zone adjustment snafu’s and broken airplanes. I had not seen him in fourteen years, but I recognized him in spite of the front porch light reflecting off skin where blond hair used to grow. And his smile was still he-man angelic. Dan Iverson is the bravest, most obedient marine I know. Well...actually, he’s a former marine.

  After seven years as a Marine Corps officer, he resigned his commission, compelled by the Holy Spirit, and enrolled in seminary to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather as a Presbyterian preacher. I first met Dan in the early 90’s in a little Presbyterian Church in Palm Harbor, Florida, when he preached to our congregation while home on furlough from the mission field. He had been a missionary in “spiritually resistant” Japan for the previous four years and it had been like plowing concrete. His labors had borne exactly zero fruit in perhaps the most pagan nation on earth.

He opened his sermon back then by reading Matthew 28:19. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. When he finished he paused, turned his Bible sideways and said, “I want to read to you a note I wrote in the margin on this passage. I wrote it when I was getting ready to graduate from seminary. It says, ‘ I feel God is calling me to the mission field. I do not want to go….’’’

He went. Reluctantly but obediently, good godly marine that he was, he agreed to go “wherever I can do the most damage to Satan’s kingdom and advance the cause of Christ.” After four years on the front lines he failed to advance the cause by a single soul. Undeterred, after a year of rest behind the lines with plenty of “hot soup,” he headed back to the cold C-rations and sodden trenches of the Land of the Rising Sun, when it could be seen. Not long thereafter, by grace he conducted the first public worship of God in the history of the Japanese nation.  Today there are a few dozen churches in the first-ever presbytery in Japan, with a platoon of long and short-term missionaries under Dan’s command.  One of his short-termers—87-year-old Plum Yancy, a live-wire-for-the-Lord, enthusiastically extolled the blessings of her missionary work as a second career to the assembled retirees considering same.

Hanging out with front line warriors for God is a dangerous thing…if you’re skating to glory in your early retirement rut, especially if they are gung-ho soldiers like Plum and Dan. Right off the bat, following 90 minutes of too-wound-up-to-sleep rack time after 38 hours of globe girdling, Dan brought out the heavy artillery for anyone who takes the Bible seriously as the only infallible guide for faith and practice. He quoted John Piper saying that a Christian has three choices when it comes to fulfilling the Great Commission of Matthew 28:19. You can “Go, send, or disobey’—about as blunt as a bayonet point and just as convicting.
Then Paul Kooistra, Dan’s commanding officer as head of the PCA’s Mission to the World, provided B-52 carpet bombing air cover: “Satan is always trying to get you to take the easy road.”

Medic, I’m hit! I’ve been lollygagging down tranquility lane for nearly five years now, so happy in this languid lifestyle that I’m guilt-ridden around real Christian soldiers.

They’re all gone now, the battle-hardened veterans and the prospective second-career recruits, after a wonderful week, leaving me tending the gate wondering why I call myself a Christian.  The vets know and I know that “skating to glory” is an oxymoron—a truly grateful sinner saved by grace wouldn’t be skating.  I’m rereading my favorite (after the Bible) guide—Paul Kooistra’s, Following God: His will for your life—wrestling with God about issues that are way out of the comfort zone of this former fearless flyboy.  I know I am far enough from the ocean that I don’t have to worry about being swallowed by a whale.  But I also know that when God points His finger at me and says, “I want you, boy,” He’ll give me the will to want what He’s planned for me, or else the will to obey.  I don’t think I hear the command, but then again, my hearing ain’t what it used to be…and the hair on the back of my neck feels like something’s closin’ at my six….

The Terror of the Night

Tue, 25 Apr 2006 16:05:39 -0400

There was a day when I was fearless, ripping around the wild blue with my tail on fire, dodging enemy bullets, hurling my body at the ground at 400 knots, dropping napalm just above the jungle treetops. There was a day when I was a multi-tasking demon, when my survival depended on a steel-trap mind, lightening reflexes and cool hands in a gyrating dimension never experienced by mere mortals. Only the Lord and my wife know what an arrogant sinner I was as the world’s greatest fighter pilot. This confession appearing on your screen forty years later is proof positive that God is gracious.

Those days are gone forever. A little while ago I was sleeping behind a roaring waterfall. I was in a dry spot, but I was sure it could not last. My cozy sanctuary was under attack. My beloved Blue Ridge Mountains literally trembled and my ancient gatekeeper’s cottage shuddered audibly as big booming thunderclaps shook the world. Nonstop blinding flashes of lightening announced what surely must be the Son of God’s triumphant return.

I sat up in bed. When my head cleared, I was disgusted with myself that I had not yet cleaned a winter’s accumulation of dead leaves out my gutters. The cascade of water overflowing the gutters outside my window was sure to cause a leak…or pull the gutters off the house…or undermine the foundation. Any minute now the phone would start ringing as one of our 120 guests at Ridge Haven would report a storm related emergency. But then maybe they couldn’t call because a tree was down over the phone line…or maybe there was no electricity and they could not find the phone in the inky blackness of a stormy night in the mountains.

There was a time when I functioned best in a pressure cooker. I liked nothing better than racing the rats down Wall Street, LaSalle Street and foreign streets you never heard of, but that era is over also. The forty-eight hours proceeding my night sweats had been high stress. A water line above the conference center dining room broke two nights ago. By the time we discovered it the torrential rain falling in the dining hall matched what I was hearing in the night. Dump trucks loaded with lumpy bread dough—soggy drywall—drove down the mountain past my house as our harried staff struggled to quickly improvise some kind of dining accommodations for our weekend guests.

Then my new obligations as Elder at church imposed themselves, tasking to the max a mind that had gotten lethargic in the bucolic, laid-back life I live. They demanded my immediate attention with long, intense meetings, multiple phone calls, and agonizing efforts to recall Generally Accepted Accounting Principles long dormant in my mental archives. And it is on-going as I write this.

It came at me like unexpected bursts of flak, exploding all about me in the midst of a particularly consuming, critical phase of my responsibilities with our church Pulpit Search Committee, demanding more phone calls, discussions, clear-minded, focused decisions and a calm, confident façade masking a mind that was struggling to keep up with reality. It, too, is ongoing as I write this. I have handled none of it well so far. One more thing on my plate and the contents would start falling on the floor.

It arrived by email. A pdf file of the final proofs of my next book announced itself through my computer speakers, demanding a quick turn-around after hours of staring at an over-familiar manuscript starting to look like alphabet soup on my screen.

And where, in all of this mental chaos, was I going to find time to come up with a topic for this week’s blog. Here it is Saturday already and I haven’t a clue what to post next Tuesday evening…and little time to think about it. I need a rough draft now so I can sleep on it—my sentences need at least 3 days to age into coherence—then I can rework them to make them presentable to the world. (If you think what you’re reading is sophomoric drivel, you should read the first draft….)

All of this overlays an even greater anxiety on an issue I can share with no one that was already causing sleepless nights of sinful worry.

For the first time in many years my face felt hot, an infallible sign that my anxious heart was over-pressurizing my vascular system, meaning I was at the edge of my performance envelope. Nobody is shooting at me—none of these issues are life-threatening. How dumb is this…?

Well…I did what I always do at wit’s end in the middle of the night. I sat up on the edge of the bed amid the sound and light show, stared at one-inch-high red digits in the dark that read “2:45” and groped around for my clothes. I dressed, started the coffee—Starbucks Sumatra these days—and sat down with the only surefire source of solace in all creation: God’s Word. To the roar of rain on the roof I read, You will not fear the terror of the night (Psalm 91:5)!!!

Reading a passage of scripture, whatever is scheduled for the day in my devotionals, that just happens to be precisely the antidote I need for my anxiety de jour, happens to me so often it has become commonplace. May a merciful God forgive me for ever calling His Amazing Grace commonplace…or doubting the security of his palm (John 10:28). The balm of scripture was applied by C.H. Spurgeon’s devotional reading for evening, April 22:

If we give way to foolish fears we dishonor our Lord and lead others to doubt the reality of godliness. We ought to be afraid of being afraid, lest we grieve the Holy Spirit…. It may be night in the soul, but there is no need to fear. The God of love does not change.

The night is almost over now, the rain has stopped and the thunder is a distant rumble several ridgelines east. On my back porch the freshly washed woods, filled with the new green of spring, smells wonderful. Tranquility reigns. The wood thrushes have also risen early and their vocalized ecstasy is infectious. Twilight approaches and soon the sun will be up, but God’s Word has already illumined the dark night of my soul and warmed the depths of my heart. The gauge says my blood pressure is less than that of a hibernating bear. My vegetative existence may have putrefied my people skills and caused my multi-tasking brain cells to atrophy, but God’s grace is undiminished. I know God’s blessings unceasingly fall in torrents on me, my Redeemer lives and I shall see His face. I am indeed a blessed man, overwhelmed with gratitude. I wonder how the pagans get through the night.

O HOLY DAY

Sun, 16 Apr 2006 05:40:14 -0400

I’m driven to post the MRC today because I’m a sunrise fanatic, and no dawn of the year moves me like Easter morn (Jeremiah 20:9b). It’s always been that way. The earliest, happiest memories of my youth on a Midwestern farm are of Easter. When I think of Christmas as a child, the booty under the tree sadly dominates, but Easter was all about going to a sunrise service at that Swedish Lutheran Church my grandfather helped build in a little Illinois village. Filed in my grey matter is an indelible picture of the Good Shepherd above the altar, glowing in massive stained glass backlit by the rising sun. And the meaning was always clear, at least in my memory. That Good Shepherd with his lost-but-found lamb in his arms—me!—had risen from the dead on this day a long time go. Surely His resurrection was divinely planned to happen in the spring, with God’s nature clad in all its new life green. The four Wetterling kids were decked out in new duds, too—it was part of the annual rite. New clothes have never felt so good since. Many were handmade, some from livestock feed sacks in bright print fabric. It sounds so “uncool” now, but it was a big hit fifty years ago with creative farmers’ wives. It was Mom’s labor of love through many a long winter day over a rocker pedaled foot-powered sewing machine.

The symbolism was a big help in making Easter so memorable. The extraordinary resurrection from the dead of the Son of God—the heart of Christianity—without which, as Paul said, our “faith is in vain” (I Cor. 15:13) is celebrated just as the earth is quickened with newness of life. Our new Easter clothes, which we kids neither earned nor bought ourselves, are symbolic, though poor imitations, of the “fine linen, bright and pure” of Christ’s righteousness imputed to us—totally unmerited—with which we will be clothed at that heavenly “marriage supper of the Lamb” (Rev. 19:8-9).

Beginning in the early ‘90’s I performed a dramatic monologue, with appropriate costume and beard, on Good Friday: Judas as I imagined he would have tried to justify his reprehensible deed. Memorizing 25 minutes of dialogue is a major task for one not practiced (to my regret) at memory work. I spent hours working on it, as well as much research and imagining of the scene in first century Jerusalem that historic week, in order to get in character. A song which helped immensely in that regard was Watch the Lamb, by Ray Bolz—it is amazing how poetry and music can paint the most vivid pictures in the mind. I nearly wore out the recording.

Now that my beard no longer looks like that of a young middle eastern radical and my thespian aspirations have expired, I’ve converted the monologue into a TV news manuscript (see last week’s blog). But the recorded, five-senses videos in my mind are recurrent every Easter. I see a naked man scourged beyond recognition, hanging in unfathomable agony on a cross, then the pitch blackness at midday, the earth shaking violently, rocks splitting, people screaming, the 4-inch thick, 30-foot high temple curtain tearing from the top down, long-dead preachers walking the streets, the stench of sweat and garbage at Golgotha, the sour taste of wine gone bad, the mind-numbing pain of hanging on nails, the desperate fight for every breath, the mental anguish of taunting remarks, of perfect innocence brutally punished, and worst of all, the holy wrath of his Father…all for my sins. My favorite Christian wordsmith, C. H. Spurgeon, says its best:

"My sins were the scourges which lacerated those blessed shoulders, and crowned with thorn those bleeding brows; my sins cries out, “Crucify Him, crucify Him!” and laid the cross upon His gracious shoulders. His being led forth to die is sorrow enough for eternity, but my having been His murderer is more, infinitely more grief, than one poor fountain of tears can express."

This has been my focus this holy week for the last several years, when I have had ample time to be alone in these Blue Ridge mountains. From a mountaintop, nine-ridgeline, four-state view to the tiniest wildflower at my feet, the whole earth declares the glory of God. I learned long ago that I am not a hermit, but on a solitary walk in this wilderness cathedral, where the hand of God is apparent in the minutest magnificent detail everywhere I look, the Psalmist’s admonishment to “Be still and know that I am God….” requires no conscious effort. Praying without ceasing, with my eyes open, in my great outdoors prayer closet, seems as natural as breathing. And during this week especially, when I grievously recall the large and small sins in my life that make me complicit in Christ’s murder, I’m filled with the kind of self-loathing that pagan psychiatrists would call unhealthy. Spurgeon understands…and so does the Savior who loves me so much he died for me 2000 years before I was born.

Then—O Holy Day—nearly two millennia ago this Easter morning, the same sun that is shooting spectacular sunbeams through reawakening trees into my gatekeeper’s cottage window, shined down on a quiet middle-eastern cemetery garden and a woman—Mary Magdalene—weeping near a mysteriously empty tomb. Surely the psychological aftershocks of all the trauma of the last few days were still being felt by her and the disciples. But with four words from the Son of God, the mystery of the empty tomb is solved and the elect of depraved mankind are forever redeemed from their desperate, hell-bound dilemma. Jesus announced his victory over death and the devil with a question: Woman, why are you weeping (John 20:15)?

Can you imagine yourself in Mary’s skin for a moment? She was present with Jesus’ mother at the foot of the cross—a scene too gruesome for nearly all the terrified disciples to witness. She had come with spices at sunrise to anoint his corpse. So sure was she that he was dead that she did not recognize his voice or his face through her tears, until he spoke her name—Mary. A startling thunderbolt of miraculous, world-changing reality beyond human reason…! Mary must have spent the rest of her life marveling at all its meaning and implications, as do I and everyone who has been divinely quickened by the Holy Spirit to know Christ crucified.

He is risen!

He lives, and by His grace I look forward to more happy seasons hiking in the holy company of my Lord and my God, followed by eternity with Him in heaven. My best efforts at gratitude can never match the gift. These are not facts that you will ever be able to wrap your intellect around, no matter your IQ. Flesh and blood cannot reveal this gospel to you, nor can you do it by working yourself into an emotional frenzy. It takes a miraculous, unmerited work of the Holy Spirit in your heart to grasp this saving knowledge—the wisdom of the ages.

Before He died and rose again, Jesus said, I am the resurrection and the life; he that believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever lives and believes in me shall never die. He told his disciples, Because I live, you will live also.

Just as his miracles proved his truth claims—I and the Father are One—and his atoning crucifixion proved his amazing love, his resurrection is ultimate proof his promise will be fulfilled. There is no greater promise on which to rest your immortal soul than the immutable promise of Christ our RISEN Savior. Because I live, you will live also. NO ONE and NOTHING can separate His elect from His love. If the thought of that doesn’t make Easter the most joyful Sunday of your year, then you need to reexamine your heart with fear and trembling.

Isaac Watts penned the best response that human hymnody can convey to Christ's atoning death and resurrection. He wrote, “Love so amazing, so divine, demands my life, my soul, my all.” May God open your eyes to His truth, and grant you the ability to give your soul, your all, with eternal gratitude, to the risen Savior—the Lord of your life. In His name, Amen.

Interview with Judas

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 18:47:22 -0400

"Welcome to Channel XVI evening news, reporting tonight from Jerusalem. Jesus of Nazareth, controversial itinerant preacher, alleged miracle worker and nemesis of the Jewish religious authorities, was crucified today. In a remarkable reversal of fortune, the ruling council came up with an unprecedented midnight-some experts say illegal-conviction just five days after he received a tumultuous welcome to the city by thousands of jubilant Jews. In an odd twist of fate, the man whom John the Baptist called 'the lamb of God' died just as the Jews were sacrificing their paschal lambs on the great temple's altar, a centuries old ritual. Details of an extraordinary day follow these words from our sponsors."