Tension: The transforming of those around us.
"The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed...when it grows, it...becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches." Matthew 13:31-33
My sons, Benjamin (10) and Joshua (4), and I were exploring the hill behind our house yesterday when we several bearing hickory-nut trees. We all filled our pockets. Benjamin found the one, among hundreds of nuts, that was sprouting. We planted it.
Near the base of our hill he pointed out one tree had grown in a spiral shape. Evidently a vine had clung tightly around it as they grew together. The vine had died and rotted away, leaving the misshaped tree. Another of our trees is a gigantic tulip poplar. Several years ago we had a severe ice storm that left its branches drooping to this day.
Some trees have sentimental value to us. We have a maple that Benjamin planted from a seed and another one that we brought from Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Ohio. There is a sick little pine that I planted the first year we moved here and a couple of hemlocks we transplanted from the creek. Actually, we have lots of tree stories, but the one I want to focus on involves a crooked dogwood near our driveway.
It was laying flat on the ground when I found it. I suppose the dozer pushed it over when cutting our drive, but I found it, and being very fond of dogwoods, propped it up against a large rock at the base and used some rope to keep tension on it at the top. That solid base to bear the weight and the constant tension at the top has turned the tree upright and now it grows straight and on its own.
Now, this gentle, constant, transforming tension has application in other contexts.
It is a metaphor for the people of God in the world. Yes, we are salt. Yes, we are light. We are also a gentle, constant, transforming tension. We are like rope attached to the sapling. Constantly tugging in the right direction. Where ever the tree is bent crooked, it is because in that place, the church let off the tension.
Racism is a twist on God’s gift of diversity. The churches certainly let off the tension and look where we are today.
Immorality is a crooked handling of the blessed design of God for men and women. The church not only relaxed its stand, but applauded and even engaged in the wickedness.
Greed turns the efforts of the weak into the inordinate profits of the strong. Profit is permissible, and he who takes the greater risks deserves the greater rewards, but profit should never be taken at the expense of the weak, the poor, and enslaved. When I draw a dime that costs my employee his health, his family, his faith, then I’ve turned my motive from profit to greed. Christians should be placing tension on such practices.
The list goes on, but you get the point. Why is France on fire? Why is Iraq a war zone? Why is Hollywood producing ever increasingly vulgar ‘entertainment’? Why did some kid just shoot an administrator in my own county’s high school? Because, Christians have been letting off the tension….for a long time. Now, we have a bent, twisted society.
May the Church repent. May she awaken. May she live again in such as way as to effectively apply that gentle, consistent, transforming tension the world so desperately needs.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
Beyond the Rituals:Letting God Reign in Our Lives
...true stories intended to touch your heart and change your life...
Where did you spend your day? I spent mine on death row.
A friend invited me to a movie shoot at a vacant prison in Nashville. While waiting for props to be set, he took me on tour down a corridor of 20 vacant cells.
Paint hung in massive flakes from ceilings and walls. Asbestos covered pipes. Pigeon roosts dripped with droppings. Graffiti…sketches of demons, swastikas, crosses, roses, homemade calendar systems, dates, poetry and prose remained. Walls…some bare, some dark, some covered with nothing, others with patterns, one with dried feces. Doors…metal, short and narrow hung rusting and heavy on stiff creaking hinges. Gun turrets, guard shacks, bars, metal, concrete, razor wire, electrical fencing, gates and massive locks spoke both of out-of-control men and the expense and energy invested in keeping them at a safe distance from the general public and one another.
It doesn’t take much to imagine the walls' echo of spoken graffiti. Vulgarity the norm. An angry place filled with angry words. A hate filled existence overflowing with hatred for authority, for the ones incarcerated along side, for self, for life and living. A loud place. A sleepless, restless, tormented place. Never silent. Speaking even now, though vacant.
The day’s filming was on death row. The cell numbers counted down 5,4,3,2,1. The last cell shared one wall with the execution chamber. One hundred twenty eight men had been executed in a chair which once sat atop a small raised cement slab in the center of that 10’x10’ room. The ceiling was low. A large vent hood -- its function obvious-- hung directly above the chair. To one side a metal door opened to a smaller chamber housing a large electrical control box, a switch and a dial. Gauges along the front were labeled, “Chest”, “Arms”, “Legs”, “Head”.
I walked along the cells and thought, “What a way to spend your last days…even years.” Tiny 8’x10’ rooms. A bunk. A stainless steel toilet. Bars. The floor. An etched glass window several feet away for some; not even this much light for others. Dark colors, in a dark place, amidst dark souls. “What a way to spend your last days and hours.”
Yet, isn't it where Jesus spent his. Didn’t he come to serve his time with us here on death row? Here, away from heaven’s love and light. Here in the pit of despair, angry words, hatred for God’s authority, for other races, for self, for life and living. A loud place. A sleepless, restless, tormented place. Never silent, with days counting down for each of us 5,4,3,2,1. Didn’t he end his final hours between criminals—those on crosses and those beneath his own? The gasping Chest, pierced Arms, cramping Legs, thorn crowned Head.
He who committed no wrong, took my punishment. I’ve spent my time in darkness. I’ve been, like the others, an object of wrath. I’ve lived where there were demons and darkness. I’ve lived where there were paper crosses and calendars counting meaningless days. I’ve seen my own prison walls, but thank God that when I got to the end of the row, He stepped into my place and I walked free from death.
I'm no longer on death row. Where are you?
Where did you spend your day? I spent mine on death row.
A friend invited me to a movie shoot at a vacant prison in Nashville. While waiting for props to be set, he took me on tour down a corridor of 20 vacant cells.
Paint hung in massive flakes from ceilings and walls. Asbestos covered pipes. Pigeon roosts dripped with droppings. Graffiti…sketches of demons, swastikas, crosses, roses, homemade calendar systems, dates, poetry and prose remained. Walls…some bare, some dark, some covered with nothing, others with patterns, one with dried feces. Doors…metal, short and narrow hung rusting and heavy on stiff creaking hinges. Gun turrets, guard shacks, bars, metal, concrete, razor wire, electrical fencing, gates and massive locks spoke both of out-of-control men and the expense and energy invested in keeping them at a safe distance from the general public and one another.
It doesn’t take much to imagine the walls' echo of spoken graffiti. Vulgarity the norm. An angry place filled with angry words. A hate filled existence overflowing with hatred for authority, for the ones incarcerated along side, for self, for life and living. A loud place. A sleepless, restless, tormented place. Never silent. Speaking even now, though vacant.
The day’s filming was on death row. The cell numbers counted down 5,4,3,2,1. The last cell shared one wall with the execution chamber. One hundred twenty eight men had been executed in a chair which once sat atop a small raised cement slab in the center of that 10’x10’ room. The ceiling was low. A large vent hood -- its function obvious-- hung directly above the chair. To one side a metal door opened to a smaller chamber housing a large electrical control box, a switch and a dial. Gauges along the front were labeled, “Chest”, “Arms”, “Legs”, “Head”.
I walked along the cells and thought, “What a way to spend your last days…even years.” Tiny 8’x10’ rooms. A bunk. A stainless steel toilet. Bars. The floor. An etched glass window several feet away for some; not even this much light for others. Dark colors, in a dark place, amidst dark souls. “What a way to spend your last days and hours.”
Yet, isn't it where Jesus spent his. Didn’t he come to serve his time with us here on death row? Here, away from heaven’s love and light. Here in the pit of despair, angry words, hatred for God’s authority, for other races, for self, for life and living. A loud place. A sleepless, restless, tormented place. Never silent, with days counting down for each of us 5,4,3,2,1. Didn’t he end his final hours between criminals—those on crosses and those beneath his own? The gasping Chest, pierced Arms, cramping Legs, thorn crowned Head.
He who committed no wrong, took my punishment. I’ve spent my time in darkness. I’ve been, like the others, an object of wrath. I’ve lived where there were demons and darkness. I’ve lived where there were paper crosses and calendars counting meaningless days. I’ve seen my own prison walls, but thank God that when I got to the end of the row, He stepped into my place and I walked free from death.
I'm no longer on death row. Where are you?
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Ode to Stella
Stella was our neighbor down the street. The first time we met Stella was at our neighborhood Bible study that started 6 years ago. She was a fiesty older woman who had lived a hard life, with a hard husband, who 15 years ago started back to the local Baptist church. Her husband had Alzheimer's and was pretty tough on her. She came to our study and always had a good way of looking at things. She was full of energy and always put her foot in her mouth, but would apologize afterwards. She loved church, her husband, family, and minister. She had lost a daughter to Pancreatic cancer years ago and saw her struggle with the chemo and side effects. She always said, "I'm never going to take chemo--that stuff will kill yah. When God wants me to go, I will go fightin'."
Stella developed Pancreatic cancer 5 years ago. She chose not to take chemo. We saw her when she was yellow, through the death of her husband, through the ups and downs of the disease, and in prayer. Yet she was always optomistic, always full of energy, and knew that when it was time to go she would continue fighting. She did. We thought she would live for ever because she continually amazed her doctors. Stella passed away Saturday night.
We remember Stella's smile and courage. She took trips with her sisters and spent all of her "retirement money." She bought lots of candy from Nathan and would say, "Hey, I'm gonna die so I don't care about how heavy I am!" She laughed and continued to be upbeat, always asking how we were. She and her sisters kissed the skin off of our two little ones and always threatened to come by and kidnap them for a weekend. When her skin was yellow--she dressed appropriately.
We went to see her on Halloween to say goodbye. Barely 70 pounds she looked at us and smiled. In the bed she smiled when we showed her Caleb and Hunter's costumes. She was always a fighter , a lady, and a great neighbor. She is one of the many people who we have seen struggle with cancer who have been an example of courage and honor in life, suffering, and death.
In a state that talks about dieing with dignity I suggest that I know people who die with true dignity. They face life with courage--irregardless of the pain it brings. They embrace death and show us that life is short--enjoy what you have and bless those around you.
Goodbye Stella, we will love and miss you.
Stella developed Pancreatic cancer 5 years ago. She chose not to take chemo. We saw her when she was yellow, through the death of her husband, through the ups and downs of the disease, and in prayer. Yet she was always optomistic, always full of energy, and knew that when it was time to go she would continue fighting. She did. We thought she would live for ever because she continually amazed her doctors. Stella passed away Saturday night.
We remember Stella's smile and courage. She took trips with her sisters and spent all of her "retirement money." She bought lots of candy from Nathan and would say, "Hey, I'm gonna die so I don't care about how heavy I am!" She laughed and continued to be upbeat, always asking how we were. She and her sisters kissed the skin off of our two little ones and always threatened to come by and kidnap them for a weekend. When her skin was yellow--she dressed appropriately.
We went to see her on Halloween to say goodbye. Barely 70 pounds she looked at us and smiled. In the bed she smiled when we showed her Caleb and Hunter's costumes. She was always a fighter , a lady, and a great neighbor. She is one of the many people who we have seen struggle with cancer who have been an example of courage and honor in life, suffering, and death.
In a state that talks about dieing with dignity I suggest that I know people who die with true dignity. They face life with courage--irregardless of the pain it brings. They embrace death and show us that life is short--enjoy what you have and bless those around you.
Goodbye Stella, we will love and miss you.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Beyond the Rituals:Letting God Reign in Our Lives
When our faith is not rewarded as we expect, how do we respond?
Peter stepped out of the boat and the sea’s surface turned back to liquid. Those who step out on faith often find themselves overwhelmed, doubting, and crying out for help. Not all endings are happy ones, but only such water-walkers experience the firm grip of God on their flailing arm. Such risk and response builds faith like nothing else under heaven. It leads where it took Peter and his friends, “they worshipped Him saying, truly you are the Son of God!” Matthew 14:22-33
The following is my response to the opening question and a true story of faith, His catch, and their worship.
“Chief” was a friend of mine. He eventually became a Christian. We all expected that his political position would add clout and legitimacy to our fledgling church.
In the same village, Kiplagat lived. He was also my friend. Kiplagat and his wife took Donna and me into their home for nine weeks. They fed us, taught us, interpreted for us, and housed us at their own expense. They were the first Christians in the village, and they taught Chief the Gospel. Unlike Chief, Kiplagat wasn't a power broker -- at least that is what we thought.
By God's grace, the church in their village grew. But in its third year certain events brought Chief and Kiplagat to the edge of a tumultuous sea. Both had their faith severely tested.
The events began one evening late in April. It was planting season. Ailing trucks, laden with hybrid maize seed and imported Korean fertilizer, lumbered their way night and day along chipped highways from Mombassa's port to Mt. Elgon's peak. Farmers begged, borrowed, and bartered to scrape together the cash to buy enough of both the commodities to feed their families through the coming year. Some, such as Kiplagat, having planned, sacrificed, and saved for years, withdrew their savings in hopes of planting an extra two or three acres. Perhaps the profits from sales could pay for a three room mud house with a tin roof -- a dream come true.
Transportation, especially into remote areas, is inconsistent. The last public transport vehicle home was revving its engine in warning of eminent departure. Chief and Kiplagat had spent the day in town and Chief planned to stay in the town another night. Kiplagat needed to return to teach school the following day, so he asked Chief to buy his maize seed and fertilizer for him. Chief agreed and would supply the receipts from him next week. Kiplagat would arrange for transportation later. He handed Chief 6000/ Kenyan Shillings -- the equivalent of $250. It was his life's savings. Three days later Chief delivered a receipt.
Kiplagat’s village is remote. The rocky pass into the mountainous oasis doesn’t prohibits casual travel. In three years only two vehicles drove into Kiplagat’s village: one was mine, the other carried armed police. Both ended their journey in front of Kiplagat’s property.
A consortium of seroius-faced policemen marched up to Kiplagat’s main hut. "We have come to jail Chief. We need you to testify against him. Those receipts he gave you are a forgery. He has been making them and cheating people out of their money. You must help us jail him."
Kiplagat delayed his answer by offering his "guests" hot tea; buying time to think. Several cups later they pressed for an answer. He gave them one. "I will not testify against him."
"What?!" They were furious. "We demand your testimony!"
"I am sorry, but I cannot do it."
"Kiplagat, we'll have you put in jail! Now, let's get this thing done!"
"No. Please. I cannot. He is my brother in Christ. I cannot defame the name of Christ by taking revenge on him. It will cause the Church to look badly. I will not do it."
More haranguing followed, but Kiplagat stood his ground.
Fuming, they stomped away. Kiplagat withdrew to lick his financial wounds. He had done what seemed right, but it hurt. His dreams vaporized, never to come true.
Late that evening, with the moon high, and the night alive with sound, Kiplagat and his wife sat in their cooking hut sipping tea. Outside someone called, “Kiplagat.”
"Chief?"
Subdued and whispering, Chief offered, "Kiplagat, Bwana, I want to talk to you."
"Welcome Chief. Come in."
He entered and they talked for a very long time. Chief confessed his wrong, promised to return the money -- which he had already spent -- and in tears thanked Kiplagat for not turning him in to the police.
More than three thousand nights have passed since that evening. Chief still owes on his debt. Oh, he paid a token payment in the form of a few wormy sheep, but he'll never fully repay the debt. Kiplagat has not required him to. The church has grown.
Kiplagat obeyed God, and what did it get him? It cost him his life's savings and his dream house. But, oddly, Kiplagat says it cost him nothing. He says it gained him a friend. He says God used it to strengthened the Church. He says it built his faith. He praises God and he says his temporal losses don’t matter because: "This (pinching up the skin of his forearm) doesn't last forever."
Water solidifies. Walls crumble. Seas divide. Fires don't burn. Water springs from rocks. Quail thrive in the wilderness. Bushes sprout rams. The dead are raised. God does the inconceivable, and when He does we shout "Halelujah!" But when He doesn't, Kiplagat is right....this doesn't last forever. Praise God.
Note to the story: This account was originally written five years ago. Since that time-- fifteen years after the day the police came to his hut--Kiplagat has gotten his three room tin roofed mud house, which is fun for me to report and good to know, but which Kiplagat insists doesn’t matter. (See also Habbakkuk 3.17-19)
Peter stepped out of the boat and the sea’s surface turned back to liquid. Those who step out on faith often find themselves overwhelmed, doubting, and crying out for help. Not all endings are happy ones, but only such water-walkers experience the firm grip of God on their flailing arm. Such risk and response builds faith like nothing else under heaven. It leads where it took Peter and his friends, “they worshipped Him saying, truly you are the Son of God!” Matthew 14:22-33
The following is my response to the opening question and a true story of faith, His catch, and their worship.
“Chief” was a friend of mine. He eventually became a Christian. We all expected that his political position would add clout and legitimacy to our fledgling church.
In the same village, Kiplagat lived. He was also my friend. Kiplagat and his wife took Donna and me into their home for nine weeks. They fed us, taught us, interpreted for us, and housed us at their own expense. They were the first Christians in the village, and they taught Chief the Gospel. Unlike Chief, Kiplagat wasn't a power broker -- at least that is what we thought.
By God's grace, the church in their village grew. But in its third year certain events brought Chief and Kiplagat to the edge of a tumultuous sea. Both had their faith severely tested.
The events began one evening late in April. It was planting season. Ailing trucks, laden with hybrid maize seed and imported Korean fertilizer, lumbered their way night and day along chipped highways from Mombassa's port to Mt. Elgon's peak. Farmers begged, borrowed, and bartered to scrape together the cash to buy enough of both the commodities to feed their families through the coming year. Some, such as Kiplagat, having planned, sacrificed, and saved for years, withdrew their savings in hopes of planting an extra two or three acres. Perhaps the profits from sales could pay for a three room mud house with a tin roof -- a dream come true.
Transportation, especially into remote areas, is inconsistent. The last public transport vehicle home was revving its engine in warning of eminent departure. Chief and Kiplagat had spent the day in town and Chief planned to stay in the town another night. Kiplagat needed to return to teach school the following day, so he asked Chief to buy his maize seed and fertilizer for him. Chief agreed and would supply the receipts from him next week. Kiplagat would arrange for transportation later. He handed Chief 6000/ Kenyan Shillings -- the equivalent of $250. It was his life's savings. Three days later Chief delivered a receipt.
Kiplagat’s village is remote. The rocky pass into the mountainous oasis doesn’t prohibits casual travel. In three years only two vehicles drove into Kiplagat’s village: one was mine, the other carried armed police. Both ended their journey in front of Kiplagat’s property.
A consortium of seroius-faced policemen marched up to Kiplagat’s main hut. "We have come to jail Chief. We need you to testify against him. Those receipts he gave you are a forgery. He has been making them and cheating people out of their money. You must help us jail him."
Kiplagat delayed his answer by offering his "guests" hot tea; buying time to think. Several cups later they pressed for an answer. He gave them one. "I will not testify against him."
"What?!" They were furious. "We demand your testimony!"
"I am sorry, but I cannot do it."
"Kiplagat, we'll have you put in jail! Now, let's get this thing done!"
"No. Please. I cannot. He is my brother in Christ. I cannot defame the name of Christ by taking revenge on him. It will cause the Church to look badly. I will not do it."
More haranguing followed, but Kiplagat stood his ground.
Fuming, they stomped away. Kiplagat withdrew to lick his financial wounds. He had done what seemed right, but it hurt. His dreams vaporized, never to come true.
Late that evening, with the moon high, and the night alive with sound, Kiplagat and his wife sat in their cooking hut sipping tea. Outside someone called, “Kiplagat.”
"Chief?"
Subdued and whispering, Chief offered, "Kiplagat, Bwana, I want to talk to you."
"Welcome Chief. Come in."
He entered and they talked for a very long time. Chief confessed his wrong, promised to return the money -- which he had already spent -- and in tears thanked Kiplagat for not turning him in to the police.
More than three thousand nights have passed since that evening. Chief still owes on his debt. Oh, he paid a token payment in the form of a few wormy sheep, but he'll never fully repay the debt. Kiplagat has not required him to. The church has grown.
Kiplagat obeyed God, and what did it get him? It cost him his life's savings and his dream house. But, oddly, Kiplagat says it cost him nothing. He says it gained him a friend. He says God used it to strengthened the Church. He says it built his faith. He praises God and he says his temporal losses don’t matter because: "This (pinching up the skin of his forearm) doesn't last forever."
Water solidifies. Walls crumble. Seas divide. Fires don't burn. Water springs from rocks. Quail thrive in the wilderness. Bushes sprout rams. The dead are raised. God does the inconceivable, and when He does we shout "Halelujah!" But when He doesn't, Kiplagat is right....this doesn't last forever. Praise God.
Note to the story: This account was originally written five years ago. Since that time-- fifteen years after the day the police came to his hut--Kiplagat has gotten his three room tin roofed mud house, which is fun for me to report and good to know, but which Kiplagat insists doesn’t matter. (See also Habbakkuk 3.17-19)
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