What Kind of Soil Are You?

Text: Mark 4:1-20

Introduction

This is Thanksgiving Sunday. We won’t spend much time on Thanksgiving, but simply link the fact of the harvest that lies behind the celebration of Thanksgiving, and the way that Jesus draws on an agricultural image to communicate what he wants to say. The Parable of the Sower belongs at this time of year. The parable also speaks to us of our whole lives, just as the Thanksgiving season stands at the centre of the whole of life.

Some Background

Jesus taught in parables. This was a common form of teaching for rabbis of his time and place. Parables mean more than they say—like poetry. (Ray Zercher described it as “saying less, meaning more”). As Jesus explains his use of parables in Mark 4, they reveal God’s truth to those who are ready to hear it.

A basic characteristic of parables is that they make one primary point. In that respect the parable of the sower/parable of the soils is unusual. Jesus gives an explanation to the disciples and those gathered around him (verses 10 and 11). His explanation reveals several themes for us to consider this morning.

First Theme: The Sower or the Soils?

Some call this the parable of the sower, which places the emphasis on the action of the sower. Jesus tells us, “the farmer sows the word” (verse 14). Who is this farmer? God himself certainly, but also Jesus in his earthly ministry, and by a reasonable extension, his disciples as they follow in Jesus’ footsteps, preaching the kingdom of God. My own view is that Jesus refers primarily to himself, to explain why many of the Jews did not receive his word (verse 12).

Some call this the parable of the soils, which places the emphasis on the response of those who hear the word. Everyone hears; some reject it, and some accept it. Since Jesus uses the parable to explain why many did not receive his word, this emphasis makes sense; but also since the growth of the word depends on the action of the farmer, planting the gospel generously everywhere, we see also God’s grace making growth possible.

The picture is of God coming to you and to me, not asking whether we are the right ones to receive him, but assuming that we are. Generously he gives us his word, whether we have the right last name or a good reputation in the community. All that he asks is that we receive it and let it grow in our lives. “Wonderful the matchless grace of Jesus, deeper than the mighty rolling sea;/ Higher than a mountain, sparkling like a fountain, All-sufficient grace for even me!”

But the picture includes our response. The soil gets to choose, unlike any dirt that I know! The picture of different kinds of soils does not suggest such choice—dirt just is. If anything, the farmer prepares the dirt for a good harvest. It chooses nothing by itself. But Jesus says, “Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear” (verse 9). Because we are real people and not just one kind of dirt or another, we get to choose whether we will receive the word or not. As Jesus puts it in verse 20: “Others, like seed sown on good soil, hear the word, accept it, and produce a crop—some thirty, some sixty, some a hundred times what was sown.” We have the choice—to hear and accept and bear fruit.

Remember the sermon on thankfulness Randy preached last week? There were ten lepers who were healed, and only one came back to say thank you. You remember something else that Randy brought out—a note that struck me strongly. Jesus never said to the lepers, “Be healed.” He said only, “Go and present yourselves to the priests.” They were healed when they responded. Our part is to respond, and without our response, God has bound himself so that Christ cannot plant himself in our hearts.

Perhaps we should use both names: the Parable of the Sower—God’s work in our lives is a free gift that we can never earn, but that penetrates us and changes us; the Parable of the Soils—God gives us the dignity of choice, to accept or reject. In the terrible words of verse 12, those who reject have their choice sealed by God, so that “they may be ever seeing but never perceiving, and ever hearing but never understanding; otherwise they might turn and be forgiven!”

Second Theme: The Responsibility of a Heritage

One of the questions that the early church wrestled with was why the Jewish people as a whole did not recognize Jesus as the Messiah and follow him. Many people did; they are the good soil of this parable. But the greater part of the people did not; they are the soils in which the seed did not grow. Jesus told this parable partly to explain why so many did not follow him and partly as a warning to those who thought that their standing as Abraham’s children was enough to get them into Heaven (cf Matthew 3:8-10, “Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not think you can say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.”)

Part of the warning in the words, “Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear”, is found in the Jews’ reliance on their heritage. God comes to each one of us anew. It has been said truly that the church is always one generation away from extinction. As Ezekiel stresses in Ezekiel 18, each God wants all to turn from self to God, each generation turning anew to God.

I stand in a long line of Christians. My father was a pastor and missionary in the Brethren in Christ Church. My grandfather was a bible teacher and missionary. My great-grandfather was the treasurer of the Foreign Mission Board. His father was a strong member of the church, and his grandfather—my great-great-great grandfather—was known for his strong faith as a BIC lay minister in Ontario. When I stand before God at the end of my life, of what value is this great heritage? I treasure it. I thank God for it. It has prepared the soil well for the seed to be sown. But the real question concerns me. What kind of dirt am I? Have I also received the word? Such a heritage is a treasure, but it does not transform my life. Only God can plant the word in me. Only God’s Spirit can deal with the human rebellion setting myself up in God’s place, which I share with all people. If Jesus does not plant the word in my life, nothing good can grow there.

Often when we give our testimony at baptism, we find no particular moment of conversion, but say something like, “I’ve followed Jesus all of my life.” I rejoice when a candidate can say that. Often the decision to be baptized is also the time when you make that commitment clear and certain. But I repeat, you must commit your life to Christ to plant his word deep in your heart. Your family cannot plant God’s Word in your heart. Only Jesus can.

Third Theme: The Crop

Jesus does not specify what this wonderful crop is that grows in the fruitful soil (verse 20). The three parables that follow in Mark 4 emphasize several ideas. One is the importance of living our lives openly for Christ (the lamp on a stand)—the idea is that the community of Christ shows the meaning of Christ clearly to the world. A second is that the seed grows quietly, then bursts forth in full growth (the growing seed)—the idea is that growth is great, and brings a harvest, which suggests also the presence of God’s kingdom in this world. The third is that a small seed grows into a great plant (the mustard seed)—the idea is that the growth of God’s kingdom surprises us by growing from a small beginning to a great size.

Common to all of these is the idea of the growth of the kingdom. I think that is what Jesus has in mind also in our parable this morning. Some people want to see the growth of numbers here—the church will fill up with people! That is not a bad desire, but the idea in this parable is that God’s kingdom, God’s reign, takes possession of our lives and God does what he chooses to do in us and in our world.

I have been good soil and bad soil at different times in my life. I learned recently that my influence in an old friend’s life was formative for good. In my 20s, when I was not even aware, God was growing good fruit. I remember another relationship in which I carried on an email argument with another friend’s son that pushed only resulted in bitterness and anger. Not such good soil that time!

I suggest that our concern with numbers is often misplaced. We ask how we can fill this building. Jesus says, “Receive my word. Be good soil!” He doesn’t promise us a full house; rather he promises that God’s kingdom will grow. That might mean more numbers, but having more people in the sanctuary is not the point. As long as you are trying to fill this building, instead of seeking to be filled with God’s Spirit, God will not do his work here.

Synthesis: The Word of God

Let me try to bring these themes together. I could preach this passage as a call to conversion and focus especially on younger people in and around the church, but that would miss the point. God sows the word in our lives throughout our lives. This is a call to be radically open to God’s work in us throughout our lives.

We haven’t defined God’s word. In verse 14 Jesus says, “The farmer sows God’s word.” What is God’s word? Jesus is the word (John 1). Jesus comes speaking the word. As Mark 1: 14 and 15 tells us, “After John was put in prison, Jesus went into Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God. ‘The time has come,” he said. “The kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!’” This good news is the word of God—that Jesus has come and brings us God’s reign, God’s rule in your life and mine.

The word of God is the call to repent (turn away from ourselves) and embrace God’s reign, which comes in the person of Jesus. This includes conversion at the beginning of our walk with God, as well as every moment throughout the rest of our lives in which God comes to us and restores this word within us. Whether you are 15 or 50, 25 or 75, whether you are a child or a middle-aged person or what we sometimes call “a senior”, the parable calls to you to get ready for God’s Spirit, God’s Word to enter your life in a new way.

In a book called Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home, Richard Foster tells the story of a graduate student he calls “Jim Smith”. In his second year of graduate studies Jim realized that his spiritual life was growing weak, so he went to a retreat house where a spiritual director led him through a private retreat. The brother gave him only one assignment, to spend the day meditating on Mary’s encounter with the angel in Luke 1. Jim spent two days reading and re-reading. He used all his ability to interpret the passage. On the first evening his director asked, “What was your aim in reading the passage?” Jim said that he was trying to understand the passage. His director told him to let go and stop trying to understand. On the second day of reading and thinking about the passage, he felt like “he would go deaf from the silence.”

After two days of struggling, Jim felt drained and frustrated. His director said, “You’re trying too hard, Jim. You’re trying to control God. Go back to this passage and this time be open to receive whatever God has for you.” By noon on the third day Jim was defeated. Finally he shouted, “I give up! You win” “He slumped over the desk and began weeping.”

Foster continues,

“A short time later he picked up his Bible and glanced over the text once again. The words were familiar but somehow different. … The opening words of Mary’s response became his words: ‘Let it be to me … let it be to me.’ … Then God spoke. It was as if a window had been thrown open and God wanted to talk friend to friend. …

“The Spirit took Jim down deep into Mary’s feelings, Mary’s doubts, Mary’s fears, Mary’s incredible faith-filled response. It was … also a journey into Jim’s feelings and fears and doubts, as the Spirit in healing love and gentle compassion touched the broken memories of his past.

“Though Jim could barely believe it, the angel’s word to Mary seemed to be a word for him as well: ‘You have found favour with God.’ Mary’s perplexed query was also Jim’s question: ‘How can this be?’ And it was so, and Jim wept in the arms of a God of grace and mercy.”

When the soil of Jim’s life was ready, God planted the Word in his heart. Is your heart ready for God the Great Farmer to plant the living Word in your life?

Steinbach Mennonite Church

11 October 2015

Thanksgiving Sunday

Pursuing God

We shall not cease from exploration/ And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started/ And know the place for the first time

(T.S. Eliot, “Four Quartets”)

In my seminary days (35 years ago now) I remember hearing, “Being is more important than doing.” Those who said this held that we act out of a centre that comes from dwelling in God, so that however important acting is, being is more important.

Recently I read an article titled, “Churches could fill their pews with millennials if they just did this.” The author doesn’t quite deliver on the title, but his main point is as follows: “I’m all for love and a personal relationship with God, but I choose to follow the man who teaches that political action is worship, that social justice is love.”

When I was in seminary, I resonated more with that writer than with those who told me that being precedes doing. I wanted to do justice more than I wanted to pray. Over the years, however, I have changed my mind. Doing is easy—for a short time. Doing justice for a lifetime requires something more. Doing requires a deep inner connection with God. Doing requires Being.

So today I want to describe a lifetime of searching for God, and some of the ways in which God has found me. These descriptions fall into two groups: what you might call mountain-top experiences, and the daily routine of spiritual disciplines.

The Mountain Tops

When I was 14 years old, I was baptized into the Brethren in Christ Church in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe on a Saturday afternoon. On Friday evening we gave our testimonies to the church and were accepted for baptism. Saturday was the baptism. On Sunday I took part in feetwashing and the Lord’s Supper for the first time. Throughout the events of that weekend, I was aware of a profound sense of God’s presence. My father tells me that my face was shining when I came out of the water, and still today the feetwashing service moulded my understanding of the Christian life decisively.

In 1967 I entered Messiah College in Pennsylvania. In chapel we sat alphabetically, so that I sat next to Rachel Cooper. Rai was a pastor’s daughter who had become agnostic in her faith and was determined to convert others to her agnosticism. We had many good arguments! One evening in the second semester we arrived at the dining hall at the same time. That evening Rai told me that she had met the Lord in a new way, and she asked me if I had ever led anyone to the Lord. I spent the next hour making excuses as to why I did not share my faith publicly. I liked arguing, but not sharing! We ended up in the mailbox area praying over the water fountain as I recommitted my life to Christ. That evening again formed me as one who wants more than anything else to know God and live for God.

After college I returned to Zimbabwe and taught high school mathematics there for three years. In the third year, August 1974, I remember a series of services at Mtshabezi Mission, during our church’s General Conference. A man named Luke Keefer preached each evening on the presence and work of the Holy Spirit in our lives. On the last night of the conference, the congregation responded to Keefer’s preaching by surging forward, seeking God’s Spirit in their lives. I remember how we sang, “Woza Moya Oyingcwele”, as we sought for God’s Spirit. We ended up in circles of about 15 people, praying to be filled with the Spirit. Once again as I sought God, God found me and filled me with his presence.

One final event recently, here at Providence. Without going into details, I felt like was as close to a collapse as I have ever been in my life. The experience was similar to depression, but was spiritual in origin, not emotional or mental. Kathleen Norris calls it “acedia”, and she says that you can tell the difference from depression by the fact that it responds to spiritual discipline, while depression responds to counselling and medication. My acedia responded to God’s presence through prayer and spiritual discipline. That experience, February 2009, was again a critical time of searching for God’s presence, and of being found by God. Whatever age we are, we need God, and God is waiting for us at every age, to speak into our lives with new life and with God’s Holy Spirit.

Spiritual Discipline

Throughout my life I have been taught that a basic part of seeking God is regular spiritual discipline. When I was young I was told that you should get up a half hour earlier than you normally would in order to read the Bible and pray. Five chapters from the OT and two chapters from the NT will take you through the Bible in a year. This kind of discipline works well for my Dad, who divides the number of pages in the Bible by 365 and then reads that many pages a day. I admire such discipline, but it doesn’t work for me.

As I got older and married Lois and had two sons, we tried family devotions. Reading to the boys before they went to bed worked well, and we would pray after the reading, but I must admit that we read Narnia more enthusiastically than Joshua and Judges. We involved our sons in Bible Quizzing, which was good, but hardly replaced family devotions. I won’t describe all that we did; it is enough to say that we tried to be disciplined, and we did not always succeed.

Now that the boys are gone, Lois and I are again trying to work out how one interacts with God in Bible reading and prayer. This brings me to something that we have been doing a little over a month—using the music and silence practiced in Taizé worship. Let me tell you a bit about Taizé and then describe how we use it.

Taizé

Taizé is a small village in France, not far from Geneva, Switzerland. In 1940 Brother Roger began a small community of brothers there, who made it their mission to be a place of refuge for Jews and others in Nazi-occupied France. In 1942 he had to flee to Switzerland, but in 1944 he returned. After the war they continued as a place of refuge for anyone who needed it. Their common life revolved around daily prayers drawn from several contemplative traditions.

Over time these prayers began to attract travellers, who came to join in the life of the community for brief periods at a time. Today during the summer months 5,000 to 6,000 young people come from Sunday afternoon to the following Sunday to share in the life of the community. Lois and I and our sons spent half a week there in December 2003. At that time of year there were only a few travellers who joined in. The community itself consists of 200 to 300 people in the Brothers of Taizé and in a community of sisters nearby. Their life still revolves around daily prayer.

There are three times of prayer a day—before breakfast, in the middle of the day, and about 8 in the evening. Each prayer time as we experienced it was something like thi

• We began with a time of singing the distinctive Taizé chants—perhaps 15 minutes. A basic characteristic of the chants is that they are open-ended, with various solo verses that can be added by the brothers and sisters, rather than defined as hymns are. They combine form with a kind of improvisation.
• There was a Scripture reading—usually an OT reading and then a NT reading, read in French, German, and English.
• More singing of the chants followed, for perhaps 10 minutes, preparing for the silence.
• Then came the silence—10 minutes of silence during which one meditates on the reading or in one way or another tries to become fully silent in God’s presence. When one becomes fully silent, one can hear God’s voice.
•  Finally there was a final, joyful chant. Occasionally Brother Roger (then in his 80s) would give a brief two minute or so homily. Often we simply began singing again.
• After a 40-45 minute service we left the meeting place. A few brothers stayed behind for any who wanted special prayer, and a few others continued to sing.

 Recently I read a history and examination of Taizé, an excellent study that reconnected me with this significant week in my life. Then I thought of trying the Taizé worship in our home. I suggested it to Lois and she readily agreed. This is what our adapted prayer looks like:

• At about 9 pm we light a candle on a small table in our living room and lean a cross against the table. This serves to define the space as a sanctuary. Then we turn on dim lights with one brighter light to read by.
• We start with one or two songs from our Taizé songbook, sung for three to five minutes.
• We read the gospel reading for the day, taken from the lectionary.
• We sing another brief chant or two. Then we turn off the brighter light, leaving the room dimly lit.
• We sit on the floor before the cross (similar to the way that they do at Taizé) and spend about five to seven minutes in silence.
• After the silence we do brief prayers, usually starting with our children: “For Vaughn and Lauren”—“Lord, hear our prayer.” “For Nevin and Alison”—“Lord, hear our prayer.” We add requests for others who are on our hearts at that moment in the same style, without elaborating on the requests.
• Finally we close with the Lord’s Prayer. “Gathering our praises and requests into one, we pray as our Saviour taught us, our Father in Heaven …”

 I have learned several things from our practice of Taizé. One is that I do silence more easily than Lois does. She has too much energy to sit still for long! Another is that when you have talk about your concerns with each other, to pray “For this person” is enough. God is not impressed with our false eloquence, but responds to our hearts’ desire.

I have found also that I pray better in my own private prayers when we also pray together. I have other times when I read the Bible and pray on my own, but I hold those times better when I am also engaged in regular prayer with Lois.

I have learned that the prayers are a gift of grace, not a load that is bound on our backs. When we have guests, or go out for the evening, we don’t necessarily do the prayers. We pray together again the next night instead.

I have found that I miss the prayer when we don’t do it. I can miss one night because I know we will pray together again soon. I can miss two nights if I have to. But then I need the time of prayer because it builds a foundation in my life on which I can build with other acts of devotion and which gives me greater stability in my life.

I have found that the prayers give me a space out of which to act. My old friends in seminary were right. “Doing comes from Being.” In the words of Eliot’s “Four Quartets” (with which I began), life in Christ is “A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything).”

I have been searching for God my whole life, and by God’s grace he has found me.

How Can We Sing the Lord’s Song?

Introduction

Many of the Psalms come with their own story. The story of Psalm137 is one of loss and exile, so grievous and bitter that it emerges here with expressions of rage that we find it hard to deal with. We note briefly the story behind the psalm, with the basic movements within the psalmist’s own mind. We move then to our own experiences of exile and loss and ask, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in the midst of exile and loss?” The Psalmist asks this as a rhetorical question assuming that we cannot. The truth is that we sing the Lord’s song, even in great distress. How?

The Background

The context is clear: Exiled Jews sat down beside the rivers in Babylon, and they wept as they remembered their home in Jerusalem. Somewhere around 930 BC the kingdom of Israel (united under David and Solomon) divided in two. The northern kingdom of Israel lasted for about 200 years until the Assyrians carried their leaders off into captivity. About 130 years later the southern kingdom of Judah fell, in stages over about 15 years. The Babylonian Empire carried off their political and religious leaders to Babylon. This Psalm was written, then, soon after these deportations (about 580 years BC). An old rabbinical tradition states that Jeremiah wrote the psalm, and it certainly reminds one of Jeremiah’s laments, although he was not taken to Babylon, but to Egypt, where he died.

The Psalmist’s Lament

We see two basic ideas in the Psalm:

1A) Their captors are tormenting the Jews by mocking them with invitations to sing “the songs of Zion”. The Psalmist responds that he cannot sing the Lord’s song in a strange land. He knows the songs. Indeed he calls on God to strike him down with something that would look to us like a stroke if he would dare to forget them. But he cannot sing the songs. 

1B) But the Psalmist also says he cannot forget the songs. if he forgets Jerusalem he may as well die. This is our experience. We hurt too much to sing the Lord's songs, but we cannot do anything other than sing. A real case of the Babylonian Blues.

2A) From depression (anger turned inwards) at his own distress the Psalmist turns his anger outwards: first against the Edomites who had taken part in the sack of Jerusalem, and then against Babylon itself. The final verses are so bitter that I have never heard them read out loud in church—even this morning we left them out.

2B) Remember that this psalm tells a story of loss and exile, of the pain and hurt that people experience in this world. It does not tell us what we should do, but what exile feels like. Assume for a moment that Jeremiah felt what this Psalm expresses, which I think is highly likely. Then hear what Jeremiah wrote to the exiles who were grieving and in such pain. Jeremiah 29 gives the text of a letter that he wrote from his place in Israel to the exiles in Babylon:

⁴ This is what the Lord Almighty, the God of Israel, says to all those I carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: ⁵ “Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. ⁶ Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. ⁷ Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.”

Seek the peace of the city that destroyed you! This is radically different from Psalm 137, but we make a mistake if we try to erase the anger and bitterness of the psalm and move quickly to Jeremiah 29. Consider our own stories, as we seek to move beyond pain and bitterness to the integration of Jeremiah 29.

Our Own Stories

I grew up in Zambia and Zimbabwe. When I was 15 my parents moved to Pennsylvania, and I became an immigrant—an exile in a strange land. Since then I have lived in Pennsylvania and Indiana (and briefly in Kentucky), as well as back in Zambia and Zimbabwe. Then God planted me in Steinbach, and I now sing the Lord’s songs in a new strange land called Canada.

Growing up, I did not realize that such moving is not the only way to live. I just assumed that you move, and that you live with recurring loss. Last May we held a symposium at Providence on the experiences of missionary families. A common theme from different families was that of loss. Even among those whose commitment to follow Jesus was clear and strong, there was hurt and pain associated with moving back and forth. There are many rewards that missionaries (who we might call “gospel immigrants”) experience; and there are also many losses. We continue to sing the Lord’s songs, but sometimes we sing a bit off-key.

In our own experience a particularly painful time came during our last full year in Zimbabwe. We were scheduled to return to the USA in December 1990, but were considering staying longer to take advantage of my work permit. Then Lois’ parents called us in September. They told us that Dad had cancer, and that he would likely live for another seven months. We wrapped up our affairs and returned on schedule just before Christmas. Dad died at the end of March. I remember going to church in the months following and trying to sing. It is hard to sing the Lord’s songs when you are grieving, in pain, consumed with loss. We healed over time, and God’s goodness and love have become abundantly clear, but I can understand the psalmist.

I had a further struggle when we visited Zimbabwe for seven months in 1992. This was my home, and I knew that we would not live there for any length of time again. I remember one of the Lord’s songs that helped me come to terms with loss. August 1992—General Conference at Wanezi—I sat in a special service at the end of conference. The evangelist, a South African named Shadrack Maloka, started singing in the middle of his message: “Mayenziwe intando yakho”. Words from the Lord’s prayer: Your will be done. As we sang I cried, and found healing for the loss that is part of this life.

We could tell many stories from this congregation, of people who emigrated from Russia under great pressure. Some lost all that they had. One couple in our church has told the story of how they were separated in Europe while they made their way to Canada. Somehow they were re-united in Canada. One of my friends at Providence sings in the Faith and Life women’s choir. She herself is Japanese Canadian, but she has learned to sing German Mennonite hymns. She tells me that there are always damp eyes in the audience as they sing these songs: Singing the songs of Zion in a strange land. But we Mennonites don’t express the anger and hurt that went with the loss of home and country in emigrating to Canada. Is it because there was none? Or because we repressed it?

A friend of mine tells the story of his own move from China to Canada. He was born in China, son of missionary parents, and lived there until his family was forced to leave during the Communist Revolution in 1950, a 15-year old boy. He tells how they crossed into Hong Kong and then sat down on their suitcases to wait for instructions. They had learned under the Communists never to show any feeling and to do only what they were told to do. An official asked what they were waiting for. “For someone to tell us what to do.” “You’re in the Free Territory of Hong Kong now. You can do whatever you want.”

He did not realize how deeply that expulsion had scarred him until many years later, when he suffered the symptoms of PTSD. Then, as a pastor in Atlantic Canada, he attended Acadia University studying for a doctoral degree. One day he was assigned to teach a class on liberation theology. He prepared the lesson, and as he drove to Acadia he thought of a Scripture to begin with. He decided on Psalm 137. He began the reading without expecting to feel anything in particular, but then, as he read, the feelings from their expulsion surfaced. He felt fully the anger and rage and bitterness that he had repressed all those years ago as a 15-year old. He read the last verses, which we leave out, with real venom, and then he closed his Bible and slammed it down on the table in front of him. It bounced across the table, hit the blackboard, and fell to the floor.

The class sat there stunned. For a minute or two there was complete silence. As the adrenalin receded and he regained control of his emotions, he said, “Today we will critique Liberation Theology, but always remember that Liberation Theologians have lived this Psalm.” After the class was over, the students wanted to know what had happened, and they spent another hour or more talking over the way that his own experience of exile had informed his reading. His experience helps us to move forward.

Exiles on Earth

The fact is that we are all exiles on this earth who have experienced pain and loss. Whether we describe the experience of refugees and immigrants, including many in our own congregation, or whether we think of the journey of life more generally, we are all in exile on this earth. In Philippians 3:19 Paul describes the way that “earthly people” live: “Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame. Their mind is set on earthly things.” In contrast, he says of us, “But our citizenship is in heaven.” Again in Ephesians 2:19-22 Paul describes the way that Jews and Gentiles alike become God’s people: “Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household,  built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone.  In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord.  And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.”

We belong to Heaven as we travel through this world. So in Zimbabwe we sing, “Si nga abahambayo thina kolumhlaba. Siyekhaya ezulwini.” “We are pilgrims in this world travelling to Heaven.” This means both that we struggle to sing the Lord’s song in a strange land of grief and loss, and that we have the Lord’s song planted in us precisely so that we will sing it in this world of grief and loss.

Some Simple Steps

So how can we sing the songs of Zion as exiles in this world? Now is not the time to analyse in depth the way that we respond to grief and loss to discover God’s presence and joy. Instead I suggest a few simple steps. No guarantees; just my conviction that these steps are necessary in the journey.

1) Admit the pain and grief you experience. One of my students at Providence is a counsellor at a Pentecostal college. She tells me that Pentecostals have this idea that we have to move straight from pain and loss to victory, and as a result they often fail to grieve fully. Maybe Mennonites are closet Pentecostals!

Take a lesson from the Psalmist. No matter how bad your life is, no matter how difficult and deep your pain is, you can cry your anguish out to God. When Al read the psalm and slammed his Bible down on the table, the open expression of grief and pain was an important step in his healing. Before we can do anything else, we own our pain, we admit our grief, and we cry our anguish out before our Creator. God honours us when we cry out to him.

Don’t rush it. Sometimes you have to let the hurt alone before you can feel it fully. The impulse to avoid the grief in our lives is sometimes the best first step. But I can tell you that you won’t heal until you do bring the inner wound into the open.

3) Don’t confuse the grief itself with what God wants in our lives. Jeremiah makes it clear that God wants us to prosper, and that we can pray for the peace and prosperity of the world in which we live in exile. As the world around us discovers God’s peace and wholeness, God’s Shalom, we also find peace. God does not want us to remain stuck in pain and hurt. God wants us to heal. Notice that Jeremiah describes the exile as God’s doing. Healing is also God’s doing.

4) God wants to give us joy. The world doesn’t really want joy; it wants to be happy. God doesn’t really care if we’re happy or not—happiness is too shallow to describe what God wants to give us. You have heard Randy give the benediction often: “May God give you everlasting joy, peace, hope.” But I have never heard him pray, “May God make you happy”; not because God wants us to be unhappy, but because God wants us to have his life deep within us, to live forever as citizens of Heaven, with God’s joy and peace and everlasting love. Being happy is fun, but it is only a by-product of something deeper and greater: God’s peace and joy.

Somehow, in ways that I don’t understand, the grief and hurt of exile in this world is the way that God gives us the deepest most powerful joys possible. Listen to the way that Paul describes it in Philippians 4:11-13: “I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.  I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

Paul applies this attitude here to a gift the Philippians had collected for him, but it represents his attitude towards the whole of life. We could have read the last part of Romans 8, or the beginning of 2 Corinthians 6, or 2 Corinthians 12; in each case we would have found the same basic idea. We are exiles on earth, and God uses the pain and trouble and heartache of our lives to prepare us for the eternal joy of Heaven. The psalmist may not have understood this journey fully, but crying out his hurt and anger and pain to God he took another step on that journey.

Steinbach Mennonite Church

9 August 2015

Text: Psalm 137

Appendix, From the Epistle to Diognetus, chapter 6:

Christians are indistinguishable from other men either by nationality, language or customs. They do not inhabit separate cities of their own, or speak a strange dialect, or follow some outlandish way of life. Their teaching is not based upon reveries inspired by the curiosity of men. Unlike some other people, they champion no purely human doctrine. With regard to dress, food and manner of life in general, they follow the customs of whatever city they happen to be living in, whether it is Greek or foreign. 

And yet there is something extraordinary about their lives. They live in their own countries as though they were only passing through. They play their full role as citizens, but labour under all the disabilities of aliens. Any country can be their homeland, but for them their homeland, wherever it may be, is a foreign country. Like others, they marry and have children, but they do not expose them. They share their meals, but not their wives.  

They live in the flesh, but they are not governed by the desires of the flesh. They pass their days upon earth, but they are citizens of heaven. Obedient to the laws, they yet live on a level that transcends the law. Christians love all men, but all men persecute them. Condemned because they are not understood, they are put to death, but raised to life again. They live in poverty, but enrich many; they are totally destitute, but possess an abundance of everything. They suffer dishonor, but that is their glory. They are defamed, but vindicated. A blessing is their answer to abuse, deference their response to insult. For the good they do they receive the punishment of malefactors, but even then they, rejoice, as though receiving the gift of life. They are attacked by the Jews as aliens, they are persecuted by the Greeks, yet no one can explain the reason for this hatred. 

To speak in general terms, we may say that the Christian is to the world what the soul is to the body. As the soul is present in every part of the body, while remaining distinct from it, so Christians are found in all the cities of the world, but cannot be identified with the world. As the visible body contains the invisible soul, so Christians are seen living in the world, but their religious life remains unseen. The body hates the soul and wars against it, not because of any injury the soul has done it, but because of the restriction the soul places on its pleasures. Similarly, the world hates the Christians, not because they have done it any wrong, but because they are opposed to its enjoyments. 

Christians love those who hate them just as the soul loves the body and all its members despite the body’s hatred. It is by the soul, enclosed within the body, that the body is held together, and similarly, it is by the Christians, detained in the world as in a prison, that the world is held together. The soul, though immortal, has a mortal dwelling place; and Christians also live for a time amidst perishable things, while awaiting the freedom from change and decay that will be theirs in heaven. As the soul benefits from the deprivation of food and drink, so Christians flourish under persecution. Such is the Christian’s lofty and divinely appointed function, from which he is not permitted to excuse himself.

Summer of Birds

We have had birds this year. First there were the grackles, unruly invaders of our kitchen via the fan vent. That was an episode I would rather forget. Then there were the wrens. They made a nest outside our kitchen window, and we were able to watch them come and go and feed their young. There were perhaps one or two chicks in the nest, and I was amazed at the steady stream of food that the parents had to go out and get. If our boys had eaten like that, we might have pushed them out of the nest!

Well today came the third episode of the year. (Does that mean we’re done now, since such things come in threes?)

I went in to the office this morning, preparing for the new school year. When I got home a note on the floor greeted me: There is a bird in the house.

Oh good! There’s a bird somewhere in our house, and I know that means nothing else happens until we persuade it to leave.

Now, if I were Saint Francis I would go to the bird and talk to it, take it gently from the plant in the basement where it was hiding and soothe its trembling fears. Together we would walk outside and I would release it into the freedom for which it longed.

I am not Saint Francis.

Lois does much of the killing of insects and such things. Spiders, ants—whatever needs dispatching she takes care of. She has even had to get rid of baby mice. But birds are another kettle of fish (so to speak). Sometimes we do not work well together; our minds run in different channels, and cooperation on projects can be difficult. (Such as our back fence, which we built with wood and many words—but that’s another story.)

But this time we would have to work together to help this bird leave our basement. How did it get in? We think that the door to the garage was open a bit too long, and it flew in and down and found itself trapped. In any case, we had to get it out.

We established that we had to make sure it would not fly to the basement windows, which allowed no escape. So we built a wall of sheets between the bird and the rest of the basement. Then Lois went upstairs and held another sheet beside the stairs to guide it towards the front door, while I tried to make it fly. Failure.

Then we turned off the lights so that it would stop hiding on the dry bar in a plant under a light. I probed with a yardstick to persuade the bird to leave. Finally it left its perch and fly to the bottom of the stairs. And stopped there, sitting on the floor. I held a big black barrier between it and its erstwhile abode and tried to get it to fly upwards. Instead it flew towards me, seeking the safety of its corner. I jumped up and down with my barrier, making myself as big as I could. Next thing the bird flew up and out of the house. I heard a cry from Lois, “Praise the Lord!” And then the sound of a door slamming shut.

Now Lois is cleaning up the evidence of the bird’s fear, left where it hid behind the plant, while I type this brief story.

We both like animals. And birds. But we are not Saint Francis.

Mennonite World Conference

I went to a day and a bit of Pennsylvania 2015—the 16thAssembly of the global Anabaptist family. I enjoyed myself of course. I doubt that my reflections are unusual are more insightful than anyone else’s, but here is a bit of what I experienced.

I was reminded again (not for the first time, as Bilbo thought often on his travels) that I tend to complain first and enjoy later. This time I complained about the cost of attending the gathering. I think I have a reasonable complaint. North Americans and Europeans paid more than others who attended, because we have more. Trouble is: Some Mennonites in NA have more than others, and putting the cost up discriminates in favour of wealthier Mennos and against others. I would prefer a means test to a geography test.

But this is such a minor problem; Mennos from other countries faced obstacles just getting there. Our government (USA and Canada act alike on this one) keeps out so many people from Africa as to make such gatherings unnecessarily difficult. Many efforts were made to open the doors, but even so a choir from Kenya scheduled to sing at PA 2015 had to perform with only five of their usual 40 members. And I complain about cost? Petty.

I was reminded also (again, not for the first time) that Global Anabaptism is much more than the North American Church. Speakers throughout the event came from all over the Anabaptist world. Their concerns were not the same as ours, and the answers were not the same as ours. Although I may think that we sometimes have the right answer, and they are wrong, I believe we need to listen carefully to our Mennonite sisters and brothers from Congo and Zimbabwe, from India and Indonesia, and from Paraguay and Argentina.

Talking with a few of my international friends, I noted that they were aware of their status as guests and slow to criticize or judge us. We are too quick to judge when we go abroad and can learn from them even in learning how to be guests overseas. But when they did describe what they see in us, I decided that what I thought were our main issues were not the ones they picked on. Consumerism—our attachments to money and things, and our tendency to measure everything by money—is a bigger problem.

I observed a great deal of life and energy in the global Anabaptist movement. We worry sometimes that the church is ready to die. Not if PA 2015 is anything to go by. Perhaps the NA church is getting older and needs renewing, but the global church is a showcase of God’s goodness and life. Being part of PA 2015 was a wonderful opportunity to participate in that energy and life.

I wonder how others experienced the week. I may have told more about myself than about the gathering, even in what I noticed, but this description is a bit of what I experienced. The next assembly is six years from now in Indonesia. I doubt that I’ll be there, but I’m looking forward to it anyway.

P.S.: I would have added pictures, but the MWC website has better pictures than I do.

P.P.S: Regrets? I wish I could have been part of the Anabaptist World Cup, which had participants aged from 15 to 64. Cool!

The Heart of My Faith

Introduction

Last year I spoke about how to read the Bible. I observed the value of reading the Bible as a story rather than as a collection of facts-truths disconnected from lived experience. The Bible is the story of how God redeems and reconciles rebellious people and restores all of creation. But we may still wonder: Granted that the Bible is the story about God and humanity, why do we need to read it? What does it matter? One way to answer the question is to note the reality of evil in our world, which comes from our rebellion against God. The Bible tells us how to deal with the evil all around us, beginning with the evil in ourselves. I want to take a similar track that assumes this point, looking at the reasons that Luke and John give for writing their gospel accounts of Jesus.

Luke 1

Luke begins his gospel with these words:

1 Many have undertaken to draw up an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us, ² just as they were handed down to us by those who from the first were eyewitnesses and servants of the word. ³ With this in mind, since I myself have carefully investigated everything from the beginning, I too decided to write an orderly account for you, most excellent Theophilus, ⁴ so that you may know the certainty of the things you have been taught.

Luke was a physician and keen observer of life (cf Paul’s description in Colossians 4:14 and Luke’s precision in this passage). We assume Luke to be the author because:

a) In Acts 1 he identifies himself as the author of the gospel (so Luke and Acts are volumes 1 and 2);

b) In Acts he appears as a companion of Paul, who sometimes writes in the third person and sometimes in the first person plural—and where Luke leaves the party is where the shift occurs; and

c) Credible early church tradition makes the identification.

Mark and Luke were two of Paul’s closest companions. Mark was a converted Judaizer; Luke was probably a Greek-speaking Jew (I take “not one of the party of the circumcision” in Colossians 4: 10, 11 to mean “not a Judaizer, which Mark probably had been before Acts 15).

He wrote to Theophilus. The name means “lover of God”. He may have been an actual person, or this may be a pseudonym describing his character, or the name may refer to a group of people who wanted to know more about God as revealed in Christ. In each case, the purpose for writing remains the same.

Luke sifted through the available stories about Jesus to give a clear and accurate account. One of the clues about his desire for accuracy is the kind of language he used—a formal Greek normally used by the best Greek historians, so that his readers would know that he was capable of the kind of research he claimed to do. There were many stories floating about the early Christian world, and many of them are clearly fabulous—in the sense of fables without grounding in reality. Luke grounded his gospel account in simple sober factual reality.

Some people treat the Bible as a simple collection of facts. Facts are important, and here we see that Luke is aiming for factual accuracy. He uses these facts to tell the truth in a story, which is greater and more important than the facts by themselves. For this reason, Luke places a premium on eyewitness testimony. He wants to make sure that the people who met Jesus and walked with Jesus get to tell their story. He is not interested in second hand (or circumstantial) evidence. He wants us to know the truth.

Luke wants us to know the truth—and to be certain of the truth; but it is a specific truth he wants us to know: “an account of the things that have been fulfilled among us”. “The things that have been fulfilled among us” are the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Luke has only one overriding concern—to introduce his readers to Jesus. This is the purpose of all Scripture, to introduce us to Jesus the Son of God. From Genesis to Revelation Scripture seeks to bring us to Jesus, because in Jesus we meet God directly. The study of theology acknowledges the way that we meet God in every area of life—what we call “general revelation”. But Jesus is the direct revelation of God, come to earth and walking among us as the carpenter from Nazareth.

John 20 and 21

Turn to the end of John’s gospel. John’s gospel is unusual in that it appears to have two conclusions. At the end of chapter 20 he gives his reason for writing the gospel:

³⁰ Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; ³¹ but these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in his name.

At the end of chapter 21 he repeats:

²⁵ But there are also many other things which Jesus did; were every one of them to be written, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.

John 20:30 and 21:25 echo the idea in Luke 1 that there were many stories around about Jesus’ ministry, but John selected the most important ones that were in his memory for his gospel. Sometimes we call Matthew, Mark, and Luke the synoptic gospels, because they cover the same basic material, with a few exceptions. They have their own viewsbut they are clearly connected.

John tells the same story, but he has his own quite different perspective and memories. He has events in a different order, not because he didn’t know when they happened, but because he is making the points that he thinks we need to know. In 20:31 he tells us why the story is important: “these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in his name.”

John wants us to meet Jesus. John wants us to know Jesus, who is the way to God, the truth about God, and gives us the life of God (John 14: 6). In the first chapter of John he tells us that Jesus is the Word (who was one with God from the beginning) made flesh. He wants us to know the living Word of God. Luke and John both write for the same reason: To introduce their readers to Jesus, in whom is life. We read the Bible to meet Jesus. We read the Bible to learn to know Jesus better. Without a relationship with Jesus we cannot read the Bible properly.

What Does “Christian” mean?

These thoughts lead me to wonder what people around us think, when they think about being Christian. What does the name “Christian” mean? I see a variety of ideas around us. 

Culture Wars: Some see “being Christian” as fighting for a Christian society. It is true enough that Christian faith is under attack in North America and Europe, but our weapons are the weapons of peace and reconciliation—building relationships, not fighting back. So an idea of a culture war cannot be at the centre of Christian faith. 

Social Justice: Some see “being Christian” as fighting for social justice. They want a just church and a just society. I applaud the desire and the struggle. Jesus made it clear in the parable of the sheep and the goats (Matthew 25) that church members are not just on the side of the marginalized, but are themselves the marginalized of the world. But I do not place any group of people at the centre of what it means to be Christian. 

Right Doctrine: Some see “being Christian” as the struggle for right and pure doctrine—whether that doctrine concerns the Bible (such concerns as inerrancy) or the sovereignty of God (in a Calvinist understanding of grace and free will) or a commitment to justice in the world (as in Liberation Theology). But we cannot build our Christian life on correct doctrine alone. Words do not give life; life comes only through the Word made flesh.

I could go on with other examples. In each of these I see people who are trying to live the way that God wants them to live in this world, but I do not see the centre of our faith in these efforts. Rather I look back to what Luke and John hold up for us: Meeting the Word made flesh; relating to the human and divine Jesus of Nazareth.

Knowing Jesus

My answer to the question “what is a Christian” is to come back to meeting Jesus, knowing Jesus, walking with and relating to and through Jesus. Paul expressed the centre of our faith in these words from Colossians 1:

¹⁵ The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. ¹⁶ For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. ¹⁷ He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.

Life makes sense only in Jesus the Son of God. You may remember William Butler Yeats’ words (written about 100 years ago) from his poem “The Second Coming”: “Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold.” Jesus is the centre of our faith, and without him life falls apart. Refocussing our relationship with Jesus is the necessary piece that holds our lives together. All things hold together in Christ. All things cohere or make sense. Not that we will understand everything that happens to us—not this side of the grave, but that Jesus is the organizing principle of reality, and that life in Christ holds together when threatened by the chaos of our world.

Consider the way that Christians around the world read the Bible. Mennonites embrace the Sermon on the Mount with its commitment to the way of peace. Other European-background churches find Paul’s emphasis on God’s grace to be life-giving. We may think that these are the most natural way to read the Bible, but Mark Noll points out other possibilities (The New Shape of World Christianity, 36). Many African Christians start with Leviticus, since its concern with rituals and regulations for holy objects speaks directly to their own culture. Many Asian Christians like the book of Proverbs best, because it uses the category of wisdom in a way that resonates with their culture. Indigenous churches in tribal societies turn to the Old Testament patriarchs, whose family structure so closely resembles their own (polygamy and all). Some parts of the world experience power encounters, and they turn eagerly to the miracles of the Gospels and the book of Acts.

With all of this diversity in our life experiences and in our cultural backgrounds, what holds us together? What makes us truly “Christian”? I have wrestled with this question many times. The answer, of course, is our life in Christ. We are Christians because we know Christ. We are Christians because we follow Jesus. This is true wherever you come from or whatever your life is like. Mark Noll (From Every Tribe and Nation, 165f) answers the question this way:

From another angle, the more confusion that trying to look at the whole world creates, the greater the basic simplicity of what such an effort reveals. Jesus as Son of God is always at the center. The Scriptures provide an ever-present template. Transformed lives—along with an almost universal recognition of falling short of Christian ideals—show up everywhere. (I have used the present tense; Noll uses the past tense.)

African churches struggle with sorcery. Asian churches ask what to do about venerating the ancestors. North American churches ask how to relate to intersex people—or how to handle our society’s emphasis on sports. The issues are as different as one can imagine. If you make the Christian faith into a set of expectations that will fit every circumstance, you will fail. But if you take the Bible at its word and allow it to introduce you to Jesus, the Word of God who came to us as a human being, then everything falls into place.

Conclusion

What I am suggesting is harder to achieve than it sounds. We are constantly replacing Jesus at the centre with the cause de jour, which starts to calcify and falsify our faith. Reading the Bible as the story of God’s reconciling work, drawing us into renewed relationship with him, is hard work, possible only because Jesus enables us to do it. I have found this relationship finds expression in reading the Bible frequently, using hymns and Taizé songs (and music by Steve Bell) as aids to focus on God in Christ, and then entering into prayer in many different forms.

This is cyclical movement, from centring in Christ to using what I learn in daily life, and then bringing the questions that result back to Christ in prayer and Bible reading, and then back into daily life—at rest only as long as we stay in motion in this centring circle. The goal of this circle is that you and I will know Christ, for “these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in his name.”

Preached at SMC, 28 June 2015

Texts: Luke 1; John 21

Remembering Mother (Verna Mae)

My mother died in 1991. Two years later Dad remarried, and Verna Mae came into our lives. next week they celebrate 22 years of marriage--longer than many first marriages!

 Although she could never be the mother who carried me, she has been a good companion to Dad, and mother to my sisters and me and our spouses, and grandma to our children.

I say that she entered our lives in 1993, but of course we knew who she was; she was part of our lives long before she married Dad. Lois knew her before the rest of us children. Verna Mae worked at Navajo Mission in New Mexico with Mother and Dad Heise in the 1950s, so she was part of Lois's life before any of the rest of us.

When Wilmer Heisey (the superintendent of the Navajo Mission) became the executive secretary of Brethren in Christ World Missions, he knew who he wanted to work in the office. I don't know if having Verna Mae come as his administrative assistant was a condition of taking the job, but she did move back to Pennsylvania and joined him in the missions office. her organizational ability and work ethic were basic to Wilmer's ability to handle a difficult administrative task.

In my research (working on a history of BICWM) I came across a massive compilation put together in 1978 of all the BIC personnel who had gone out in missions, from the beginning of our work until that date. Wilmer planned the compilation, but Verna Mae was a primary worker in bringing the whole great work together.

Along with the work that she did over many years in the office, she has a straightforward ability to accept people of all backgrounds and welcome them in her presence. Dad has commented on this, noting that she gives the gift of acceptance to everyone.

In recent years she faces the kinds of difficulties that many of us experience as we get older. But in all that happens she faces each moment as God's child, welcoming whatever and whoever comes to her. As her children and grandchildren we are grateful that she is part of our lives.

Remembering Mother (Heise)

I wrote about my mother last week, but of course every mother’s day Lois and I remember two mothers—each other’s as well as our own. (We also remember Verna Mae, but that will wait for another blog.) I cannot describe mother as Lois remembers her; this is my story only. 

The picture that goes with this blog shows Lois’ mother and mine talking together at our wedding. I called my mother “Mom” and Lois’s mother “Mother”—don’t know why; just know that it is so. Mom was short and feisty; Mother was taller and gracious. (Mom could be a gracious hostess; I’m not comparing, just reminiscing.) 

I have told the story elsewhere of the first encounter I remember with mother as a hostess. She cured me (without meaning to) of using sugar in my coffee. I say the first encounter I remember because my family of origin used to stay with Mother and Dad Heise when we were on furlough. I remember such a visit when I was 15; but all I actually remember was that they had a son my age, Glen. We played table tennis (Glen put a mean spin on his serve that I never did master) and chess. 

I did not notice his younger sister, although many years later I married her—nor did I notice his parents, except in the general way that a 15-year old might. Just Glen, and chess, and table tennis. 

Mother was a good hostess—wonderful food and good conversation at the Heise table. She valued having everything in its place. Food was prepared just right, from vegetables to main course to dessert, and the presentation of the food was as good as the food. When Lois and I formed our own family, I was struck with how clearly the Heise family remembered menus, and shared those menus with each other in our weekly calls home. All part of good hosting! 

Mother valued her relationship with God. She and Dad drove 30 miles every Sunday to go to church, often morning and evening. Dad was a deacon in the church, which reflected the people’s awareness of his spiritual maturity, but was also a statement about mother. In her last days she anticipated the joy of Heaven explicitly and clearly, which was a statement about the way she had lived her whole life. 

She was also an athlete when she was young. When Lois was in school, one year the mothers of the band members played a game of basketball, and she was one of the best players. In March basketball fever would grip her, and she would follow the progress of the University of Kansas through March madness. NCAA basketball was one of the few reasons she would turn on the TV in her house. 

Mother loved Dad, and her children, and her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren; she enjoyed playing Scrabble with Dad and with her family. We miss her, and we miss talking with her and visiting her. One of the joys of Heaven that we anticipate eagerly is our reunion with Mother, and with Dad, and with my mother, and with all of those who have gone before.

Remembering my Mother

Memories are personal, subjective, true, and not always quite accurate. So if my siblings and father contradict my memories of my mother, I grant their accuracy, but my memories are also true. 

I remember boxing with mother. Take one moody boy in his early teens; add a feisty mother who believed in tackling moodiness head on. Result: a boxing match. Mother would bounce around me (all 4' 11" of her) jabbing away until I broke down in laughter. It was hard to feel down with a mother like that. 

I remember her hustle and bustle. She would work incessantly at whatever needed doing. She and Dad rarely did the dishes together—he was methodical and careful; she washed and piled dishes in the dish drainer quickly. A bad combination. This sounds a lot like Lois and me. I prefer to do our dishes on my own, methodically washing and putting them in place and then drying them equally methodically. (I may leave them on the counter for Lois to put away, which I don’t think my father did.) 

I remember mother’s attitude to discouraging events. She would say to me, “Well, you can meet it [whatever had just happened] with a smile or with a frown. It won’t change, but you will.” Her theme song might have been:

Climb, climb up sunshine mountain, faces all aglow.

Climb, climb up sunshine mountain, heavenly breezes blow.

Turn, turn from sin and doubting, look up to the sky.

Climb, climb up sunshine mountain, you and I. 

She had too much energy to enjoy singing “How tedious and tasteless the hours”, an old gospel hymn with the same message as the children’s chorus. I remember that she told me that the church she grew up in sang that hymn so slowly that they made the time “tedious and tasteless”. 

I remember her love and care. She was the glue who held our family together. We are still together, all this time after her death (24 years ago today), but we miss her love and care, expressed constantly and consistently and deeply and warmly. 

I remember my mother. And love her still, and always.

Thank you, BBC (a story about trolls)

The BBC just ran a story on Internet trolls, with these words from the author near the end of the story: "Most of the chief protagonists in my book I met online first, and offline second. I always liked them more in the real world. By removing the face-to-face aspect of human interaction, the internet dehumanises people, and our imagination often turns them into inflated monsters, more terrifying because they are in the shadows. For me, at least, meeting them in person re-humanised complex, awkward, and usually annoyingly likeable people. Next time you come across a digital monster, remember there is a person behind the avatar, and he or she is unlikely to be how you imagine."

The story (by Jamie Bartlett) describes encounters with those people who spend their time on the Internet finding and verbally assaulting strangers. We call them trolls, and they pop up all the time in the comment section of news stories and opinion pieces. Bartlett set out to get to know some of them in person, and describes for us what that was like. I am most struck by his words above: "I always liked them more in the real world."

We have become adept at attacking others and are losing our ability to speak with others -- a tendency most clear in the political arena. Bartlett quotes George Orwell, writing about his experiences in the Spanish Civil War, as he was faced with an enemy who was fleeing while trying to hold up his falling trousers. "I had come here to shoot at 'Fascists'," he wrote, "but a man who is holding up his trousers isn't a 'Fascist', he is visibly a fellow-creature, similar to yourself."

We have become experts at de-humanizing each other. I want to be part of re-humanizing those with whom I disagree -- discovering that they are people like me, or (if you prefer) that I am a person, like them.

Dancing with Grackles

Lois likes to leave notes around the house to remind herself (and me) of necessary tasks. I’m learning their value, but often ignore them. I would be a better person if I paid more attention to them. 

Today I saw a note with two instructions that I couldn’t ignore: “Dance”, and “Scare grackles”. Now, I understand both notes. Take the first. Some years ago Lois persuaded me to take dancing lessons. (Is there another word, like “blackmailed”, I could use, without any colour coding?) We went, and learned, and practiced, and I found I enjoyed dancing as much as she did. 

I remember taking lessons—Lois loves the swing dances, fast and rhythmic. She was less fond of the slow waltz, whispering “Boring!” in my ear as we stepped, “One, two three.” From our three years of lessons one set of swing steps has stuck. We use that set to slow music and fast music, to swing music and to the loud booming that passes for music when young people gather. It has served us well! 

Recently she suggested we make sure to dance each evening for a few minutes to help us keep some semblance of fitness. Well that’s good. I like dancing with Lois! (I tried dancing with my sister, which worked for a while, but foundered on the sweetheart wrap.)

But grackles! Well, those silly annoying grackles are back now that spring is here, and we want to chase them early and often. They nest in tall evergreens behind our house. I wish I could bounce high enough to scare them in their nests. They make a mess in the yard. They scare other birds away and take all the bird seed. Last year they broke into the kitchen via that kitchen fan vent (a story told here). 

So “Scare grackles” is a most sensible idea. But the two reminders written one above the other? I wonder if it means that our dancing scares grackles better than anything else does. Or that the grackles would be scared if they knew we were dancing while they are nesting. Or that we are to dance around the backyard throwing stones while doing the swing. 

Or they could just be two notes on one paper.

 

End of School

Another semester draws to a close. Classes are mostly finished (a few seminary stragglers insisting on one more time together). Exams are about to start. Students stand up straighter as the burden lifts; faculty backs are bowed over with the transfer of weight. 

You can tell how much marking lecturers have to do by the urgency with which they tackle the task. If they are marking eagerly, they are near the end, or have only a bit to do in any case. If the pile of papers on their desks threatens to bend and break the wood, they find something else to do. I once saw one of my colleagues paint his office in order to avoid the pile of marking. 

A week from today we have a banquet. Faculty and staff and students gather one last time to celebrate our lives together, and to send our graduates off. The next day is graduation. Speeches (we all listen, but no one remembers what is said); singing (some of the best of the year for those whose musical style is not primarily “contemporary”);  awards and recognition (well earned); and finally the diplomas as students walk across the stage. Some of my students will kneel and be hooded, award the doctor of ministry. 

Then they leave. I have trouble learning people’s names. I have to work at it. It takes me most of the year. And then they leave and I have to start over. I am grateful for those who return the next year and give me a head start on working out who is around me this time. 

Leaving. At the end of the school year people leave. People who have become important in my life; and they leave. One gets to repeat the experience of parenting many times, repeatedly: You want your children to grow up and leave home, but you miss them when they are gone. I don’t mean that life comes to an end. The summer has its joys; but each summer brings loss as well as opportunity. 

This summer the opportunity is to work on the story of Frances Davidson. Why did a pioneer missionary resign the mission she had helped begin? Why did younger missionaries force her out? Why did she not push back? She was a stubborn and strong personality, fully capable of holding her own, and she chose not to fight the changes new and younger missionaries introduced. Instead, she went home. Why? And what did she and the mission tell the church? 

It’s a wonderful opportunity to dig into a story I have told often to my mission history classes. I’m looking forward to the process of exploration and discovery—however disconcerting it may be. (For example, I have discovered that my grandfather was the secretary of the committee who made the choices that sent Davidson home. I hadn’t told my students about that! Now I have to add a piece to the story that I would rather leave out. 

Meanwhile everyone leaves, and we say goodbye again. And again, goodbye. My mind wanders to other students I have known, to friends from past years, faculty who have left us, change that washes over me as constantly as the ocean’s tide. I used to enjoy change. Now, not so much. But soon enough the time comes that I will be the one going and my colleagues and students will move on into the next year without me. Life’s journey goes on.