by the Night Writer
1 Corinthians 13: 4 – 7, in reverse
Hate is impatient and unkind; hate envies and boasts; it is arrogant and rude. It insists on its own way; it is irritable and resentful; it rejoices at wrongdoing, and does not rejoice with the truth. Hate bears nothing, believes nothing, hopes for nothing, endures nothing.
by the Night Writer
My birthday was last week, and one of the presents I received was a collection of daily excerpts from the writings of German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer (thanks, Ben). Bonhoeffer was executed by the Nazis on April 9, 1945, only days before Hitler committed suicide and the arrival of allied troops in Berlin. This morning my book made note of this sad anniversary, and it reminded me of the post I did on this date back in 2005, which was also the week Pope John Paul II died. Bonhoeffer’s words are timeless, mine much less so, but his always stir me so much I decided to re-run that post here again today.
“This is the end – but for me, the beginning of life.” Those were not the words of Pope John Paul II, but of German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, executed 60 years ago today by the Nazis in the closing days of World War II.
I thought of these words this week as the world honored the Pope and I listened to commentators in every media try to put their political spin on what a life of faith should look like. And when I thought of their words in the context of this anniversary, I could only shake my head at the subtleties of God and offer a bitter smile. Bitter at the foolishness and presumption, but a smile nonetheless in order to share in the laugh God must have been having. Bonhoeffer is one of my heroes. Supremely talented and perceptive, he saw spiritual truth in a clear light and threw himself into writing it down and vigorously living it out in total commitment to the lives of those around him, yet he was also capable of the loneliest touch of inner doubt. He was one of the earliest and most unyielding voices in opposition to Hitler as far back as 1933 and struggled to shine a light on Hitler’s co-opting of the German church and to reconstruct Christian ethics.
Fearing for Bonhoeffer’s life, his friends arranged a position for him in America ahead of the coming war, only to have him turn around and return to Germany almost immediately, saying:
I have made a mistake in coming to America. I must live through this difficult period of our national history with the Christian people of Germany. I will have no right to participate in the reconstruction of Christian life in Germany after the war if I do not share the trials of this time with my people.
A pacifist, he ultimately saw the need to try and “throw a spoke into the wheel” of the Nazi war machine and was arrested in 1943 and accused of being part of a plot to kill Hitler. Over the next two years Bonhoeffer wrote prodigiously and powerfully, cramming each paragraph with stunning clarity and revelation almost as if he sensed his time was short (he was 39 – younger than I am now – when he died). As he watched the German church crumble around him and embrace the unbiblical tenets of Nazism, he exhorted his followers and his country that obedience and belief were bound together, saying “Only he who believes is obedient, and only he who obeys, believes.”
You can find out much more about his incredible and courageous story here on the pages hosted by the United States Memorial Holocaust Museum, but let me return to the present and the spirit of our age so much in evidence the past few weeks, and what Bonhoeffer might wryly refer to as another example of
“the vigilant religious instinct of man for the place where grace is to be obtained at the cheapest price.”
What he meant was that we all too easily fall into iniquity by trying to determine for ourselves and by our own standards what pleases God. Today there is a lot of easy talk about spirituality as we boomers age and find that our first commandment – “Love thyself” – doesn’t sustain. Christian or otherwise we seek to set our own standards for what is “good enough,” forgetting what it cost those who came before us to raise God’s standard. Journalist David Brooks calls it “building a house of obligation on a foundation of choice,” or, “orthodoxy without obedience.”
You can be thought to be spiritual merely for acknowledging there is a need for spirituality without admitting that you have any responsibility to live up to it in any way. It is a spirituality that honors teachers but not a Messiah. It is what Bonhoeffer called “cheap grace” and described as being the greatest threat to the Church. The threat, however, wasn’t from the world but rather from within the Church.
The complacency of cheap grace allowed Nazism to subvert the gospel in the German church, and the spiritual complacency of America in the 50s and 60s germinated the seeds that bear so much bitter fruit in our culture today. (Btw, you might find it an interesting study to compare the origins, thinking and actions of the original Nazis with the origins, thinking and actions of those who are the first to label others as Nazis today.) It is this “cheap grace” with which we try to cover a multitude of sins while projecting a rich aura of tolerance and enlightenment. As Bonhoeffer wrote in his classic, “The Cost of Discipleship”:
This is what we mean by cheap grace, the grace which amounts to the justification of sin without the justification of the repentant sinner who departs from sin and from whom sin departs. Cheap grace is not the kind of forgiveness of sin which frees us from the toils of sin. Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves.
Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without Church discipline, Communion without confession, absolution without contrition. Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the Cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.
Costly grace is the treasure hidden in the field; for the sake of it a man will gladly go and sell all that he has. It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble, it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows Him.
Costly grace is the gospel which must be sought again and again, the gift which must be asked for, the door at which a man must knock.
Such grace is costly because it calls us to follow, and it is grace because it calls us to follow Jesus Christ. It is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all, it is costly because it cost God the life of His son: ‘ye were bought at a price,’ and what has cost God much cannot be cheap for us. Above all, it is grace because God did not reckon His Son too dear a price to pay for our life, but delivered Him up for us. Costly grace is the Incarnation of God.
In what I have read of the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and – though I am not a Catholic – what I have seen in the life of Pope John Paul II, I sense they both understood that their own lives were not too dear a price to pay for the sake of future generations. As Bonhoeffer wrote in one of his letters from prison:
“The ultimate question for a responsible man to ask is not how he is to extricate himself heroically from the affair, but how the coming generation shall continue to live.”
Notes: For anyone interested in gaining a deeper sense of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s life and vision I highly recommend “The Cost of Discipleship” and “Letters and Papers from Prison” as a start (don’t expect to rush right through these, however). “Ethics” and “Life Together” go further into what a thriving life in the spirit and in fellowship with others is about for those who want more. There are also two excellent DVDs available. Especially moving is “Hanged on a Twisted Cross,” surprisingly and effectively narrated by Ed Asner and Mike Farrell, and the very polished “Bonhoeffer” from Martin Doblmeier.
One of the things that Bonhoeffer wrote while he was in prison was the heart-rending microcasm of despair and hope in the poem “Who Am I?” It’s one that I’ve had posted on the wall of my office at work for years.
Who Am I?
Who am I? They often tell me
I would step from my cell’s confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a squire from his country-house.Who am I? They often tell me
I would walk to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly
as though it were mine to command.Who am I? They also tell me
I would bear the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptible, woe-begone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!
by the Night Writer
A short time ago I wrote a brief post about Romans 12:2, comparing our lives to a lump of clay either conformed by the world or transformed by God; either squeezed or pressed into a mold or filled and expanded as if by a hand reaching inside us as we spin to bow us into a bowl or vase or some useful vessel.
One thing I didn’t note at the time is that in both cases, the lump of clay has very little say in what it gets turned into. Conformity is a matter of channeling our thinking, while transformation is a matter of renewing our mind (or having it renewed) so that those channels are overflowed. We might go along with either activity but once we submit to either we don’t know just how it will turn out.
Not that we don’t try, especially when it comes to the transforming/expanding touch of God the Father. Having spent our lives conformed, we almost can’t help ourselves from repeating the process as we are being transformed. At first we are in awe of what God has done and is doing, especially when we are aware of the quality of the material that He’s working with. All too soon, however, it seems we can’t resist trying to shape God into something that suits our purpose instead of the other way around.
A little bit of revelation, or a transcendant, even miraculous, experience can seem like our destination rather than just a signpost on our way. When God wants to continue to work in our life we’ll still instinctively hunker down, even with (or because) of our new understanding, and decide that “God obviously can do this, but there’s no way He’d do that.” It’s as if he just put up a frame and a roof on our new house, but we don’t think he’s qualified to do the plumbing as well; especially if we’ve always handled the plumbing ourselves.
Conforming is easier because we have a sense of when we look like the other items on the shelf; transforming is harder because we’re continually changing as the Master Potter spins, shapes and elongates, perhaps even adds a handle. Yet in effect we’ll say, “No, please, I’ll just stay a salad bowl. I never thought I could even be a salad bowl, but please don’t turn me into an urn.” Ceasing to conform and beginning to transform usually means throwing out some old thought or doctrine we had in favor of a new revelation; but it’s as if we think that there was only one or two thoughts or doctrines that needed to change.
It’s amazing how quickly we become expert theologians, even as the potter says, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Lumpy.”
There is a lot of commentary back and forth following Tuesday’s post about the German family seeking political asylum in the U.S. so that they can have the freedom to home-educate their children. This has had me thinking of the role of parents, and of fathers, and reminded me of something that happened at our March Inside Outfitters meeting.
This is the monthly men’s breakfast and teaching that has been drawing a large group of men from Minnesota Teen Challenge, a residential drug rehabilitation program. Last month we were at my partner Earl’s church for the meeting and Earl shared a message aimed at the men who had grown up without a positive male role model in their lives. He described the hurt and frustration of knowing you were missing something but not being sure what it was, and of the resulting anger and defensiveness that caused so many men to reject God the Father and to understand what it meant to be instructed and guided.
Earl is one who knows first-hand what that is like. He grew up with a violent, abusive father who was still highly respected as a deacon in their church. Earl’s heart hardened with each outrage as he and his brother, sisters and mother absorbed each outburst. He grew violent himself and turned violently to crime and to drug and sexual abuse. He eventually found himself in Minnesota’s maximum security prison, where the gentle spirit of a visiting pastor finally showed him who is real father is and set him on the path to becoming a pastor himself. As he finished his message, he told the men that God has plans for each of them and they need to be open to receive instruction and blessing and set aside the anger and hurt that was getting in the way. Then he did something kind of unusual. He invited my pastor and I to come up front with him, then he invited the men (some in their 30s and 40s) who hadn’t ever had a word of support or acceptance from their own fathers to view the three of us as stand-ins, and to approach and receive that word from us.
About 40 men came forward, some almost staggering, and divided into three lines. As each man facing me approached I wrapped my arms around his shoulders or pulled his head down towards mine and said, “I’m proud of you. You’re doing the right thing.” Some started to shake so hard that it was difficult to hold them up. Many wept openly. I got pretty misty myself. As we finished I went over to Earl and put my arm across his shoulders and addressed the group.
“I didn’t have a father like Earl’s father,” I said. “He had his outbursts and his moments, but I always knew he loved me and supported me and I know the sacrifices he made for me.” I added, “I’ve thought from time to time how our lives might have been different if Earl had had my father and I had had his as we grew up. Where would I be today, and where would Earl be, if that had been the case?”
I paused to let that settle a bit. It was dead quiet. “Where would we be today?”
My pastor spoke: “You’d both be right where you are now, doing what you’re doing.”
“Exactly,” I said, “because God the Father’s plan is greater than anything we, or you, might have missed or might have done. You have the same opportunity — and He’s proud of you.”
by the Night Writer
Singing this song always makes me think of Romans 12:2: And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.
If you take a lump of clay into your hands your tendency is to squeeze it and roll it, perhaps making a little face out of it as you kind of doodle with your fingers. If you picture our lives as a lump of clay introduced into the world we can quickly see how all the outside forces in our lives try to shape and conform us to some image, squeezing and pressing us with things as diverse as fashion or politics or family expectations, or TV commercials, or our schooling. Everything, it seems, seeks to conform us to some earthly standard of what is acceptable, whether it’s your friends, your job, your gang, your political party — even your church. How the pressure is applied determines the shape our conformation takes on.
But there’s another way to shape clay. A potter can place a lump on a wheel and get the wheel spinning and in doing so begins to bring smoothness and balance to our lump and then, rather than conform, something transforming happens as the potter reaches into the spinning clay and cups his fingers outward, causing the little ball of clay to suddenly bloom outward and expand, displacing clay with air. Depending on the potter’s vision, the transformed lump could become a bowl, a pot, a vase or an urn.
Similarly, when our thinking is conformed to the world we are squeezed into something smaller and denser, our minds grooved and compressed by repetition. When we are transformed by allowing our minds to be renewed — to begin to grasp what has previously been beyond our imagination — however, we get bigger and can hold things; rather than being something to look at we become something useful.
The song above describes God as the Potter, and in my analogy you can see God reaching into us, increasing our capacity, making us fit for bigger, better things. Of course, we still have to be fired in the kiln, the trial bringing out our colors while making our final shape stronger (seeking to pull out of the fire too soon, however, and you’re left with a fragile, untrustworthy object).
You know those times when you see something so good, so right, happen —or read about it, or hear about it — and that warm-feeling comes over you? It could be more than a feeling.
There’s a fascinating piece by Brian “St Paul” Ward of Fraters Libertas as he refers to a couple of other articles that have picked up on the fact that people, well, “pick up” on certain things that are good and true.
Ebert cites a Slate article from December, which cites a book called “Born to Be Good” by psychologist Dacher Keltner, who is studying this emotion, called “elevation.” From the Slate article:
Keltner writes that he believes when we experience transcendence, it stimulates our vagus nerve, causing “a feeling of spreading, liquid warmth in the chest and a lump in the throat.”
Elevation has always existed but has just moved out of the realm of philosophy and religion and been recognized as a distinct emotional state and a subject for psychological study. Psychology has long focused on what goes wrong, but in the past decade there has been an explosion of interest in “positive psychology” — what makes us feel good and why. University of Virginia moral psychologist Jonathan Haidt, who coined the term elevation, writes, “Powerful moments of elevation sometimes seem to push a mental ‘reset button,’ wiping out feelings of cynicism and replacing them with feelings of hope, love, and optimism, and a sense of moral inspiration.”
We come to elevation, Haidt writes, through observing others — their strength of character, virtue, or “moral beauty.” Elevation evokes in us “a desire to become a better person, or to lead a better life.”
Of course, Ebert, Keltner and Haight attribute this to something cultural or that has evolved in mankind. As I read that section, however, I immediately recognized it as something very familiar; something that Brain and I both recognized as spiritual:
That strikes me as accurate, except for the focus on its sole origin as the actions of others. On occasion, I have experienced elevation with regard to an individuals’ actions, typically a selfless act of kindness or sacrifice. But more often, it’s been an emotion evoked by a broader idea or concept. And this can come not only words, but also an images or music. Movies, books, recordings, as well have people have caused it for me. As such, I never centered on any person involved. Rather, I’ve come to interpret it as a instance of revealing an essential truth. The truth of how we’re supposed to live our lives. In the video above, for example, “let’s not kill our children,” said in a beautiful and simple manner.
Getting close to truth is another way of saying getting close to God. So, this feeling of elevation has a religious meaning for me. I assumed this interpretation would be universal, irrefutable. Yet, the Ebert and Slate articles never even mention the possibility. Instead, they cite as examples of those bringing elevation the pop culture trinity of Barack Obama, Michael Jordan, and Oprah Winfrey.
Yes, I’ve felt and enjoyed “elevation” in watching certain movies or reading certain books or hearing certain speakers, but I’ve also felt it most profoundly when infused by a Trinity that’s anything but pop. How ironic, it appears to me, that the learned experts can walk right up to the edge of revelation and stop themselves just short, as if it were a cliff they dare not let themselves go over.
Amazon’s editorial synopsis of Keltner’s book includes the following description (emphasis mine): “A new examination of the surprising origins of human goodness. In Born to Be Good, Dacher Keltner demonstrates that humans are not hardwired to lead lives that are ‘nasty, brutish, and short’— we are in fact born to be good. He investigates an old mystery of human evolution: why have we evolved positive emotions like gratitude, amusement, awe, and compassion that promote ethical action and are the fabric of cooperative societies?”
Evolved? Could, perhaps, those emotions have been implanted in us by God? Could they even be the essence of what “being created in the likeness and image of” means? That is, not so much a physical likeness but a spiritual harmonic that resonates in the presence of goodness? I have been suddenly “elevated” while singing praises to God, or in the midst of praying for someone, or when a revelation crystallizes suddenly in my half-alert mind. It doesn’t happen every time I do these things; in fact it usually happens when I’m not expecting it to. In the middle of a song that we’ve sung dozens of times, for example, or in half-way through praying for someone when — whoosh elevation! (Actually, in our circles, we call it “anointing”) It seems to wait for that split-second when I stop thinking about myself to manifest itself and I know that I’ve made a different kind of connection, or been a conduit for one.
It’s not a self-congratulatory wave of emotion from taking pride in my doing something “good”, either; in fact, that kind of thought quenches the feeling immediately. It’s another demonstration of what St. Paul (the apostle, not Brian) wrote when he urged us not to be “conformed” to the world and all of its selfishness, but to be “transformed” by the “renewing of our minds” when we ever-so-briefly touch something larger than ourselves.
by the Night Writer
We’re not in Kansas any more. Actually, I’ve never lived in Kansas but I thought about Kansas today during praise & worship at church. Well, what I was thinking about was “the rock” of my foundation and how important it is to build my house on the rock instead of shifting sand. So how does Kansas enter into this? Bear with me a moment.
In my last post I referenced Jesus’ parable of the man who builds his house on the solid rock vs. the man who builds on shifting sand and how these homes fare when the rains, floods and winds come along. As an analogy I described the rain as being the economy (dampening everything), the floods as what washes away our job or business and the winds as the stresses that come along in the storm that and batter us (perhaps in our relationships, or health), adding to the destruction. Jesus suggested we “build” our homes — or lives — on something that can’t be shaken and I’ve tried to renew my thinking over the years in order to do that. And that’s when I thought of Kansas.
You see, in “The Wizard of Oz”, when the twister appears on the Kansas horizon, Auntie Em and the others don’t have a basement in the farmhouse to run to. Instead they have a detached root or storm cellar for emergencies. When that picture appeared in my mind it made me realize that there are probably areas in my life where I’ve built near my foundation but not actually upon it; things that look solid and even Biblical and may even be good, but are not built on that key foundation. “Doctrines of man” might be an example of this. Meanwhile, we take for granted the thing with the solid foundation, perhaps using it for storage or our convenience, almost forgetting what it’s there for.
The thing is, when the storms and the wind come, the things I’ve built near the foundation — good, bad or indifferent — will blow away. The question I have to answer, then, is whether or not I’ll chase after those things that are blowing down the road (after all, I’ve likely put a lot of time and effort into these) or if I’ll look for people still out in the storm and try to wave them over into shelter.
What would you do?
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One of the characteristics of the dearly remembered housing boom was the sprouting of “McMansions” in former cornfields or alongside golf courses. These were very cool looking homes and we enjoyed touring these during the Parade of Homes, especially those listed at $1 million or more.
It made for an afternoon’s diversion and fantasy, but you had to wonder at some of the value represented. A salesperson was showing us around one $750k model townhome and as we were admiring the well-appointed family room the resident in the home that shared a common wall flushed the toilet. We knew this because we could clearly hear the water running through the pipes and the tank refilling. This is not an unusual experience when you live in an apartment or a townhouse, but not a big selling feature if you’re going to spend $750k. Other times we’d tour a million dollar home with Ben, who is an experienced carpenter, and watch as he pointed out subtle mistakes in fit and finish. In one case there was painted over evidence of a load-bearing wall not doing it’s duty, likely as a result of a problem with the foundation.
I think of these things, and foundations, in the burst residue of the housing and mortgage bubble as the entire economy sags like the wings of a great house falling toward the basement because the center-beam wasn’t set as well as you might think. It’s the latest demonstration of the Biblical exhortation to build your home on solid rock and not on shifting sand. Of course, the Bible is using the house as a metaphor, as am I. Let’s review Matthew 7:24-27:
“Therefore whoever hears these sayings of Mine, and does them, I will liken him to a wise man who built his house on the rock: and the rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house; and it did not fall, for it was founded on the rock.
“But everyone who hears these sayings of Mine, and does not do them, will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand: and the rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house; and it fell. And great was its fall.”
Doesn’t that sound familiar, and in more ways than one? Allow me to extend the metaphor into an analogy: today’s economy is the rain, and the effects of it in our lives are the floods, and the wind is the additional adversities that come to challenge our faith and make us doubt what we are standing upon, or whether the rock is enough to save us.
We have to build with storms in mind, an outlook almost completely lacking in the latest run-up as people seemed to assume that storms had become extinct and that those sets of conditions would continue in perpetuity (just as some now assume the current situation is forever). What is the housing bubble, or any bubble, all about but value driven by high expectations rather than intrinsic worth, or the greater fool theory? In those conditions you’re not building a foundation on a rock; you’re not even building it on sand which can at least be heavy — you’re building it on something as flimsy and as easily popped as a bubble. And great is the fall.
Last March the Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and Ben went with me down to Missouri when I bought my dad’s truck from my mom. While we were down there we visited my mom’s 92-year-old mother, Grammy, at the assisted-living center where she had a small apartment. We ended up sitting in the larger common room that featured a piano and several hymn books. As we visited the Diva and Ben flipped through some of the hymn books and spontaneously sang the ones they recognized. By the end of our visit there were several residents casually sitting in the common room, not-so-casually inclining their ears toward the singers.
Since then my grandmother has moved to a nursing home, one that also cares for my other grandmother, Elizabeth (or “Lizey”) who is 101 years old. When Grammy learned we were bringing Ben down for Thanksgiving this year she let it be known that she would be quite the impresario at her new home if Ben and the girls could come and sing hymns again for the group. Not a problem; a time was set for the Friday after Thanksgiving and we even recruited the Diva’s best friend and singing partner to come along on the road trip. Once in Missouri one of my nephews joined the choir as well and the youngsters rehearsed about a dozen hymns in and around the feasting on Thursday.
Earlier in the day I had gone to the nursing home with my mother to bring her mom back to the house for the holiday. Her room is right by the large, cheery common room and as we walked through it a man, presumably a preacher, was sermonizing to a group of residents in wheelchairs about how they should be thankful for their infirmities because these were what made them strong. Fortunately for him and the peace of the home he was at the far side of the room because I felt an overwhelming urge to smack him so he’d have something to be thankful for.
24 hours later we had our little choir set up in the same corner of the big room and a group of about two dozen residents arrayed in front of the kids and the electronic piano we’d carried in with us. My part, aside from carrying the piano, was to greet the assembly and introduce the singers and share a little of why we were there, mentioning that my grandmothers were among their fellow residents. I also reminded them that the Bible tells us that God inhabits the praises of his people and what are hymns but praise to God so they shouldn’t be surprised or concerned if they felt a presence during the singing.
It was a beautiful performance with everyone in fine voice and I stood to the side and watched the residents smiling and bobbing their heads; some even raised their arms over their heads at times during the music, and a couple of ladies wheeled themselves right up in front of the piano. The hymns were all old standards, “How Great Thou Art,” “There is a Fountain,” “It Is Well With My Soul” and more. After about 30 minutes I told the group that we were pleased and honored to be before them, and that I was thankful in this week of Thanksgiving for the godly example and prayers that my grandmothers, their neighbors, had sown into my life — even if, at times, it didn’t look as if they were having any affect. I also told the gathered men and women that while their bodies might not be as strong as they once were, I knew that their prayers were still as powerful as ever and that our informal choir was going to sing a Christmas song in honor of the one who came that our prayers might find their “yes” in him. I concluded by saying, “When the song is finished, each of the singers and my wife and I will move out among you and if there is anything you want prayer for concerning yourself or your loved ones, we will be happy to pray with you.” Then the Mall Diva and her friend sang “Oh Holy Night.”
Sometimes when you offer to pray for someone he or she will pull back a little, but from what I saw the group was eager and happy to receive whatever our little group could offer. I know there was no hesitation in the people I prayed with, including a woman who was very emotional over the death of her husband earlier in the week. Similarly, I felt none of my usual self-conciousness as I knelt or stooped by the ones nearest to me, and I certainly had little time for or awareness of the aches and infirmities of my own age, which seemed pretty minor in front of this congregation.
After I’d prayed for three people I saw that our group had reached everyone in the room, and I’d even received a request for the hymn, “Just As I Am”. I didn’t know the song, but our singers did so they re-gathered and sang that as well. Missing throughout the program, however, was my other grandmother, Lizey. She’s pretty much out of it most of the time now and sleeps as if the last century or so has left her worn out, which it likely has. We asked the attendants if it would be okay to go to her room and if the young ones could sing for her even if she was asleep. We were told to go right ahead.
My grandmother was asleep and I was a little anxious to see that her roommate, Wanda, was also asleep, though sitting up in a recliner with an afghan in her lap. Nevertheless my daughters, Ben, Casii and both of my nephews stood close together and softly sang through all the verses of “It Is Well With My Soul.” Grandma didn’t awake though her face seemed to relax. Meanwhile I was standing closer to Wanda and my mother and I saw her nodding her head and moving her lips during the song, though she never opened her eyes.
It was a great experience to be able to go in and do something like this, and to see the brightness in the eyes of those we ministered to. I confess to a bit of pride, as well, to see the talents and gracious hearts of my daughters who were so willing and ministered so easily.
We enjoyed the rest of the day with my family and drove back to Minnesota on Saturday. Sunday my mother emailed me with the news that Wanda, who had moved her head and lips during the song, had begun to struggle on Saturday and was taken to the hospital. She passed away Sunday morning.
My mother ended her email: “It’s a good thought that maybe the last thing she comprehended and responded to was the kids’ music.”
The following is the text of a message I delivered to our monthly “Inside Outfitters” men’s group; a group that typically includes 50-60 men of all ages from Minnesota Teen Challenge a faith-based residential drug and alcohol recovery program.
Somewhere or another I heard someone waxing eloquently about having the audacity to hope. Those seemed to me to be strange words to combine since the definition of audacity includes references such as “reckless” and “rash”. While hope may be criticized or extolled, mocked or encouraged, it is not reckless or foolish. Hope is also both dangerous and endangered and the times we’re living through seem almost engineered to crush hope.
This suggests to me that hope has never been more important, or more of a threat to the status quo. Rather than “audacity” we should endorse the perspicacity of hope. What do I mean by that (literally, what do I mean)?