snapshots and screen shots

8/14/2019 Snapshots and Screen Shots

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1SNAPSHOTS & SCREENSHOTS


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2 SNAPSHOTS & SCREENSHOTS

It was in the fall of 2002 that I rst put pen to paper (well, nger to keyboard, I sup-pose) and set about becoming a writer. It was not intentional, really. I had something

to say and did it via this great new medium called the internet. I started a little websitecalled challies.com and before I knew it I was being called a writer. That was sevenyears ago and the writing goes on.

I have put together Snapshots & Screenshots as a means of introducing myself andwhat I write. I have included twelve of my favorite articles, lightly edited here andthere. Consider it a summary of the rst few years of my writing. I hope you enjoy it.


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The Public Nuisance

Working Man Hands

Involuntary Community

A Notch in the Belt

Trash to Treasure

Fathers Day

Repaying a Gift

Seems So Long Ago, Nancy

The Greatest Hindrance

{un}natural

Blood on the Book

Morning Will Come

4

6

8

12

14

17

18

20

23

25

26

28


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Elizabeth is a public nuisance. Her status is not ocial yet, but it will besoon. Te local police have encouraged the amilies in this neighborhoodto ll out the paperwork that will ulll the legal requirements. Its prob-ably the best thing to do. When that paperwork is complete the policewill no longer be orced to respond to her every call. And she calls a lot.When a car parks a little too ar into the road, she calls the police. Whenshe believes someone has trespassed on her property, she calls the police.When the children are playing outdoors and a ball rolls into her yard,

she calls the police. She has the reputation o a person who must sit bythe window with phone in hand. Nine and one are already pushed andshes just waiting or a reason to hit the one again. She was one o the rstpeople we were told about when we moved to this neighborhood. Youregoing to have to watch out or Elizabeth

The Public Nuisance

Everyone in the neighborhood knows who sheis. Her yard is easy to spot as the one that is com-pletely overgrown. In most cases people who do

not care or their yards have it cut by city halland receive a bill in the mail. In her case shesmanaged to convince them that this chaos is agardening style. Her house is over an aquiershe says, one o the ew in the area, and that iswhy the trees grow so well and why they remain

so dense. Shes the one who hands out apples ororanges on Halloween. Shes the one who haslived in the neighborhood since beore many o

the rest o us were even born and certainly sincelong beore the other houses were built.

A ew weeks ago Aileen came into thehouse and told me that Elizabeth was out shov-eling her own driveway. She is denitely too oldto be doing this. So I put my coat on, grabbed


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my shovel, and walked up the street to her home.She had propped hersel up with a crutch underher one arm and was holding a broom in the oth-er, trying to sweep the snow away. We had seena good ten centimeters all and it was wet, heavysnow. A broom wasnt going to cut it, and par-

ticularly so along the edge o the driveway wherethe plows had pushed it into hard piles at least acouple o eet high. I asked i I could help her andshe hesitatingly agreed. She gave me a ew point-ers on how to best shovel and told me shed bepleased i Id just deal with the big piles close tothe road. She asked i I would like to be paid andI said, Absolutely not.

I got to work while she headed indoors. Icleaned up the piles and then got to work on therest o the drive. A ew minutes later she emergedrom the house to chat. She told me that the

driveway had been widened many years beoreand they were able to t at least eight cars in it.Tat explained why I was winded. She told meabout her broken leg and then about her sons,both o whom live in the area, I believe, and botho whom seem quite well-to-do. She seemed per-ectly pleasant, even or a public nuisance. Shewas grateul that she was going to be able to getout o her driveway that day, because she had aschedule with a physical therapist. When the jobwas done I told her to get in touch with me any-

time and headed home.Since that day weve had several snowstormsand were in the midst o the snowiest winter inyears. Last I heard we had seen 142 centimetersand that was three storms ago. Were in the midsto another one today. Te schools are canceledand its as good a day as any to just stay o theroads.

Whenever the snow begins to accumulate,I cross the ditch and shovel her out. Tere wasone time that I somehow orgot but she calleda neighbor (she didnt have my phone number)

and asked him to come and knock on the door.

He passed along the message and I hurried rightover. By my count there are at least twelve or -teen neighbors who are closer to her home thanI am. Tey drive by while Im shoveling or theyuse snow blowers to get the snow o their drivesat the same time. But none o them help her. I

dont know i she has burned all o those bridgesor i this is just a symptom o the times we livein. Even the neighbor who came to knock on mydoor didnt oer to help.

oday is my sons eighth birthday. Eightyears ago we brought him home rom the hos-pital and we were wearing shorts and t-shirtsoday it is well below 0; we have already seen 15centimeters o snow, and it continues to all. Inlike a lion, out like a lamb is what they say abouMarch. I hope that old adage proves true this yearTe last thing I wanted to do today was shove

out a long driveway covered in 15 centimeters oheavy snow. I grumbled to Aileen this morningsaying I picked quite the year to start helpingElizabeth, didnt I? She lovingly scolded me andI went on my way. Tough its his birthday, I toldNick to come along and to help me out. He did soquite willingly, despite having some new toys andgames to play with and Super Mario Galaxy orthe Wii demanding his attention. And o I wentperhaps a bit resigned to my ate.

We got to work, chipping away at the drive-

way. Aer a ew minutes o hard work Nick pipedup. Daddy, this is what the Bible says, isnt it?Tat anyone who has a need is our neighbor?And he was rightthats exactly what the Biblesays. But Scripture also makes it clear that anygood things I do are utterly worthless when I dothem with a grumbling spirit. In that moment Isaw that I had been going about this all wrongMy little boy (who really isnt so little anymore)ministered to me this morning as we cleared thedriveway o our neighborhoods public nuisanceMy boy is a blessing to me in more ways than he

knows.

That summer Elizabeth called and asked if Id like to go with her to see a concert featuring a verypopular Canadian band. It turns out her son is the drummer. So she and I enjoyed the whole back-stage and meet-the-band experience while taking in an excellent concert. I continue to shovel herdriveway anytime we get a snowfall. (March 5, 2008)


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Dad was a landscaper, aer all, and oreight months o each year he spent justabout every waking hour hauling loadso soil rom his truck to the gardens andheaving enormous rocks to make surethey looked just right. Tough this tookan obvious physical toll on Dad, it lehim stronger than an ox.

I loved to wrestle with my dad.With my sisters I used to yell, Can webeat you up tonight, Dad? But when weused to stage our little battles, we could

make no headway against him. ToughI would run at him and hit him with allthat I had, even with a ull head o steamI could not knock him o-balance. Withmy three sisters swarming around him,hanging onto his legs and wrappedaround his neck, we were still no match.He would grab us with his rough, leath-ery hands, give us a whisker rub with hisdays growth o beard, and toss us asidelike we were barely even there.

Ill never orget his hands thoserock hard hands. Tey were workingman hands. Holding dads hand was likeholding a sanding block and just aboutas uncomortable. As he toiled day aerday and year aer year, his hands builtup so many rough calluses that they be-came as hard as dried leather. Tey werescarred and hardened with the evidenceo countless bumps and bruises inictedon job sites.

I saw in Dads hands an ideal, and

to me they represented a hard-workingman who labored diligently to supporthis amily. I elt pride when I comparedhis hands to those o men who spenttheir lives at desksthere really was nocomparisonand looked orward to the

day when my hands would be hard andcallused like dads.

I sometimes wonder i theressomething inside each o us that longsto carry out Gods original instruction tohumans. God explicitly commanded therst man to till the soil and to care or theearth: Te Lord God took the man andput him in the garden o Eden to work itand keep it (Genesis 2:15). Were nev-er closer to the heart o that commandthan when were up to our elbows in dirt,

planting, pruning, tending.Dad had the privilege o doing that

every day. And the even greater privilegeo loving nothing more.

Yet behind his love or workingwith plants and rocks and soil, I thinkdad always elt a twinge o shame or re-gret. He grew up in an afuent amily,one with a long history o politicians andlawyers. My grandather was a SupremeCourt judge, and dads uncles were mem-

bers o Parliament. Surely, dad elt deepinside, landscaping was not a proessionsuited to a man rom such a amily.

Finally succumbing to the pressurehe created within himsel, he returned toschool, upgrading his two bachelors de-grees to a masters. For several years heworked diligently, studying languages,history and theology.

And a strange thing happened. Asthe months turned into years I noticedthat his hands no longer elt like leather.

Te longer he stayed in school, the soerhis hands became. Beore long his handswere much like mineso and reerom calluses.

Dad graduated with a masters de-gree and tried so hard to be happy in an

workingmanhands Like most little boys, I idolized my ather as a child. You would have

had a dicult time convincing me that there was anyone smarter,aster or stronger than my dad. I really did believe it when I told myriends my dad can beat up your dad!

And it may well have been true.


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indoor job. He tried his hand at a ew thingsand it wasnt so much that he wasnt good atthem as that he just did not enjoy them. Heound himsel thinking nostalgically o buryinghis hands in resh topsoil and sculpting beauti-ul gardens where there had been nothing butweeds and chaos. How could the glaring pix-

els o a computer screen be any match or thebeauty o owers bursting orth in color withthe rst warm sun o spring?

Finally it became too much. One day dadbought himsel a great, big pickup truck andhauled all his tools out o storage. He returnedto tilling the soil he had le behind.

Now whenever I see dad he has dirt underhis ngernails. His hands are once again as hardas dried leather and I cant imagine my childreneel any more comortable holding his handsthan I did so many years ago. As he returns

shamelessly to the task or which God createdhim, his hands again bear evidence o his labor.His hands represent what he has chosen to dowith his lie. Tey represent his obedience tothe vocation God has called him to.

Dads hands teach me. Tey teach me thatsome day I will stand beore God and that he isgoing to reach down to me and eel my handsHe has assigned to me and to all o his chil-dren the same task, and its a dicult one. Imcalled by God to take his message into the entireworld, diligently and shamelessly proclaiming

the Good News o Jesus Christ and living in theways he has commanded me to live. Im to servemy brothers and sisters in Christ, committingmy best to the church that Christ has built. Imto live dependently and sacricially, trusting inGod to provide or my every need.

I my hands are not as rough as sandpa-per, i they are not scarred and bleeding, it maystand as evidence that I havent been diligent inthat labor. I my hands bear no scars, perhapsI havent received the cuts and bruises that arebound to come to anyone who goes orth on

Gods behal.One day God is going to reward those

who labored diligently or Him and all the evi-dence He is going to need will be written on ourhands. God will reward those who, like dadhave working man hands.

Iwrotethis,obviously,asatributetomyfather.It

remainsoneofmyfa

voritepieces.(May15,2004)


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I live much o my lie basking in the glow

o a pair o liquid crystal display moni-tors and with the gentle ambient hum o acomputer an registering somewhere justabove my subconscious.

As a Web designer by day, a blog-ger by night and a writer whenever I cansqueeze in a ew moments, I live with myeyes glued to these 22 glowing rectangles.

Because I use a computer so much,I take great care in ensuring I have justthe right machine one that will suit myevery need. I need to have a large moni-

tor since studies and personal experi-ence show that productivity increasesproportionately with screen real estate;I need to have a ast computer because Iam constantly jumping rom program toprogram, clicking quickly rom e-mail toPhotoshop to the Web and back again; Ineed to have a sizeable and ast hard driveto accommodate a large collection o mu-

sic and the les or hundreds or thou-

sands o projects.Even the keyboard needs to be justright. Because I type millions o wordsevery year, I need to ensure that the key-board eels the way I need it to in orderto type my astestthe keys need to havejust the right amount o give and the key-board has to have the extra buttons thatmake my lie so much easier, one secondat a time.

A couple o weekends ago, with myoce computer ading ast, I decided the

time was right to take the jump and tobuy mysel a new one. Tough I searchedthe catalogs, Web sites and yers o all thebig box stores in my area, I couldnt nda machine that suited my every need. Re-luctantly I concluded that the easiest solu-tion was to build a system mysel. I spenta ew hours researching components,ensuring that each would work with theother and that each represented the best

INVOLUNTARY COMMUNITY


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value or my money. I drove to a nearby com-puter store, bought the individual components,and then returned home to assemble it all.

By the time the sun set on Saturday I hadbuilt the system, installed the operating system,and had begun to personalize it, making surethat every setting was just the way I like itjustthe way I need it to be to make me work mybest and my astest. It was ready or me to get towork on Monday morning.

As I went to bed on Saturday night Ithought about the rst computer I had everowned. Te computer cost ar, ar more, yet ithad less than one ten thousandth the ability othis one. It came as it wasthere was little roomor personalization.

I was struck by how much I expect anddemand today when it comes to customization.oday I want things to suit me as an individual.General doesnt work; I need specics. I wasntso picky back thenI was happy simply to havemy own computer.

Customization and personalization havebecome the order o the day in our culture. Wewant our liestyles and our personal tastes to bereected in all we buy, all we own, all we wear

and in all the things we do. Even i we are allcompelled to buy the next big thing, we still in-sist that we make the choice as individuals, not

as a mass o consumers inuenced by clevermarketing.Sure, we all rushed out to buy iPods with-

in a year or two o their release, but we consoledourselves that we are dierent rom the otherpeople who bought iPods because we chose the

pink one or we bought a snazzy protective coverto go over it. Our iPods were dierent becausethey looked dierent. Tey were expressions oour individuality.

Or so we insisted.Customizing our appearance and our gad-

gets is not enough. We also want to customizethe groups o people we spend time with, pre-erring those who are most like us. We go on-line and join social media communities madeup o others just like us; we create Facebook ac-counts to compile lists o our riends and searchor MySpace riends on the basis o our sharedinterests. We add our books to the LibraryTingcatalog and see how many people have all thesame books we do. We search high and low or

what we have in common with others.We demand today to be individuals and to

customize everything we have and everythingwe are. But is this making us happier?

A recent article in IME addressed theendless choices we ace today. Te huge num-ber o choices that assault us every day makesmany o us eel inadequate and in some caseseven clinically depressed, says Proessor Bar-ry Schwartz, a psychologist rom Swarthmore

College in Pennsylvania and the author o TeParadox o Choice. Tere is vastly too muchchoice in the modern world and we are paying

an enormous price or it. It makes us eel help-less, mentally paralyzed and prooundly dissat-ised.

One might think that increasing choicewould give us increased happiness, but it seemsthat just the opposite is true. Te more choices

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there isneither slave nor free, there is

no male and female, for you are all

one in Christ Jesus.


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we have, the less happy we are with the ones wemake.

Christians ace the temptation to under-stand the church within this same individual-istic, consumer mindset. We see this when wewalk away rom church thinking Id be happieri the people were just a little bit more like me,which is, in eect, saying, Tat church wouldbe better i everyone resembled me.

In theory and in our hearts we knowthat Christ is building something amazing andsomething that is truly uniquea amily com-posed o people o every nation, every tribe andevery tongue; a amily that spans the globe andspans the ages. We know that the diversity othis mysterious body is a reection o Godsown love o diversity and his commitment tosave men and women rom among every peoplegroup in the world.

But in practice we preer to be individualsand preer to surround ourselves by others whoare as much like us as possible. Te more soci-ety emphasizes our uniqueness, our individu-ality, the more dicult we nd it to embracediversity.

In his book A Journey Worth aking,author Charles Drew provides an importantwarning about the involuntary nature o thecommunity God calls us to as His people. Hewarns us against elevating our individual tastesin the churches we attend.

Church is not an event. It is peoplepeople whom God calls us to love. Whatis more, it is in a very important sensean involuntary community o people:we dont choose our brothers and sis-tersGod does. And sometimes (o-tentimes) those people are not terriblycompatible with usnot the people wewould choose to hang out with. But it isthis very incompatibility that is so im-portant, or at least two reasons. First,

learning to love the people I dont like isby ar the best way to learn how to love

(its easy to love people I happen to like).Second, the church is supposed to be asociological miraclea demonstrationthat Jesus has died and risen to create anew humanity composed o all sorts opeople.

We need to guard against being church

consumerspeople who shop or a church likewe might shop or a computer. We need to en-sure that we do not choose a church the waywe piece together a network o social mediariends. God values diversity in a way our cul-ture does not.

He is building a community that is in-voluntary one or which He determines themembership. And it is in the context o thiscommunity o people who may be vastly di-erent rom us, that we are to learn to love oneanother even more than we love ourselves. Weare to love one another on the basis o our com-mon humanity and on the basis o our sharedkinship in the amily o God rather than on thebasis o preerence or perceived compatibility. Itcan be dicult to love those who are unlike us,which is exactly why God calls us to do so.

When we see church through our con-sumeristic mindset we nd ourselves treatingchurch like wed treat a storeas an entity thatexists to meet our needs. I I go to a computerstore and nd they do not have the components

I need to build my new computer, Ill simply goelsewhere. I will not adapt my plans to suit whatthey oer, but will go to a place where I can begiven the pieces I need. And too many Chris-tians treat church this same way.

But when I see church as the place Godhas called me to place mysel, when I see it asthat sociological miracle demonstrating thatthe new humanity extends ar beyond peoplewho are just like me, I will make my home thereand delight in the diversity.

Last Saturday I went out and bought a

new mouse or my computer since the old one


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was letting me know that it was nearing the time that it wouldclick its last click. Tis isnt any mouse, but the Logitech MXRevolutionthe latest and greatest in mouse technology. It hasve buttons and two scroll wheels. Each o the wheels has mul-tiple unctions, scrolling back and orth, rocking right and le,so that, by gripping just that little mouse, I can control a hugevariety o my computers unctions. Each button can be per-sonalized and each button has been personalized so it does justwhat I want it to do. Its my mouse and I expect it to act the wayI want it to.

Last Sunday I went to church where I met with a group

o people who are most uniorm in their diversity. Tey comerom Canada and China, Romania and Sri Lanka, Poland andthe Netherlands. Tey are young and they are old; they areblack and they are white; they are long-time Christians andthey are baby Christians; they are married and they are single;they are everything.

Few o them look anything like me. Its not the communi-ty I would have chosen; not the group I would have assembledhad God asked me. But He didnt ask me because He knew bet-ter. Tis is the group Ive come to love.

God has called us to communityew Christians woulddeny this. But God has called us to a community that He builds.

He chooses the participants and He decides on its membership.It is easy to love those who are most like us, so God calls

us to more; He calls us to better. God calls us to love and delightin those who may not be much like us at all. And when we doso, we bear witness to the One who binds us all together in thisascinating, miraculous, diverse, involuntary amily called thechurch.

This one came about after reecting on modern church plantingwhich so often begins with the assumption that the planter mustdene his audience and seek to draw only that audience. It maymake good business sense but I dont think it makes good King -

dom sense. This article was published on Focus on the FamilysBoundless.org. (February 8, 2008)


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When I was a teenager, there was a boy in my classwho was not quite normal. I dont know i he su-ered rom a type o mental disorder or i he was just a bit dierentnever completely accus-tomizing to the culture he lived in. I suspect the lat-ter. Somehow he did not quite t in. He had unnymannerisms, would sometimes say strange thingsand oen seemed oblivious to social propriety. Oneo my enduring memories o him is watching himsit in the ront pew at church and proceed to givehis ears a really good cleaning, sprinkling what he

dug out on the carpet below. He was oblivious tothis being odd behavior. While clearly exceedinglybright in some ways, he was hopeless in others.Something o a loner, probably less by choice andmore by lack o interest rom his classmates, hewould spend lunch and breaks by himsel, thoughthis never appeared to bother him. I dont think hegot teased too much simply because he was quitecondent in who and what he was and in who andwhat he was not. Now that I think about it, I dontknow that he would really have known or caredeven i he had been teased.

Every now and then my parents would tellme I had to have him over on a Sunday aernoonbetween the two worship services. Te church weattended at the time met or morning worship at9:30 or 10:00 and or a second worship service inthe middle o the aernoon. Tis was ideal or vis-

iting, as a person or amily could come over be-tween services and enjoy a nice visit, but not onethat grew too long. And so I would sometimes ndhim in my company on Sunday aernoons. I reallydidnt mind having him over, despite his eccentric-ities. I suppose I probably worried that being spiedwith him would somehow lower my social status(humble though this status may have been) but Imsure my riends knew that I had been orced to in-vite him over and that I spent time with him moreout o imposition than desire. I never really got to

know him too well. A couple o times he recipro-cated the invitation and, with trepidation lest any-one spot me, I would go to his house and spend theaernoon with his amily. I dont remember whatwe did on these aernoons together. My memorieshave aded.

When the aernoon service was over andI had the evening to mysel, I was proud o whatI had done. I had taken this simple guy who hadno riends and had been a riend to him or a ewhours. I had allowed him to eel what I thoughtwas acceptance and to eel that he was not entirelyalone. But come Monday morning I would notstand by his side and talk to him. I would allowhim to walk endless circuits around the school orto sit quietly with a book. When pity was taken outo the equation, I had nothing to oer. I had nodesire to give o mysel. It was almost as i I would

a notch in the belt

ThinkingaboutallthepeopleIknowandhaveknownw

hohavespecialneedsmademe

realizehowpoora

jobIvedoneinservingboththemandtheirfamilies.(June6,2007)


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spend those Sunday aernoons clearing my throatto the sky and whispering under my breath, God!Do You see what Im doing here, right? Im being ariend to this guy! And its not much un!

I wasnt a true riend, o course. I didnt re-ally care about my classmate. I my parents decid-ed he needed to have some companionship or aday I would take him under my wing, but I did it

or them or or me or maybe somehow or God.But not or him. My true riends are those peopleI enjoy spending time with just or the joy o be-ing with them. Tis guy was someone I spent timewith out o obligation or out o a desire to put anotch in the belt o my own sanctication.

A short time ago I read a marvelous littlebook called Same Kind o Diferent as Me. Te bookhas touched many people and I think it has doneso because it is the story o two people who seemto be so unequal and yet who nd true equality.One is a successul businessman while the other

is a homeless drier; one is married with a lovingamily while the other is single and alone; one isnormal and the other is decidedly not. Te rela-tionship starts as one o pity but ends as one o trueraternal love and acceptance. Te one who seemsto have everything already is the one who receivesuntold blessings.

My pastor recently wrote a ew articles aboutthe importance o considering special needs inchurch. He says, quite rightly I think, that only theChristian Church is really set up to joyully co-ex-

ist with amilies o all dierent types o needs. Fora large measure o the tension we eel is bound upin our own sin, and only Christians have a meansto genuinely deal with that sin. Because God hasgiven us the Holy Spirit, we can be humble. Andlarge doses o humility are what is needed in or-der to walk through all this tension and awkward-ness. He quotes his riend Justin Reimer who says,What these amilies [o disabled children] need ishelp, not pity.

Pity isnt necessarily a bad emotion, but Iveound that it does not tend to be the oundation o

good, noble and godly ends. I pitied my classmateand did what I elt was best or him. I extendedsome kind o companionship, but my pity led meto ocus on mysel more than on him. What I did, I

did or others and not or him. Looking inward orupward I was unable to see past mysel to see thisboy or who he was. I ound pleasure not in any-thing he was or anything he oered, but in whatI thought I might gain through the gratitude omy parents, the grateulness o his parents, or theblessing o God. Looking back I can see that I real-ly knew nothing about him. I never made any kind

o eort to get to know him. I never made the eorto let him touch my lie or to show me who he re-ally was. I thought I already knew. I was arrogantbelieving in the innate superiority o my normalcywhile assuming that his eccentricity necessarilymeant he had nothing to oer; that he needed myhelp. He was pitied, but not accepted; tolerated butnever loved.

Ive known other people like this. I knowsome today. Tey do not need pity. Te parentso those who are disabled do not want you to pitythem or to accept them as a projectas a means

to your own sanctication. Tey want you to seethese people or who they are and what they canoer and to love and embrace and accept them onthat basis. Tis was a point I never got to with myclassmate. He was, at best, a project; an inconve-nience I grudgingly accepted at times; someonewho was somehow less than a ull person. WhenI think o him and I think o the other people inmy lie who were never quite normal, never quiteadhering to the norms o society or never quiteable to adhere to them, I wonder what Ive missed

in orsaking such riendship. I wonder what Ivemissed in pitying rather than acceptingin seek-ing mysel rather than the other person. I won-der what theyve lost and what Ive lost because Icould not realign my expectations or riendshipand companionship. I never learned to appreciatethese people, to look beyond their eccentricitiesand disabilities, and to see the people beyond. Inever learned to enjoy their presence, their riend-ship and all that they oer.

Im condent my pastor is right and that thechurch is the best and most natural place or these

people and their amilies to joyully co-exist withothers. But Im condent that Ive done a lousy jobo proving him right.


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tra

shtotreasure

One o my avorite television programs isAntiques Roadshow.

Te program aords people the opportunity to present theirantique possessionswhether urniture, paintings, toys, oranything elseand to have them appraised by some o theworlds oremost experts in antiquities. For every episode theproducers single out ten or een items and show an expertproviding a detailed description and valuation o the item.Each section closes with the expert telling the owner just whatthe item is worth. It is always amusing to see eyes pop out or tosee people jump up and down with excitement as they realize

that they have in their possession an item worth tens or evenhundreds o thousands o dollars. During every episode theviewer has opportunity to see junk transormed to treasure.


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things o Christianity, and a diminishedimportance to the rst things, and themischie is done. Once alter the propor-tion o the parts o truth, and truth soonbecomes downright error!

You may completely spoil the Gospelby conused and contradictory directions.Complicated and obscure statements

about aith, baptism, Church privileges,and the benets o the Lords Supperarealmost as bad as no statement at all!

Te gospel can be spoiled, though not ob-jectively, or it is an objective reality. Yet it can bespoiled by us and to us. We can modiy the gospel,either deliberately or inadvertently, stripping it oits power and its glory. We can bring to people acountereit gospel that is no gospel at all. It is thediscipline o discernment that God has providedus to guard the purity o the gospel.

Discernment, then, is not an end in itsel.Rather, discernment is the means to a ar greaterand nobler end. By practicing spiritual discern-ment we guard the gospel, the message o eternallie. Te apostle Paul, writing to his young protegeimothy, called him to do just this in both o theletters to imothy recorded in Scripture. O im-othy, guard the deposit entrusted to you, Paulwrites in 1 imothy 6:20. In his next letter he re-iterates, By the Holy Spirit who dwells within us,guard the good deposit entrusted to you (2 im.

1:14). Trough the power o the Spirit, imothywas to guard the gospel.

Tis word deposit is taken rom the ancientworld. In the age beore personal saes and saedeposit boxes, a person who was going to be awayor some time might ask another to care or atreasured possession. He would entrust this pos-session to another, depositing it to him, and thisperson was bound by a sacred oath to protect it.

In his letters to imothy, Paul, who knows thathe will not always be able to encourage and men-tor imothy, entrusts to him the gospel message.imothy would be expected to guard this messageand to nd worthy, godly Christians to whom hecould in turn entrust it. And so the gospel hasbeen protected and has carried rom one genera-

tion to the next through the long, storied historyo the church. And so it has been handed in trustto you and to me and to all who believe.

John Stott, in his introduction to his com-mentary on 2 imothy, says this:

Te church o our day urgently needs toheed the message o this second letter oPaul to imothy. For all around us we seeChristians and churches relaxing theirgrasp o the gospel, umbling it, in dangero letting it drop rom their hands alto-

gether. A new generation o young imo-thys is needed, who will guard the sacreddeposit o the gospel, who are determinedto proclaim it and are prepared to sueror it, and who will pass it on pure and un-corrupted to the generation which in duecourse will rise up to ollow them.

God has given us the gospel in trust. He hasdeposited it to our account and expects that wewill guard this priceless, precious treasure. Godhas entrusted to us something o innite worthand unsurpassed beauty. He has not le us to ourown devices, but he has provided or us the HolySpirit, that with his help we may be aithul inguarding the gospel o Jesus Christ. Spiritual dis-cernment allows us to keep the gospel central andallows us to see and guard against error. Spiritualdiscernment is absolutely crucial to the one whowould understand and heed the gospel. Nothingless than the gospel is at stake.

Though the above article is drawn largely from my book The Discipline of Spiritual Discernment,it appeared rst on my blog. At that time it was a reection on the innite value of Scripture andhow, once he saved me, God had radically altered my perception of his Word. (September 22, 2005)


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This was just a short reection, but it is one that has stuck with me. The more I understandof myself and the more I understand of God, the more I see how apropos this little vignettereally is. And yes, I still have that silly little pencil holder. (June 26, 2004)

Last Sunday was Fathers Day. My son spent his morning in our churchs preschool program whilemy wie and I enjoyed the worship service. When the service was over, my son came boundinginto the auditorium overowing with excitement, holding something behind his back. He came

to me and told me he had a surprise or me. With a ourish he presented to me a little pencilholder he had made or me that very morning. It was made o an orange juice can covered withbits o road map. A sticker on the read Nicks dad must Obey God and ollow his directions.Acts 5:29. It was a gi or me or Fathers Day.

I I were to look at my sons creation purely objectively I was see a monstrositysomethingthat made a mockery o pencil holders. Te bits opaper covered only a portion o the can and mosto them were loose. Te liner on the inside o thecan was peeling away because o the moisture it hadbeen exposed to. Had I seen nothing but a pencilholder, I would have thrown it away in disgust.

But I see more than a pencil holder. I see anexpression o my sons love or me. I see the eort heput into it and know that he did the best he could.He is incapable at only our years old o making awork o art worthy o a gallery. So while this gimay be a monstrosity in an objective sense, to meit is beautiul. I have never met a parent who wouldthrow away such a gi, expressing disgust at theaws in it. Every parents understands the joy o re-ceiving such gis.

I love to bring gis to God. Whether it is aportion o the nances He has blessed me with or

whether it is my time or talents, I love to presentmy gis beore my heavenly Father. I know that ihe viewed these gis objectively, he would see littlemore than the monstrosities they are beore his per-ect standards. He would see the selshness in my heart as I give money to him, knowing that Icould just as easily use that money to buy mysel something nice. He knows that my heart is notperectly pure as I bring my gis o worship to him. He knows who I am. Yet God accepts theseimperect gis. As a loving Father he accepts the ragged, misshapen little pencil holders I bringto him and gives them a place o honor on his desk. He knows my imperections, he knows I amonly dust, and he knows that through my gis, aulty as they may be, I seek to bring honor andglory to him.

FATHER's DAY


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A ew weeks beore Christmas, we had myson and daughter compile a list o the gisthey most desired. opping my sons list wasa Playmobil castlea huge, grey castle thatlooks like the kind o toy every boy dreamsabout. He asked or this with some hesitation,though, because he knew that it was expen-sive. We told him several times leading up toChristmas that we did not think we would beable to aord such a toy. Neither Aileen nor Iwas raised in amilies that celebrated Christ-mas or birthdays with gis worth hundreds

o dollars, so the pricetag o the castle wouldprove quite a stretch or us. In the end, wesettled on a smaller castle, still Playmobil, but

one that was the bad guy castle instead o thegood guy castle.When my son opened this gi on Christ-

mas morning we could tell that he was boththrilled and disappointed. He had so badlywanted that big castle but knew it was un-likely that he would receive it. When he sawa big box on Christmas morning he thoughtthat maybe, just maybe, we had splurged andbought it or him. When he opened it, he sawthat it was almostwhat he had wanted, but notquite. Still, he was happy with the gi and put

a brave ace on it. I he was exceedingly disap-pointed, he masked it well or a ve-year old.We were proud o him.

repayingagift


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When his birthday rolled around in March,the Playmobil castle was still at the top o his list.Knowing now that his desire or this castle wasnot just a passing ancy, we decided that we wouldbreak orm and buy it or him. We shopped arounda little bit, ound the best price, and bought it.When the day o his birthday arrived we hid the

box and had him open all his other gis rst.When he had opened a couple o gis rom us, andgis rom other amily members, he seemed trulypleased. It was then that I went downstairs and re-turned with that huge box. His eyes went wide andhe exclaimed, You didnt! No, you didnt! We putthe box beore him and he made short work o thewrapping paper. His eyes lit up and I think I saw atear in his eye as he saw that long-awaited castle. Ithink it was made sweeter by the waiting. We builtthe castle or him that aernoon and it has givenhim countless hours o pleasure in the months

since then. It remains his avorite toy.One little event struck me later that aer-

noon. Te castle was complete and my son hadalready been playing with it or a ew hours. A-ter I woke rom a short nap I went downstairs towatch him enjoying his toy. When he saw me, heran to his room and returned clutching somethingin his little hand. He walked up to me and handedme a loonie, a one dollar coin. He explained thathe knew the castle was very expensive and that wecould not really aord it. He wanted to give me adollar to help with the expense. It was a touchingmoment, really, and one that showed a sweet inno-cence, or o course his one dollar coin could hardlyrepay the castle. I explained to him that it was myprivilege to give him the castle as a gi and thathe could show me gratitude not by attempting topay me back, something he could not do despitehis best eorts, but by playing with the castle andreceiving rom it a great deal o joy. Tat seemed tosatisy him, so he put his money in his pocket andcontinued to play with his new toys.

I think there is a lesson in my sons behaviorthough one that did not register in my mind andin my heart until I read Te Great Work o the Gos-

pelby John Ensor. So oen, I realize, I have beenjust like my son, attempting to repay God or hisgis. I attempt to provide good works as repay-ment or mercy. God gives us grace as a gi and

does not expect us to repay him or it. As with mysel when looking at my son, Gods satisaction isnot in our attempts to repay him, but in seeing ourheartelt delight as we rejoice in his ree gi. Tegi is cheapened when we attempt to repay it. JohnEnsor writes, His reward as a gi giver is in thegladness o heart that we experience in receivinghis gi as a gi. Ensor points out another reasonwe cannot pay or our sins by doing good works asa tradeo or Gods mercy. Anything we do with amotive o adding to the work o Christ so as to winthe orgiveness o God becomes the ground o sel-

satisaction in our own goodness, rather than trustin Gods grace. In receiving this gi rom me, myson was unable to boast. Had he saved his moneyand paid me back, he could have led his riends tothe playroom and said, Here is a castle I earned.But with the gi I gave him, all he can boast in is inhaving a ather who loves him and who knows howto give him good gis.

My sons motives were pure. He elt somemeasure o guilt in receiving a gi he elt we couldnot aord. And so he tried to repay me, but in away that was inadequate, impossible and in denialo the very act that what I gave him was intendedto be a gi. I expected no repayment and took myjoy in my sons delight. And there is the lesson orme. God wants me to receive mercy and grace asa gi. Even my best eorts at repaying him meritme nothing. What God desires is that I receive hisgi as a gi and that I return to him all the praiseand the glory through enjoying what he has so gra-ciously given me.

Though parents are to teach their children, parents soon realize just how much they stand to learnfrom their children. I love to keep my eyes and ears open as I see my children being children. They havetaught me so much about my own relationship as a son of the Father. (August 17, 2006)


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In 1969 LeonardCohen released a re-cord entitled SongsFrom A Room. Teh track on thatalbum is Seems SoLong Ago, Nancy.Te song has be-come one o Cohensmore popular ones;it has ound its way

onto one o his livealbums and has been covered by several other artists.

It is a dark, haunting song that speaks o a youngwoman named Nancy. Te poetic words are dicult to in-terpret leading many ans o Cohens music to speculate onwhat they mean.

Over the years Cohen has made several reerencesto the song during concerts and in interviews. Fans oncespeculated that the song was written as a tribute to Mari-lyn Monroe, but Cohen replied No, it was about a realNancy. In his introduction to Frankurt72 Cohen saidTis is a song or a girl named Nancy who was a real

girlwho went into the bathroom o her athers house,took her brothers shotgun and blew her head o. Age o21. Maybe this is an arrogant thing to say, but maybe shedid it because there werent enough people saying whatIve been saying. In the song book or the Songs o Loveand Hate album, there is a description o a LC concert.LC is about to start singing It Seems so Long Ago, Nancy,but he decides to talk about her rst, to get in the mood.He says that she was not adjusted to lie in this world. Shehad a baby and they took it away rom her, and she shothersel.

Over the years I have had a ascination with thissong. It is an awul song, in many ways, leaving Nancy alegacy that ew would wanta legacy o promiscuity andsel-loathing. I have oen elt such pity or Nancy as I canalmost eel her sadness and pain through the song. I havewished that someone could reach through the sadness andbring her some measure o peace.

It seems so long ago,Nancy was alone,looking at the Late Late showthrough a semi-precious stone.In the House of Honestyher father was on trial,in the House of Mysterythere was no one at all,there was no one at all.

It seems so long ago,none of us were strong;Nancy wore green stockingsand she slept with everyone.She never said shed wait for usalthough she was alone,I think she fell in love for usin nineteen sixty one,in nineteen sixty one.

It seems so long ago,Nancy was alone,a forty ve beside her head,an open telephone.We told her she was beautiful,we told her she was freebut none of us would meet her inthe House of Mystery,the House of Mystery.

And now you look around you,see her everywhere,many use her body,

many comb her hair.In the hollow of the nightwhen you are cold and numbyou hear her talking freely then,shes happy that youve come,shes happy that youve come.

seems so long ago, nancy


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But the peace never came. Lost in her despair,Nancy took her own lie.

How do I know this? Nancy was my aunt.Perhaps this puts my ascination with this

song into perspective. Te song is not about someanonymous Nancy, but is about a woman I shouldhave been able to know and love, but or the actthat she took her lie beore I was ever born.

At times in my lie I have been nearly ob-sessed with nding out about her. Her name rarelycomes up when the amily comes together and itis as i the past is so painul to her siblings thatthey would rather not think about her at all thanrelive that pain. What ollows represents the smallamount I have learned about my aunt.

Nancy was born October 20, 1943 and diedon March 10th o 1965, when she was only twenty-one years old. She was a troubled young woman,and spent many o her teenage years under psychi-

atric care. Several years ago, digging through someold papers at my cottage, I ound a ew letters shehad written to her mother rom psyciatric hospi-tals. In some o these letters she seems to be doingwell, thanking my grandmother or sending herclothes and saying Next week seems so ar away. Ijust hope Ill be ree soon. In others she seems tobe in times o torment, writing disjointed thoughtsin scrawled handwriting. A manic depressive justbombed in - And I mean bomb. Hell! She came 400miles by ambulance in 4 hours. Imagine the ballshe had eh? Well shes great un but really hurt

through behind her happy ace. Dont worry!Tere is a second series o letters, which pre-

date the rst by several years. In 1961 Nancy livedaway rom home, serving as a tour guide at historicFort Henry in Kingston, Ontario, and she writesabout dating boys rom R.M.C. (Royal MilitaryCollege) and visiting with aunts and other rela-tives, even travelling to New York to take in a Hen-ry Fonda show and shop at Bloomingdales. Dontworry about me, she wrote, I know that Im doingthe right thing.

My grandmother was a meticulous calen-dar-keeper and on December 20, 1963 she noted,Nancy met Mike. At some point in the ollowingmonths Nancy became pregnant, and social con-ventions being what they were at the time, especial-ly in a prominent amily o Members o Parliamentand Supreme Court Judges, Nancy was orced to

give up her baby or adoption. Just a ew monthsaer the baby was born, Nancy, in a time o desperate depression, took her lie with her brothers gunHer brother is my ather. He was just een.

Several months ago, in private correspon-dance with Leonard Cohen, he commented tome about Nancy and his memories o her. It isher beauty and bravery that shine through. Manyyoung women o the time came up against the hardlimitations o amily and society, although not ev-ery conrontation ended so sadly. Cohen was notast riends with Nancy, though he had met hermany times through mutual riends. Teir closestmutual riend was Morton Rosengarten, an artistand sculptor.

When I consider Nancys lie, I cant help butwonder i she had not ound more than the hardlimitations o amily and society. My grandmotheronce shared with my mother that in the weeks be-

ore her death, Nancy would scream, Mom, getme a guru! I need a guru! Nancy seemed to knowthat her torment went deeper than societal conven-tions, touching even on the realm o the spiritualShe cried out or guidance; or help. But it wouldnever come.

I wish I knew more about Nancy. I dreamsome day o nding and meeting her son (mycousin). I wonder i that would help bring a smalmeasure o closure to what is a tragic story. Or per-haps it would merely bring unnecessary pain intohis lie. But perhaps the joy o knowing that some

glimmer o gooda human liecame rom thesituation would bring some measure o comortto those who still mourn Nancy, even aer ortyyears.

A ew years aer Nancy took her lie, mygrandather did the same.

Imagine the pain the amily aced as theydealt with another suicide, another tragedy, an-other humiliation. He, too, dealt with tormentu-ous depression, anger and grie. When it came tobe too much or him to handle, he took his lie

Could a amily get any lower? Imagine gathering atChristmas or Tanksgiving with two amily mem-bers missing. Imagine the pain.

But at about the same time my grandathertook his lie, something miraculous happened inthat amily. My ather was given new lie.


22/30


Te Bible shares a story that speaks o asimilar situation.

In John chapter eleven we read about a mannamed Lazarus, who was a close riend o Jesus.At one point Jesus received a messenger tell-ing him that Lazarus was gravely ill and askingHim to hurry to the town o Bethany to be with

his riend. But by the time Jesus arrived, it wastoo lateLazarus was dead and had been in thetomb or our days already. Imagine a our-dayold corpse in theheat o the mid-dle-east. Tecorpse wouldalready havebeen decaying.When Jesusasked to see thebody, Lazarus

sister, Martha,said, Lord, bythis time therewill be an odor,or he has beendead our days.Martha knewwhat to expecto a man who was dead he would be putre-ying, causing an unbearable stench. She had areasonable expectation o a dead man.

But Jesus did not, or he had something toteach them. He said to Martha, I am the res-urrection and the lie. Whoever believes in me,though he die, yet shall he live, and everyonewho lives and believes in me shall never die. Doyou believe this?

Jesus then went into that tomb and calledLazarus, come out! And just like that, lie was

breathed back into the dead man, and he walkedout o the tomb, still bound in grave cloths. Tepower o God had breathed lie into death.And that is what happened to my ather. He didnot experience physical death, but was spiritu-ally as lost and dead as his sister had been. Hisspirit was as dead as Lazarus body. He was with-

out a guru, without a teacher, without a Godand without a hope. But then the power o Godbreathed lie into him. My ather was saved rom

the horrorand despairthat beell hissister and hisather.

Whatis even more

amazingis that this

same lie wasbreathed intoNancys sis-ter (my aunt)and Nancysmother (my

grandmoth-er). Tey, too,

were given lie! Tat lie has continued to bringjoy and comort to the amily through the years.

Te words Jesus said to Lazarus are thesame he says to you today. I am the resurrectionand the lie. Whoever believes in me, though hedie, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives andbelieves in me shall never die. Do you believethis?

Do you?

I think I began to write this as a kind of therapy. But as I reached the end of Nancys life I realizedthat it offered an ideal opportunity to share the gospel with Leonard Cohens fan base. Over the yearsI have received some very interesting and occasionally even encouraging emails from those people.(March 24, 2005)


23/30

You know the o-told story, I am sure. G.K. Chesterton, along with otherprominent authors o his day, was asked byTe imes to answer this question:Whats Wrong with the World? His answer was beautiul in its simplicity

and brilliant in its proundity.

Dear Sirs,

I am.

Sincerely yours,G. K. Chesterton

As I ponder the greatest hindrances to the gospel today, I cant help buteel that Chesterons words are applicable to this question, too. And yet,at the same time, I eel as i they are wrong; dead wrong.

I AmI, as a Christian, hinder the spread o the gospel and hinder its power in theworld.

I hinder the gospel when I lose condence in the gospelin the pow-erul simplicity o the good news that Jesus Christ has died to save sinners.Our age has seen more gospel innovation than any other. We have unprec-edented access to programs, teachings and technologies that claim to be ableto urther the gospels spread. But how easy it is to nd that my condence isin the programs or in the teachers or in the technologies, rather than in thegospel message itsel. How quick I am to preer my own message and my own

methods above those given to me by God.I hinder the gospel when what I do ails to match what I say. When Iclaim to ollow Christ but allow my actions to betray my words, a watching

GREATEST HINDRanceThe


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world scos at the gospel, and rightly so. When I claim to have been transormed byGods grace but live as i God has made no change at all, I cause others to heap contempt

on the gospel. Robert Robinson said this so eloquently in his great hymn, Come, TouFount o Every Blessing: Prone to wander, Lord, I eel it, Prone to leave the God I love.Living in the constant tension o being both saint and sinner, I am prone to wander awayrom the One I love; prone to live as i He is nothing to me. And in this I hinder thegospel.

I Am NotFrom my human perspective, I am the greatest hindrance to the gospel. But the Bible tellsme to look higher. It tells me with glorious clarity that nothing, no one, is able to hinder thegospel. It tells me to place my condence in the God whose plans cannot be stopped. Mylack o condence in the gospel, my indierence to it, and my unaithulness in spreading

it, cannot truly hinder the work o God. God reigns supreme over all.

his dominion is an everlasting dominion,and his kingdom endures rom generation to generation;all the inhabitants o the earth are accounted as nothing,and he does according to his will among the host o heaven

and among the inhabitants o the earth;and none can stay his hand

or say to him, What have you done? (Daniel 4:34b-35)

Not one person who truly seeks aer God will be hindered rom embracing Christas Lord and Savior. Christ, the Good Shepherd, has sent His Spirit to gather a

people to himsel. Christ knows his own and his own know him. He will draw themto himsel and not one will be lost; not one can be lost. Far be it rom me to thinkthat I can stand in the way o God, the Creator and Sustainer o all that was and isand ever will be.

What is the greatest hindrance to the gospel today? I am, but nothing is. God reignssupreme.

Compassion Magazine asked me to submit an article for their Spring 2009 issueanswering this question: What is the Greatest Hindrance to the Gospel today?This was my response. (January 9, 2009)


25/30


My son is three years old and has recently begun to become aware

o the existence o death. At only three he has ar greater capacity towonder and to ask questions than he does to understand. Tis makesit dicult and as his ather I struggle to try to share with him whatdeath is and how something so terriying and so nal can be madean occasion o wondrous joy.

oday, while my wie was at a Bible study, Nick and I settled down to watch amovie. It was a childrens movie but at the end one o the central characters died.I watched Nick as this event unolded. I could see his ace all and his eyes narrowas the character died. I saw tears orm as he watched the loved ones gather aroundtheir allen riend. He turned to me and with tears spilling down his cheekssobbed, Daddy, why did he have to die? When is he going to come alive again?I pulled him to my lap and reminded him o heaven and told him that peoplewho love God go to heaven when they die. I told him how heaven is a place wherethere is no more death, no more ghting and no more sadness. I told him thatit is a place where we can always be with God and where boys and their daddiescan be together orever. He tried so hard to understand, but how is a three-yearold mind supposed to understand a concept so large and so unnatural as death?

And so we sat on the couch and we wept together. Nicky put his head in mylap and cried about something he could not understand and something he wasnot created to understand. Daddy stroked his hair and wept or this worldaworld which was created or us to live in or all eternity with our Maker, but a

world that has been deled by death. I wept that a three-year old needs to con-cern himsel with death; with things he cannot and should not understand.

I asked Nicky i I could pray with him and wiping the tears rom his cheekshe said yes. He closed his eyes. So I asked God i he would help Nicky under-stand that death is not something to be eared i we love him. I asked God to helpNick learn to love him more and more. And o course I asked him to give Nickypeace so that his young mind wouldnt be troubled by concepts too dicult orhim to understand.

I wish I could explain to my son about the death o death accomplishedthrough the death o Christ. I wish I could make him understand that i he placeshis trust in Jesus he has nothing to ear in lie or in death. I hope, I trust, I praythat such an understanding will come in due time, so when on the day that Nicks

eyes close in death, he and I will be reunited in that place where death shall be nomore, where there will be no more mourning, pain or sorrow and where God willhave already wiped away the tears that lled his little eyes.

{un}natural

Thiswas

justoneofthosefatherhoodmomen

tsthatIknewIneededtorecord.(F

ebruary21,2004)


26/30


In my personal devotions Ive recently begun a study

o Esther. Since it is a short book and one that is en-tirely narrative, I do not anticipate being in the bookor longprobably just about one day per chapter.Esther is probably best known among Christians asbeing a book o the Bible that never mentions God, ei-ther explicitly or even implicitly. But though His nameis never mentioned, his hand is all over the book. Hisname does not need to be mentioned or us to see himin, over and behind the story. His providence and hiscare or his people is as clear in Esther as it would be ihis name was mentioned throughout.

Yet its still easy to miss God in the story. All theevidence we need is in how little attention we give tothis book. It is rarely spoken o and rarely preached. Idont know i, through all my years o going to church,Ive ever heard a sermon that looked primarily to Es-ther. But there is a reason that Esther is in the Bible.Like each o the other sixty ve books, its author isGodthe God who is unaraid to leave his name outo this story.

Earlier this month I spent a ew days stayingat the home o my aunt and uncle. Tey live in thecountryside, ar rom any major urban center. Tey

embrace country living, growing vegetables on theirarm, allowing a giant, urry, stinky dog to roam andprotect the property, and keeping a small collectiono potent rearms. While not a seasoned hunter, my

bloodon the book


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uncle does enjoy heading out into his property

to chase down the occasional unlucky deer. Oneevening he and I sat outside in the gathering darkwhile he grilled a ew steaks and he told o how hekilled a deer on his property the year beore. Aerkilling it, he knew that he would need to gureout how to butcher the thing. So he loaded it ontoa little tractor and drove it up to his barn. Terehe hoisted it up so it hung rom a raer, and heset to work.

Tankully, he had had the oresight to buy acopy o a book that gave step-by-step instructionson how to properly butcher the deer and prepare

the meat. As he described the butchering process,he disappeared into the house or a moment andreturned with the book. I began to ip throughit, turning past chapters on how to butcher cows,pigs, sheep, rabbits, raccoons and chickens. Itwasnt hard to tell when I came to the portion onbutchering a deerthose pages were covered inblood. Obviously my uncle had kept this bookwith him through the butchering process andhad turned to it oen. Tere were bloody nger-prints on the edges and drops o blood smearedacross the pages. It looked well-used. Apparentlyit served as a good guide because my uncle man-aged to properly butcher the deer and prepare itor eating. Te week we were there he was prepar-ing a pit in which he could smoke the meat romthe next deer that ound itsel in his crosshairs.

I thought about that book later and thoughtabout the dierence between the pages that arecovered with blood and those that are still pris-tine (and which will no doubt remain that way

until a hapless sheep happens to wander through

my uncles property during hunting season). Ithought o that book as I began my study o Es-ther, pondering the dierence between the pagesthat show evidence o use and those that do not.Tere are some pages in my Bible that are coveredin blood, so to speak. Tey are pages that I use toproclaim or deend my aith; they are pages withverses that upli and inspire; they are the pageswith verses that people like to adapt as their lie verses. I turn to these pages oen and love tolearn rom them.

But then there is Esther. Ive rarely turned

to the book at all. Tere is no blood on the pageso Esther, at least in my Bible. Tere is little evi-dence that I have learned rom those pages andthat I use them to bolster my aith. Tere is littleevidence that I have used those pages to teach memore about the God I serve. But even rom thisbrie study Im learning again that God didnt putany unnecessary chapters or any empty narrativesin his book. Aer all, this is the God who says,All Scripture is breathed out by God and pro-itable or teaching, or reproo, or correction,and or training in righteousness, that the man oGod may be competent, equipped or every goodwork. Even Esther, the book that does not men-tion God, is given or teaching, reproo, correc-tion and or training in righteousness. It exists tomake me competent and equipped to live in theway God wants me to live.

Ive become convicted that I cant leave Es-ther until there is some blood on those pages.

Sometimes, as a writer, I search long and hard for stories or examples or metaphors.Sometimes they get dropped right onto my lap. The moment I saw my uncles book,everything fell into place. (November 2, 2007)


28/30


Dr. Criswell, long-time pastor o FirstBaptist Church o Dallas, exas, wasonce traveling by plane to attend aspeaking engagement on the East coast.Aer boarding the aircra and gettingsettled, he was thrilled to recognize theman in the seat beside him as a well-known Christian theologian. Criswellgreatly admired this man and was ea-ger to get to know him. Soon the planele the ground and aer it settled intocruising altitude, Criswell introducedhimsel and the two began to speak.

Te theologian told the pastor

how he had recently lost his our-yearold son to a terrible illness. It began in-nocently enough when the child wassent home rom school one aernoonaer developing a ever. At rst the

parents thought it was a typical child-hood illness that would soon run itscourse. But his condition continued toworsen and that evening they took himto the hospital. Te doctors ran a bat-tery o tests and told the parents tragicnews - their son had a virulent ormo meningitis and there was nothingthey could do or him. Te child wasbeyond their help and was going to die.

Te loving parents did the onlything they could do, which was sit withtheir son in a death vigil.

It was the middle o the aernoon,

only a ew days aer he became sick,and the illness was causing the littleboys vision began to ade. He lookedup at his daddy and said soly,

Daddy, its getting dark, isnt it?

m

orningwillcome


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Te proessor replied, Yes, son, it is dark. Its very dark. And or the ather it was.

Te little boy said, I guess its time or me to get to sleep, isnt it?

Yes son, its time or you to sleep, said the ather.

Te theologian explained to Dr. Criswell how his son liked his pillow and his blankets ar-ranged just so and that he laid his head on his hands while he slept. He told how he helped thechild x his pillow and how his little boy rested his head on his hands and said, Good nightdaddy. Ill see you in the morning. With that the little boy closed his eyes and ell asleep. Onlya ew minutes later his little chest rose and ell or the last time and his lie was over almostbeore it began.

Te proessor stopped talking and looked out the window o the airplane or a goodlong time. Finally he turned to Dr. Criswell and with his voice breaking and tears spilling

onto his cheeks gasped,

Tough it may sound like nothing more than the cry o a grie-stricken parent, theathers words speak o ar more. Tey speak o a beautiul truth. Te Lord Jesus Christpromised us that the morning will come. Death has been deeated and even now we awaitthe dawn when Christ will return and death shall be no more. Only through Jesus can wehave the hope o eternal lie that sustains this grie-stricken ather. Only through Jesus canwe have assurance that he will wipe away every tear rom their eyes; there shall be no moredeath, nor sorrow, nor crying. (Revelation 21:4) Little boys will be reunited with their a-thers so together they can dance or joy beore the One who tasted and deeated death soothers could have lie.

God oers this gi, this assurance, this blessing only to those who will look to him.Do you believe in him? Have you looked to Jesus and cried out or him to give you lie? Cryout to Jesus, that when that new day dawns, you will be ound in him.

Morning is coming!

I can hardly wait or morning to come...

The story is so powerful that, as I writer, I can do little more than tell it. I wrotethis through tears, thinking of my own children every moment. Though this is theearliest of the articles Ive collected here, it remains a favorite. I always strugglewith the temptation to dramatize or embelish it. But again, the story tells itself. Itseems an appropriate place to close. Morning is coming! (December 1, 2004)


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