Salvation was the last thing on my mind. Day in and day out, the first and only things I thought about were to “kill or be killed, to plunder or be robbed, and revolt or submit, the forbidden ‘s’ word. My life was one of constant movement, running from the Pharisees, Sadducees (I prefer to call them the harass-ees) and the like. I was always the life of my angry, ranting ‘parties;’ always demanding revenge against Harod, Caesar, whoever, it didn’t matter to me. Nothing mattered to me, I didn’t matter to me!
Before I ended up here, in the filth and mire of death row, I was always running, yelling or both. Whether it was for my life or my death, I was not sure. Rioting in the day, when I could be seen, and robbing at night, my life had become what I did for a living, a riot. Peace, what is peace? It did not exist for me and I had no desire to find out if it could. Life wasn’t great, but it was what I had made it. And at least I wasn’t a tax collector, a leper or a woman; and there are lots of those. So, as I see it, I guess I was somewhere in the middle of Caesar’s hierarchy.
I’ve been here on death row for a week because of my latest rantings. Though they have put me away for a night and a day many times before, whether a few weeks for robbery, a few days for raising a ruckus downtown or a few hours for rape, I’ve always found my way out. Many friends of mine have received slaps on the wrist like these before, but I am the first to sleep here.
For a few days, I was proud of myself. “Matthias or Judas had never been here. If I would live to tell the story, they would be proud of me,” I thought. But I didn’t care. Instead of eating bread and wine I had stolen, locusts and drips of dirty water were now my regular diet. Sleeping in my own disgusting mess, on this cold, compacted slab of dirt in this pitch black dungeon was the pit I had dug for myself. I guess I better just lie in it.
It seemed like I had spent an eternity here before anyone yelled at me from the other side of the wall, until I recognized Matt’s voice, a friend whom I had robbed with on many occasions. The last time I heard from him, he had told me of someone who might just be my room mate.
Matt - Hey Rabby, are you in there?
Rabby – Yeah, wasting away as normal. I am getting used to the taste of locusts. Hey, can you throw me anything?
Matt – Just some day old bread, I’ll try to get it through your window, it’s pretty tiny though. Hey have you heard about this guy, Jesus?
Rabby – Oh, that guy. Lots of people are talking about him. I hear he’s gonna die with me soon. He’s just another criminal like me, another worthless, useless bag of scum with no reason to live. When he gets in here, heaven knows what I’ll do to him.
Matt – But he’s not quite like that. Yeah, he may be your room mate soon, but thousands of people follow him every day. I heard that he has healed people of leprosy, allowed the lame to walk, given sight back to the blind, raised the dead and even healed people from a distance!
As Matt continued to yell from the other side of the wall, I became intrigued as never before. Though Matt had finally thrown some bread through the window, I wasn’t hungry. I was too interested to eat. This man had been charged by the Harassees with a similar crime as mine and they hoped to given my sentence for doing the exact opposite of what I had done. Instead of robbing and murdering, this man had created more of what the people needed, like bread and wine and that sort of stuff. And instead of rioting, this man had offered peace. My attitude began to change.
Rabby – He has some kind of ‘in’ with people in high places, huh? Could he get any bread or wine in here? Gee, if my cell mate can do that, I wonder if he can pick these chains apart too.
Matt – Well apparently, he’s done it all. He’s quite a magician. I’ve heard that he’s walked on water, turned water into wine and he’s even fed the thousands who follow him with a shepherd boy’s lunch.
Rabby – Well, that will definitely keep them coming back for more.
Matt – But that’s just it. He says that we don’t have to come back for more bread or water. He says he is the manna and the well spring of life.
Rabby – If he can provide all that food, that’s quite a currier service he’s running.
Matt – And the clincher is the best part. All we need to do to get all this is believe.
Rabby – Believe what?
Matt – Believe that he is who he says he is.
Rabby – Well, who is he?
Matt – He says he’s the son of his father.
Rabby – Well, that makes sense, so am I.
Matt – But that’s why the Harassees want to kill him. He says his father is . . . Yahweh!
Rabby – Well, if he ever comes in here, I’ll ask him about it.
As Matt left and I slowly gnawed my way through the tough bread he had thrown through the window, I began to wonder. “Manna and wine of life . . . Healer, even from a distance. . . Son of Yahweh. . . Well, my life looks like it will end soon. He can’t give me what I really need because he’s out there and I’m in here. And even if he could give me life for a few days, it wouldn’t matter, because we will both be dead soon. But how can he give life anyway? He’s just like me, ‘the son of his father.’ He’s a nobody.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
The Quiet Christ - Part 2
I will never forget the next night. As I heard another few hammer-whacks pounding nails into flesh and wood, and the agonizing cries that immediately followed, I began to see life, or rather death, from their point of view. It was just a matter of time when that would be me, and time was ticking. When I was free, I remember seeing their crosses on the roadside. It scares me half to death when I hear them groan.
It was now late Friday evening (at least I think it was Friday) and Jerusalem would soon celebrate the Passover. It would be my first Passover in prison. On most
evenings, people were in their homes getting ready for the coming meal, but tonight I could hear the faint murmur of a distant, angry mob shouting my name. My ears perked up. After a short hush, I heard the mob shout even louder, “Crucify Him, Crucify Him!” I guess tonight is my night to join those other criminals on the crosses outside, and my hope of having a new room mate, has run out.
But wait . . . the doors were opening . . . ‘who’s the new criminal?’ . . . But there was none. Just a couple of guards walking purposefully in my direction!
Guard – “Barabbas?”
Rabby – “Yeah, it’s my time isn’t it.”
Guard – “The crowds want you, so out with you.”
As they led me through the streets to the waiting crowd, protesting outside Pilate’s house, my knees shook and buckled as I expected the worst. But nothing came. This gruff form of mercy was something I had never felt before. Maybe I’ll get to see the city one last time before hanging from a cross.
But as I drew closer, I heard the crowd chanting joyfully, “Barabbas is free, and Jesus will die! Barabbas is free, and Jesus will die! Barabbas is free, and Jesus will die!”
Is this Jesus the same person Matt was talking about? The man who can heal from a distance?
As I looked up, I saw the man I thought was Jesus. Wearing a crown of thorns on his head, he had marks from his most recent scourging showing through the purple garment he was wearing, down to his bare feet. He was being led away by several guards who took turns mocking him, hitting him with their staffs on his thorny crown, chanting “hail, king of the Jews!” And this ‘king of the Jews’ would die instead of me? This didn’t make sense. Night time is usually the best time to rob people, but I would set my job aside for one night to watch this fascinating plot unfold.
Pilate decided that the crucifixion would take place on scull hill, a place where I had been many times to say my last good byes to some of my closest friends. And if I had time, I would have asked Judas and Matt to come along with me. But who knows, maybe they were in the crowd.
It took a good hour to make it to the top as Jesus, whom they referred to as ‘the Christ turned criminal’, who was carrying his cross, was in no rush to be nailed to it. I was somewhere in the middle; hearing jeers from Harassees and other men, weeping from women pleading for his release and hungry, tired children, who didn’t want to be there at all.
Though there was hardly any room for a passing lane, a man running towards us attempted to do just that. Late for dinner I suspect. But the Harassees denied him safe passage and demanded that he carry Jesus’ cross back up Skull hill, as he had collapsed under its weight and didn’t have the energy to rise without help. If there was anyone who deserved to carry a cross, this cross, it was me. I could feel a tear running down my cheek because I could not give him the help he needed. He was taking my place, after all.
I was shell-shocked at the recent events. Two hours ago, I was expecting to die at any time. Instead, I am here, watching a complete stranger take my place and die instead. I began to connect the stories Matt had told me the other day and those of crying women behind me. They seemed to make sense somehow. “If this man had done all these good things, why is this happening to him? If I had done all of these bad things, why is this happening to me?”
It was now late Friday evening (at least I think it was Friday) and Jerusalem would soon celebrate the Passover. It would be my first Passover in prison. On most
evenings, people were in their homes getting ready for the coming meal, but tonight I could hear the faint murmur of a distant, angry mob shouting my name. My ears perked up. After a short hush, I heard the mob shout even louder, “Crucify Him, Crucify Him!” I guess tonight is my night to join those other criminals on the crosses outside, and my hope of having a new room mate, has run out.
But wait . . . the doors were opening . . . ‘who’s the new criminal?’ . . . But there was none. Just a couple of guards walking purposefully in my direction!
Guard – “Barabbas?”
Rabby – “Yeah, it’s my time isn’t it.”
Guard – “The crowds want you, so out with you.”
As they led me through the streets to the waiting crowd, protesting outside Pilate’s house, my knees shook and buckled as I expected the worst. But nothing came. This gruff form of mercy was something I had never felt before. Maybe I’ll get to see the city one last time before hanging from a cross.
But as I drew closer, I heard the crowd chanting joyfully, “Barabbas is free, and Jesus will die! Barabbas is free, and Jesus will die! Barabbas is free, and Jesus will die!”
Is this Jesus the same person Matt was talking about? The man who can heal from a distance?
As I looked up, I saw the man I thought was Jesus. Wearing a crown of thorns on his head, he had marks from his most recent scourging showing through the purple garment he was wearing, down to his bare feet. He was being led away by several guards who took turns mocking him, hitting him with their staffs on his thorny crown, chanting “hail, king of the Jews!” And this ‘king of the Jews’ would die instead of me? This didn’t make sense. Night time is usually the best time to rob people, but I would set my job aside for one night to watch this fascinating plot unfold.
Pilate decided that the crucifixion would take place on scull hill, a place where I had been many times to say my last good byes to some of my closest friends. And if I had time, I would have asked Judas and Matt to come along with me. But who knows, maybe they were in the crowd.
It took a good hour to make it to the top as Jesus, whom they referred to as ‘the Christ turned criminal’, who was carrying his cross, was in no rush to be nailed to it. I was somewhere in the middle; hearing jeers from Harassees and other men, weeping from women pleading for his release and hungry, tired children, who didn’t want to be there at all.
Though there was hardly any room for a passing lane, a man running towards us attempted to do just that. Late for dinner I suspect. But the Harassees denied him safe passage and demanded that he carry Jesus’ cross back up Skull hill, as he had collapsed under its weight and didn’t have the energy to rise without help. If there was anyone who deserved to carry a cross, this cross, it was me. I could feel a tear running down my cheek because I could not give him the help he needed. He was taking my place, after all.
I was shell-shocked at the recent events. Two hours ago, I was expecting to die at any time. Instead, I am here, watching a complete stranger take my place and die instead. I began to connect the stories Matt had told me the other day and those of crying women behind me. They seemed to make sense somehow. “If this man had done all these good things, why is this happening to him? If I had done all of these bad things, why is this happening to me?”
The Quiet Christ – Part 3
After he was nailed up, I sat down behind the Harassees with my two friends who were in the crowd after all. Those who had crucified him started to throw dice for the clothes of the three criminals on the three crosses. Jesus, the quiet one, was in the middle and most of the relentless attention, scoffing and mocking was directed at him. But he said nothing! If they hadn’t yet done enough to scorn this man, someone wrote a sign that labeled his crime: “King of the Jews”. Gee, that sounds familiar. I didn’t know Harod’s title was a crime? The Harassees said that we should just leave him alone, so Judas, Matt and I sat behind them, hoping to receive some of the warmth from the fire they had made.
If you haven’t seen a crucifixion, they are long, ugly and tiring. Like a prison sentence where the goal is simply to ‘do the time,’ the responsibility of a crucified man is both to ‘do the time’ and ‘bear the pain.’ I hate the idea of doing both.
In addition, though it was mid afternoon, this crucifixion took place in the dark. Soon after the Harassees lit their fire, the heavenly lights went out and the only source of light and warmth was those quickly quenching flames. Needless to say, with no light, nothing to do, and little to talk about, we all fell asleep.
Some time later, we awoke. The fire had long gone out, the game of dice had ended because of the darkness, and those Harassees had gone. Others had come to take their place, but only a few people still remained.
As we leaned against each other, talking, rubbing our hands together to keep warm, nodding in and out of sleep, none of us were thinking about work. We were all thinking about how an innocent man could receive a sentence he did not deserve. Judas, Matt or myself would have been ideal candidates, but this man? I know I am supposed to be a cold blooded, hardened criminal, but in spite of the cold around me, I began to sense warmth that I had never felt before, and somehow it seemed to come from this quiet one.
He remained that way for hours, refusing to answer the ridicules he received from all sides. But if someone mentioned something important, he did his best to answer their comments. For instance, at about two o’clock, one of the criminals asked:
Right criminal – “What are you doing here? I’m here for a good reason. I stole, killed, molested. But you? You just gave. Please remember me when you enter your kingdom. I’ll always remember you.”
Than I heard him speak for the first time.
Jesus – “Don’t worry. You’ll do more than remember me. You’ll be with me.”
How can he be so comforting when he is so uncomfortable? Does he know something that no one else knows? I guess he really must have friends in high places. And what was that about a ‘kingdom’? Really? You mean this title ‘King of the Jews” is more than just a cruel joke?
Though we continued to sit with our backs to each other, me watching the cross, and my friends watching the many passers by along the road, my friends began to be more and more interested whenever the quiet one spoke. The criminals, however, were constantly talking, making verbal jabs at each other, the passers by, and especially at him.
Right criminal - “Who do you think you are? If you are the Son of God, do something Godly. Dying on a cross certainly isn’t Godly!”
Left criminal - “So, you are the King of the Jews, are you. Well, I’m a Jew, and you are definitely not my king.”
Even the Harassees acted like children, making faces ridiculing this helpless man and chanting: “Nah, Nah Nah Boo Boo, you can’t catch me!”
But the quiet one was the man of the hour. He just took it. And some how he let their comments slide like water off a duck’s back. His mind was truly in another place, and nothing could be said or done to bring it back.
As time passed, the criminals became more and more anxious and, if you can believe it, he became more and more ‘comfortable’. The clincher for me was hearing him say
Jesus – “God, forgive them, they just don’t get it.”
Though I haven’t experienced it, I can imagine that time passes even more slowly when you are the one under pressure, or in this case, under pain. The next time he spoke, it was almost three, and he was obviously reaching the end of his endurance.
Jesus – “God! God!” he shouted, “Where are you? Why have you left me?”
And minutes later, he gave one last gasp, and said:
Jesus – “God, please take my spirit. It’s done!”
And with that, bowing his head, he died.
Immediately after his words, an earth quake that no one in Jerusalem has ever felt before or since shook the ground violently. The criminals on the crosses convulsed, while claps of thunder sounded and forks of lightening could be seen from one horizon to the other. I immediately leaned forward, bringing my knees to my chest burying my nails into my legs, closed my eyes as tight as I could, and shouted a prayer of some sort. I have no idea what I said. We were all crying out of fear.
Once the earth quake and the freak storm subsided, I heard someone close by say, “He surely must have been the son of God!”
Though you may have thought the earth quake was enough to kill them, the other criminals stayed alive until the guards broke their legs, bringing death to a quick completion. And until then, they had no one to poke fun at anymore.
Finally, the sky began to lighten. It was now just past three in the afternoon and I could make out the faces of my companions. Judas’ mouth gaped open as he stared at the dead man, still hanging from the middle cross.
Judas – “Wow, What a death! I’m glad we got to watch that one!”
Matt shrugged and began to walk away, “there will be more of those. I just hope it’s not my crucifixion people watch. If this man was Yahweh’s son, he surely could have done something to prevent it.”
Me? I was just perplexed. Speechless and in awe of this man who had more guts than I ever could. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop myself from weeping, because of grief, thankfulness and exhaustion. I hadn’t cried in many years and though, on previous occasions, I would have worked hard not to be emotional in front of my friends, I had no concern about what they may think of me at this particular moment. It was just me and this man. He was my only thought. What could I possibly do to thank him? Even though I didn’t know him, how could I honor his memory?
These were some of the questions I asked myself over the next few days, months, and years. These were the questions I had about this man, “The quiet Christ”
Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure (1847)
If you haven’t seen a crucifixion, they are long, ugly and tiring. Like a prison sentence where the goal is simply to ‘do the time,’ the responsibility of a crucified man is both to ‘do the time’ and ‘bear the pain.’ I hate the idea of doing both.
In addition, though it was mid afternoon, this crucifixion took place in the dark. Soon after the Harassees lit their fire, the heavenly lights went out and the only source of light and warmth was those quickly quenching flames. Needless to say, with no light, nothing to do, and little to talk about, we all fell asleep.
Some time later, we awoke. The fire had long gone out, the game of dice had ended because of the darkness, and those Harassees had gone. Others had come to take their place, but only a few people still remained.
As we leaned against each other, talking, rubbing our hands together to keep warm, nodding in and out of sleep, none of us were thinking about work. We were all thinking about how an innocent man could receive a sentence he did not deserve. Judas, Matt or myself would have been ideal candidates, but this man? I know I am supposed to be a cold blooded, hardened criminal, but in spite of the cold around me, I began to sense warmth that I had never felt before, and somehow it seemed to come from this quiet one.
He remained that way for hours, refusing to answer the ridicules he received from all sides. But if someone mentioned something important, he did his best to answer their comments. For instance, at about two o’clock, one of the criminals asked:
Right criminal – “What are you doing here? I’m here for a good reason. I stole, killed, molested. But you? You just gave. Please remember me when you enter your kingdom. I’ll always remember you.”
Than I heard him speak for the first time.
Jesus – “Don’t worry. You’ll do more than remember me. You’ll be with me.”
How can he be so comforting when he is so uncomfortable? Does he know something that no one else knows? I guess he really must have friends in high places. And what was that about a ‘kingdom’? Really? You mean this title ‘King of the Jews” is more than just a cruel joke?
Though we continued to sit with our backs to each other, me watching the cross, and my friends watching the many passers by along the road, my friends began to be more and more interested whenever the quiet one spoke. The criminals, however, were constantly talking, making verbal jabs at each other, the passers by, and especially at him.
Right criminal - “Who do you think you are? If you are the Son of God, do something Godly. Dying on a cross certainly isn’t Godly!”
Left criminal - “So, you are the King of the Jews, are you. Well, I’m a Jew, and you are definitely not my king.”
Even the Harassees acted like children, making faces ridiculing this helpless man and chanting: “Nah, Nah Nah Boo Boo, you can’t catch me!”
But the quiet one was the man of the hour. He just took it. And some how he let their comments slide like water off a duck’s back. His mind was truly in another place, and nothing could be said or done to bring it back.
As time passed, the criminals became more and more anxious and, if you can believe it, he became more and more ‘comfortable’. The clincher for me was hearing him say
Jesus – “God, forgive them, they just don’t get it.”
Though I haven’t experienced it, I can imagine that time passes even more slowly when you are the one under pressure, or in this case, under pain. The next time he spoke, it was almost three, and he was obviously reaching the end of his endurance.
Jesus – “God! God!” he shouted, “Where are you? Why have you left me?”
And minutes later, he gave one last gasp, and said:
Jesus – “God, please take my spirit. It’s done!”
And with that, bowing his head, he died.
Immediately after his words, an earth quake that no one in Jerusalem has ever felt before or since shook the ground violently. The criminals on the crosses convulsed, while claps of thunder sounded and forks of lightening could be seen from one horizon to the other. I immediately leaned forward, bringing my knees to my chest burying my nails into my legs, closed my eyes as tight as I could, and shouted a prayer of some sort. I have no idea what I said. We were all crying out of fear.
Once the earth quake and the freak storm subsided, I heard someone close by say, “He surely must have been the son of God!”
Though you may have thought the earth quake was enough to kill them, the other criminals stayed alive until the guards broke their legs, bringing death to a quick completion. And until then, they had no one to poke fun at anymore.
Finally, the sky began to lighten. It was now just past three in the afternoon and I could make out the faces of my companions. Judas’ mouth gaped open as he stared at the dead man, still hanging from the middle cross.
Judas – “Wow, What a death! I’m glad we got to watch that one!”
Matt shrugged and began to walk away, “there will be more of those. I just hope it’s not my crucifixion people watch. If this man was Yahweh’s son, he surely could have done something to prevent it.”
Me? I was just perplexed. Speechless and in awe of this man who had more guts than I ever could. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop myself from weeping, because of grief, thankfulness and exhaustion. I hadn’t cried in many years and though, on previous occasions, I would have worked hard not to be emotional in front of my friends, I had no concern about what they may think of me at this particular moment. It was just me and this man. He was my only thought. What could I possibly do to thank him? Even though I didn’t know him, how could I honor his memory?
These were some of the questions I asked myself over the next few days, months, and years. These were the questions I had about this man, “The quiet Christ”
Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
Placide Cappeau de Roquemaure (1847)
Saturday, December 8, 2007
The Core of the Matter
Several years ago while I studied at Trinity Western University (TWU) in Langley, I spent the month of May in Fort Babine, British Columbia. Babine, a small, isolated First Nations reserve two hours outside of Smithers, is a community that rarely sleeps soundly. In the late afternoon, young men may be playing hockey in the gym while women watch; elders may be making moccasins to sell, or catching, drying or packing fresh moose-meat for the coming winter. As the night draws on, William may order a Pay-Per-View match of World Wrestling Entertainment, others might play video games, or watch movies. But while the clock ticks closer to midnight, bottles of alcohol inevitably begin to open, and instead of thinking about bed, the “party begins.”
Quinton (13) and Tashawnda (11) are two native children who were adopted by a single native, Christian woman named Violet. They slowly learn the virtues of the Christian life through the work of their mom, missionaries from Streetcorners Ministries in Smithers and a few students from TWU. For several years, I was one of those students who hoped to encourage them in their young faith.
When school ends at 3:00, Quinton and Tashawnda join their class mates in the slow but short walk back to their homes down the road. I have assisted Mr. and Mrs. Forbes, who have inevitably given homework that they inevitably dread. As I join them in their walk back home, I encourage them to complete it quickly so they may be able to watch the new DVD Violet just bought them, go fishing off the Babine Bridge or join their older friends in the gym later on for a game of hockey. But as I say this I equally understand that the chances of this happening are slim.
In the evening, the struggles continue. Tucking them in to bed, reading them Bible stories, eating an apple, and saying Good night at 11:00pm rather than 1:00am seems to be a good idea for kids who have been brought up well by well meaning parents. But when you have been raised in a place where kids fall asleep at one or two in the morning in front of the TV, reading of any kind may not occur at all outside of school, and a bag of chips is more readily available than a healthier piece of fruit. Needless to say, it takes a lot of work, if it is attempted, because even this tiny piece of wisdom, ‘go to bed early’ is rarely, seen as fun or a good idea. Therefore, wisdom like this is rarely enforced. Instead, it is most likely heard as a command that was made to be broken, given by an exasperated mother who would do anything just to get some peace.
So when the kids run home for lunch, I mention to Violet that I would like to tuck her kids into bed that night, read them a story, give them an apple (like my Dad did for me) and make it fun for them. Tashawnda has a friend over that night, and Quinton has decided to join his friends at the school, so at around 10:00, which soon becomes 10:30 Tashawnda and Kiesha are finally ready.
As I hoped and expected, they saw this as an exciting idea and ten minutes later, I gave them apples to eat while I read them “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstien, a book that takes only minutes to read, but a lifetime to practice. As I finish, I realize that the girls, who have pointed at the pictures and ask questions throughout, have eaten the apples down to the core and if they found them appetizing would probably eat the seeds as well. It was obvious to me that they had enjoyed a different way of spending an evening at home.
In Philippians 4:7-8, Paul gives pieces of wisdom that are more important than going to bed early, brushing your teeth, reading a bed time story or eating an apple. Here, he says we should think about things that are “true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy.”
Mark 9:36-37
Quinton (13) and Tashawnda (11) are two native children who were adopted by a single native, Christian woman named Violet. They slowly learn the virtues of the Christian life through the work of their mom, missionaries from Streetcorners Ministries in Smithers and a few students from TWU. For several years, I was one of those students who hoped to encourage them in their young faith.
When school ends at 3:00, Quinton and Tashawnda join their class mates in the slow but short walk back to their homes down the road. I have assisted Mr. and Mrs. Forbes, who have inevitably given homework that they inevitably dread. As I join them in their walk back home, I encourage them to complete it quickly so they may be able to watch the new DVD Violet just bought them, go fishing off the Babine Bridge or join their older friends in the gym later on for a game of hockey. But as I say this I equally understand that the chances of this happening are slim.
In the evening, the struggles continue. Tucking them in to bed, reading them Bible stories, eating an apple, and saying Good night at 11:00pm rather than 1:00am seems to be a good idea for kids who have been brought up well by well meaning parents. But when you have been raised in a place where kids fall asleep at one or two in the morning in front of the TV, reading of any kind may not occur at all outside of school, and a bag of chips is more readily available than a healthier piece of fruit. Needless to say, it takes a lot of work, if it is attempted, because even this tiny piece of wisdom, ‘go to bed early’ is rarely, seen as fun or a good idea. Therefore, wisdom like this is rarely enforced. Instead, it is most likely heard as a command that was made to be broken, given by an exasperated mother who would do anything just to get some peace.
So when the kids run home for lunch, I mention to Violet that I would like to tuck her kids into bed that night, read them a story, give them an apple (like my Dad did for me) and make it fun for them. Tashawnda has a friend over that night, and Quinton has decided to join his friends at the school, so at around 10:00, which soon becomes 10:30 Tashawnda and Kiesha are finally ready.
As I hoped and expected, they saw this as an exciting idea and ten minutes later, I gave them apples to eat while I read them “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstien, a book that takes only minutes to read, but a lifetime to practice. As I finish, I realize that the girls, who have pointed at the pictures and ask questions throughout, have eaten the apples down to the core and if they found them appetizing would probably eat the seeds as well. It was obvious to me that they had enjoyed a different way of spending an evening at home.
In Philippians 4:7-8, Paul gives pieces of wisdom that are more important than going to bed early, brushing your teeth, reading a bed time story or eating an apple. Here, he says we should think about things that are “true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy.”
Then he put a little child among them. Taking the child in his arms, he said to them, “Anyone who welcomes a little child like this on my behalf[a] welcomes me, and anyone who welcomes me welcomes not only me but also my Father who sent me.”
Mark 9:36-37
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Until we Stop Remembering
How good are you at remembering? Our culture runs well when appointments, obligations and responsibilities are remembered, but collapses, one piece at a time, when these utterly important errands are forgotten. Every year Canadians have a holiday weekend in November called “Remembrance Day”, an annual chance to remember those men and women who died, are dying or will die for our freedom. In four months, we will remember another death with another national holiday. Whether you consider Good Friday more or less important than November 11th, humankind has considered this death, that of Jesus Christ, one of the most important in history. Though this comparison can break down easily, and may be seen as sacrilegious, I would argue that the sacrifices our soldiers make for us can be viewed in a similar light as the death of Jesus Christ of Nazareth.
Last December, I enjoyed a beer while talking with a dear friend of mine who may be asked, someday, to fight for his country in Afghanistan as the captain of a CH-146 Griffon helicopter. As we talked, he told me about the things he loves about flying, the other captains, commanders or Lieutenants he works with, and the changes he has seen since moving to Edmonton three years ago. Currently, Steve continues taking steps foreword in his training, being involved in search and rescue missions, flying in and through canyons in the Rockies and strapping himself in for simulated missions at the CFB Namao air base, just outside of Edmonton.
In the BBC documentary “Why We Fight?” (© 2005 Charlotte Street Films, Ltd.) Eugene Jarecki gives many reasons why soldiers may choose to fight for their country. Soldiers are famous for listing “freedom” as one of their reasons for fighting. They may have done it because their parents and grandparents had fought and it was expected that they would fight as well. In more recent years, “revenge” has become the reason why we fight. And of course, servicemen and women are paid well. My friend Steve has a heart of gold, a mind that would allow him to thrive at anything he wanted and a deep and sincere Christian faith. I also know that Steve loves adventure but, when I first heard about the adventure he had chosen, I was confused. “Can’t he find a different, safer adventure?” But when I asked him “Why he wanted to fly in the face of possible danger?” he simply said, “I want to. I don’t want to be a transporter (flying for an airline) I want to FLY.”
How many soldiers who decided to fight in Afghanistan knew they would die for our freedom and therefore for us? Though he did not fight in Iraq, Afghanistan, the west bank or in any of the other 30 wars currently being fought on this planet, Jesus did. And because of this, He was one of the best freedom fighters the world has ever known. Whether it was through His righteous anger as he cleared the temple (Matthew 21:12-17), his defiance against the ‘teachers’ of his day (numerous sightings), or the way he defended His fellow outcasts, Jesus fought for what was right (Luke 4:18-19). Before He was born, His death was predetermined by His Father, and He was determined to make every day of it count for the Glory of His God. Because of these actions, he inspired Paul to write:
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” (Ephesians 6:12)
These words were written almost 2,000 years ago and I know that Steve believes them. But the fact that we do not need to fight with our hands to make a difference still remains a hard lesson for the world to learn. Whether our wars are large or small, we often conclude that “just one more war is necessary to teach ____ that my way is right.” Humanity does not remember the importance of each individual life well enough to stop killing it. If we did, we would stop the blood bath and then, we may be able to stop remembering. Until then, we will always need this annual day.
We often remember little, unimportant facts: sports stats, gas prices and math statistics. Steve remembers these things. But he also remembers other, more important numbers like, birthdays, e-mail addresses and favorite Bible passages. He is an example of a person who remembers the finer things in life: coming home for Christmas, watching a good hockey game, and walking and riding miles with his brother, sister and friends.
Several years ago, I bought a Christmas card that shows a Christmas tree on the front. As I opened its many folds, I found that the tree’s branches slowly disappear to reveal a cross. As we enter into the Christmas season, the fact that Jesus, “the freedom fighter”, was born to die is one more thing worth remembering. Steve remembers this!
Last December, I enjoyed a beer while talking with a dear friend of mine who may be asked, someday, to fight for his country in Afghanistan as the captain of a CH-146 Griffon helicopter. As we talked, he told me about the things he loves about flying, the other captains, commanders or Lieutenants he works with, and the changes he has seen since moving to Edmonton three years ago. Currently, Steve continues taking steps foreword in his training, being involved in search and rescue missions, flying in and through canyons in the Rockies and strapping himself in for simulated missions at the CFB Namao air base, just outside of Edmonton.
In the BBC documentary “Why We Fight?” (© 2005 Charlotte Street Films, Ltd.) Eugene Jarecki gives many reasons why soldiers may choose to fight for their country. Soldiers are famous for listing “freedom” as one of their reasons for fighting. They may have done it because their parents and grandparents had fought and it was expected that they would fight as well. In more recent years, “revenge” has become the reason why we fight. And of course, servicemen and women are paid well. My friend Steve has a heart of gold, a mind that would allow him to thrive at anything he wanted and a deep and sincere Christian faith. I also know that Steve loves adventure but, when I first heard about the adventure he had chosen, I was confused. “Can’t he find a different, safer adventure?” But when I asked him “Why he wanted to fly in the face of possible danger?” he simply said, “I want to. I don’t want to be a transporter (flying for an airline) I want to FLY.”
How many soldiers who decided to fight in Afghanistan knew they would die for our freedom and therefore for us? Though he did not fight in Iraq, Afghanistan, the west bank or in any of the other 30 wars currently being fought on this planet, Jesus did. And because of this, He was one of the best freedom fighters the world has ever known. Whether it was through His righteous anger as he cleared the temple (Matthew 21:12-17), his defiance against the ‘teachers’ of his day (numerous sightings), or the way he defended His fellow outcasts, Jesus fought for what was right (Luke 4:18-19). Before He was born, His death was predetermined by His Father, and He was determined to make every day of it count for the Glory of His God. Because of these actions, he inspired Paul to write:
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.” (Ephesians 6:12)
These words were written almost 2,000 years ago and I know that Steve believes them. But the fact that we do not need to fight with our hands to make a difference still remains a hard lesson for the world to learn. Whether our wars are large or small, we often conclude that “just one more war is necessary to teach ____ that my way is right.” Humanity does not remember the importance of each individual life well enough to stop killing it. If we did, we would stop the blood bath and then, we may be able to stop remembering. Until then, we will always need this annual day.
We often remember little, unimportant facts: sports stats, gas prices and math statistics. Steve remembers these things. But he also remembers other, more important numbers like, birthdays, e-mail addresses and favorite Bible passages. He is an example of a person who remembers the finer things in life: coming home for Christmas, watching a good hockey game, and walking and riding miles with his brother, sister and friends.
Several years ago, I bought a Christmas card that shows a Christmas tree on the front. As I opened its many folds, I found that the tree’s branches slowly disappear to reveal a cross. As we enter into the Christmas season, the fact that Jesus, “the freedom fighter”, was born to die is one more thing worth remembering. Steve remembers this!
“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery. Mark my words!”
Galatians 5:1-2
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Blessed are the Piece-makers
“Hi, I’m David and I’m an anxiety addict.” Every day I wonder if I can match up to others’ expectations of me. Do I perform my job correctly? Do I spend my free time effectively? This is what the little voice inside of me asks regularly. Or in bed at night, I think and wrestle over positive or negative ways that I can change myself, others or anything else I may be able to effect. These questions make me and keep me anxious. And I can’t seem to get away from them.
Several years ago, a speaker at my favorite summer camp spent the week talking about the beatitudes that
My parents have been marriage and family councilors for years. My
“Blessed are the Piece-makers for they shall be whole.”
People who look at my parents, and others like them, wonder in awe at how they can maintain a marriage, raise a family or disciple a community as they do. My answer: “Because they do their best to be piece-makers, they are blessed.”
Last week, over breakfast, my boss placed a basket on the table and encouraged all the others present to take a sheet of paper and pray for the name on the paper. I grabbed one quickly and placed it in my pocket. A few days later, I approached the person whose name I had picked and asked, “So, how can I be praying for you?” I could have also said, “How can I pray so that the pieces of your life may fit, become bigger and you may become whole?” We are supposed to be praying for these people for one week, but I hope to remember this colleague’s name in prayer until the pieces of her life fit together.
Who is your piece-maker? And to whom are you being a piece-maker? Over the past few years, I have felt somewhat incomplete. I have been a Christian for over eighteen years so faith has become a fairly large piece in my life and probably isn’t my problem. I have graduated from university and college, so I feel like I have achieved in the academic realm. I am part of a church family that loves me to pieces (no pun intended), and is willing to find and put the pieces that are missing, together. However, as I mentioned at the beginning, anxiety has always been a close but unwanted companion. If you drew my name out of the basket, feel free to pray against this unwanted companion in my life.
Each of us, no matter what our age, faith or occupation is, can play a role in putting someone else’s pieces back together and they can do the same for you. In that way, we may feel blessed.
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit.
Blessed is the lamb whose blood flows.
Blessed are the sat upon, spat upon, ratted on,
O lord, why have you forsaken me?
I got no place to go,
I’ve walked around soho for the last night or so.
Ah, but it doesn’t matter, no.
Blessed - Simon & Garfunkel
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
IF NOT ... / THEN WHAT?
Society today tells you that there are many reasons why it cannot love you just the way you are. It tells you that if you don’t look more beautiful, if you don’t wear the popular clothes, if you are not more cool, then people will not accept you. This is what it takes to be accepted by the standards of our society.
As I studied English in high school, I learned about something called an if / then clause. It is a rule that if you use the word ‘if’ in a sentence, you must also use the word ‘then’ soon after it. It is there to indicate a cause/ effect relationship.
In Herbie’s story, we read of a couple ‘if/then’ clauses in his life. If you believed that you had sinned too much for God to ever be able to forgive you, then you would feel hopeless about life. This is how Herbie felt. If you had “led a rough life” and had become separated from your family and friends, then you would become lonely.
Often, society is cruel in its consequences for our actions. Perhaps you too have been through circumstances that have dealt you nothing but hopelessness, loneliness, and pain.
However, God offers us a chance to experience his blessing and loving kindness if we will only come to Him. In 1st John 1:7-9, the author tells us about three if / then clauses that lead to life! He says:
1. If we claim to be without sin, [then] we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us.
2. If we confess our sins [then] He is faithful and just to forgive us our sin and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
3. If we walk in the light, as He is in the light, [then] the blood of
What peace and joy came into Herbie’s life when he submitted to God’s truth and came to
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