Sweet New Functionality - Thanks, Blogger!
If the new poll feature ever comes online, you should be able to register your preferred coffee breweing preference for all the world to see. This should be interesting.
PS -- there should be a whole bunch of choices listed, ending with something facetious about making someone else do it. If there are only 4-5 choices, the poll is still jacked up.
PPS -- it didn't occur to me to include an "I don't drink coffee" choice in the poll. This is not to exclude my non-coffee-drinking readership, but to protect myself from being saddened.
If It Rhymes, It’s A Rule
I have long been a fan of the card game euchre. One of the few pictures of me in my high school yearbook shows our little group of friends gathered around the traditional lunch-with-euchre table. I have stories and anecdotes about crazy or marathon games of euchre, strange places I’ve played (such as “gringo corner” in the Costa Rican airport for six hours) and awful mistakes I’ve made, the worst of which was misdealing when my partner had a lay-down loner (sorry, Denny).
Anyway, euchre is one of those games that features a lot of local variations. I’m sure there’s an according-to-Hoyle way to play, and I’m also sure that we don’t play it. One of the more shocking examples of regional variance is that while most euchre players use a 6 and a 4 to keep score, players from Michigan use…two 5s. Crazy.
Two of the house rules that my friends use to play euchre are “a card laid is a card played” to prevent picking up an incorrectly-played card, and “ace no face” to get a misdeal due to an inordinately bad hand. These two rules have given way to the general tenet of “if it rhymes, it’s a rule.” We even reject such nonsense as the idea of “partner’s best,” partly on the grounds that it doesn’t rhyme.
The problem, of course, with “if it rhymes, it’s a rule” is that it doesn’t rhyme. There’s a little bit of alliteration, sure, but it doesn’t even come close to rhyming. So, if “if it rhymes, it’s a rule” is a rule, then it makes itself illegal. And if it’s not a rule, then it’s not a rule.
So until we come up with a rhyming version of “if it rhymes, it’s a rule,” I guess we’re stuck with Hoyle.
A few weeks ago, my family was able to worship at a church of a completely different denomination. The pastor’s sermon that week, conveniently enough, seemed to be centered on the denominational distinctives of his church body ― what they believed, why they believed it, and how they were different from other Christian denominations. (I say “conveniently” because this is one of the things I’m most interested in when I meet people of other denominations, and it was just handy that the sermon answered many of my questions before I even had to ask them.)
I don’t have the time to go into the whole gamut of ways in which this church body differs from my own. I will share that I learned that the “-ian” at the end of “Christian” stands for “I Ain’t Nothin’” because Christ is all there is. I didn’t know that before.
The other interesting thing I learned is that this particular denomination doesn’t use instruments in its public worship. I thought when Brother Billy stood in front of church and led the congregation in their many hymns with his clear, powerful voice, he was doing it because they didn’t have (or couldn’t afford) a piano or an organ. Turns out, he was doing it for doctrinal reasons.
It seems that this particular denomination follows the general principle, “if it’s not specifically mentioned in the New Testament, you shouldn’t use it in public worship.” They can’t find any specific examples of instrumental music in the New Testament, so they don’t use any instruments in their worship. (Ephesians 5:19 and Colossians 3:16 don’t count, because, despite what you can infer from OT worship practices, the NT only specifically mentions the human voice.)
Now, there’s a whole lot a person can say about this idea, but the one thing I’m going to say is this: it doesn’t rhyme.
Seriously, where in the NT is the general principle “if it’s not specifically mentioned in the New Testament, you shouldn’t use it in public worship”? It’s not even close to something that you might call a NT worship principle ― in fact, it seems to run counter to the principle that Paul articulates in Colossians 2:16-17, 1 Corinthians 10:31, and Galatians 5:1. The rule disqualifies itself. It doesn’t meet its own standard. So, if “if it’s not specifically mentioned in the New Testament, you shouldn’t use it in public worship” is a rule, then it makes itself illegal. And if it’s not a rule, then it’s not a rule.
So until we come up with a rhyming version of “if it’s not specifically mentioned in the New Testament, you shouldn’t use it in public worship,” I guess we’re stuck with a pipe organ.
Not-Quite-Devastating News
From FoxNews:
Starbucks to Raise Coffee Prices (gasp!)
Three observations:
1) Why is it news that a company is raising its prices? Doesn't that happen all the time?
2) Granting that this is an out-of-the-ordinary price hike, one might speculate that if milk weren’t the primary ingredient in most of their beverages, they wouldn’t be having this problem, would they? The moral of the story: Drink Black Coffee!
3) Read the article carefully, especially the quote from that Dan guy who put a buy rating on sbux. I’m not an economist, but how is raising prices going to help sales go forward?
Just a couple of thoughts as I keep my fingers on the pulse of the global coffee industry for you.
Doing Something
Sometimes, sitting around talking about stuff is really important. A lot of people these days do things without talking about them first, which rather implies that they haven’t thought much about them either. And doing things without thinking/talking them through can be ill-advised at best. (A related problem is people who say things without thinking about them, too...)
Talking about things gets other people’s opinions into the open. It also opens up one’s own thought processes to public scrutiny, kind of like having someone proof-read a paper before it gets turned in. With a few friends, a favorite beverage, and a couple of hours, there’s almost no problem that can’t be “solved” ― at least, to the satisfaction of those in the room.
Sometimes, however, sitting around talking about stuff is less-than-constructive. It may even give the illusion that “something is being done” about a problem or concern when, in fact, nothing is happening. At such times, action is required rather than mere words. One can’t help but be reminded of the P.F.J. meetings in Monty Python’s classic Life of Brian ― “this calls for immediate discussion!”
At any rate, I have opened another blog to deal with both of the above situations. I’m calling it What Are We Going To Do About It?, or WAWGTDAI? for short. I’ve decided that the form, style, and content will vary enough from the vague, comfortable, lukewarm vapid-ness that characterizes this blog that it’s best to host those discussions elsewhere, and I’m hoping that posting to WAWGTDAI? doesn’t adversely affect my already-atrocious writing schedule at Café Diem.
What Are We Going To Do About It? is, above all, a place for me to talk about news, politics, and other current-events stuss that is important to me, with the hope that family, friends, and a wider community of readers might find what I have to say interesting, helpful, thought-provoking, and perhaps paradigm-shifting. I invite all of you to drop by often, read what I have to say, form an opinion, comment, etc. But even more than just talking, as the blog’s title indicates, the goal of this new blog will usually be some kind of action.
Sometimes, the action will be nothing more than staying informed and helping others to do the same. It might not be a specific action right now ― as a teacher, I’m quite used to imparting information that won’t get used for a long time into the foreseeable future ― but eventually, if I am faithful enough in writing, there will come a time when we will be called upon to do something.
¿Qué hiciste durante las vacaciones?
Una pregunta muy común entre los estudiantes en los primeros días del año escolar es, “¿Qué hiciste durante las vacaciones?” Todos los amigos quieren saber qué hay de nuevo, o si algo interesante te pasó cuando no estabas en la escuela.
Pues, doce jóvenes norteamericanos tienen una respuesta muy interesante a esta pregunta. Su respuesta a la pregunta “¿qué hiciste durante las vacaciones?” es: “Dios me regaló la oportunidad de cambiar la vida de una persona.”
Cambiar la vida de una persona – es una cosa muy bonita hacer durante las vacaciones. Pero, ¿cómo? ¿Cómo puede cambiar una vida en una semana? Déjenme explicar…
Cada año, por los últimos siete años, un grupo de jóvenes viene a Sonora de Wisconsin Lutheran High School, una escuela secundaria en Milwaukee, Wisconsin, en el norte de los EE.UU. Los estudiantes vienen con un poco de español, un poco conocimiento de la cultura mexicana, y mucho amor en sus corazones por Jesucristo. Vienen para compartir algo de sus bendiciones físicas, en la forma de ropa o zapatos o vitaminas o juguetes. Vienen para compartir su amor, en la forma de conocer a los niños mexicanos en los pueblos. Y vienen para compartir su fe en las buenas nuevas del Evangelio de nuestro Señor Jesucristo, en la forma de historias bíblicas y canciones espirituales.
Yo tengo el privilegio de ser un maestro a estos jóvenes norteamericanos. He venido cinco veces a los pueblos de Sonora con Misión para los Niños con grupos de estudiantes. Muchos de Uds. ya me conocen – soy el pelirrojo alto que no habla muy bien el español. Creo que es un gran regalo de Dios que él me permite hacer este viaje cada año. Es un gran regalo conocer a todos Uds. y trabajar junto con Uds. en el Reino de Dios (y también disfrutar a mucha comida muy rica). Realmente es un privilegio inestimable hacer lo que puedo hacer.
El año pasado, una de las señoras en uno de los pueblos me dijo que los jóvenes estudiantes con quienes viajo están en una época muy difícil en sus vidas, pero que “es muy bonito que pueden venir aquí. Es bueno verlos trabajar por Cristo.” Recuerdo ese comentario muy bien, porque es la razón que vengo. Es la razón que venimos.
“Trabajar por Cristo.” No hay una cosa más bonita, ni más importante en todo el mundo. Los estudiantes, como los apóstoles, abren sus ojos y ven que los campos están sembrados, y la cosecha está madura. Quieren trabajar por Cristo, para recoger “el fruto para vida eterna” (San Juan 4:35-36). Quieren ser mensajeros de la gracia y el amor de Dios, quien envió a su Hijo Único para salvar al mundo. Quieren compartir el mensaje simple y importantísimo, “Jesús te ama,” a cada persona que les escuche.
“Trabajar por Cristo.” Ellos trabajan con la oración que cuando los niños mexicanos miran a ellos, que ven el amor de Dios que es el motivo de todo que hacen. Recordamos las palabras de Cristo: “Les aseguro que todo lo que hicieron por uno de mis hermanos, aun por el más pequeño, lo hicieron por mí” (Mateo 25:40).
Vinimos a Sonora. Visitamos a los pueblos. Enseñamos las lecciones. Jugamos y charlamos. Conocimos a muchas personas fantásticas. Recibimos una hospitalidad sin igual. Y después, en muy poco tiempo, tuvimos que regresar otra vez a nuestras casas y familias en el norte. Cuando regresamos, y empezamos de nuevo otro año escolar, siempre hay esa pregunta: “¿Qué hiciste durante las vacaciones?” Y la respuesta siempre es lo mismo: “Dios me regaló la oportunidad de cambiar la vida de una persona.”
Pero la persona de que hablamos no es un mexicano, aunque tal vez pudimos hacer algo pequeño por otra persona. No – las vidas que cambiaron son nuestras. Nosotros somos las personas que cambiaron, que crecieron en la fe, que conocieron el amor de Jesús, mostrado en las vidas de la gente de Sonora. Vinimos a sus pueblos y a sus casas y nunca seremos lo mismo.
Muchas gracias.
(originally written for the newsletter for Mission to the Children, Tucson AZ / Sonora Mexico)
One Cup More
By Chris Pluger
Once upon a morning dreary, as I stumbled, weak and bleary
Down the stairs of my apartment from the upper floor.
While I staggered, nearly tripping, suddenly there came a dripping,
As of something sliding, slipping, dripping down onto the floor.
“‘tis my faucet,” then I muttered, “dripping down onto the floor
only this and nothing more.”
Ah, and then began I fearing, that the sound that I was hearing
Was not merely water dripping out my sink onto the floor.
My eyes were open, heart was racing, fast into the kitchen pacing
Afraid of what I would be facing, facing once I crossed the door
Oh, disaster without measure, struck me as I crossed the door.
It was as I feared, and more!
Deep into the darkness sinking, now I stood there, wondering, thinking,
“Whence the coffee I’ll be drinking? Whence the coffee?” I implore.
I began to breathe much faster ― what mechanical disaster
Fain would try become my master as this myst’ry I explore?
Oh, let me find the pot unbroken as this myst’ry I explore!
Oh, be unplugged, and nothing more!
“Strange,” I said as I approached it, and although I oft reproached it,
this machine had served me well for time and time before.
But today it was not making; not a drop would I be taking
From this pot, which me forsaking, soon began to vex me sore.
This foul pot, which in its breaking, broke me as I begged and swore,
“Can’t you give me one cup more?”
Water from its cistern leaking, electric sparks around it leaping,
Every joint and member creaking, creaking yet to creak some more
First I begged and then I pleaded: it was coffee that I needed!
But my cries now went unheeded. It was deafened as before.
My despair with silence greeted; it ignored me as before
As I begged for one cup more.
Down into the basement running, oh, I tried with all my cunning
Now to fix this problem with a volume of forgotten lore.
But the manual was silent, in my mem’ry I defile it!
And at last I became violent, returning up the stairs once more,
Returning with an angry portent, running up the stairs once more ―
“Now I’ll give you one chance more!”
I pressed the switch, I flipped it madly, begging, whining, saying sadly,
“Can’t we work together, happy, as in saintly days of yore?”
Bowing not to my request it made no noises as I pressed it,
Sat silently as I redressed it, and my wrath I did outpour.
Choking on the dregs of anger ― oh, what wrath I did outpour!
“You must give me one cup more!”
I grabbed the pot’s black plastic handle, smashed it like and angry vandal
Smashed and crushed beneath my sandal, wreckage on the kitchen floor.
“Cursed thing,” at last I muttered, while the fuses popped and stuttered,
and the water slowly sputtered, dripping out onto the floor.
I laughed and taunted, taunting, laughing, mocked the glass upon the floor,
“Now you can’t give one cup more!”
Now I sit here, sadly weeping, now a vigil I am keeping
And in silence, still am sleeping, sleeping yet to wake no more.
Now I lay in silence, turning, and my soul within me burning,
Longing still to be returning, from this night’s Plutonian Shore.
But this veil of tears is on me, laying heavy as before,
And shall be lifted― nevermore!
With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe, and a nod to the various internet versions of “Abort, Retry, Ignore.”
Praying with Understanding
My four-year-old is starting to get interested in the liturgy. He generally stands up and sits down when he’s supposed to. He checks to see what page we’re on, and holds his hymnal accordingly. He looks to see what color the paraments are. Sometimes he hums along with the hymn melodies. He’s learned the ending bit of the Psalm, which goes, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit…” He also knows the Lord’s Prayer.
Yesterday, as we were standing together praying the prayer the Jesus taught us, along with everyone else in church and every other Christian on earth and throughout history, I started thinking. (Yes, I know. I should have been thinking about the prayer I was praying, but…)
Lots of people are down on memorized prayers. I actually had a student once that asked why I was teaching the Lord’s Prayer in Spanish, since, after all, don’t prayers only “count” if they’re spontaneous and from the heart? Worse yet, I’m guessing, would be the “vain repetition” of a four-year-old who was saying a bunch of words he doesn’t even understand. Trespasses? Hallowed?
But then it occurred to me, as it has probably occurred to many parents throughout history: what difference does that make? How much does it really matter that Sean doesn’t understand what he’s praying for? After all, how often do I pray for things I don’t really understand either?
Do I have some lofty and vaunted claim to having prayed a better prayer just because I can define all the words I used?
Do I really know what it means to pray “as we forgive those who trespass against us”? Do I have any idea what I’m saying when I pray “Thy will be done”?
Is the prayer of a 32-year-old prayed with any more real understanding than the prayer of a 4-year-old? Am I really that much closer to understanding the transcendent sovereign creator of the universe, just because of a paltry 28 more years on this spinning rock? Are my words any more “genuine” or “meaningful” than his just because I think I can understand what I’m saying?
I’m not saying that rote memory and verbatim regurgitation of set prayers is all that’s necessary for a healthy prayer life (because the Holy Spirit will just fill in the blanks, right?). I’m just urging caution, that before we look down on (or worse ― patronize) the “cute” little prayers of a small child, we come to grips with the fact that our own prayers are often said with the same lack of understanding and naïveté that we see in kids just learning to pray.
And that maybe that’s how God wants it, after all.
An Analogy: How many Kevin Bacon movies?
Pretend that technology is frozen in approximately the same place it was in the early 1980s. Video Cassette Recorders are just making their way into people’s houses. DVDs are unheard-of. There is no such thing as the internet. There are really no such thing as video stores, either. About the only way to watch a pre-recorded movie on your brand-new VCR is to buy one of the few movies released on video (for a small fortune) or to watch a movie that had been recorded from TV onto a blank video tape (hopefully by someone who paused out the commercials).
Further pretend that, back in this dark age of home entertainment technology, someone asks you a question: How many Kevin Bacon movies are there?
How would you answer that question? For the sake of this analogy, pretend like there are no books or magazines that list every movie Kevin Bacon ever starred in. There’s nothing like the IMDb. The only resource you have is your VCR and your collection of video tapes, and every video tape you can beg, borrow, or steal from someone else. How do you answer that question?
It seems to me like the best way to answer that question is to get together all the Kevin Bacon fans that you can, and have them bring their video collections. When you do, you’ll probably find that there are four different kinds of Kevin Bacon movies that come up.
The first kind of Kevin Bacon movies would be the obvious ones. These are the movies that everyone remembers, that people can quote from, that immediately come to mind when you say “Kevin Bacon.” Even people who haven’t seen them for themselves know that these are Kevin Bacon movies. These movies are easy to count.
The second kind of Kevin Bacon movie that might come up (remember, this is an analogy) are the obviously forged Kevin Bacon movies. Maybe someone with crude video-editing machinery has spliced together scenes from a Kevin Bacon movie together with another film to try to make it look like Kevin Bacon, instead of Jimmy Stewart, was the hero of that movie you see every Christmas. These movies are easy to count, too - you just throw them out.
The other kind of Kevin Bacon movie is a little tougher. Remember, in the early 80s, most people’s movie collection was made up of copies of copies of copies of someone else’s copy. Picture and sound quality weren’t the best. So there might be some grainy images, some stretched tapes, maybe even some that are incomplete or half taped-over with someone’s sister’s ballet recital. Is that the Kevin Bacon, or just some guy who looks like him? You bring your grainy, incomplete copy to the movie convention and see what the other fans have to say. Maybe others have clearer copies of the same movie, and you can tell it really is Kevin Bacon. Maybe someone has a tape of a Late Show interview where Kevin Bacon talks about that movie, thus proving your guess. Maybe, in spite of a similar hairstyle, you determine it’s not really Kevin Bacon at all. Maybe no one else has that movie, but a couple of people have heard that the guy looks a little bit like Kevin Bacon. Either way, other people will help you make that call.
The fourth kind of movie would be the most exciting of all. Imagine the excitement at a Kevin Bacon fan club meeting if someone brought in a good, clean copy of a rare early Kevin Bacon film that was never released in theaters. It wouldn’t matter that no one had ever seen it before - Kevin Bacon is unmistakable! After they watched it, and thanked the person who had brought it, what would everyone else at the convention do? Copy it, and pass it on, and add it to their collections.
I hope the parallels between my analogy and the formation of the New Testament are obvious, even as I hope you will overlook the shortcomings inevitable in any analogy.
Most of the books of the New Testament, like the “famous” Kevin Bacon movies, were quickly and readily accepted as part of the canon. God’s fingerprints, as it were, were all over these books. God’s inspiration and authority, and the authority of the Apostle who wrote the book, were obvious, evident, and well-known.
Likewise, the forgeries and would-be books were quickly recognized for what they were: either outright fakes, or more usually books written by men - fine and well-intended - but lacking in apostolic authorship and divine authority.
The books about which people had questions, which some people for a time even spoke against, are like the grainy movies where the subject isn’t as clearly seen, or where the movie isn’t immediately recognizable because we aren’t familiar enough with the work. In those cases, we watch closely. We ask questions. We compare our experience to that of others until the truth finally comes out. Notice that the early Church didn’t “make” Jude a canonical book any more than a viewer can “make” a movie a Kevin Bacon movie. Either it is, or it isn’t. It’s the Church’s job to recognize God’s Word for what it is, and we give thanks that they did such a careful, diligent job.
The fourth kind of movie mirrors the experience of every Christian congregation every time they acquired a fresh copy of a letter they had never seen before. Imagine the joy at discovering there are two letters of Paul to the Corinthians, or of finally receiving a copy of John’s Gospel that you’d been hearing so much about.
It also mirrors the experience of every human being who reads God’s Word for the first time. Imagine the joy at discovering that you don’t have to atone for your own shortcomings with a complicated set of rituals, or of finally realizing that there’s a purpose to your life beyond the accumulation of stuff and fond memories.
Open your Bible, and read it. It doesn’t matter what page you turn to ― you’re reading God’s words to you. There’s absolutely no question that what you’re reading is a book of the Bible, one of God’s Holy Scriptures. His fingerprints are all over it.
All that’s left is to read it, learn it, share it, and live it.
(this rather tortured analogy was birthed from two weeks of ruminations about the assembling of the canon of Scripture, ruminations which also resulted in three slightly more coherent posts: How Do We Know the Bible is the Bible: part 1, part 2, part 3.)
A Hidden God?
Sometimes, God makes himself obvious and evident in our lives. He is almost tangibly present, and acts in ways that we can almost physically feel. He answers our prayers in powerful ways. He steps in and averts disaster. He gives us a blessing, or blesses our efforts beyond what we could hope or imagine. He speaks authoritatively to us through his Word, or through the advice of a friend, and our life is changed for the better. Sometimes it seems easy to “practice God’s presence,” as a popular book encourages us to do.
At other times, however, God seems hidden and veiled. We can’t see or feel him. He is distant from us, absent, apart. Frustratingly, it seems like there is no rhyme or reason for his sudden “disappearance” ― our life is going the same as it always has, we have been doing what we have always done. And just as frustratingly, it seems like the more we try to “find” him ― even when we are looking in all the right places ― the more hidden he becomes. Isaiah spoke a truth that many of can identify with when he wrote, “Truly you are a God who hides himself” (Is. 45:15).
But as one of my favorite books points out, “hidden” does not mean “absent.” Hiddenness, in fact, implies presence ― albeit in a way that we can’t discern as readily as we would like. We would like a God we can see and hear at all times, who makes his will unmistakably clear to everyone on earth. We would like a God who shows himself, in ways that we expect and predict. We would like a God who “performs” on command. We would like...
But frankly, who cares what we would like? Perhaps that’s the most important thing to think about when we think about God’s “hiddenness” and his “visibility”: Visible in what way? Known by what criteria? Obedient to whose standards? Who gets to decide how God is supposed to act?
We know the answers to those questions, don’t we? As much as we would like God to obey our rules, meet our expectations, and conform to our will, we know that the reverse is true. It is we who need to obey God’s rules, we who need to meet God’s expectations, and God who gets to conform to his own will. We can’t say to God, “If you really love me, you will do this.” God is the one who gets to set the standards, and our God is a God who, at times, chooses to hide himself.
Well, if God is a God who hides himself, where does he hide?
Every day, God hides in plain sight, in the beauty of the creation he has made (Acts 14:15-17). We are supposed to look at creation and praise the Creator. God is also hidden in the needs of other people. Christ himself says, “whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me” (Matthew 25:40). The reverse is also true: God hides himself in the ministry of others, who help us and meet our needs. Who of us hasn’t seen Christ in a fellow believer who brought physical help or a word of comfort at the right time?
God even hides himself, in a way of speaking, in Jesus Christ: True God hidden in the form of True Man, the almighty creator of the universe who empties himself to lie in a food trough and die on a cross so that we might be remade in his image and share heaven with him someday. Jesus became a human like us, and yet he says, “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:6-10). In Christ, God is both hidden and revealed.
God is also hidden in the Gospel, the Word of God itself. The message of forgiveness of sins through Jesus is the place where God is most “hidden,” exactly the place where God acts most contrary to the expectations that human beings have about “how a proper God should act.” St. Paul says it best in the first chapter of First Corinthians:
“For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to
us who are being saved it is the power of God ... God was pleased through the
foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe. Jews demand
miraculous signs and Greeks look for wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified: a
stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those whom God has
called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God” (1 Corinthians 1:18-24).
Finally, last but certainly not least, God is hidden in our suffering. In our darkest moments, though we might not see or feel him, God is there ― not to remove our suffering or take us out of it ― but to go through it with us, and bring us through to the other side of it. There is nowhere, says Psalm 139, that we can go that God isn’t already there with us, not even the “depths” of the grave. Even death itself is somewhere that Christ has been. It is as though divine footprints lead all the way to the tomb, and out through the other side.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Lutheran pastor martyred by the Nazis, wrote, “Only a suffering God can help.” A suffering God, a hidden God, is the only God whose existence is not made laughable by the suffering and evil in the world. A suffering God, a hidden God, is the God of those who are suffering (sometimes suffering at the hands of the rich and powerful, who claim a rich, powerful, triumphant, visibly successful God as their own).
A suffering, hidden God is the God spoken of by the prophet Isaiah: “Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:4,5).
The Jews expected the Messiah to come as a king, to ride a white stallion swinging a sword and kicking the Romans out of their land once and for all. They got a humble rabbi riding a donkey. Sometimes we expect God to act in big amazing, fantastic ways, too: heal the sick, right the wrongs, answer our prayers the way we would like them answered. Do away with social injustice. Legislate Christian morality. Establish his kingdom on earth. Give us success and achievement in the world because we are his disciples. We expect power and strength and success and glory. We get a weak and humble Savior, dying on a cross.
In the poem “Nondum,” the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins explores the theme of the hidden God, a God who does not meet the expectations of human beings. Read the poem. Hear the poet’s cries of anguish, and listen to the imagery of God’s reply ― an empty room in which the lights are on, but no one’s home; silence; night; a vacant maze; a host of enemy; the destruction of the weak (“pity bleeds”); even death and dying.
But still, in the end, he says to God, “Thou art, and near.” “Hidden” does not mean “absent” ― God exists, and he is near to help his people by bearing their suffering with them until the consummation of the world on the last day.
At the end of the poem, the poet prays for patience to wait, confidence that removes the fear of the unseen unknown, and hope in the joy that awaits us. What is God’s answer to that prayer? What is God’s answer to the prayer that he reveal his hiddenness?
It is in the title of the poem: “Nondum” is Latin for “Not Yet.”
NONDUM
God, though to Thee our psalm we raise
No answering voice comes from the skies;
To Thee the trembling sinner prays
But no forgiving voice replies;
Our prayer seems lost in desert ways,
Our hymn in the vast silence dies.
We see the glories of the earth
But not the hand that wrought them all:
Night to a myriad worlds gives birth,
Yet like a lighted empty hall
Where stands no host at door or hearth
Vacant creation’s lamps appal.
We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,
With attributes we deem are meet;
Each in his own imagining
Sets up a shadow in Thy seat;
Yet know not how our gifts to bring,
Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.
And still th’unbroken silence broods
While ages and while aeons run,
As erst upon chaotic floods
The Spirit hovered ere the sun
Had called the seasons’ changeful moods
And life’s first germs from death had won.
And still th’abysses infinite
Surround the peak from which we gaze.
Deep calls to deep, and blackest night
Giddies the soul with blinding daze
That dares to cast its searching sight
On being’s dread and vacant maze.
And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world
Contends about its many creeds
And hosts confront with flags unfurled
And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds
And truth is heard, with tears impearled,
A moaning voice among the reeds.
My hand upon my lips I lay;
The breast’s desponding sob I quell;
I move along life’s tomb-decked way
And listen to the passing bell
Summoning men from speechless day
To death’s more silent, darker spell.
Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,
To shew Thee that Thou art, and near,
Let patience with her chastening wand
Dispel the doubt and dry the tear;
And lead me child-like by the hand
If still in darkness not in fear.
Speak! whisper to my watching heart
One word-as when a mother speaks
Soft, when she sees her infant start,
Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks.
Then, to behold Thee as Thou art,
I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks.
―Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
(This essay also appears, in altered form, here, at the website of Resurrection Evangelical Lutheran Church. It is also the proud recipient of a Golden Aardvark Award.)
Links
Sorry for the long delay in posting anything . I haven’t been completely slothful, however; I have been regularly posting “eDevotions” at my church’s website here.
Also, a directory of Lutheran blogs has chosen to list me. Find their interesting and helpful directory here.
I’ve been published again. Check out my latest Forward in Christ article here.
Finally, my good friend Denny has managed to quit his job (again!) and has resumed regular posting at his Worldview weblog. Pay him a visit, too. You’ll get more regular stuff from him than from me.
Odi Et Amo
God “hates the sin but loves the sinner.” Agree or disagree?
Well, God surely hates sin. No question about the attitude of a holy God towards sin.
God also surely loves sinners. After all, “God demonstrates his own love for us in this: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us,” and “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son…”
So we agree with the two statements, while at the same time we feel we need to add a third statement: “God hates the sin and hates the sinner and loves the sinner.”
Does God hate sinners, as opposed to just hating sin? On the basis of the clear words of Scripture, the answer has to be yes.
Consider these passages:
· Psalm 5:5, “The boastful shall not stand before Thine eyes; Thou dost hate all who do iniquity.”
· Psalm 11:5, “The Lord tests the righteous and the wicked, and the one who loves violence His soul hates.”
· Leviticus 20:23, “Moreover, you shall not follow the customs of the nation which I shall drive out before you, for they did all these things, and therefore I have abhorred them.”
· Isaiah 63:10, “Yet they rebelled and grieved his Holy Spirit. So he turned and became their enemy and he himself fought against them.”
· Jeremiah 12:7-8, “I will forsake my house, abandon my inheritance; I will give the one I love into the hands of her enemies. My inheritance has become to me like a lion in the forest. She roars at me; therefore I hate her.”
· Proverbs 6:16-19, “There are six things which the Lord hates, yes, seven which are an abomination to Him: Haughty eyes, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that run rapidly to evil, a false witness who utters lies, and one who spreads strife among brothers.”
· Hosea 9:15, “All their evil is at Gilgal; indeed, I came to hate them there! Because of the wickedness of their deeds I will drive them out of My house! I will love them no more; all their princes are rebels.”
Sin is a terrible thing. It separates a person from God. God hates sin. But there’s more to it than that. Sin cannot be separated or dealt with apart from the sinner. We are moral beings ― what we do affects who we are. The passages above make no distinction between the sin and the sinner; God hates them both. It seems like some pretty tight philosophical hair-splitting to try to separate what we do from who we are.
God doesn’t send sin to hell, He sends sinners to hell. God didn’t punish the sins of the world on the cross. He punished Jesus. Look to God’s Word and read how serious He is about sin. Look at the cross of Christ and see how serious He is about sin.
At the same time, however, countless passages in the Bible teach us that God dearly loves the world of sinners, and every individual sinner too. He has provided full and free, unconditional and seriously-offered pardon and salvation for each sinner and for all sinners. The promises of God in the Gospel are for everyone at any time.
God loves sinners enough to send his only Son for them. He shows his love for sinners in that Christ died for us while we were still sinners. That is his word of Gospel for all of us sinners, which is never to be treated lightly or dismissed but only trusted in Spirit-wrought faith.
The reconciliation of God’s Law and Gospel, God’s hatred of sinners and His love for them, may be found in only one place: at the foot of the cross of Christ. Jesus Christ bore the divine hatred for a world of sinners and Jesus Christ perfectly displayed the divine love for all sinners. See in the cross the justice and mercy of God.
How can this be? How can such two contradictory feelings exist in the heart of God at one and the same time? I have no idea. But I rejoice that God’s Law calls me to repentance and faith when I begin to think of myself more highly than I ought, and I rejoice that God’s Gospel in Christ graciously promises me complete forgiveness when I begin to despair of my own sinfulness.
How can this be? How can such two contradictory feelings exist in the heart of God at one and the same time? I have no idea. But I read in God’s Word that it is so, and I take God at His Word.
“Lord, I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)
Comments?
(thanks to Deb for asking the question, and several random websites for their guidance in answering it.)
Black Coffee
Last Sunday, for reasons that don’t need to be talked about on a public forum like this, I really needed a cup of coffee. So I pulled off of the highway and into a McDonalds, which, as you know, sells something mostly resembling the beverage we call “coffee.”
After an excessively long wait in line due to several larger families ordering huge amounts of pre-soccer breakfast items, I got to the counter and ordered my large coffee.
“Would you like that black?” the order-taker asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
She printed out my receipt and pointed me to the spot where people languish while waiting for their orders to be filled. I noticed my receipt had BLACK COFFEE emblazoned on it in large, friendly letters.
Several minutes later ― a wait made longer by the fact that I really needed this particular cup of coffee ― another teenage PBTC looked at my receipt and began to fill my order. She looked stressed and harried, like someone who really didn’t know her way around her work area yet, and like most teenagers took no great pains to verbally and non-verbally express how stressed and harried she was.
She looked over at the coffee station. Two full pots of decaf (orange handle) were sitting on the burners. There was also one almost-empty pot of regular (black handle), the coffee still sloshing a bit from just being set down by another PBTC. My girl looked again, disgustedly, at my clearly-marked receipt and asked me:
“Does it have to be black coffee?”
“Yes,” I replied.
She sighed loudly, reached for the almost-empty black-handled pot, and started to pour.
“Do you need cream and sugar?” she asked. (You’ll recall that McDonalds has recently started offering “gourmet” coffee, which to them means that they’ll add the cream and/or sugar for you at no extra charge ― another thing to stress and harry the PBTCs.)
“No.” I said. Then, because I really really needed the coffee, not-so-patiently explained: “That’s what ‘black’ means: no cream, no sugar.”
She rolled her eyes and fixed me with a glare I suppose she intended to be withering. Then she set my coffee on the counter and turned away.
As I walked away trying to figure out how to open the seamless plastic lid, I heard her yell to her co-workers, “I need more black coffee.”
Well, I thought, that makes two of us.
…
Post Script:
About 50 miles down the road it suddenly hit me: to this poor, benighted teenage PBTC, “black” coffee is coffee that comes from the pot with the black handle, and has nothing to do with cream and/or sugar.
Caveat emptor: If you are ever traveling in the area of Allenton, Wisconsin and find yourself in need of decaffeinated coffee, make sure to order “orange” coffee, so as not to confuse the locals.
Huh?
Just for the record, I’d like to say that throwing hand grenades at churches to express your outrage at being referred to as violent is rather self-defeating.
Shameless Self-Promotion
Check out Lutheran Carnival XXX.
(In case you're worried, those are Roman numerals, not a reference to porn.)
Six Feet Under
I went scuba diving today. It was pretty cool. The experience I had was just an “intro to scuba” kind of thing, a chance to “get my feet wet” (pun intended) in the sport. We dove in a specially-designed swimming pool at the local dive center and stayed in the six-foot section, so it hardly counts as scuba “diving.” More like “swimming around underwater breathing through a tube.”
All of which got me thinking, as I sat on the bottom of the pool with my inner-ear pressure equalized and my breath coming in Darth Vader-like rasping breaths: I think Maslow was on to something. Food and water comes before a nice car, and a dry place to sleep comes before the motivation to pursue a doctorate, and the freedom not to get blown up in your sleep comes before the freedom to crusade for environmental causes. Ever had a toothache? That stupid tooth consumes your entire life ― you can’t even think clearly enough to watch American Idol, and we all know how much brain power that takes. It’s the same thing with air, only worse. Enclosed in that scuba mask, stiff rubber valve clenched tightly in my teeth, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, I became incredibly aware of how important air is. It’s a stupid thing to say, of course, as anyone who’s ever been choked can tell you (been there, done that too), but your mind gets a chance to wander a bit six feet under water.
And hey. I bet Abraham Maslow never went scuba diving, so maybe I’m the first one to add “air” to his silly little hierarchy.
At any rate, scuba diving was a blast. The first five breaths or so were kind of panicky, and the sense of neediness towards my breathing regulator never really went away, but it was an incredible experience. The mind-paralyzing obsession with air eventually diminishes enough for you to realize how glutted with sensation and sensory input we are here on the surface. There’s no such thing as background noise underwater. No visual distractions (it helped I couldn’t wear my glasses). We couldn’t even move fast ― the “underwater Frisbee” was comical, a slow-motion parody of normal human locomotion.
Underwater, everything matters.
Especially air.
Try it.
Innovations
I woke up this morning, used a bathroom with indoor plumbing, heated water in a kettle with no visible fire at the touch of a button, brewed fairly-traded coffee grown by an ecologically-sensitive Latin American farmer, read an email message that someone on the other side of the planet sent me during the night, checked some up-to-the-minute news headlines from around the world, ate food from a box, drove myself to church in a conveyance with no visible means of propulsion, listened to pre-recorded music from a device no larger than a human hand, arrived at a church building that was cool and comfortable despite 85-degree humid summer temperatures, and participated in a liturgical Christian worship service that did not include Holy Communion.
Of all the modern “innovations” of which I have availed myself today, which would be the most surprising to the average, run-of-the-mill, fourth-century Christian?
That was rhetorical, by the way.
(Before I get drummed out of the WELS on some sort of heresy charge, see Rev. J. Micheel’s essay The Church Offers Holy Communion pp. 13-29.)
As it has often been observed, the proper question isn’t whether Athanasius (or Chrysostom, or Luther, or Jesus, or whoever) would have belonged to my church, but whether or not I belong to theirs.
The Right Van
I’ve spent parts of the last four summers in the desert of northern Mexico, working with students from Wisconsin Lutheran High School as they travel to a town called Altar to do mission work with Mission to the Children, a para-synodical organization based in Tucson, AZ.
There are a lot of interesting things down there, but one thing you can’t miss are the shuttle busses that run between Altar and a smaller village called Sasabe. They’re everywhere, beat-up vans and vintage school busses, waiting on street corners and in parking lots around Altar, collecting people. When they’re full they make the run, driving like madmen on a treacherous dirt road up to Sasabe on the border. Then they come back. Day after day, trip after trip.
The first time I was in Mexico wanted that job so bad: Altar-Sasabe shuttle bus driver. What a great way to earn some extra pesos over the summer, practice my Spanish, have some awesome conversations with some very interesting people, and probably have some really cool stories to tell in the fall. Last summer, too, I just fell in love with the driving, and decided that if I couldn’t buy a Jeep and drive to Guatemala that I definitely wanted to give taxi-driving a shot. Altar-Sasabe. Sasabe-Altar. Rice, beans, and tortillas. The good, simple life.
Then, this summer, driving down that long long road for the third time, I came to a horrifying realization, a paradigm-shifting moment that almost made me pull over right there in the desert and cry. There was always something weird about those shuttles, those overcrowded vans whizzing by at 50+ mph on roads that weren’t very safe even at half that speed. But finally, after three years of glorifying that life, of idealizing something that is really pretty far from ideal, I realized what was really really wrong with this picture. The vans headed north, from Altar to Sasabe, are always filled to capacity. Young guys, mostly, but an occasional older man, wearing jeans, boots, and a hat, some with button-up cowboy shirts and some a little dingier. The northbound shuttle is always full, taking those bumps on springs that are about to give and trying to pound out one more run on a set of bald tires. The kids are always amazed by how many people can fit in a van.
But here’s the thing: the southbound shuttle is always empty. Nobody ever makes the run from Sasabe to Altar. Just the driver, maybe one or two people, and maybe someone he brought along to keep him company and collect the fares. Nobody ever goes south. The vans make those runs in record time, riding high on the road and flying over the bumps.
It’s not like dozens of people a day, hundreds a week, are moving to Sasabe. Sasabe is something of a ghost town, at least in comparison to Altar. It’s more like an Old West town, springing up next to a gold mine before the tracks get laid and the iron horse brings wives and ministers and sheriffs and law and order. Except that there’s no gold in Sasabe. All those young men, all that potential, an entire generation of Mexico’s future aren’t hopping the next shuttle to get a job at the new factory.
They’re trying to cross the border. They’re putting their hopes and dreams, their families and their futures, their very lives on the line in a desperate effort at survival. Their most valuable possession is a jug full of water. They pray to whatever God is listening for the luck of a dark moon, a straight path, and a job on the other side that doesn’t ask too many questions. The only thing in their life that has any meaning is whether or not their legs have the strength to make it three days across the desert, so they can get an awful job for meager wages in an expensive foreign country where people don’t speak their language, understand their culture, or value their existence, so they can scrape together enough money to send something, anything, home to their family so they don’t have to watch their children die of malnutrition. “With God as my witness,” their silent eyes say with more determination than Scarlett O’Hara could ever dream of, “Let me go hungry so my children don’t have to.”
All of which realization dropped on my head like a ton of bricks as we got passed by about the fifteenth empty Sasabe-Altar bus on the first day of the trip. All those guys in all those vans. Of the twenty-plus men in the northbound van we were just meeting, in a week’s time most of them would probably be back where they started from, deported, even poorer than they had been a week ago (if that were possible). A few, maybe, would be dead, perhaps because they misread the map marking the water stations, perhaps because the water station had been discovered by the Border Patrol and closed down, or perhaps because the God they prayed to had simply run out of luck to give that night. One or two might have even made it, finding that job with their cousin’s wife’s friend in Tucson, sending back money and love and hope for dozens of others to get on tomorrow’s Altar-Sasabe shuttle and try to make the trip.
But instead of pulling over and weeping in despair, after a minute’s reflection I tightened my grip on the wheel and kicked it up another 5mph. We were doing the right thing. We were driving the right direction. The 1400 lbs. of donations in the back of my van were going to make life a little easier for someone in some village, maybe give them enough hope that they wouldn’t have to make the run, at least not this month. Let them stay home with their kids. Help them help themselves, so that life in Mexico is possible for them. The 12 kids in the van behind me were going to teach those people’s children about Jesus, who would give them Hope enough to know that their ultimate home wasn’t Altar, or Sonora, or Mexico, or even the USA, but heaven. The things we were bringing were needed, needed in a way that people like we, Americans, can’t even understand the word need. So I reined in my imagination and stopped wondering what it would be like to drive the Altar-Sasabe shuttle. I realized that today, I was driving the right van.
EW+2
Well, Espresso Week has come and gone, and with it my faulty assumption that man cannot live on espresso alone. I did indeed live through an entire week without coffee from my French Press, and in fact I would venture to say I prospered by the experience.
I’m now into my second day back into my old habits, but tellingly the Pavoni has not yet been removed from the kitchen counter (much to the chagrin of my wife). In fact, as I sit and type this I am enjoying an afternoon pick-me-up cappuccino that nicely compliments (rather than competes with) my morning pot of “regular” joe.
Faced with an extended, involuntary trip to an electrified desert island with a regular supply of fresh coffee beans, I’d still choose the Bodum as my one means of regular caffeination, but I’ve learned to appreciate the effort and process of home-crafted espresso drinks as well.
So, like so many fine things in this world, it is not a question of “either/or,” but of “both/and.” Now I just need a UN resolution to justify my annexation of 3 additional square feet of counter space.
Espresso Week, Day 5
My shots (all 5 of them) were nothing short of amazing this morning, if I do say so myself.
Still, I think I'm going to come back to what I wrote in the post that started this whole sillyness - it's a quantity-over-quality issue. 32 ounces of French Press goodness over 1.25 ounces (x5) of espresso heaven.
There are a few things in life in which a little bit of "absolute perfection" might be traded for a superabundance of "pretty darn good." I'm thinking coffee might be one of them.
Others, anyone?
Espresso Week, Day 3
Well, at the very least, I am becoming a much more deliberate coffee drinker. Not “deliberate” in the sense of “not accidental,” but rather in the sense of “intentional; undertaken with care and forethought.” It’s pretty easy to press out a liter of wonderful coffee from the French Press and suck it down without noticing. But the work I have to put in to getting a quality ounce or two from La Pavoni makes me stop to admire/appreciate the finished product a bit more.
Now, if only this lesson rubs off on the rest of my life. I could use a little more deliberation, and a little less random, aimless, chaotic wandering. Ever “wake up” at the end of a day and realize you did everything automatically? That’s what I’m talking about. Or rather, that’s what I’m talking about not doing. Whatever.
Coffee-in-hand: Classic Italian cappuccino
P.S. ― Everyone who cares about coffee should go here and here.
Espresso Week, Day 1
Well, I pulled 3 shots this morning after I rolled out of bed. I drank 2 straight (the first was better than the second), and I made a nice frothy cappuccino out of the third, which I drank on the porch with Sean.
It wasn’t nearly enough caffeine. The up side is that I didn’t have to pee nearly as much as I usually do.
I’m off to make more (espresso, that is).