I don't consider myself to have a beautiful singing voice, I don't think too many people do. Today at Nassau Presbyterian the Keystone State Boychoir preformed and all too well brought me back to the realization of my decrepit vocal range and virtual lack of rhythm. Their harmonization of the beautiful Tallis' Canon swiftly transported me to fond memories of dinners around Dale Cooper's table surrounded by brilliant minds, boisterous spirits, and sparkling Christian fellowship. They were good; they were darn good.
After a well-earned, spirit-filled applause the pastor happened to mention, among other phrases of laud, that the Keystone State Boychoir had the unique distinction of being the only choir to ever preform on the continent of Antarctica. Antarctica? Really?!? My inner, fiscal utilitarian derived from my Dutch ancestry immediately kicked in. I immediately began mentally calculating the sheer quantity of cash it would cost to transport 30, hungry teenagers across the ocean to the most remote place on our planet under the harsh chill in order to preform a concert for a handful of researchers and a congregation of penguins. What did their director think when he was informed to pack his bags for a concert in the frigid emptiness that is the Arctic? It reminded me of when I was 8 and my great-grandma bought my brother and I a collection of crossword puzzles for Christmas; nice but completely useless and superfluous for a pair of brothers who would rather do about a million other things before a hearty crossword puzzle.
What a waste of music. What a waste of money. What a waste of the time, effort, and talent of these boys. What a waste. Period.
Then again, we live in a culture of excess. The norm standard for living is a brand new house, two cars in the driveway, 2.5 kids, weekends at the lake and enough extra to fund yearly winter vacations, a vast tangle of electronics, and purchase of knick-knacks which are anything but necessary. This isn't anything new; the invisible hand of capitalism has been at play ever since the American religion of individual freedom and self was put into motion. Yet, today we see the current results which yield a culture which can seem hallow, purposeless, and self-destructing. We get and get and get to the point that we end up having more than we could ever want at the expense of the composure of our homes. We waste our paychecks and labor on silly trinkets in order to keep up with a standard very few can keep up with and find ourselves struggling to get by and left behind on the super-highway that is 21st century consumerism. From the over-the-top birthday parties of 8 year old girls to the social insistence of "the new" we find ourselves constantly disinterested with the old, the aging, the "last year's" model, and the outdated and perpetually find ourselves throwing out the treasures of yesterday for the brilliant glow of tomorrow. A doctrine of consumerism is only able to exist if it is accompanied by a doctrine of waste. If anything, we are not the products of modern capitalism but the result of society's continual cycle of waste.
This includes choirs singing for penguins.
In a culture where so much is unnecessary how strange is Grace? Grace is the polar opposite of waste. Grace does not waste anything; there are no empty, meaningless moments for God's Grace for every moment and event touched by Grace is of the most dire importance. Christ calls out to us and says "My grace is sufficient for you" (II Cor. 12:9) and doing so calls us to put aside our societal weaknesses and vulnerabilities which arise from our surroundings and calls us to find meaning in the old, the unattractive, and the unpopular. The Greek word for sufficiency is the verb arkeo, which actually starts the phrase in the Greek New Testament. According to the word order, a more proper translation might just be "Sufficient for you is my grace." The word arkeo originally meant "to ward off, to keep off, or defend" in the context of fighting off enemies or even death as found in Homer. As time went on, the word's meaning changed in that warding off the enemy is, essential, to have sufficient resources and power to do so.
If Grace is "sufficient" this doesn't mean that there's just enough Grace to go around and get us through the moment. Rather, "sufficiency" goes beyond that. "Sufficiency" means that Grace has power; actual power. Grace is not meanly a vague, theological concept but the sustenance of a loving Father (Phil. 4:19) such that we have hope in our future, not because of the coming of the new, but because we treasure the Grace of our God who has ever been and ever will be (John 1:14). Such Grace reaches out not just to big moments but to little moments as well. Being "sufficient" means that the work of God reaches out to every sphere of our world. In turn, Grace is never wasted, for Grace always has a purpose, a plan, and the anticipation of the coming kingdom. Grace might be given to wasters but it truly is never wasted.
Unlike concerts for penguins.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Food and Family
I heard a story about a friend of a friend who, during a charity barb-i-que, spent the good part of an entire morning and afternoon monitoring, marinading, and flipping a vast amalgamation of burgers, steaks, and wings for an astonishing crowd (talk about a feeding of the 5,000). What was funny was that, when all was said and done and all the hot dogs and cuts were served, that he never even got as chance to eat himself. The tragedy! To be so preoccupied cooking a delicious meal for hundreds that you'd forget to feed yourself.
That's what it's like to study God's Word at time: you get so preoccupied you forget to eat it. Not LITERALLY of course, but it seems that sometimes our study and dedication blinds us to the gaping need for Christ that still persists; with or without our acknowledgment. How ironic that we prepare such a banquet to the finest detail only to forget to nourish ourselves in what God has provided.
This morning, I went, for the first time, to a Syriac Orthodox service. The Syriac Orthodox tradition is Eastern in origin, deriving from the first Antiochian Christian communities established by St. Peter, and maintain one of the oldest liturgies surviving today. This was not your usual Reformed service consisting of a couple praise songs, a three point sermon, and a dose of Midwest simplicity all compressed together in an hour and ten minutes in order to get everyone home in time to watch the Lions stumble through another Sunday. It was beautiful, regal, and poignant. The smell of incense lofted throughout the sanctuary and the voices of priest, deacons, and monk alike sang the liturgy in Syriac, calling us to sing along at certain moments in praise to God. The phrase Kurie Eleison is used frequently, Greek for "Lord have mercy" as the entire congregation engages in meaningful prayer. The bread and the wine are blessed by beautiful melodies and are the central focus of the entire service: Christ's compassionate sacrifice always in the forefront. The message was short, ten minutes at most, which called for us to, by the grace of God, to stand and praise without fear or self-regard.
It was then the monk came and spoke, telling of the horrific slaughter and persecution of Syriac Christians only days prior in Baghdad (http://www.persecutionblog.com/2010/11/iraq-muslims-attack-church.html) leaving 59 Christian brothers slain; murdered for their faith during the worship of Christ. These people were not simply innocent statistics or a handful of words printed on page 7 of a New York City newspaper; they were family. They were fellow Syriac Christians; people whose tradition bears many memories to persecution through every century. This act of violence was nothing new for these people, but it was still heavy and burdensome. How often we ignore such events in our comfortable, American-Christian atmosphere? How often we, as comfortable middle-class citizens fail to realize that those who share our deepest life blood are dying for the very same God we believe in, for the very same Savior we hold our hopes in, and by the very same Spirit which works in us? How often have I become disjointed, displace, and dishumanized not only to my fellow man in general, but my fellow Christian brothers and sisters?
Christianity is a family. We are not a building or a composite of members. We are not conjoined through common activity and liturgical preference. We are not individuals drifting in through their own existence through ritual which holds no meaning. We, as Christians, should be bound not through our culture, our ethnicity, our preferences, our individuality, or the factors of our entertainment. We are bound through who we are and who we are becoming in Christ Jesus our Lord, who died for us.
He died for us! God died for me! As the communion was passed and the bread and wine touched our lips through the hands of the priest in the midst of our crossing I realized I had let myself starve lately; that in the midst of such abundance of spiritual food I had disassociated myself with my fellow Christians and my need for Christ and instead indulged on the fickle matter that is my individual. As I rose and was blessed with the Eucharist, I pondered my Syriac brothers and sisters; those here and those far away, those living and those having moved on, and realized that I was starving for my Lord, starving for salvation, starving for the hope of the coming kingdom.
So I tasted. I ate. I was filled.
How good is our God? Even in the shedding of our family's blood, He always provides new life, new hope, and new compassion. He prepares a broad place for us, He tends to our wounds and heal us, makes us whole, and yet leaves us the scars in order to suffer with those who suffer; to be truly human. In our true humanity, it has been far too long that we've, that I've, sat comfortably by as I see my brothers and sisters die at gunpoint for the very Lord and Savior whom I worship safely and repetitively without worry. God is never safe. He is good, but never safe. To be full implies a danger, implies a stepping-out, implies going against the grain.
And it implies we take a moment to truly fill our spirits.
Qadishat Aloho
Qadishat hayelthono
Qadishat lo moyutho
destlebte hlofayn
ethrahama layn
Amen - The Qadishat Aloho in Syriac
Holy God
Holy Almighty
Holy Immortal
Who was crucified for us
have mercy upon us
Amen
That's what it's like to study God's Word at time: you get so preoccupied you forget to eat it. Not LITERALLY of course, but it seems that sometimes our study and dedication blinds us to the gaping need for Christ that still persists; with or without our acknowledgment. How ironic that we prepare such a banquet to the finest detail only to forget to nourish ourselves in what God has provided.
This morning, I went, for the first time, to a Syriac Orthodox service. The Syriac Orthodox tradition is Eastern in origin, deriving from the first Antiochian Christian communities established by St. Peter, and maintain one of the oldest liturgies surviving today. This was not your usual Reformed service consisting of a couple praise songs, a three point sermon, and a dose of Midwest simplicity all compressed together in an hour and ten minutes in order to get everyone home in time to watch the Lions stumble through another Sunday. It was beautiful, regal, and poignant. The smell of incense lofted throughout the sanctuary and the voices of priest, deacons, and monk alike sang the liturgy in Syriac, calling us to sing along at certain moments in praise to God. The phrase Kurie Eleison is used frequently, Greek for "Lord have mercy" as the entire congregation engages in meaningful prayer. The bread and the wine are blessed by beautiful melodies and are the central focus of the entire service: Christ's compassionate sacrifice always in the forefront. The message was short, ten minutes at most, which called for us to, by the grace of God, to stand and praise without fear or self-regard.
It was then the monk came and spoke, telling of the horrific slaughter and persecution of Syriac Christians only days prior in Baghdad (http://www.persecutionblog.com/2010/11/iraq-muslims-attack-church.html) leaving 59 Christian brothers slain; murdered for their faith during the worship of Christ. These people were not simply innocent statistics or a handful of words printed on page 7 of a New York City newspaper; they were family. They were fellow Syriac Christians; people whose tradition bears many memories to persecution through every century. This act of violence was nothing new for these people, but it was still heavy and burdensome. How often we ignore such events in our comfortable, American-Christian atmosphere? How often we, as comfortable middle-class citizens fail to realize that those who share our deepest life blood are dying for the very same God we believe in, for the very same Savior we hold our hopes in, and by the very same Spirit which works in us? How often have I become disjointed, displace, and dishumanized not only to my fellow man in general, but my fellow Christian brothers and sisters?
Christianity is a family. We are not a building or a composite of members. We are not conjoined through common activity and liturgical preference. We are not individuals drifting in through their own existence through ritual which holds no meaning. We, as Christians, should be bound not through our culture, our ethnicity, our preferences, our individuality, or the factors of our entertainment. We are bound through who we are and who we are becoming in Christ Jesus our Lord, who died for us.
He died for us! God died for me! As the communion was passed and the bread and wine touched our lips through the hands of the priest in the midst of our crossing I realized I had let myself starve lately; that in the midst of such abundance of spiritual food I had disassociated myself with my fellow Christians and my need for Christ and instead indulged on the fickle matter that is my individual. As I rose and was blessed with the Eucharist, I pondered my Syriac brothers and sisters; those here and those far away, those living and those having moved on, and realized that I was starving for my Lord, starving for salvation, starving for the hope of the coming kingdom.
So I tasted. I ate. I was filled.
How good is our God? Even in the shedding of our family's blood, He always provides new life, new hope, and new compassion. He prepares a broad place for us, He tends to our wounds and heal us, makes us whole, and yet leaves us the scars in order to suffer with those who suffer; to be truly human. In our true humanity, it has been far too long that we've, that I've, sat comfortably by as I see my brothers and sisters die at gunpoint for the very Lord and Savior whom I worship safely and repetitively without worry. God is never safe. He is good, but never safe. To be full implies a danger, implies a stepping-out, implies going against the grain.
And it implies we take a moment to truly fill our spirits.
Qadishat Aloho
Qadishat hayelthono
Qadishat lo moyutho
destlebte hlofayn
ethrahama layn
Amen - The Qadishat Aloho in Syriac
Holy God
Holy Almighty
Holy Immortal
Who was crucified for us
have mercy upon us
Amen
Friday, October 22, 2010
Hope Beyond Words
Words are funny things. They hold so much weight, yet sometimes seem so flimsy, empty, devoid of meaning or not wide enough to contain the moment. A few syllables, a pair of diphthongs, or even a single sigh can express the entire gravity of a moment, and yet an entire novel cannot begin to cover the expanse of the millisecond. It's been said that the works of Christ are so numerous that the world could not contain the scrolls to tell of such wonders (John 21:25). Yet, for all those words, such a simple phrase like "get up and walk" or "come" or even the uttering of a name carry just as much clout and meaning.
We use words, abuse words, make words and break words down. We write words, type words, highlight words and often times find ourselves at a loss for words. Words are inclusive and exclusive, elusive and intrusive. Gadamer knew words, he saw that words created our world, embodied it into our own structure. In saying the we want a certain bike, car, book, or sandwich we are simultaneously, by the exclusiveness of language, denying all other possibilities. When we say "THAT bike" we mean "the red bike with orange trim and 14 gears with rusted tires and a black horn", and in that very phrase we deny any wanting of a purple bike, a tricycle, or anything else besides THAT bike. Yet, whenever language is exclusive, it is also inclusive insofar that whoever speaks a language is only truly speaking a language if those words and phrases are heard and understood by someone. Language is communal. In fact, the way we see the world is shaped by how we say it. Without language, humanity would have no medium for interpretation, no mode of explanation, and method of proclamation.
Yet how often language fails us. How often we are empty of words.
God empties us of words. How are we to describe one some much wiser than us, more benevolent than us, and beyond all grasps of time and space? How are we to speak of one whose openness to love is simultaneously a mystery of the most epic of proportions? How are we to use words to describe the utter dismay of our sorrows, the brokenness of our spirits, and our frequent inability to trust when words of encouragement and humanity are just not enough.
We so often put it into words. We put Christianity into words. We define Christ-following by words. But in the end, such tools are insufficient to state what these things mean. A trinitarian God whose love for human, in mirroring God's love for God's self, extends beyond space and time to the very moment where God walks among us, speaks to us, and dies for us. Tertullian, an early church theologian, invented hundreds of terms to more specifically describe such things, and in the end humanity ended where it started; no closer to the truth. Our words cannot contain the breadth and the width of God, our hearts cannot hold the glory of God's glory, and our minds cannot comprehend the hope of God's kingdom.
It's so easy to get discouraged when all we have is words; simple words. It's when words fail that God begins. It's when our trust in humanities attempts to describe and contemplate our Savior fails that God kicks in. It is then that the bleakness of the moment gives way to prayer, not without doubts, but prayer and hope in the future nonetheless.
God's kingdom is coming. A kingdom where words cannot describe, where phrases cannot contain the glory of God.
When hope is meager, faith is hard to come by, and the future seems unstable and quaggy, there is always hope beyond words.
We use words, abuse words, make words and break words down. We write words, type words, highlight words and often times find ourselves at a loss for words. Words are inclusive and exclusive, elusive and intrusive. Gadamer knew words, he saw that words created our world, embodied it into our own structure. In saying the we want a certain bike, car, book, or sandwich we are simultaneously, by the exclusiveness of language, denying all other possibilities. When we say "THAT bike" we mean "the red bike with orange trim and 14 gears with rusted tires and a black horn", and in that very phrase we deny any wanting of a purple bike, a tricycle, or anything else besides THAT bike. Yet, whenever language is exclusive, it is also inclusive insofar that whoever speaks a language is only truly speaking a language if those words and phrases are heard and understood by someone. Language is communal. In fact, the way we see the world is shaped by how we say it. Without language, humanity would have no medium for interpretation, no mode of explanation, and method of proclamation.
Yet how often language fails us. How often we are empty of words.
God empties us of words. How are we to describe one some much wiser than us, more benevolent than us, and beyond all grasps of time and space? How are we to speak of one whose openness to love is simultaneously a mystery of the most epic of proportions? How are we to use words to describe the utter dismay of our sorrows, the brokenness of our spirits, and our frequent inability to trust when words of encouragement and humanity are just not enough.
We so often put it into words. We put Christianity into words. We define Christ-following by words. But in the end, such tools are insufficient to state what these things mean. A trinitarian God whose love for human, in mirroring God's love for God's self, extends beyond space and time to the very moment where God walks among us, speaks to us, and dies for us. Tertullian, an early church theologian, invented hundreds of terms to more specifically describe such things, and in the end humanity ended where it started; no closer to the truth. Our words cannot contain the breadth and the width of God, our hearts cannot hold the glory of God's glory, and our minds cannot comprehend the hope of God's kingdom.
It's so easy to get discouraged when all we have is words; simple words. It's when words fail that God begins. It's when our trust in humanities attempts to describe and contemplate our Savior fails that God kicks in. It is then that the bleakness of the moment gives way to prayer, not without doubts, but prayer and hope in the future nonetheless.
God's kingdom is coming. A kingdom where words cannot describe, where phrases cannot contain the glory of God.
When hope is meager, faith is hard to come by, and the future seems unstable and quaggy, there is always hope beyond words.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Where Have All The Philosophers Gone?
This afternoon I noticed a story posted in the Wall Street Journal and nearly fell out of my chair, reaching to the floor to pick my jaw off the ground where it hastily fell in bewilderment. A recent survey was conducted asking people from various disciplines of higher education to state their level of satisfaction with their degree in accordance to their welfare in the last half-decade. The results stated that those who were most likely to be disappointing with their didactic investment were those in the field of Psychology, African-American studies, and (gasp!) Philosophy.
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
God forbid the day!
What happened to the day when Philosophy was the Hegemon of the Humanities, the Dictator of Disciplines, and the Mother of all thoughts. Why didn't they survey me? I would have given a valiant defense of my good lady! Nothing barred! The nerve of some people! Where would we be without Plato and Aristotle, Kant and Hegel, Augustine and Aquinas and so on and so forth? As I put my laptop into hibernate I mentally rolled my sleeves up in case in the near future epistemic fisticuffs would be thrown down for the sake of wisdom herself.
After a few minutes to ponder (and a good meal of split-pea soup and fresh rye bread) I nestled down in my seat, turned on The Mimicking Birds, and re-assessed the assumed audacity of the writer. Maybe she wasn't so wrong to make such an assumption, I thought as I gingerly sipped a spicy cup of coffee. Burning one's tongue is, in my opinion, always adding injury to insult, since you always know the beverage of choice is smoldering hot and the inside of your mouth is temperature sensitive. When you burn your tongue, more often than not, patience falls victim to eager anticipation and your body will proclaim "i told you so" throughout the rest of the evening through morning.
Philosophy is, at it's root, a love of wisdom. It is a pursuit of knowledge, a quest for understanding, and voyage to comprehend the Brobdingnagian mysteries of the depths of our universe. It analyzes big questions, asks bigger questions, and, if its good philosophy, leaves more questions than answers. However, my experiences included, hours of hypothetical conceptual engineering is like riding a Tilt-O-Whirl while reading Jacques Derrida: complete disorientation from reality (not to mention an upset stomach).
In the ancient world there's an anecdote about the Greek thinker, Thales. According to the source, Thales, completely preoccupied with his studious observation of the heavens, walked straight into a well to the bemusement of a passing slave girl. In some sense, Philosophy can be like our distracted ancient: all the contemplation and conceptualizing does little good when we've lost sight of the world (and wells) around us. Indeed, it merely becomes a skandelon, a stumbling block, when our dogged pursuit of wisdom blinds us to the application, the praxis, surround our daily interactions with society, with culture, and with our walk with Christ.
There's the saying a mind is a terrible thing to waste, so is a day, an hour, a minute in this beautiful world. Wisdom for the sake of wisdom is no different than a car that's never drove, a book that is never read, or a song never enjoyed. To be embodied and existent in this world is to be intimately connected with people, places, and things: all of which hold an especial place in God's grand masterpiece. As He has freely give us such wisdom and knowledge to understand and discern this world (James 1:5) may we never be hesitant to freely give as we have been given.
A tongue is a terrible thing to waste too. A lesson in patience is in order for yours truly. Yeouch!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Fate, Future, and The Great Bambino
I'm not someone who is superstitious. I don't take chances, a mantra I've sadly learned from experience (by way of one too many dog-eared Euchre hands). The blind squirrel occasionally may find a nut, the dog a bone, and even the fool now and again can toss up a kernel of wisdom (perhaps you're reading one right now). In short, when it comes to predicting the future, it's easier said than done.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
There have been those few, lucky individuals who have proved that assumption wrong. Take Leonardo Da Vinci, a Renaissance man, a visionary, whose brilliant ideas far preceded the technology and prowess of his day; designing canons, tanks, and flying machines whose articulation wouldn't reach fruition for centuries. Back then he had his naysayers, but genius is often said to walk hand-in-hand with lunacy, though for how long is another story.
Babe Ruth once predicted the future in game 3 of the 1932 World Series. Pointing towards center field, according to legend, he motioned confidently the intended destination of his swing, and sure enough The Great Bambino called his shot, thumbing his nose at the opposing team's dugout as he galloped pass first. Personally, I prefer Mark Messier's guarantee of a Game 6 victory in the 1994 Stanley Cup playoffs, but to each his own.
Most of the time, however, such guarantees and predictions often fall flat, if they even get up at all in the first place. Take H.M. Warner, co-founder of Warner Bros, who in 1927 wondered with fervor following the emergence of audio in motion pictures "who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" Another person who didn't like obtrusive noise was the head of Decca Recording Company, who told an upstart band from Liverpool after kicking them to the curb that "we don't like your sound, and guitar music is on the way out." (That band happened to become mildly successful across the pond, you know them today as The Beatles.) In fact, all you have to do is watch the evening drawing of the winning Daily 4 lotto numbers to realize that many across your viewing area are probably realizing their failed predictions on their own sofas at that moment.
Calvin didn't play the cards of chance. He went as far to say that God's providence leaves no room for fortune or fate, no matter how trivial or trite the circumstances. He went as far to say that "every year, month, and day is governed by a new, a special, providence of God." (Institutes I.XVI.2) After all, if our Heavenly Father tends to the fragilest jasmine, the most whimsical snowflake, and the tiniest sparrow then surely how much greater His concern for His human creatures whom He created imago Dei? (Matt. 10:29-31)
Such details often elude our sights, escape our notice, and fail to capture our immediate attention, especially in a day where at any particular moment an individual is bombarded with a hefty half-dozen forms of advertising, all of them obsoleting the past and presenting the present for purchase or obtainment in the immediate future. When all is said and done it's no wonder that more and more youths these days, between Television and Twitter, Film and Facebook, Microsoft and music, are being diagnosed with some form of attention-deficit disorders. By now, perhaps you yourself have stopped paying attention to the ramblings of this author, who's fairly distracted himself by the drone of an iPod at this moment.
Jake Eppinga, long-time pastor now past, in his last entry in The Banner wrote of the future in the waning hours of the final days of his long and eventful life. He was 90 years old, his body cancerous and decrepit, his wife distant and forgetful, and most of all, the future certainly uncertain. A man of God, over 60 years of life a pastor, fully admitting his fear of the future.
I fear dying.
Yet, in the face of the future there is always hope. There is always faith. There is always the intimate and imminent plan of a loving God whose grace is sufficient for each and every one of us. As the old children's song goes "He has the whole world in His hands"; He did yesterday, He does today, and He will have it tomorrow and all the days to come. Feast or famine, sun or rain, 7-2 split or pocket rockets, God is always, without fail, a good bet.
That's a chance even I'm willing to take.
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