Monday, February 20, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
A song for David, the choirmaster. To “Dives and Lazarus.”*
Sing praises to the Three in One, the God of harmony,
Who makes the universe ring out in varied unity
Join with the music of the stars, the earth, the sea, the air,
For everywhere that beauty shines, His handiwork is there.
Sing praises to our saving Lord who led us through the sea
When waves of sin and hatred raged in dark cacophony.
We sing to Him who split the waves and led us on dry land,
And feeds us in this wilderness with manna from His hand.
Sing praises to the God of love who died our lives to save,
Who tasted all death’s bitterness, lay cold within the grave.
Who shattered death, burst from the tomb. No pow’r could hold him there.
We shout with joy, “He is alive!” The glad news we declare.
Sing praises to the Lamb who rules the universe in might.
Who will return, restore His world, set all creation right.
Though flesh may fail and life may flee and death may close our eyes,
He will breathe life into dead bones; our song again shall rise.
* David Spicer, the choir director at the church I grew up in, passed away last week. He was a genius, the musical equivalent of the architect of a Gothic cathedral in Europe. He crafted the accompaniments of every hymn he played to convey the message of the lyrics. On many Sundays he improvised incredible, intricate medleys of every hymn and anthem we sang during the service, often using these as an introduction to the Doxology. He conducted choirs with professionally trained singers but also children’s choirs. In addition to teaching me music theory and singing techniques, he encouraged me in my faith profoundly. He was also the first person to ask me to write a hymn. He asked for words that could be sung to a tune called “Dives and Lazarus.” I wrote a hymn to that tune then, and he praised the result so much that I just kept writing hymns. Even after I had moved away, he often asked me if I was still writing them. I can think of no better way to honor Mr. Spicer than to write a hymn in his memory to the first and only specific tune he requested lyrics for.
Thursday, November 24, 2016
This year, like many others, I feel tempted to skip over Thanksgiving and go right to Advent. Not Christmas, Advent. The time of waiting for Christmas, when we sing the only lament most Evangelicals know ("O come, O come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here …") and look out from our troubled world to the hope of something better. (Who? Me? Depressive?)
But that’s why I need to give thanks. I need to remember that there is good in the world I’m in right now. My ultimate hope is in the future, but that’s not the only hope. And God has already given me many tremendous blessings.
This year in particular, I have much to be grateful for. I was accepted into a PhD program, so I know what I’ll be doing for the next five years or so. In the words of Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof, I get to “discuss the ancient books with the learned men seven hours every day.” It’s a cool job and one that I really enjoy when I stop to think about it. This also means I get five more years with the wonderful community I’ve grown so fond of over the last two years. I’m thankful for my great friends here and the spectacular, generous hospitality I’ve received from them. I also have a contract on a really cute house 2 miles from campus. I’m so thankful that things have worked out so well for me.
And then there are all the universal blessings, things I’ve enjoyed for most of my life. My incredible family, old friends who I can still stay in touch with through the marvels of modern technology (even when they’re on the other side of the world), heat and air conditioning, modern medical care, the beauty of the natural world and so much more. God has been really good to us.
This year has also been hard for me in one major way. My beloved grandmother passed away in February. Now it feels like there is a hole in the world, a place where she should be but isn’t. I can turn in a moment from smiling at a compliment someone gave me to feeling deep sorrow when I realize that the compliment was on a piece of jewelry I inherited from her. And yet, this, too, is something to be grateful for. I’m grateful that my grandmother was such a sweet, generous woman. I’m thankful for all the things she taught me, for the good memories I have and that I was able to spend so many years with her. I’m also thankful that I was able to see her and say goodbye a month or so before she died. I miss her, but I’m glad for the time I had with her and that she is now no longer suffering but rejoicing before the throne of her beloved Savior.
And this leads me to the last and greatest reason why I give thanks. During my devotions this morning I read Colossians 3:1-4:
If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth. For you have died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ who is your life appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.
I’m thankful that Christ died for me, that I died with him, and now I, like him, have been raised up and received new life. None of the troubles of this world can touch me because the source of my life is beyond this world. I have the hope of sharing in His glory when He returns.
So now, as I wait for that time, I will try to give thanks, to rejoice, to enjoy all the good things God has given me while holding them loosely, knowing that my true treasure is in Christ.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Monday, August 22, 2016
As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust. – Psalm 103:13-14
Three months ago, the summer stretched in front of me, weeks and weeks with no fixed schedule where I could devote myself to everything I wanted to get done. I planned to learn German read both fiction and nonfiction, whip my mom’s garden into shape, reconnect with old friends, write a large part of a novel, compose several blog, practice my flute regularly and shop for a house. I wish I was exaggerating. Classes start tomorrow, and not all of that got done. Not even close. My summer is just like life in general: so much to do, so little time.
If someone walked up to you and said, “You are dust,” you’d probably be very confused and a little offended. If they explained that in the Bible, comparing people to dust is a way of emphasizing mortality, you’d be less confused, but probably still offended. Our culture does everything it can to forget about death. We encourage our kids to reach for the stars and promise that if they work hard they can be anything they want to be. We spend hours exercising and go on all kinds of diets so that we look young and attractive. Even our meat comes in pristine shrink-wrapped packages with all the icky organs removed, so it doesn’t remind us of the animals it came from.
It’s tempting to think that reminding people of their mortality – or any limit – is unkind. People want to be encouraged, to have people build up their self-esteem. But actually, recognizing our limitations is far kinder than denying them.
Psalm 103 associates God’s compassion for humanity with His remembering that they are dust. Often, we are least compassionate when we forget human limits. It’s easy to get impatient when you think someone should be able to do something for you, but they don’t. And if you’re in a position of authority, expecting people to do more than they’re capable of can make their lives miserable. New professors, for example, are infamous for giving unreasonable amounts of work because they don’t know what students can handle.
The same goes for my attitude toward myself. Too often, I forget that I am dust. When I think about everything I tried and failed to do this summer, frustration and discouragement threaten to overwhelm me. There are so many good things to do, and one lifetime is far too short to get them done. But I don’t have to do everything. I am dust, and creatures of dust need time to rest. And God knows I am dust. He will not be disappointed that I can’t do everything. He knows my weakness and has compassion. Paradoxically, God extends compassion and mercy precisely because He knows we are dust. He loves us not because we can do so much but because we need His love so desperately.
Friend, when (not if) people fall short of your expectations, remember that they are dust. And when (not if) you disappoint yourself, remember that you are dust. And rejoice that God also remembers we are dust, forgives our sins and comforts us in our weaknesses.
Monday, August 15, 2016
The distinction between law and grace has been part of Christianity practically since it first began. The heart of the gospel is that it is God’s grace, and not the Law, that saves us. We can’t establish a right relationship with God by keeping His commands because none of us keeps those commands perfectly. So God chose to act, becoming human in the person of Jesus and dying for us so that our sins could be forgiven and we could become children of God.
Some Christians have an unfortunate tendency to associate the Law that cannot save us with the Old Testament and grace with the New Testament. This makes the Old Testament little more than an obsolete relic of an age without grace when people struggled to be obedient enough to save themselves, proof of the problem Christ came to solve. Or it becomes a collection of inspiring stories about heroes who can serve as models for faith and good behavior. Now, the Old Testament does show us humanity’s desperate need, and it does give us role models and moral instruction, but it’s more than that. It’s the oldest record we have of God’s grace.
Yes, I said the Old Testament records grace. And to illustrate this I’m going to turn to Exodus20, the chapter that contains the Ten Commandments. This chapter is one of the clearest, most concise statements of God’s law. But notice the first thing God says in it: “I am the LORD your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery” (Ex 20:2). Before God commands the Israelites to do anything, He points out what He has already done. The Exodus was the defining event of Israel’s history. It made Israel a nation, brought liberty to its people and demonstrated dramatically that God had chosen them and was willing and able to overcome anything that opposed them. It was the moment that fulfilled God’s promise to Abraham, when He swore to make Abraham’s descendants a great nation. And God did all this when Israel was helpless. They had done nothing to deserve God’s favor, nothing to merit being rescued. The Exodus was pure grace.
And so, God begins the Law with a reminder of grace. It is because the LORD is their God and has established a unique relationship with them through the Exodus, that they are to worship no other gods, to refrain from making idols, to respect God’s name and so on. Even the laws relating to relationships with other people reflect the fact that these are people made in God’s image, so the way they relate to each other reveals their attitude toward God.
The Law is rooted and grounded in grace. Even at the beginning, when God first revealed it to Israel, He began by pointing out the grace they had already received. And so it is with us. The New Testament has much to say about how we ought to live, and the moral laws within the Old Testament are still binding on Christians (though ceremonial laws and stipulations about Israel’s government are not). If we have truly received God’s grace, we must obey God’s law, and if we appreciate God’s grace we will want to. But we must never let law become prior to grace. As with Israel, so with us: God saves first, and obedience is a response to that.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
When I was 10, my father taught me how to attack a castle. Dad was teaching at a university in Germany for four months. My whole family went with him, and we spent much of the time traveling around Europe and exploring historical sites.
Shortly after we arrived, my parents, my 7-year-old brother and I visited a castle in the nearby town of Wurzburg. It was a hot day in early September. To get to the castle, we had to climb a hill turning back and forth along switchbacks through a vineyard. My brother and I were getting hot and uncomfortable, so my mom said to my dad, “We need to do something to distract the kids.”
My dad called us over and said, “Let’s pretend we’re Vikings, and we’re attacking this castle. We have to walk up this hill wearing armor and carrying metal weapons. And you see those little holes in the wall? People are standing behind those holes shooting at us.”
And so he continued. When we finally made it up the hill, he pointed out bastions jutting out from the wall on either side of the gate so that archers or gunmen could attack us from three sides. He showed us the draw bridge, the portcullis, and the murder holes in the ceiling through which the castle’s defenders would drop rocks and boiling oil on our heads. There were two walls with gatehouses whose corridors turned to make it difficult to push cannons through. After looking at the defenses for a while, I asked my dad, “Why are we attacking this castle, again?” It seemed like a poor life choice.
But during the Thirty Years War, that castle did fall. The story of its fall is a textbook example of how not to defend a castle.
The young lieutenant in charge of Wurzburg Castle heard that the army of Gustavus Adolphus, the king of Sweden, was coming to attack his castle. The normal procedure at this point would be to stock up on supplies, hide in the fortress and wait for your enemy to get close enough to shoot them through those arrow slits I saw. But this young lieutenant had a better idea: why not send a line of men with guns outside the gate? They could shoot one volley at the incoming army and then retreat inside the gate and pull up the drawbridge.
Unfortunately for him, the attacking army arrived quicker than expected. The defending troops panicked and fled before they had a chance to shoot. They ran inside the gate and slammed it shut, but not before the other army was on the drawbridge. So, they couldn’t pull the drawbridge up, which meant that the moat was useless.
The lieutenant was disappointed, but he was not ready to give up. There was still a second wall with a gatehouse. So, the defenders wheeled a cannon out between the gatehouses. They planned to fire it at the attackers when they broke through the gate, and then wheel the cannon in through the second gate while the attackers were stunned. What could go wrong?
But the Lieutenant hadn’t counted on the attackers’ secret weapon. They had a group of crazy Scottish engineers who approached their general and said something to the effect of, “Ooh! Can we blow up the gate? Pretty please?” The general agreed, so the engineers put together a bomb called a petard and hung it on the gate.
The defenders stood around the cannon waiting to hear the sound of a battering ram. Then the gate exploded. The defenders panicked and fled through the second gate, leaving the loaded cannon behind them.
The attackers entered the courtyard between the gates and said, “Hey, cool! It’s a loaded cannon!” Then they turned it around and used it to blast open the second gate.
Thus, Wurzburg Castle fell.
Why am I telling this story? First, because it’s funny. Second, because of a tendency I see in my own life to make a similar mistake.
Several psalms compare God to a fortress, a place of defense to whom people can go for help. Martin Luther’s great hymn “A Mighty Fortress is our God” was based on Psalm 46. It was also written in Germany, possibly in a castle similar to the one in Wurzburg. Psalm 18:2 says, “The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.”
The young Lieutenant’s big mistake was failing to trust his fortress. Instead of relying on the built-in defenses that so impressed me when I was 10, he relied on his own strength and planning. He sent his men outside the fortress’s protection, foolishly thinking that their strength could defend the castle better than the castle could defend them.
But how often do I do the same? When anxiety presses in on me, when something goes wrong in my life, or the lives of my friends, my country, or the world, I tend to ask, “What can I do to fix this?” And sometimes, the answer is, “nothing.” But instead of accepting my helplessness and trusting in God, I try to find my own ways of making things work out. Or I panic and abandon the things I can do, leaving a loaded cannon for my enemies to use.
Defending a castle does require effort, and God graciously chooses to use us to make a difference. But we cannot rely on our own power. We must take refuge in our Fortress, trusting Him to protect us.