One Suffering One

“Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.”

— Marie Curie

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Featured Story

week of March 14, 2020

One Suffering One

By Arthur A. Milward

She didn’t have red hair or freckles, but somehow she reminded me of Peppermint Patty and the little red-haired girl in “Peanuts” comics. She had the contrasting qualities of courage and innocent appeal.

She was about 10 or 12 years old. It was hard to be sure of her age from her appearance, as her stunted, malformed frame inside her made her look younger than she was. But her small oval face wore an expression more appropriate to a grown woman.

“

Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength

.

”

Corrie ten Boom

“

People wish to learn to swim and at the same time to keep one foot on the ground

.”

Marcel Proust

Her eyes were her dominant feature. Large, dark, and luminous, fringed by long, thick lashes, they were her one beauty. She had the habit of gazing steadily for a long moment at a newcomer to the children’s ward. If she liked what she saw, her face would light up and she would shuffle over and introduce herself.

She had a smile, the nurses said, that could light up a room—and could make you forget her misshapen body and painful, awkward movements.

She smiled often. I never saw her cry, although she had experienced a great deal of pain, rejection, and disappointment. Valerie, I gathered, had already shed all her tears several years and countless operations ago.

Valerie would come to the children’s surgical ward for prolonged periods. Then she would disappear, only to return within a few months for further corrective surgery—surgery that could only, at best, make life manageable for her. She had MBD—multiple birth defects.

Valerie had a well-developed and slightly cynical sense of humor. When some unthinking visitor would ask what was wrong with her, she would smile sweetly and suggest that he return later when he had a day off work and time to spare. “But,” she would add innocently, “if you’re in a hurry, I can tell you what’s right with me.”

Whenever she was recovering from one of her operations, Valerie would “fall” out of her bed—which was the only way she could manage to get out of bed without help (and she scorned help). She would shuffle around the ward, helping with the care of the other children.

The small patients liked Valerie in spite of her appearance and curious method of maneuvering. She could get them to do things when the nurses failed.

Valerie stood for no nonsense. Pain was a fact of life as far as she was concerned. And she had, in her small, misshapen frame, enough courage for a wardful of children.

Valerie’s parents didn’t visit her every day, as many of the other children’s parents did. Possibly her parents were both working or had other children to care for. They came once or twice a week, and Valerie didn’t seem to care desperately whether her mother came or not. A young, fashionably dressed woman, her mother always seemed to be in a hurry. She gave the impression of embarrassment, and she sort of disassociated herself from her daughter when other parents stopped by.

But Valerie’s father was outgoing and affectionate. He would wait at the end of the ward for Valerie to shuffle across to meet him, her face lit up. He always greeted her in the same way. “Hi there, beautiful,” he’d call. He made it sound as if he really meant it. And just for a moment, as the little girl reached the end of her shuffling run toward him, dropped her canes, and fell into his arms, he was right.

Another patient

 Then one cold and windy autumn night Billy came into the ward. Actually, it was very early in the morning, before dawn. He came up from emergency surgery, the victim of a car wreck on the M-2 expressway.

His parents were relatively unhurt, but Billy had been pinned in the wreckage for a long time. He had severe injuries to his lower legs. The doctor’s prognosis was that 8-year-old Billy had taken his last steps.

Billy was sunk in deep depression. He would never walk again, let alone run, jump, play soccer, or do any of the other things that made his life worth living.

But Valerie had other ideas. After summing up the situation, she decided that the prognosis was nonsense. “The kid’ll walk,” she declared. She had been there. She knew.

When, fairly well along in his convalescence, Billy still refused to get out of bed, put his feet on the floor, and try to stand, Valerie took over his case. After breakfast one morning she issued her first directive. “Out of that bed, kid. It’s time to get up!”

Billy tearfully protested that he couldn’t walk. He demanded that she go away and leave him alone. But by sheer force of will she coaxed him out of his bed and into an upright position, then into the metal walker.

She spent exhausting hours with him every day. And at the end of the day she would crumple into an untidy heap on the floor. She would be asleep before a nurse came by to lift her onto her bed.

She put up with all kinds of abuse from her unwilling patient. Once, early on in the rehabilitation program, Billy lost his temper and stormed at her, “Valerie, why can’t you leave me alone? What do you know? You’re weird.”

Valerie stopped dead. Her oval face went white and her chin quivered. She looked as close to tears as I ever saw her. But only for a moment. Then she stuck out her chin and fixed the boy with her eyes.

“I know it,” she said. “But I can’t help it—and you can! Come on.” After that, things went better. Billy became more cooperative.

Some weeks later he began to share her faith that he would recover. He became enthusiastic, and the two children grew to be best friends.

Then, close to three months after he’d entered the hospital, Billy closed the curtains around his bed. He dressed himself in the new suit his excited parents had brought, packed his things into his small suitcase, and walked with his family to the parking lot in front of the hospital.

Valerie and some staff workers were there. Billy, grinning from ear to ear, turned and waved. Everyone waved back except Valerie. She couldn’t. She needed both hands on her canes to support herself. Her face showed no sign of emotion, but her tiny knuckles clutching the handles of her walking canes were very white. The contrast was hard to bear. The excited, happy little boy who had learned to walk again, and the tiny, misshapen girl who would never walk properly.

Billy got into the car with his parents and young sister. And with a final wave he was gone.

Onlookers and hospital staff stood staring out into the courtyard, unwilling to move.

Valerie was the first to speak. “Well,” she said, “what are we all staring at? There’s work to be done. Come on, it’s time to get trays ‘round for supper.”

In heaven Valerie will walk straight and tall. She will walk without tiring, and she won’t fall down.

—From Insight’s Most Unforgettable Stories

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What is Sacred?

“Be not simply good; be good for something.”

— Henry David Thoreau

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Featured Story

week of March 7, 2020

What is Sacred?

Here’s a fun exercise. Run down the items in the columns below and figure where you think each should appear on the line. Are they more secular or more sacred? Then fill in the blank with the number. (There are no “right” or “wrong” answers.)

Secular 1 — 2 — 3 — 4 — 5 — 6 — 7 — 8 — 9 — 10 Sacred

PEOPLE
___ Beyonce
___ Mother Teresa
___ Harvey Weinstein
___ Kate Middleton
___ Oprah Winfrey
___ Donald Trump
___ Bernie Sanders
___ Take 6
___ Brian Starr
___ Barry Black
___ Greta Thunberg
___ Pope Francis
___ Cristiano Ronaldo
___ Ted Wilson
___ Mary, mother of Jesus

“

I can more easily see our Lord sweeping the streets of London, than issuing edicts from its cathedral

.

”

Dick Sheppard

“

There is a sacredness
in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but
of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love

.”

Washington Irving

TOPICS
___ education
___ humor
___ Super Tuesday
___ Peter
___ Judas
___ travel
___ travel in the Holy Land
___ music
___ General Conference session ___ perfection
___ weather
___ sex
___ L. A. Lakers
___ coronavirus
___ money

OBJECTS

___ rock
___ tree
___ television set
___ paintbrush
___ cow
___church sanctuary
___church sanctuary carpet
___ electric guitar
___ electric organ
___ Facebook
___ cross
___ wedding ring
___ black stone of Mecca
___ Bible

___ Bible concordance

Questions:

1. Did your views on what is sacred and secular depend at all on your likes and dislikes?

2. Did this quiz make you think twice about what is “spiritual”? Any surprises?

3. Compare your answers with those around you in the pews. Why do differences exist?

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Dolly and Me

“Every thought is a seed. If you plant crab apples, don’t count on harvesting Golden Delicious.”

— Bill Meyer

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Featured Story

week of February 29, 2020

Dolly and Me

by Anonymous

Looking back, I can see that I did hate her. But if at the time someone had accused me of hating Dolly, I would have been shocked and angry.

I didn't consciously hate her. It was the unsavory idea of her I hated—the way she looked, the way she was clothed, the way she smelled, the hopelessness of the poverty that she represented.

“

That which grows fast, withers as rapidly. That which grows slowly, endures.

”

J. G. Holland

Extreme poverty, thrust upon us in the shape of a walking, breathing human, demands a response from us—whether it be compassion, anger, or denial. There it is, and we must deal with it.

But during my first year of teaching my main concern was to get the children from one day's assignments to the next, as out- lined in the Course of Study.

I'm sure that during at least two or three of my college classes I'd been introduced to the abstract principles of being a humanitarian. But any such seeds planted in my brain hadn't yet sprouted.

I do remember a quotation from Emerson I found in one of my books. It went something like this: "I cannot hear what you are saying over the thunder of what you are." The words didn't touch my personally, though. After all, I was a commendable young woman aspiring to be a schoolteacher. I copied the quotation in my collection of wisdom that applied to other people.

I didn't scold or mistreat Dolly. I simply ignored her. I conditioned myself to ignore her sordid little presence the same way you condition yourself to ignore an unappealing object you have to keep around becuase it was a gift. When I did feel bound to include her in the recitation periods, I spoke to her politely.

“

Definiteness of purpose is the starting point of all achievement

.”

W. Clement Stone

I can picture her sitting on the long recitation bench with the other third graders—her feet not touching the floor, not swinging back and forth like the others, just hanging there. I can see her wan face turning toward me, her dark eyes with a look I couldn't bear to meet. And her mouth gaping open because she couldn't breathe through her stuffed-up nose.

Dolly was my most well-behaved student, the one who gave me the least trouble. All she did, day by day, moment by momen, was die. A tender little plant dying for lack of warmth and light and nourishment and a gentle rain now and then.

But since Dolly was so unappetizing, and looking at her filled me with a sense of reproach, i just ignored her. Except for her papers. My soul curdles with self-revulsion at the memory of those bold checkmarks I slashed across her faint and barely legible scrawls that bespoke a child hanging on the edge of malnutrition. In my very important gradebook, I recorded her scores. In looking back, I know she tried—at least until everything seemed to her hope- less. I never gave her an A for effort.

My cruelty wound like a scarlet thread, until one day in early spring, when I went too far.

I was explaining some new mathematical concept to the third grade when I noticed Dolly gazing out the window with the end of a pencil in her mouth. Rebellion.

“Dolly,” I said firmly, “will you look this way, please?”

Blankly, as though waking from a dream, she turned toward me.

I pointed to the chalkboard with my long pointer stick. (How teacherish I felt when I held this instrument!)

“Do you understand how to do this problem, Dolly?”

Dolly stared uncomprehending toward the board, her little brow knit with anxiety.

“Very well, I will explain it to you. Again.” My impatience was like a withering wind to Dolly. I could see her pinched face.

Becoming bored and restless, the rest of the students turned to other things. I tapped on the board with the stick.

I felt this was something so simple even Dolly could see it if she would! “Now look closely, Dolly. I will explain it one more time!”

Now the chill wind touched the other children. They all stopped what they were doing to and stared at Dolly and me. They had never heard me sound so angry.

And Dolly? Her face at that moment is frozen forever in my mind. Her eyes were wide with surprise and full of that dark shadow I now know is chronic pain.

Suddenly she put her head down on her thin little arms, and all the sorrow she’d been bottling up came pouring out in hideous, gulping sobs. In a state of shock and disbelief, I stared at her shuddering body.

Now you know what it’s like to have the power to destroy a child, I thought. How does it feel?

 I knew I must get Dolly to a secluded spot. I went to her, drew her out of her desk, and led her outside into the brilliant sunshine. Parked not far from the schoolhouse was the old yellow bus, and I helped her up into it. We sat on the front seat, Dolly cradled in my arms. I let her cry and cry and cry, and I pressed my cheek against her unwashed head, which felt feverish and damp.

“Forgive me, Dolly, please, please, forgive me,” I murmured, and I suppose my tears added to the dampness of her hair. I will never forget the mingled joy and pain of those tears. How they freed me from the oppression of my sin against this child.

We both cried until the pain was washed away.

Then we went back into the schoolroom, and all was different—at least for Dolly and me.

—From Insight Presents More Unforgettable Stories

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Symptoms of Disorganization

“It’s not enough to be busy. . . The question is: What are we busy about?”

— Henry David Thoreau

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Featured Story

week of February 8, 2020

Symptoms of Disorganization

by Gordon MacDonald

None of us wants to come to the end of life and look back with regrets on things that could have been accomplished but were not. But to prevent that from happening, it is necessary to understand how we can command the time God has given to us.

Let us first consider the traits of the disorganized life. Some of these symptoms may seem a bit ridiculous, even petty. Let me suggest a handful of sample symptoms.

“

The time to repair the roof is when the sun is shining

.”

John F. Kennedy

When I am slipping into disorganization, for example, I know it because my desk takes on a cluttered appearance. The same thing happens to the top of my bedroom dresser. In fact almost every horizontal surface in the path of my daily travel becomes littered with papers, [emails] to which I have not responded, and pieces of tasks left unfinished. I can see some spouse saying, “Here, read this.” But my desk can be another’s kitchen counter, bedroom furniture, work bench, or basement workroom. The same principle applies.

The symptoms of disorganization tend to show themselves in the condition of my car. It becomes dirty inside and out. I lose track of the maintenance schedule, and I am pressing deadlines on oil changes and rotating tires.

When disorganization takes over, I become aware of a diminution of my self-esteem. I feel the slightest tinge of paranoia, a low-level fear that people are going to discover they are not getting their money’s worth out of my labor, that I am not the person they thought I was.

I know I’m disorganized when there are a series of forgotten appointments, phone and email messages to which I have failed to respond, and deadlines I have begun to miss. The day becomes filled with broken commitments and lame excuses. (Some days events beyond our control conspire to derail even the most organized.)

If I am disorganized, I tend to invest my energies in unproductive tasks. I actually find myself watching a screen or doing small and boring things just to get something accomplished. There is a tendency toward daydreaming, an avoidance of decisions that have to be made, and procrastination.

“

It's not that I'm so smart; it's just that I stay with problems longer

.”

Albert Einstein

Disorganized people feel poor about their work. What they manage to finish they do not like. They find it hard to accept the compliments of others. In the secrecy of their hearts they know that they have turned in a second-best job.

Disorganized Christians rarely enjoy intimacy with God. They certainly have intentions of pursuing that friendship, but it never quite gets established. No one has to tell them that time must be set aside for Bible study and reflection, for intercession, for worship. They know all of that. They simply are not doing it. They excuse themselves, saying there is no time, but within their private worlds they
know it is more a matter of organization and personal will than anything else.

If I am in a state of disorganization, the quality of my personal relationships usually reveals it. The days pass without a significant conversation with my son or daughter. My wife and I will be in contact, but our conversations may be shallow and unaffirming. I may become irritable, resenting any attempt to correct my course, no matter how tactfully it’s pointed out. 

The fact of the matter is that when we are disorganized in our control of time, we just don’t like ourselves, our jobs, or much else about our worlds. And it is difficult to break the destructive pattern that settles in.

This terrible habit-pattern of disorganization must be broken, or our private worlds will fall quickly into total disorder. We must resolve to seize control of our time.

—Condensed from Ordering Your Private World

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Resurrecting Church

“We can do no great things, only small things with great love.”

— Mother Teresa

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Featured Story

week of January 18, 2020

Resurrecting Church

by Shane Claiborne

We were sitting in the college cafeteria eating dinner, complaining as usual about the food and going back for more (the woes of college students). Suddenly, a friend walked up to our table and threw down a newspaper, muttering, “You guys are not going to believe this.” The top story was about a group of 40 homeless families who were being evicted from an abandoned cathedral in North Philadelphia.

The families that lived there were with an organization called the Kensington Welfare Rights Union, made up mostly of homeless mothers and children who took care of one another. They had been living in a tent city a few blocks away from the cathedral, but conditions were worsening, with rats and flooding.

St. Edward’s cathedral had been closed along with half a dozen other cathedrals in Philadelphia’s poorest neighborhoods, and it had been left vacant for several years. Many of the people were stuck on an endless waiting list for subsidized housing.

So, living in worsening conditions and with the government threatening to take custody of
their kids, the families moved into St. Edward’s as an act of survival and a refusal to remain invisible. Soon after, the Catholic archdiocese which owned the building announced that they had 48 hours to get out or face arrest. We could hardly believe our eyes.

“

It isn't enough to talk about peace. One must believe in it. And it isn't enough to believe in it. One must work at it

.”

Eleanor Roosevelt

We scarfed down the rest of our dinner with our heads spinning, wondering what we should do. Now homelessness was not just adults on the downtown streets but women and children. It wasn’t long before we were packed in a car heading into “the Badlands” in search of St. Edward’s in a neighborhood we had always been told to stay clear of. Little did we know that God’s got a thing for showing up in badlands like Kensington and Nazareth.

The families had chosen to seek refuge in the historic sanctuary and had hung a banner out front that read, “How can we worship a homeless man on Sunday and ignore one on Monday?” It took us a minute to realize they were talking about our Savior as a homeless man. Timidly, we walked up to the large red doors and gave them a knock. We could hear the thumping echo through the marble cavern. Several folks clumsily opened the doors, and they embraced us without hesitation. Then they invited us in. And we would never be the same again.

"Do you want to stay?"

They gave us a grand tour of the shantytown they had constructed inside, and introduced us to a few of the children, who promptly stole our caps and jumped on our backs. They poured out their hearts to us, their struggles and their dreams. They assured us that if we all shared with one another, there would be enough for everyone.

The next day, dozens of us poured into the cathedral, casting our lives next to the families’, saying, “If they come for you, they’ll have to take us too.”

We rang the old bell in the tower of the cathedral to alert the people of the neighborhood, many of whom were already bringing donations and gathering outside. Around the forty-seventh hour, we prepared a “Last Supper,” with all the families and friends gathered around a table on the old marble altar to sing, to pray, and to break bread together, with lots of tears. The families asked for a show of hands of who would remain in the building, risking arrest, when the officials returned. As I raised my hand, a young girl named Destiny was sitting on my lap, and she asked why I was raising my hand. “Do you want to be able to stay here?” I asked. Destiny said, “Yes, this is my home.” And I told her, “That’s why I’m raising my hand.” She hugged me and slowly lifted her hand into the air.

I’ll never forget when the officials came to evict the families. The representatives from the archdiocese pulled up to the curb, took two steps out of the car, saw the crowd, and crawled back into the car without uttering a word. The 48 hours came and passed.

Becoming church

We students became known as the YACHT Club (Youth Against Complacency and Homelessness Today). It was not a boating club, though we did have some boaters mistakenly call on occasion, and we didn’t hesitate to ask them for money. The Spirit was tearing through our college campus like a wildfire, igniting us with passion.

Every week, dozens of us piled into Sunday services at St. Ed’s, where we sang old hymns and freedom songs. It was a revival of sorts. Gospel choirs came, and we danced in the aisles. Courageous Catholic clergy led liturgies. Kids and homeless mothers preached the gospel. We shared communion—apple cider and stale bagels or whatever we could find—and many of us were experiencing true communion for the first time in our lives.

The body of Christ was alive, no longer trapped in stained-glass windows or books of systematic theology. The body of Christ was literal, living, hungry, thirsty, bleeding. Church was no longer something we did for an hour, and church was not a building with a steeple. As Don Everts says in his book Jesus with Dirty Feet, “Referring to the church as a building is like referring to people as two-by-fours.”

The church became something we are—an organism, not an organization. Church became so fresh and vibrant, it was like we had brought something dead back to life. And perhaps we had. In fact, one of the news headlines read, “Church Resurrected.”

And yet amid all the spiritual movement, we kept bumping into this other thing people still called church, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It seemed so far from the Scriptures, so far from the poor, so far from Jesus.

One day we received a box of donations from a wealthy congregation that will remain nameless. Written in marker on the cardboard box were the words, “For the homeless.” Excited, I opened it, only to find the entire box filled with microwave popcorn. My first instinct was to laugh.

We barely had electricity, much less a microwave, and popcorn wasn’t near the top of the needs list. My second instinct was to cry because of how far the church had become removed from the poor.

Later that same week, another group of folks brought donations by St. Ed’s—the mafia. With the media jumping on the story, the mafia came by and gave bikes to each of the kids, turkeys to each family, and thousands of dollars to the organization. I thought, I guess God can use the mafia, but I would like God to use the church.

“

Never doubt that a small number of dedicated people can change the world; indeed, it is the only thing that ever has

.”

Margaret Mead

Shortly afterward, I sat puzzled, grieving over the state of our church. “I think I’ve lost hope in the church,” I confessed, brokenhearted, to a friend. I will never forget her response.

“No, you haven’t lost hope in the church. You may have lost hope in Christianity or Christendom or all the institutions, but you have not lost hope in the church. This is the church.” At that moment, we decided to stop complaining about the church we saw, and we set our hearts on becoming the church we dreamed of.

—Condensed from The Irresistible Revolution

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Things You Would Never Know Without the Movies

“What is honored in a country will be cultivated there.”

— Plato

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Featured Story

week of January 11, 2020

Things You Would Never Know Without the Movies

by Chris Blake

A man will show no pain while taking the most ferocious beating but will wince when a woman tries to clean his wounds.

Even if their gas tanks are near empty, cars that crash will almost always burst into explosive flames.

Should you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer it will not be necessary to speak the language. A German accent will do.

The ventilation system of any building is the perfect hiding place. No one will ever think of looking for you in there and you can travel to any other part of the building you want without difficulty.

“

Good writing shows what is hidden, like the arrow in the FedEx logo, so that we never again miss it

.”

Susan Doenim

Kitchens don’t have light switches. When entering the kitchen at night, you should open the fridge door and use that light instead.

If you find yourself caught up in a misunderstanding that could be cleared up quickly with a simple explanation, for goodness’ sake keep your mouth shut.

Any person waking from a nightmare will sit bolt upright and pant.

All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large red readouts so you know exactly when they’re going to go off.

A cough is usually the sign of a terminal illness.

When in love, it is customary to burst into song.

One man shooting at 20 men has a better chance of killing them than 20 men firing at one man.

When confronted by an evil international terrorist, sarcasm and wisecracks are your best weapons.

Creepy music coming from a cemetary should always be investigated more closely.

Most laptop computers are powerful enough to override the communication systems of any invading alien civilization.

Freelance helicopter pilots are always eager to accept bookings from international terrorist organizations—even though the job will require them to shoot total strangers and will end in their own certain deaths when the helicopter explodes.

Couples having sex outside of marriage never worry about STDs—nor should they.

Any lock can be picked by a credit card or a paper clip in three seconds— unless it’s the door to a burning building with a child trapped inside.

Police departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they are deliberately assigned to a partner who is their total opposite.

When they are alone, foreigners prefer to speak English to each other.

Action heroes never face charges for manslaughter or criminal damage despite laying entire cities to waste by their driving and their actions.

“

Finally, sisters and brothers, whatever is true, honest, just, pure, lovely, and praiseworthy, think about THESE things

.”

Philippians 4:8

You can tell if somebody is British because they will be wearing a bow tie.

An electric fence, powerful enough to stun or kill a giant dinosaur, will cause no lasting damage to an eight-year-old child.

Honest and hard-working police officers are traditionally gunned down three days before their retirement.

If you are blonde and pretty, it is possible to become a world expert in nuclear fission at age 22.

The more a man and a woman hate each other, the more likely they will fall in love.

Having a job of any kind will make fathers forget their son’s sixth birthday.

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The First Footwashing

“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

— Lamentations 3:22, 23

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Featured Story

week of January 4, 2020

The First Footwashing

by Chris Blake

Jesus and the disciples again stay the night at Bethany, and Jesus spends the day visiting friends Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. Though He has spoken often of the trials before Him, He shares again what lies ahead. His words are dipped in sorrow. Here are friends whose gentle, loyal appreciation buoy His spirit and resolve. He relaxes, spending the day in private prayer and conversation, a respite from the engulfing storm.

“

Stay true in the dark and humble in the spotlight

.”

Harold B. Lee

In the evening Jesus is the honored guest at the home of a man known as Simon the Leper, whom Jesus had healed. Martha, marvelous hostess, serves the men in one room as Lazarus, the celebrity, reclines at the table with the disciples and other guests. Mary helps a little, but as much as possible she is where she unswervingly chooses to be, near the Master, soaking up His words. The room resounds with animated talk.

Toward the end of the meal, Mary leaves and retrieves an alabaster jar containing a pint of pure nard, an incredibly expensive perfume. Earlier in the day she had observed Jesus’ sadness. Grateful that He has pardoned her sins and rescued her brother from death, she purchased the perfume at great personal sacrifice.

She moves unnoticed behind Jesus and breaks the jar open. Instantly the fragrance permeates the room, the talking stops, and all eyes rivet on her. Mary pours the perfume on the head and feet of Jesus. Weeping from embarrassment and love, her tears drop like warm rain on His tanned feet. She hurriedly wipes the tears away with her flowing hair.

The awkward silence deepens. The men are offended. In their culture this represents an unseemly public display of intimacy, and her devotion also puts them to shame. One of the twelve disciples, Judas Iscariot, objects harshly. “Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It’s worth more than a year’s wages!” Judas is treasurer of the disciples, keeper of the money bag used to support widows, orphans, and the poor.

“

All streams flow to the sea because it is lower than they are. Humility gives it its power

.”

Lao Tzu

As the indignation level rises, Jesus notes Mary’s distress. She fears that in her extravagant giving she will also be reprimanded by her efficient sister and, possibly, by the Master Himself. It was an impetuous gift.

She attempts a pitiful escape, but Jesus comes to her defense. Lifting His voice above the muttering, He says, “Leave her alone!” The guests quiet. “Why are you bothering her? She’s done a beautiful thing to me. You’ll always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to prepare me for burial.” Mary looks at Him with stunned adoration. He understands.

“I tell you for certain,” He continues, “wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told.” God prizes courteous gestures of appreciation, particularly when they take place before the funeral.

—From Searching for a God to Love

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Messy Spirituality

“The closest to perfection a person ever comes is when she fills out a job application form.”

— Stanley J. Randall

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Featured Story

week of December 28, 2019

Messy Spirituality

by Mike Yaconelli

My life is a mess.

After forty-five years of trying to follow Jesus, I keep losing Him in the crowded busyness of my life. I know Jesus is there, somewhere, but it’s difficult to make Him out in the haze of everyday life.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a godly person. Yet when I look at the yesterdays of my life, what I see, mostly, is a broken, irregular path littered with mistakes and failure. I have had temporary successes and isolated moments of closeness to God, but I long for the continuing presence of Jesus. Most of the moments of my life seem hopelessly tangled in a web of obligations and distractions.

“

The one sign of maturity is doing what you have
to do when you don't feel like doing it

.”

Susan Doenim

I want to be a good person. I don’t want to fail. I want to learn from my mistakes, rid myself of distractions, and run into the arms of Jesus. Most of the time, however, I feel as if I am running away from Jesus into the arms of my own clutteredness.

I want desperately to know God better. I want to be consistent. Right now the only consistency in my life is my inconsistency. Who I want to be and who I am are not very close together. I am not doing well at the living-a-consistent- life thing.

I don’t want to be St. John of the Cross or Billy Graham. I just want to be remembered as a person who loved God, who served others more than he served himself, who was trying to grow in maturity and stability. I want to have more victories than defeats, yet here I am, almost sixty, and I fail on a regular basis.

If I were to die today, I would be nervous about what people would say at my funeral. I would be happy if they said things like “He was a nice guy” or “He was occasionally decent” or “Mike wasn’t as bad as a lot of people.” Unfortunately, eulogies are delivered by people who know the deceased. I know what the consensus would be: “Mike was a mess.”

I have been trying to follow Christ for most of my life, and the best I can do is a stumbling, bumbling, clumsy kind of following. Even though I am a minister, even though I think about Jesus every day, my following is . . . uh . . . meandering.

So I’ve decided to write a book about the spiritual life.

“

It's the cracked ones that let the light through

.”

Paul Moore

I know what you’re thinking. Based on what I’ve just said about my walk with God, having me write about spirituality is like having Bozo the Clown explain the meaning of the universe, like playing Handel’s Messiah on the kazoo. How can someone whose life is so obviously unspiritual presume to talk about spirituality? How can someone unholy presume to talk about holiness? It makes no sense.

Unless. Unless! Unless spirituality, as most of us understand it, is not spirituality at all.

Spirituality for the rest of us

Sadly, spiritual is most commonly used by Christians to describe people who pray all day long, read their Bibles constantly, never get angry or rattled, possess special powers, and have the inside track to God. Spirituality, for most, has an otherworldly ring to it, calling to mind eccentric “saints” who have forsaken the world, taken vows of poverty, and isolated themselves in cloisters.

Nothing wrong with the spirituality of monks. Monks certainly experience a kind of spirituality, a way of seeking and knowing God, but what about the rest of us? What about those of us who live in the city, have a wife or husband, three children, two cats, and a washing machine that has stopped working? What about those of us who are single, work sixty to seventy hours a week, have parents who wonder why we’re not married, and have friends who make much more money than we do? What about those of us who are divorced, still trying to heal from the scars of rejection, trying to cope with the single-parenting of children who don’t understand why this has happened to them?

Is there a spirituality for the rest of us who are not secluded in a monastery, who don’t have it all together and probably never will?

The answer is yes!

What landed Jesus on the cross was the preposterous idea that common, ordinary, broken, screwed-up people could be godly. What drove Jesus’ enemies crazy were His criticisms
of the “perfect” religious people and His acceptance of the imperfect nonreligious people. The shocking implication of Jesus’ ministry is that anyone can be spiritual.

—Condensed from Messy Spirituality by Mike Yaconelli

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The Jesus I Thought I Knew

“[God’s plan] narrows and narrows, until at last it comes down to a little point, small as the point of a spear—a Jewish girl at her prayers”

— C.S. Lewis

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Featured Story

week of December 21, 2019

The Jesus I Thought I Knew

by Philip Yancey

When I switched on my computer this morning, Microsoft Windows flashed the date, implicitly acknowledging that, whatever you may believe about it, the birth of Jesus was so important that it split history into two parts. Everything that has ever happened on this planet falls into a category of before Christ or after Christ.

“

When they saw the star, [the wise men] rejoiced exceedingly with great joy; and going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him

.”

Matthew 2:10, 11

“More than 1900 years later,” said H. G. Wells, “a historian like myself, who doesn’t even call himself a Christian, finds the picture centering irresistibly on the life and character of this most significant man. . . . The historian’s test of an individual’s greatness is ‘What did he leave to grow?’ Did he start men to thinking along fresh lines with a vigor that persisted after him? By this test Jesus stands first.” You can gauge the size of a ship that has passed out of sight by the huge wake it leaves behind.

And yet I am not writing a book about Jesus because he is a great man who changed history. I am not tempted to write about Julius Caesar or the Chinese emperor who built the Great Wall. I am drawn to Jesus, irresistibly, because he positioned himself as the dividing point of life—my life. “I tell you, whoever acknowledges me before others, the Son of Man will also acknowledge him before my Father in heaven,” he said. According to Jesus, what I think of him and how I respond will determine my destiny for all eternity.

Who was Jesus?

How do we answer the simple question, “Who was Jesus?” Secular history gives few clues. In a delicious irony, the figure who has changed history more than any other managed to escape the attention of most scholars and historians of his own time.

Even the four men who wrote the Gospels omitted much that would interest modern readers, skipping over nine-tenths of his life. Since none devotes a word to physical description, we know nothing about Jesus’ shape or stature or eye color. Details of his family life are so scant that scholars still debate whether he had brothers and sisters. The facts of biography considered essential to modern readers simply did not concern the gospel writers.

Before beginning this book I spent several months in three seminary libraries—one Catholic, one liberal Protestant, one conservative evangelical—reading about Jesus. It was daunting in the extreme to walk in the first day and see not just shelves but entire walls devoted to books about Jesus. A scholar at the University of Chicago estimates that more has been written about Jesus in the last twenty years than in the previous nineteen centuries.

“

It came upon a midnight clear, That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold

.”

Edmund H. Sears

The more I studied Jesus, the more difficult it became to pigeon-hole him. He said little about the Roman occupation, the main topic of conversation among his countrymen, and yet he took up a whip to drive petty profiteers from the Jewish temple. He urged obedience to the Mosaic law while acquiring the reputation as a lawbreaker. He could be stabbed by sympathy for a stranger, yet turn on his best friend with the flinty rebuke, “Get behind me, Satan!” He had uncompromising views on rich men and loose women, yet both types enjoyed his company.

One day miracles seemed to flow out of Jesus; the next day his power was blocked by people’s lack of faith. One day he talked in detail of the Second Coming; another, he knew neither the day nor the hour. He fled from arrest at one point and marched inexorably toward it at another. He spoke eloquently about peacemaking, then told his disciples to procure swords. His extravagant claims about himself kept him at the center of controversy, but when he did something truly miraculous he tended to hush it up. As Walter Wink has said, if Jesus had never lived, we would not have been able to invent him.

No one who meets Jesus ever stays the same. I have found that the doubts that afflict me from many sources—from science, from comparative religion, from an innate defect of skepticism, from an aversion to the church—take on a new light when I bring those doubts to the man named Jesus.

—Condensed from chapter one of The Jesus I Never Knew

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Notes from a Solo Songbird

“You are welcome here.”

— San Luis Obispo Adventist Church

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Featured Story

week of December 14, 2019

Notes from a Solo Songbird

by Chris Blake

In my lifetime, I have sung one public solo. This premiere took place during the Christmas season at our church in San Luis Obispo, where I was one of three unwise men to sing a stanza of “We Three Kings.” I wore a regal crown and a regal robe that covered my regal wingtips. However, though I had performed in choirs, I felt out on a limb in this trio.

My two kingly comrades and I had sung the first stanza, and Evan Harklerode, the guy with the best voice, had completed his second-stanza solo. The memory of my part still tastes as fresh as raspberries on the vine. I commenced singing.

“

Each of us is an inkeeper who decides if there is room for Jesus

.”

Neal A. Maxwell

“Frankincense to offer have I . . .”

Immediately following those soulful words, I noted a look very like shock smiting the faces of the listeners—people who once claimed to know me. My gracious wife told me later that their altered visages reflected astonishment that I could sing at all, but at the time that prospect didn’t surface for me. I saw only blank, ghastly, horror-stricken looks. Bravely and numbly, I pressed on.

“Incense owns a Deity nigh . . .”

Frankly, that line had never made a lot of sense to me, and by this time my head swam with fears and misgivings. Why are they staring at me? Can incense really own a Deity? What am I doing here?

All rehearsed words vanished from my thinly stocked mind. I didn’t have a clue what came next. So, being the type of person that I am, I started making up my own words. My habit of creating absurd, rhyming ditties for our young sons now came in handy. But you know how you tend to say precisely what you’re feeling?

“Ever reaching, thus besee-ee-ching . . .”

Though somewhat reaching and certainly beseeching, I would be finished with one more line. The expressions on the audience’s faces hadn’t changed, which could have been a good or a bad sign. However, my somersaulting brain, working feverishly to make a connection, had lost the original rhyme scheme. I actually needed to rhyme with “nigh,” which would have been a piece of pie. As in:

“Now we look toward the sky.”

Or, more appropriately: “O what a fool am I.”

Instead, I was attempting to compose on the spot a tough rhyme with “beseeching.” Leeching? Breeching? Screeching? I ended with this:

“We are all now . . . oh, I blew it.”

“

The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world

.”

John 1: 9, NRSV

This might have destroyed the atmosphere of “We Three Kings,” but we kept on singing (“Oooh, OOOOOHHHH, star of wonder . . .”), and the horrified expressions in the audience never changed, I definitely took that as a bad sign.

Three morals emerge from this dirge.

1. Sing your song. Someone in your audience will make faces. Are you overly concerned with what others might be thinking and thus losing your place in life? Though you feel as graceless as a hippo setting up dominoes, be your own person. Sing your own psalm. God knows it’s worth hearing.

2. You can’t always “wing it.” Deep preparation pays.

3. Even when you blow it, life goes on. Chapter 15 of Revelation describes a “new song,” the glorious song of Moses and the Lamb, that no one in the universe can sing but we, the frail and faulty. The singers of that song haven’t been unduly swayed by others; they have deeply prepared so that they can literally wing it; and they understand that even though they have, on occasion, blown it, eternal life goes on.

   The surprisingly good news about this new song is that we will somehow know the words, we will know the tune, and—befitting each of our life-songs—we won’t be singing solo.

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In Confidence

“I am not young enough to know everything.”

— Oscar Wilde

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Featured Story

week of November 30, 2019

In Confidence

by William R. White

The Teacher and one of his companions made a house call on a rich man. They were seeking funds for a man who had suffered a heart attack.

The host greeted the Teacher and his friend warmly and listened intently as the Teacher briefly described the desperate plight of the one who had suffered the ailment. “We are asking for a generous gift,” the Teacher concluded.

“

For lack of wood the fire goes out;
and where there is no whisperer, quarreling ceases

.”

Proverbs 26:20

“Who is the sick man?” the host asked.

The Teacher shook his head. “Rarely do we reveal the name of people in need. In this case it is most difficult for the man to admit that he needs charity.”

“If I am to help, I insist on knowing the identity of the man in need. I will keep it in strictest confidence. I was going to give you $5,000, but if you tell me the man’s name, I will increase the gift to $10,000.

“We will not reveal the man’s name,” the Teacher said, shaking his head.

“Twenty thousand dollars. Surely you will not refuse such an amount.”

“I will not break confidence,” the Teacher insisted. His friend looked at his mentor in disbelief.

Taking a deep breath, the host said, “Thirty thousand dollars.”

Before the Teacher could reply, his companion pleaded with him. “Teacher, $30,000 will pay for all the hospital and living expenses. He is an honorable man; he can keep the secret with us.”

The Teacher walked toward the door. “I should have left long ago. The honor of a man is not open to barter or negotiation, regardless of what the sum of money might be. I have other visits to make.”

Before the Teacher could leave the house, the rich man begged him to meet together privately in the next room. The moment they were alone he broke into tears. “Teacher, I recently lost every penny I had saved. I am not able to make even a token payment on the mortgage. I have wanted to go to someone for help, but I couldn’t stand the idea of everyone in the city knowing that I am a failure.”

“

Use soft words and hard arguments.”

English proverb

“Now I understand,” the Teacher said tenderly. “You were testing me to see if I could be trusted with your secret. I will seek funds for you as well as the man who is sick. What you have told me will be kept in confidence.”

Afterward the two men bid their host farewell and walked toward the place of their next visit. “Well, Teacher,” his friend said, “how much did he give you?”

The Teacher smiled and then playfully shook a finger at his friend. “Shame on you. You know such things are a secret.”

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The Most Valuable Thing

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle”

— Albert Einstein

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Featured Story

week of November 23, 2019

The Most Valuable Thing

by William R. White

A man came to his rabbi and said, “Since my marriage of 10 years has produced no children, I ask that you grant me a letter of divorce from my wife.”

The wise rabbi, knowing his friend to be an impulsive man, urged him to go home and make a sort of feast in commemoration of the coming event. “I see no reason,” the rabbi said, “why a divorce should not be celebrated in some way, similar to marriage.”

“

The roots of all goodness lie in the soil of appreciation for goodness

.”

Dalai Lama

The man, who was willing to do almost anything to stay in the rabbi’s good graces, went home and gave a banquet. As he ate and drank, his spirits soared. “Wife,” he said, “I am prepared to let you take the most valuable thing in the house with you as a sign of my good faith. I wish you long years and happiness.”

After the guests went home, the man, tired from celebrating, fell into a deep sleep. The woman quickly ordered her servants to carry him to her father’s house. When he awoke the next morning, finding himself in a strange house, he demanded an explanation.

“I am acting only upon your word,” the wife said softly. “Last evening you offered me the most precious thing in the house. You, dear husband, are of far more value than any item of furniture.”

The man was deeply touched by his wife’s affection. The next day he again approached his rabbi. “My wife and I have come to ask your prayers on our behalf so that the Lord will grant us heirs.”

The rabbi assured the man that he had already begun to pray for the two of them. Nine months later the woman give birth to their first child.

“

When we give cheerfully and accept gratefully, everyone is blessed

. ”

Maya Angelou

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The Woman at the Well

“Why am I a Christian? I sometimes ask myself, and to be perfectly honest the reasons reduce to two: (1) the lack of good alternatives, and (2) Jesus. Brilliant, untamed, tender, creative, slippery, irreducible, paradoxically humble—Jesus stands up to scrutiny. He is who I want my God to be.”

— Philip Yancey

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Featured Story

week of November 16, 2019

The Woman at the Well

by Gary B. Swanson

The door swung open, clattering against the wall, and the woman hurried in.

“

God did not abolish the fact of emil: He transformed it. He did not stop the crucifixion: He rose from the dead. ”

Dorothy Sayers

A man rolled over on the bed, scowling in the sudden sunlight. “Where is your jar?” he asked. “I thought you’d gone for water.”

The woman’s face glowed with the heat of the waning afternoon—or was it something else? He couldn’t tell.

“I have no further need for water,” she said breathlessly.

He rolled his eyes. “You and your riddles.”

She laughed. “I’ve seen the Messiah.”

The man looked at her closely. “Have you indeed? You went out for water and you found the Messiah.”

“He is at Jacob’s well.”

“Just sitting there passing the afternoon, is He?”

The woman turned abruptly serious. “Don’t mock me! I know what I’ve seen.”

“Why are you so sure that He is the Messiah?”

“He knows my whole life. He knows of my marriages. He knows of you and me . . .”

“Everyone in Sychar knows of you and me; there’s nothing remarkable in that.”

“But no one else knows the desperation we’ve admitted only to each other—the times we’ve clung together, weeping in the darkness.”

The man turned away. “You swore you would tell no one of that.”

She sat down next to him—reached out and touched his shoulder. “I didn’t tell Him; He told me. It seems He knows us better than we do ourselves. He knows what we want—what we really want.”

“What do we really want?”

“You will know that when you see Him.”

“I am not a religious man . . .”

She took his hand and led him to the door. “That is just the part that is most thrilling—neither is He.”

“

We talk of the Second Coming. Half the world has never heard of the first

.”

Oswald Smith

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Bertie Harris, Mr. Stader, and Mrs. D.

“Of what use is immortality to a man who has not learned to live half an hour?”

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Featured Story

week of November 9, 2019

Bertie Harris, Mr. Stader, and Mrs. D.

by Edwin Gallagher

Bertie Harris’ left eyelid was twitching. It always did that when he got excited. He was awfully embarrassed about it, and the more it twitched, the more embarrassed he became, and the more embarrassed he became, the more it twitched.

“

I believe that God is in me as the sun is in the color and fragrance of a flower—the Light in my darkness, the Voice in my silence

.”

Helen Keller

But on this occasion he needn’t have worried. The two standing with him, Mr. Stader and Mrs. Deniliquin, appeared far too engrossed in their discussion to notice Bertie’s twitching left eyelid.

“I have peace, peace, peace,” declared Mrs. Deniliquin, “and you don’t get that kind of peace from climbing Jacob’s ladder.”

“But Jacob strove with the Lord.”

“Yes, Mr. Stader, and look at his reward—a broken thigh.”

“Well, we all need to be humbled.”

“Yes, but humility is primarily a gift. Love, purity, obedience, peace—all are gifts. Salvation is provided free; it’s through grace, grace, grace.”

Mrs. Deniliquin had an unsettling habit of repeating emphatic words three times. Bertie, who hadn’t yet been able to say anything in the discussion, was glad that she hadn’t noticed his twitch, twitch, twitch.

“Mrs. D,” replied Mr. Stader [Mr. Stader had trouble pronouncing her name, so he just called her “Mrs. D.”], “I realize it is all of grace, but we have a response to make— we are to strive to enter the strait gate, we must keep His commandments, work out our own salvation with fear and trembling, and show ourselves approved unto God. Faith without works is dead, dead, dead.”

Mr. Stader had never in his life repeated his words like that. But he wished to show himself equal to Mrs. Deniliquin. He was by nature a shy man, his only advantage over her being his height—he was six feet one and a half, but looked even taller than that because he was relatively thin. Mrs. Deniliquin, on the other hand, was five feet three in height, and appeared to be roughly the same in girth.

“Faith without works might be dead,” she countered, “but works without faith are not just dead—they are moldy, rotten, rat-infested, and full of stench. Look at the Pharisees, look at the Galatians! Our works will come, once faith has accepted the work of Christ outside of us. Yes, the works will be there, but faith must be first, first, first.”

“Well, I think—“ tried Bertie, his eyelid twitching rapidly.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” interrupted Mr. Stader, “but what did the Lord tell the members of the church at Ephesus? ‘Repent, and do the works you did at first.’ I agree with your main point, Mrs. D. We owe everything to Jesus; our works are detestable without Him. But it seems to me that you are leaving so many scriptures unexplained. Your attitude has me concerned. I’m not saying you’re lost or anything, but I do fear your salvation could be in jeopardy.”

“Well, Mr. Stader,” replied Mrs. Deniliquin, drawing herself up and out to her full sixty-three inches, “I appreciate your concern for me, but my concern for you is even greater. There’ll be no one passing through those pearly gates who doesn’t have on the white garment. Don’t you know it, there’s not a thread of human works woven into it! Not a thread! Not a thread! Not a thread!”

Bertie Harris was now twitching wildly. A Christian of rich experience and deep understanding, he was just bursting with the thought that Jesus, who had both Mrs. Deniliquin and Mr. Stader in His hands, would no doubt be happy to tolerate the variation in their thinking as He would be to tolerate the difference in their physique.

He was just about to say this, and Mrs. Deniliquin and Mr. Stader were both about to interrupt him, when there was a very loud noise and a long, bright flash of light—indeed, the noise was louder and the flash was longer and brighter than anything they had experienced before.

Later, sitting together in Levi Square in New Jerusalem, Mr. Stader looked across at Mrs. Deniliquin and said, “Mrs. D., I’m glad your works were OK.”

Mrs. Deniliquin laughed and replied, “Mr. Stader, I’m glad your faith was OK!”

Bertie, sitting nearby, was just about to say his piece about Jesus’ being happy to tolerate differences, when Mrs. Deniliquin looked over at him, smiled genuinely, and said, “And Bertie, we’re so glad you lost your twitch.”

“

We shall not cease from exploration

; And the end of all our exploring

; Will be to arrive where we started

; And know the place for the first time

.”

T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

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A Feast of Doughnuts

“As the circle of light increases, so does the circumference of darkness around it.”

— Albert Einstein

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Featured Story

week of November 2, 2019

A Feast of Doughnuts

by Jonathan Butler

We wanted to do something crazy on Saturday night. We were a living room full of people tired of Scrabble and Carroms and television.

“

Before you criticize someone, walk a mile
in their shoes. That way when you criticize him you'll be a mile away and you'll have his shoes

.”

Jack Handy

About 10 of us, under 30 and over—brothers, a sister, a friend, in-laws, and parents—thought of singing Christmas carols door- to-door in June, or pasting a sign on the city water tower, or going to a restaurant to order only Alka-Seltzer.

Then we struck on the idea. We would infiltrate a little café in twos and threes, at odd times, until we were all seated around the counter. We would be arranged as a couple chatting, an old man sitting alone, or three friends in a row. Then our plan was to interrelate—to “get acquainted” as though we were total strangers getting to know one another. We would then see how others in the place reacted.

We chose a Dunkin’ Donuts café with a truck-stop atmosphere of glaring neon and bustling service and shirt- sleeved customers, without promise socially. Socially, rather antiseptic. Gradually, over 10 to 20 minutes, we arrived in three cars and filtered into the little snack shop.

We made up about a third of the clientele sitting at the horseshoe-shaped linoleum counter. We waited for our orders, talking quietly, staring at price lists or servers. I spoke softly to the “stranger” sitting next to me (an in-law).

Then one of us ventured a question to the cashier. “Say, do you use bleached flour in these doughnuts?”

The woman looked startled by the break in the usual silence. The manager behind her flinched (we think) and came forward.

“Yes,” he said warily, and offered an explanation.

Another of ours from across the counter called out, feigning confusion, “What did you say is in your doughnut? Is there something wrong with it?”

“No,” someone else replied, “they were talking about the kind of flour in these doughnuts. You know, you can’t worry too much about health these days.”

The café was stirring, smiling, tittering with laughter. Two platinum blondes tensed up and tried to ignore the lack of sophistication.

“Of course, no food is really safe these days,” said one of us. “Meat is diseased and vegetables are polluted.”

“Come on! Things aren’t that bad.” The manager had relaxed with amusement.

An old woman far down the counter was heard saying, “They must be a college crowd. Do you get such a friendly bunch all the time?“

“No,” said the manager, “and it beats calling the police.”

Humorously, a boy suggested that we meet here again next Saturday night. We’d be the board of directors for a new health food restaurant.

“With lots of prune juice,” someone said.

“And lots of restrooms,” countered another.

Others were joining in. The conversation ranged from food to politics to music (there was a juke box) to how strangers never talk in strange places like a café.

We actually reflected on it then, and laughed about how this improbable conglomerate of people formed some kind of fellowship.

“What do you think about their building a new sports stadium?” said a young latecomer, and his father nudged him to keep quiet.

“No!” he said, “I want to know. I may never get another chance at a group like this.”

Comments came from here and there, some pro and some con and some only funny. Even the reluctant blondes, whom we never prodded, finally came in, timidly and then less timidly.

We were all only too ready to listen, to laugh, to respond, as the social crescendo continued to build until no one, absolutely no one, was left out. Over Dunkin’ Donuts and hot drinks we witnessed some sort of common spirit surfacing. The snack had become a feast.

In time, we began to leave as we had come in, at intervals. It would have been criminal, and perhaps sacrilegious, to reveal the “practical joke” that undergirded the evening. By this time, it was more important than a joke.

“I’m tired and I ought to go home,” mused one young woman, her chin on her hands. “But I don’t want to. It’s too good here.”

We arrived home, refilling our living room, dazed by the experience. How thin the walls that divide us from one another at ball parks and discount stores and restaurants! How paper thin.

“

The real test of class is how you treat people who cannot possibly do you any good

.”

Ann Landers

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All the Way Back

“We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

— C. S. Lewis

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Featured Story

week of October 19, 2019

All the Way Back

by C. V. Garnett

A hot, sticky night in Miami. Brad could feel the heat rising from the sidewalk as he ambled down Biscayne Boulevard. Cars whizzed past, people walked past, sirens wailed past. Brad did not feel a part. He wanted, in fact, to be apart. By himself. If only he could be alone—to pray aloud.

“My philosophy is: Life is hard, but God is good. Try not to confuse the two.”

Anne F. Beiler

Sometimes silent prayer will not do. There are times when a person needs to hear the sound of one’s own voice reverberating to God. If only there was a wayside chapel or any church that was open.

He walked another two blocks. Then he saw it. He could hardly believe it. A lovely glass door opened to a dimly lit chapel. Small wooden pews, a tiny altar. Perfect. Next to the door hung a sign: “Come in, you are welcome to sit, pray, meditate, or eat your lunch.”

Brad noticed by the entrance a podium holding a guest book. A delightful idea. The book featured columns for names, addresses, and comments. People from numerous states had autographed the book. In the comment column some had added evangelical statements: “Praise the Lord” or “Jesus saves” or “I have found Him!” Many expressed gratitude for the very existence of such a place. Brad wrote a note expressing his good fortune in finding this sanctuary.

Then the page blew back, and one statement caught his eye. In neat pen were written these poignant words: “Nancy was here and left for good.”

A pathetic statement. At best a flippant, feeble joke. At worst the sincere and desperate declaration of a soul. Either way, Brad thought it was tragic, for it revealed a girl who was disillusioned. It seemed an expression of rejection of God.

The words stung Brad. So much so that when he seated himself in the rough-hewn pew he could think of nothing else. His own problems took a back seat to Nancy’s.

Who was this girl? And why did she write such a thing? Only God knew.

The prayers Brad had hoped to pray for himself were superseded. Nancy and her soul became his only concern. Kneeling in the soft light, he lifted her to God in prayer. Prayed that God might reach down, reach out, reach in, and save her.

Rising from his knees, Brad felt unburdened, as if some mighty hand had lifted a heavy beam from his shoulders. Brad remembered reading somewhere that intercessory prayer is a perfume whose fragrance blesses twice—the one who touches it and the one touched by it.

“

I have been driven upon my knees many times by the conviction that I had nowhere else to go.”

Abraham Lincoln

With reluctance Brad left the little chapel. He had found a needed haven and, in that place, a peace. He began his walk toward home.

He was only a few blocks from the chapel when an inspiration struck him. He turned and began running. He ran all the way back.

Nancy would hardly be there tonight. She had, after all, written that she would never return. Still she might come back sometime. The Spirit of the Lord could, in answer to Brad’s own prayer, call her back for an unscheduled visit. And if so, she must know that someone cared. That God indeed cared.

Breathless, Brad opened the glass door and stepped inside the chapel. It was still empty. He turned to the visitors’ book and picked up the pen. In the column beside the words “Nancy was here and left for good” he wrote:

“God was here and left for Nancy.”

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Notes from a Non-Esdeeay

“There are no strangers in here—just friends you haven’t met.”

— Roald Dahl

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Featured Story

week of October 12, 2019

Notes from a Non-Esdeeay

by Chris Blake

Recently I happened upon a sort of journal. This journal had apparently been kept by a young man who had visited an Adventist Church for a few weeks. Then suddenly, without explanation, the young man stopped coming. The journal was found in a pew one Sabbath. Here’s what it contained.

“Every sunrise is God saying, ‘Welcome home, there’s always a place for you.”

Erwin Raphael McManus

I’m attempting to figure out the peculiar dialect spoken by members of this church. Some of the terms they use seem so strange, but I’m too shy or maybe embarrassed to ask what they mean. The members all take it for granted that I know already, I guess. Anyway, here are a few samples and explanations, as nearly as I can figure.

esdeeay—“Is he esdeeay?” This means, “Is he A-OK?” An esdeeay is someone who has learned the dialect.

Sabbath—Confusing variant of Saturday. No one says Saturday. Esdeeays say Sabbath even when pointing to the calendar—which says Saturday—to count the days of the week. Yet they also celebrate Sabbath on Friday.

G. C.—“That’s what G. C. voted.” No idea what this stands for. Ground Coffee? Gorgeous Claudette? Green Consortium? General Custer?

vespers—“Are you going to vespers?’ The meaning is uncertain, although it’s apparently an ongoing process. Haven’t figured out yet how anyone vespers. Everybody assumes I’ve vespered before.

dork us—“Let’s give it to dork us.” Apparently a way of giving away something you don’t want to receive something you do want. Somehow this helps to keep people clothed and warm. Dorking is quite popular.

Alan Geewite—“Have you read any Alan Geewite?” Popular esdeeay author. Important issue apparently is whether he made a profit or didn’t make a profit.

P-U-C—“I’m going to P-U-C.” Seems to be not a spelled-out declaration of imminent illness but an esdeeay college in northern California.

loamel—Meat substitute used in many foods. There’s loamel in the steaks, loamel in the hot dogs. There’s even loamel in the university.

“

When the crowds learned it, they followed him, and he welcomed them and spoke to them of the kingdom of God and cured those who had need of healing.”

Luke 9:11

going and gathering—“Are you going and gathering?” A method of going door-to-door around Christmastime to gather money from the community. This money is used to help the church reach Argole, wherever that is.

tie, then offerings—“The time has come to give our tie, then offerings.” Apparently a generic idiom not to be taken literally. I have yet to see a tie in the offering plate . . .

cold porters—Underclad people who carry books and bags to others’ doors. I don’t know why they can’t give something to the church to get themselves dorked. It sure would beat being cold.

translation—Everyone talks about being ready for translation. “When Christ comes we will be translated.” Trouble is, I don’t know if I can wait that long.

The journal entries ended here, and no forwarding address for the fellow could be found. It’s too bad he left. He seemed nice enough.

—Published originally in Insight magazine and Welcome to the Family

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Asking for Bread

“What I love about the Bible is the story isn’t over. There are still prophets in our midst. There are still dragons and beasts. It might not look like it, but the Resistance is winning.”

— Rachel Held Evans

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Featured Story

week of September 21, 2019

Asking for Bread

by Jeris Bragan

“If I spend all of my time looking in the rearview of my life, I can be going in reverse while simultaneously experiencing the rather convincing illusion that I'm going forward

.”

Craig Lounsbrough

Once there was a family who fell on hard times. They were proud and independent people, so they refused to ask anybody for help. Soon all their money was gone, and the cupboards were empty of food.

“God is our last help,” the father said. “Let’s pray for food.” They all knelt and poured out their hearts to God.

No sooner had their prayers stopped when they heard a loud knock at the door. Everybody smiled as the father opened the door; they knew somebody would be out there with an armload of groceries.

But nobody was there. Instead, a small box was sitting on the welcome mat. Curious, the family gathered around as the father opened the box. Their faces fell when they saw the contents: just a small rock.

“

Our scientific power has outrun our spiritual power. We have guided missiles and misguided men

.”

Martin Luther King Jr.

“God is testing our faith,” the father explained. “We’ll pray again tomorrow.”

They prayed more fervently the following night. Their prayers for food were punctuated by the sound of growling stomachs. Once again a loud knock greeted the end of the last prayers. The mother rushed to the door, her face covered with a tight smile. It vanished as she saw another, larger box on the mat. Inside was a slightly larger rock.

“We ask the Lord for bread and He gives us a stone,” the father whispered bitterly. But he didn’t give up his faith. Each night the family prayed as before, and each night the last Amen was answered by a knock on the door. The boxes kept getting larger, but the contents were always the same: a progressively heavier rock.

 Finally they prayed no more. They gave up on God and waited for starvation to finish them off. Fortunately, a neighbor came by just before they perished. Ambulances hastily took each one off to the hospital, where they would be nursed back to health.

Back at the house a confused and astonished police officer wandered from room to room, looking at the yellow rocks scattered about the house. “I don’t understand it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “These people were starving to death while stacked all over the house was a king’s ransom in pure gold!”

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Another World is Possible

“What I love about the Bible is the story isn’t over. There are still prophets in our midst. There are still dragons and beasts. It might not look like it, but the Resistance is winning.”

— Rachel Held Evans

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Featured Story

week of September 14, 2019

Another World is Possible

Condensed from Introduction to The Irresistible Revolution

by Shane Claiborne

“

He who is outside his door already has a hard part of his journey behind him

.”

Dutch proverb

What do we do when the foolishness of the cross actually makes more sense than the wisdom of the sword? What if a fragile world is more attracted to God’s vision of interdependence and sacrificial sharing than to the mirage of independence and materialism? What do we do when we are the ones who have gone sane in a crazy world?

When my dear friend and coconspirator Jim Wallis wrote his book God’s Politics, many of us were astonished when it jumped onto the New York Times bestseller list. Religion and politics, the taboo dinner topics, were two of the most popular things to talk about. And whether I was among wealthy expatriates in the Bahamas, the poor lepers of Kolkata, or the puzzled Christians in Iraq, I found that the solemn recognition that our world is very fragile is universal. And yet attentive ears can hear the ancient whisper reminding us that another world is possible.

No doubt, there is much noise in evangelical Christianity. There are many false prophets (and false profits) out there, and all kinds of embarrassing things being done in the name of God. Religious extremists of all faiths have perverted the best of our traditions. But there is another movement stirring, a little revolution of sorts. Many of us are refusing to allow distorted images of our faith to define us.

There are those of us who, rather than simply reject pop evangelicalism, want to spread another kind of Christianity, a faith that has much to say about this world as it does about the next. New prophets are rising up who try to change the future, not just predict it. There is a movement bubbling up that goes beyond cynicism and celebrates a new way of living, a generation that stops complaining about the church it sees and becomes the church it dreams of. And this little revolution is irresistible. It is a contagious revolution that dances, laughs, and loves.

“

I believe in Christianity as I believe that the
sun has risen. Not only because I see it, but because I see everything by it

.”

C. S. Lewis

At the start of the war in Afghanistan, folks in my community here at the Simple Way organized an all-night vigil and sleep-out at Love Park in Philadelphia to remember the refugees and the cost of war. Shortly afterward, we went out to grab a pizza at a fabulous hole-in-the-wall pizza joint where the grease makes the paper plates transparent. We had become close friends with the owner, who is from Afghanistan. He told us with tears that he had seen us on the news and was deeply grateful. His family had become refugees, and he did not know what would happen to them. He said that what we were doing was beautiful but then added, “But we are only little people. We are like roaches, and they can crush us with their big feet.”

I said to him, “But there are many of us, and enough roaches can run an owner out of the house!” We all laughed. We are a modest revolution of roaches that can run money-changers out of temples or politicians out of office. And we can invite them to join us in creating another world.

A new conversation

This is a book of stories. The things that transform us, especially us “postmoderns,” are people and experiences. Political ideologies and religious doctrines just aren’t very compelling, even if they’re true. And stories disarm us. They make us laugh and cry. It’s hard to disagree with a story, much less split a church or kill people over one. Nonetheless, I know this is a risky venture. Dualism has infected the church, a dualism in which folks separate the spiritual from the political or social, as if the political and social issues were of no spiritual significance, and as if God had no better vision to offer the world. These stories, whether from the streets of Philly or the hospitals of Iraq, are political, social, and spiritual.

The issues we will stir up can be volatile and gut-wrenching. But I think there are enough of us so discontented with the old answers and traditional camps—whether believers or activists, capitalists or socialists, Republicans or Democrats—that the risk is worth it. The time has come for a new kind of conversation, a new kind of Christianity, a new kind of revolution.

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Adventist Education

“Love, the basis of creation and of redemption is the basis of true education.”

— E. G. White, Education

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Featured Story

week of September 7, 2019

Adventist Education

by Wesley and Miriam Taylor

What makes Adventist education unique? Seventh-day Adventist education is a life-transforming experience, a spiritual revolution. It's not something simply to be pursued, framed, and hung. Its height is service; its depth is commitment; its scope is eternity.

“

If you think education is expensive try ignorance.”

Benjamin Franklin

The Word of God must be the foundation of all we do in the school— not just of the Bible class, but of every subject, every topic. The essential pillars of learning are to know God, to understand His plan for our life, and to exemplify Him in all we do. The resulting structure is an education with a view of eternity. "This is eternal life, that they may know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent" (John 17:3). This education provides a safe shelter for our children. It furnishes them with a sense of purpose, of identity, of belonging. When your children are taught by God, Isaiah affirms, "great shall be the peace of your children" (Isa. 54:13).

Luke 2:52 describes the education that God provided for His Son: "And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men." Notice that Jesus developed in four key areas: mental, physical, spiritual, and social. This balanced, whole-person development is the education that our children and youth must experience.

—Excerpt from Adventist Review

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