Scrapbooks

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I've seen some pretty fancy modern scrapbooks.  These are the ones assembled lovingly by detail-oriented fanatics, typically proud moms, using commercial tools and purchased colorful self-stick decorations to be sure each cherished photo is framed and ornamented perfectly. These scrapbooks are masterpieces, assembled all at once with a special occasion in mind, usually with all the love and pride in the world.

I have a scrapbook too.

Mine is different. Years ago I bought an empty scrapbook binder – it has greenish hard cover and construction paper pages that are faded. When I started in grade school I carefully taped artifacts and memorabilia onto the pages. In later years I started using the scrapbook more like a folder – just a place to insert odds and ends that told of memories from my formative years. Some memories received detailed attention with recorded provenance. Others were included at the spur of the moment, with less record of when or where or why. All of these artifacts are about me in one way or another, and they were assembled for a kind of purpose, but it is nothing like the pretty polished shiny mounted scrapbooks I've seen on the coffee tables of soccer moms.

My scrapbook is now in a large cardboard box in the back furnace room of my basement, 30 paces from here. I'm about to turn 53 and I know where it is, but I haven't looked through it for years. It's bulging and there are clippings hanging out. Nothing has been added since some time during college.

My scrapbook is all "true" but it isn't like a detailed HD movie of my life.

My scrapbook is much more interesting than that – it is an odd, almost inexplicable sampling of snippets of what it meant to be me. The artifacts tell different stories – some of the stories aren't even remembered.

If you were to page through my scrapbook, you'd encounter all kinds of different artifacts and memories that represent different kinds of stories about who I am, where I am from, who influenced me, and what seemed at the time to be worth saving. Some of the items are relatively factual –  there are newspaper clippings with faded text and photographs. But there are other more wonderful things – movie ticket stubs from a forgotten date – programs from concerts – the cover of a matchbook from prom – a piece of a holiday costume – a snapshot from a school play. And then there are even more mysterious and intriguing things – a short poem scribbled on paper, inspired by young love – a printed flyer explaining the gospel message of Jesus – some hair in an envelope.  There is a love letter that still smells faintly of perfume, and a trinket from a bachelor party. There is a ticket stub from a Queen concert, and an essay about the first and only time my father ever showed us how to fire a rifle. A picture of a faintly smiling teenager in a hospital bed is near a sepia photo of two young people posing in fake western garb. There is a music award certificate. There is the picture of a pet cat, long gone.

My scrapbook is all "true" but it's more interesting, more mysterious, more inviting than a detailed full-length HD movie of my life.

It's a collection about me. It's a collection by me. It's a collection of me.  The stranger who pages through this loose and lively collection shouldn't expect neat order, consistency, chronology, or simplicity. No – this collection is more art than history, more music than science. I'm in there, but not digitally – it's an analog 33 rpm LP record, and its pretty scratchy. This is no DVD.

But it's me, and there is a message that pours out from these pages. It's just that you will never understand it all, or grasp the significance, until you get to know me.  Looking at my scrapbook prepares you for someday seeing me – you get a tiny flavor of who you might know if you encounter me and get to know me face-to-face. The scrapbook is full of hints about me. My scrapbook is all "true" but its more interesting than HD.

The Bible is a scrapbook.

There – I said it: the Bible is a scrapbook – not an HD movie or DVD. The Bible is more wonderful and interesting and mysterious than some kind of instruction manual.

The Bible is more art than history, more music than science.

The pages of the Bible reveal snippets and pictures, stories and anecdotes, poems and ticket stubs, clippings, essays, and fragments of love songs. Sometimes we know why the poem was saved and from which play the program – sometimes we can only guess. Sometimes it doesn't matter. 

Some of the Bible records an impression of history, some clippings, some recipes, some instructions, some lyrics, some receipts, some poems, some transcriptions of dreams, some hazy snapshots with no familiar people tagged.  Some pages have first-hand accounts, but some pages are pieces of letters where most of the correspondence is missing.

The Bible is a scrapbook. It is like my scrapbook, full of remarkable fragments and anecdotes and smells and artifacts and pieces of larger things. It wasn't assembled with commercial adhesive corners and stickers in one sitting for one special occasion.  It is just like my scrapbook – accumulating pieces of my life in mysterious and unpredictable ways.

Looking at this scrapbook prepares me for someday meeting someone else – I get a tiny flavor of him who I will eventually encounter and know face-to-face.

Studying my scrapbook is fun and frustrating and mysterious and intriguing – which parts must be understood with a calendar and cross-referenced to a yearbook or diary? Which parts are art and poetry and convey a heart rather than a mind? Which parts were exaggerated or angry or blurred, or tear-stained? What is missing from that blank page?  Whose hair is that? Why is there a playing card tucked next to the obituary of a friend?

The Bible is a scrapbook.

It's worth studying carefully, cherishing, investigating. It's worth challenging the mystery of this epic scrapbook if only sometimes to meet another mystery. It's not easy. It's not an HD movie or DVD.

The Bible is special because it's the most remarkable scrapbook we've ever been given. Collected in different and puzzling and uncertain ways, it's the scrapbook we were meant to have.

It's the scrapbook I was meant to have.

11.15.13

Lewis James

My name is Louis James and I'm 52 years old. 

I have a friend named Lewis James who just turned 6.

I happened to be in Lewis' garage early this evening. It was breezy outside and huge white clouds raced across the sky - the first May-like weather in weeks. The garage was lit only by early evening sunlight coming through the side window.

Never mind why I was in Lewis' garage.

I just happened to be quietly alone for a moment in Lewis' garage saying a prayer for Lewis' mom…and dad.

The outside door to the garage opened and Lewis appeared with his buzz haircut and muscle shirt. I whistled casually so as not to frighten him, but he didn't seem to care in the least. It was as if he was accustomed to 52-year-old grey-haired guys praying in his garage.

Lewis was carrying a long screwdriver.

"Hi Lewis"

"Hey" said Lewis.

Before I could try to explain what I was doing, Lewis spoke, matter-of-factly

"I need your help.  I need to find a shorter screwdriver."

No hello, no inquisition about what I was doing in his garage. Just complete trust and a screwdriver help request.

"Ok Lewis. Where does your dad keep his tools?"

Lewis proceeded to show me the dark garage shelves and we looked through the tool boxes until we found something that looked promising.  I helped him figure out the latches, and we dived into the box, trying to feel our way through the hidden tools in the dim light of the dusky garage. We unearthed pliers and wrenches and huge screwdrivers.

"What's this?"

Lewis pulled out a really big switchblade-like knife. Luckily, I saw that it was latched shut. Before I could tell the 6-year-old to be careful I heard a tell-tale sound

"click."

Lewis stood up and a shaft of sunlight from the garage window fell across a very long shiny blade.

I once had daughters this age. Neither of them would have even tried to flick open a knife this size.

Lewis held up the blade and inspected it with a knowing gaze, unspeaking, turning the shiny steel slowly in the shaft of sunlight. After 10 seconds I half expected to hear a movie director call out "cut and print!"

It was a surreal moment.

I was working on the proper words to admonish the little boy to be careful, when he adjusted his gaze directly to me as he held up the huge knife.

"Do you like costumes?" said Lewis.

Long pause.

"What??"

"I said, do you like costumes? Do you have a lot of costumes at your house?"

Long pause.

"I guess I used to like costumes, Lewis."

"I have tons of costumes in my room" said Lewis, slowly manipulating the knife.

I told Lewis that I guessed I didn't have as many costumes as I used to.

"Let me help you with that knife -  I'll show you how to close it."

Before I could make a move, Lewis was trying to figure out the latch and how to fold the knife closed. Trying to show him was pointless- it would involve me having the knife.

Lewis tried a variety of tactics to close the knife, all of them involved grasping the sharp open blade with his bare hands.

Part of me was thinking about how exactly I would explain to Lewis' dad how Lewis sliced off his finger while I was with him in the dark garage playing with a really big knife.

Another part of me was recollecting what Lewis' dad kept telling me about little boys. It boiled down to "little boys are going to insist on figuring out how to close big switchblades without help."

About the time I really thought I was going to see one of Lewis James' severed pinkies wriggling on the oily garage floor, I heard another click. The blade swung mercifully shut, unimpeded by little boy flesh. 

In 30 seconds Lewis had found the desired smaller screwdriver and I, the father of two demure adult girls, had hidden the closed switchblade at the bottom of the toolbox.

Lewis smiled at me.

"Your name is the same as mine, right?"

We compared spellings as he walked to the door out of the garage, heading into the late afternoon sunlight, white clouds, breezy afternoon, small screwdriver in hand.

"Hey Lewis"

"What?"

"Hey why did you need to find a smaller screwdriver?"

Lewis eyed the tool, rotating it slowly in the sun. He pointed it toward the yard.

"I'm working on carving the letter 'L' into that big fence post up there."



5.31.13

Why I'm not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints

I have known and respected many Mormons. Some are among the smartest and most sincere people I have ever met. Others are seriously flawed and struggling. The point of this short note is that I believe Mormons have been misled and are following the teachings of a Christian sect whose central documents cannot be trusted.

Many spend their time arguing about  the various doctrinal differences (subtleties of beliefs) that separate the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints from evangelical Christianity. Some don't care about these differences. Many Mormons are mystified about why their lovely and sincere faith is not accepted by their Christian friends.  Many see the central documents of Mormonism provided by the Mormon prophet Joseph Smith as simply additional testaments of biblical revelation. Like my Muslim friends, these Mormon friends would have all believe that God has simply updated earlier faith traditions with new revelation.

So why am I not a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, choosing instead to be an evangelical Christian?

It is not about doctrine. We can argue about doctrine all day. It is simply because I do not believe the central documents of Mormonism can be trusted. In contrast, I believe the biblical manuscripts that form the core of evangelical Christianity, though centuries older, are historically and archeologically valid. I base this conclusion on three central problems with the Mormon scriptures (The Book of Mormon, The Doctrine and Covenants, The Pearl of Great Price). These problems are scientific and historical, unrelated to doctrine.

1.There is no evidence that Joseph Smith was an accurate translator.

Two major problems argue that Smith's documents are not trustworthy translations.

First, the Book of Mormon was produced by Joseph Smith in the early 1800's, supposedly translated by divine power from golden plates since lost. However, the Book of Mormon contains a large number of passages from the King James Bible. Far from this making the document more believable, these King James passages are a huge problem. There is no reason to believe that a divine translation of writings on ancient artifacts would come to Smith in the early 1800's in the English language of Shakespeare's time (1611; 200 years earlier). A divinely inspired translation of the original Hebrew words would be in the form of 1800's language (Smith's time).

Second, there is clear evidence that Joseph Smith was completely unqualified to translate ancient documents. In a tremendous embarrassment to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, we have very specific evidence that Smith had no skills in translating ancient Egyptian. His 1835 translation of Egyptian papyri to produce his Book of Abraham is the perfect example. The original Egyptian documents used in the translation were thought lost after Smith's translation was complete. However, key fragments were rediscovered in 1966 and examined by academic Egyptologists. It was immediately obvious that Smith's "translation" was a fraud. The papyri represent a historically important collection of Egyptian funeral instructions and have absolutely nothing to do with Abraham or any of Joseph Smith's alleged translation. The papyri are now known in academic circles as the Book of Breathings. The argument that Smith was given a different "spiritual" translation of the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics shows the deep embarrassment of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints regarding this matter. Joseph Smith completely fabricated his translation of this ancient document.

2. The Mormon documents are not historically valid.

Large parts of the Old and New Testaments of the Bible are well documented by the archeology of the Middle East. In fact, archeologists use biblical texts to understand Middle Eastern archeology. The opposite is true of the Mormon literature. There is no new world archeological evidence for the validity of any of the stories, places, and peoples described in the Mormon texts. As a student of North American archeology I have studied the rich and interesting cultures of North and Middle America. There is no scientific evidence that any of the Native American, Mayan, Inca, Aztec or Toltec civilizations are described in the Mormon literature. None of the places or people or events is connected with any modern archeological evidence, and archeologists find no value in the Mormon literature. This is also a tremendous embarrassment to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Even more problematic are scientifically and historically invalid references in the Book of Mormon, including descriptions of horses and elephants in the New World. Both species had been extinct in the Americas for thousands of years before the arrival of the first humans. Horses were only introduced by the Spanish after Columbus. Nor is there any evidence to support the description of steel implements. Thus, though wildly creative and imaginative, there is no evidence that any of the allegedly written accounts translated in the Book of Mormon have scientific or historical validity. This is quite the opposite for the historical and archeological validity of the Old and New Testaments.

3. Genetic relationships predicted by the Mormon scriptures are incorrect.

Finally, modern molecular genetic research has created a central problem for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. This is because scientists have been able to sequence the DNA contained in cellular mitochondria, the membrane-bound organelles that produce much of the energy of the cell. Mitochondria contain small circles of DNA code that are inherited almost completely from the mother. These sequences provide wonderful genetic "fingerprints" that allow relationships to be traced over many generations. At the very heart of the stories in Mormon literature is the fantastic myth that some Middle Eastern people, including the "lost tribes" of Israel, migrated to the New World in more than one wave,  contributing to the pre-Columbian civilizations of North and Central America. At least one such immigration would have been about 1500 years before Christ. This is an extremely recent date relative to New World archeology. Early in Mormon history, this concept that Middle Eastern people contributed to Native American civilizations seemed quaint and plausible. However, modern genetic testing has completely disproven this possibility: there is absolutely no evidence that any of the people of the New World are related to any of the Semitic people of the Middle East. All evidence shows that Native Americans are related to the Asian peoples through migrations across the Alaskan land bridge. DNA evidence clearly proves that the central claims of the Mormon documents about North and Central American prehistory are wrong. No Middle Eastern DNA is present in the native peoples of America.

To summarize, discussions of doctrinal differences between Mormons and Evangelical Christians are quite irrelevant. The point is that the documents originating with Joseph Smith have no supporting evidence of accuracy or legitimacy, either scientific or historical. There is every reason to believe that Smith and/or other very creative writers fabricated these documents on their own. Because the documents are fraudulent, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints traditions based on these documents can simply be ignored.

This does not mean that Mormon people are insincere or evil. It simply means that Mormon people are being misled.

As with all my friends from other faith traditions, I share the same Christian message: 

Most people think they can earn their way to heaven by being good. I hear it all the time. That’s not what the Bible teaches, but it’s what most people think. “If I follow the golden rule, or try to do my best, I can live with God forever.” “Bad” people go to hell, right?

Jesus taught something very different, and the New Testament makes it clear. Nobody is good enough to go to heaven. NOBODY. Saint Paul writes in the Bible (Romans 3:23) “There is nobody who is righteous, not even one. For all have sinned and fall short of God’s glory.” He writes in Romans 6:23 “For what we deserve is death, but the GIFT of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ.” 

The Bible teaches that God is perfectly good, and he has planned a way to live with us forever, but it requires that we become perfectly good too. That is impossible for us to achieve by trying. God proved it by giving us the 10 commandments, and all of us have broken many of them many times. If breaking even one of them once makes us imperfect, then we’re hosed and none of us can get to heaven.

No, God made a plan so that we can be perfect and holy like him. We can have this forgiveness and perfection even though we are bumbling sinful humans. We can meet God now, and we can meet him in heaven someday, and we can be confident that we will be accepted. How? Not because we deserve it or are “good enough.” No, it is because we can receive God’s forgiveness as a gift.

The Bible teaches that Jesus didn’t suffer and die on the cross by accident or because of a tragedy. Jesus was God on earth, and he died on purpose for you and for me. He died as a perfect sacrifice in my place and in your place. He died on the cross to receive the punishment that you and I deserve. He took God’s punishment in our place, his one perfect life paying the price for all the imperfect lives that have ever been lived. John 3:16 in the Bible (what you see at football games) says that “God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that whoever believes in him would not die, but have everlasting life.”

So what do we have to do to be forgiven and receive this gift? The Bible says that it isn’t automatic, but we just have to ask. I did it when I was a junior in high school. If you haven’t done it yet, you can do it right now, and then learn more by beginning to read the Bible (try starting with the book of John in the New Testament). You can pray a simple prayer just by talking to God. I think I prayed something like “God, I know now that I could never be good enough to live with you in heaven. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m sorry that I have fallen so far short of your commands. But I am so happy that I now understand that you made a way for me to be forgiven forever so I can live with you in my heart now and live with you in heaven forever. I accept the gift of Jesus Christ, and his death for me on the cross. Lord Jesus, come into my heart as my savior and my Lord.”

5.11.13

Mantis

 
On Monday night, August 29, 2011, during the eighth inning of Kansas City's baseball game against the Tigers in Detroit, a praying mantis temporarily stopped play before Brayan Peña of the Royals carefully rescued the insect.

Who cares?

This episode (and note that praying mantises have actually stopped play at several recent professional baseball games) paints a picture of an important concept at the very center of what has been called the struggle between science and faith. I want to use this analogy as I reach out to many who are committed to science and many who are committed to faith.

How can we understand the relationship between science and faith?

What does a praying mantis at a baseball game have to do with it?

Some of my dear friends are frustrated that I, a professional scientist, could also choose to embrace the Christian faith. They are frustrated because such a commitment would seem to mean that either I am a poor scientist (always looking for divine intervention in my experiments), or a lousy Christian (skeptical of every piece of revealed literature and every personal testimony of God at work in this world).

So how can commitment to science and commitment to faith coexist in one individual?

It's like a Cuban-born catcher stopping in the midst of a nationally-televised baseball game to gently save the life of a small, bright green insect.

Although many of us are passionate about science and its power to reveal and change the world, we must understand that science is a kind of game.

Science is not so different from baseball or football. These sports are defined by special playing fields and agreements between players and fans and referees to abide by sets of rules and principles. These rules and principles determine how the game is to be played, and how a meaningful outcome can emerge. Participants (whether players or observers) engage in sports with assumptions about the rules and outcomes. These assumptions mean that the "truth" about the game and its outcome will be officially measured in a score, and in statistics describing the measurable facts recorded during the game. These facts are measured in certain ways, by certain skilled observers. The "truth" about the final score can be verified by the observers, and by recordings during the game.

The sporting event is "true" and it results in a "true" outcome.

However, the participants understand that although the event is "true," attendance won't help them make sense of their lover's blue eyes, or their son's death at the hands of a drunk driver, or their friend's cancer diagnosis. The "truth" of the game must be understood in the context of its rules. Though specific and essential for the success of the game, these rules are meaningless off the playing field, and are powerless to provide judgment or clarity in situations at the dinner table, or in the operating room, or at the hospice.

This is not because organized sporting events are worthless or "false." It is because the "truth" of these events is defined by the rules and expectations of the participants.

Science is like that too. Science is the very best game for learning about our world when we agree to use certain kinds of tools and abide by certain kinds of rules. We use tools of accurate measurement, and we agree to rules that involve principles like reproducibility and explanations that do not invoke capricious divine intervention.

The best way to find out which of two professional baseball teams is better on a given night is to have them compete in a fairly-officiated baseball game, not to see which team can eat the most ice cream, or to ask which is most patriotic.  This is not because appetite and patriotism are meaningless.  It is because measurement of sports prowess is best accomplished within the rules of the game.

When the praying mantis landed on the Detroit baseball field in the fall of 2011, something remarkable happened.

Brayan Peña didn't break a rule of baseball by stopping the game to rescue a praying mantis - baseball rules don't know anything about insects. The universe of baseball doesn't have tools for measuring or describing the praying mantis.  There is no statistic for number of praying mantises saved in a season.

Brayan Peña reminded us that there are "truths" beyond the "truth" of the baseball game.

We know this, but we agree to set these other "truths" aside while we enjoy baseball. We know that there are stars in the sky above the baseball field. We know that a player may be grieving the loss of his father, and that an announcer may be battling an addiction. We know that an official may be afraid about the future.

And we know that a bright green praying mantis can invade the playing field from another universe.

You see, there are "truths" that can be known in baseball, but we cannot say that these are the only "truths."

If a die-hard sports fanatic tells us that baseball statistics are the only "truths" worth knowing about the world because all other "truths" are subjective and can't be verified by the game film and records, we would be justifiably concerned about her sanity.

Science is like that. Science is the best game we have for its playing field. Science is the best way for sorting out "truths" about the measurable world, just like baseball is the best game we have for judging the skill of baseball teams.

But just as baseball isn't equipped to say anything about a praying mantis on the field, so science doesn't have the tools to tell me why I think the insect is beautiful, or whether there is another life after this...

...or why a supreme creative being would enter time as a servant and sacrifice himself for me.

I love the game of science. I love learning about the tiniest and most immense universes with tools and rules. I am in awe of what the game of science reveals about how we exist and the stunning world around us and beyond. I believe science is the best game for a playing field where we choose not to ask the "why" questions, and where we decide the only things we will admit as "true" are both measurable and reproducible. Science is a great game to play on that playing field.

But we must remember that science is just a game on a playing field. It is dangerous to believe that the playing field of science is all there is.

I need you to know that there is more. There is a beautiful, mysterious realm beyond the reach and rules of science. Faith is that world of choice where measurement and reproducibility do not define "truth." Faith is a world where, among many stories that compete for my attention, I find the one most beautiful story of all...the story of the rescue of the most worthless by the most worthy.

When a bright green praying mantis interrupted the Tigers - Royals baseball game in 2011, it reminded us that there is a "truth" beyond what baseball can measure and understand. The mantis was a visitor from a different universe so much bigger and more vibrant and interesting than the game.

Science is like that. It is fun and important. It's just that there is a much bigger universe of "truth" far beyond what science can ever understand.

The praying mantis reminds us that games aren't everything.

justice

I've been reading the Old Testament Book of Job.  This is fascinating early literature. Some scholars believe it was among the oldest stories to find its way into the scriptures, or it may date back 15 centuries before Christ to the kingdom of Solomon.  It is an ancient story treating an ancient question that forever challenges the human heart, not to mention every religion created to make sense of the world.

What does justice mean?

This question comes to us in the Book of Job through a character whose worthy behavior does not save him from waves of suffering. The story is set so as to make the Job character's plight the center of a study of justice. Why is it that a man doing his best to be righteous should suffer? Is he perfectly righteous?  Is that what God demands? Even if Job isn't perfect, isn't his righteousness, as he claims, at least greater than that of the evil ones around him who seem to fly through life joyfully?  Where is the justice in that?  Generations of scholars have struggled with these questions, much like the unhelpful friends who try to counsel Job in the blackness of his hopelessness.

What struck me during this reading was not so much whether the relatively righteous deserve better than the aggressively evil, but rather three amazing passages attributed to Job. These passages cry out from the pages of the story, echoing through time and setting the stage for responses that come only thousands of years later.

What we hear in the fullness of time are answers that finally address Job's search for justice.

In chapter 9 Job laments in frustration,

"God and I are not equals; I can't bring a case against him.  We'll never enter a courtroom as peers.  How I wish I had an arbitrator to step in and let me get on with my life -- to break God's death grip on me, to free me from this terror so I could breathe again. Then I'd speak up and state my case boldly. As things stand, there is no way I can do it."

There is then a perfectly beautiful and poignant passage in chapter 14.  Job whispers wishfully to this seemingly punitive and unloving God, imagining a time when their relationship would be different,

"You'll call -- I'll answer. You'll watch over every step I take, but you won't keep track of my missteps. My sins will be stuffed in a sack and thrown into the sea -- sunk in the deep ocean."

How amazing. 

Job imagines a relationship with God that can be personal -- a relationship not based on perfect behavior, but on God's willingness to know everything and yet overlook the imperfections and still love. 

How could a just God ever love like that?

Finally, this beautiful thread can be seen within the fabric of the book just a bit further along.  In chapter 16 Job continues his call --

"There must be someone in heaven who knows the truth about me -- in highest heaven some attorney who can clear my name -- my champion, my friend, while I've been weeping my eyes out before God.  I appeal to the one who represents mortals before God as a neighbor stands up for a neighbor."

We find in these passages glimpses of a coming truth -- that God can know and be known, both personally and tenderly -- that there will be a way for Job, for me, for you, to come before God in safety and assurance -- to stand both fully-known and fully-accepted. Job repeatedly invokes the legal concept of an attorney or advocate -- one in the position to represent me, lovingly, before the force of justice.

In the fullness of time we learn that God provides precisely this attorney, arbitrator, advocate. He is provided in the form of God With Us, Emanuel, Jesus Christ, capable not only of defending us before our just God, but also making us defendable.  This advocate doesn't ask God to ignore our sins -- he acknowledges our sins before the just God --

--but then pays for them himself.

The author of the New Testament Book of Hebrews writes,

"Therefore Jesus is able to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives to intercede for them"

In 1 John 2:1-2 we read,

"My little children, I am writing this to you so that you may not sin; but if anyone does sin, we have an advocate with the father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and he is the payment for our sins, and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world."

The Bible is a scrapbook -- a collection of samples of many literary forms from many times and places and authors -- fragments intended for many different purposes and different audiences -- but with a coherence that is unexpected. It is in the ancient cries of Job from a time of pain, ignorance, mystery, that we hear, put into words, the central need of humanity -- some way to relate to God.  I am so thankful that the answer comes, centuries later, as we learn the truth. In his majestic love and since before the creation of time, God has been above all else just and compassionate. 

Our God is a rescuer.

11.18.12

homecoming

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A week ago we did something unusual. We found ourselves heading back to our hometown on a beautiful breezy fall day. It was a Friday afternoon, and the scenic drive through southeastern Minnesota, the Mississippi river valley, and the rural roads of southwestern Wisconsin was especially striking. Autumn color was past its peak, but the fields of cut hay and baled cornstalks and piles of pumpkins reminded us of our rural upbringing. Geese flew over in scattered formations against clear blue skies.  Cattle seemed especially comfortable strewn here and there across hillsides in the fading sun.

Laura and I were heading back to Madison for two quick nights and the wedding celebration of a rather distant relative.  There would be time with family in our childhood homes, even though our childhood homes were no longer the same.  Laura's home felt different because her mom was away recovering from a hip fracture. My home felt different because my father's failing memory became more and more evident with each visit.

It was also a remarkable trip because of the girls who weren't with us.

Family trips to Madison always involved both girls. Only rarely was one left behind at work or school. This trip was different. Liz and Chris were both happily busy in Minneapolis. We were a couple again. As we drove, our conversation came and went. We were as comfortable in silence as when exchanging words. We held hands across the seat for much of the trip. Laura dozed in the filtered sun. I often looked across at her beautiful face and at the autumn scenery beyond, and I smiled.

I felt a deep sense of blessing, a feeling that echoed back a dozen times on this unusual trip home.

We had laughed when we found that the trip home coincided with homecoming at Middleton High School, where Laura and I had graduated, two years apart, in 1979 and 1981. High School was where we met, I a busy self-absorbed Senior, and she a lovely, tall, blonde and selfless Sophomore who made an instant impression. I love telling people 33 years later that we were High School sweethearts. After professional homemaking, Laura was returning home with me as half of a couple again.

So we found ourselves bundled up and on our way to the high school homecoming football game. We sat on metal seats in a brightly lit stadium overlooking a football field with artificial turf, listening to officials announce penalties using wireless microphones. The halftime dance team offered a fantastic hip-hop routine to booming remixed music that Laura didn't like. There was no dance team when I was in high school.  We saw one or two faces that looked familiar, but no sense of reunion overtook us in the crowd.

Instead I was struck again by that deep feeling of blessing.  As I sat quietly next to Laura I looked up at the stadium lights against the black sky and I squinted, watching the blazing brightness turn into a mass of sparkling rays. I was suddenly aware that there was something familiar about that burst of light rays through squinted eyes.

It was a memory of my first homecoming game at that same stadium when I was a freshman in high school in 1975, exactly 37 years earlier.

I had been fascinated by the stadium lights that fall night too.

In 1975 my life had changed. I had missed some weeks of the fall of my first high school year because of cancer surgery, an ominous diagnosis, and the start of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I wanted to be in denial, but the combination of abdominal incision, painted X-ray targets on my back and stomach, and nausea from intravenous Vincristine and Actinomycin D made the sense of cancer battle hard to escape. I can only imagine what my parents were going through during those weeks. By the time I arrived home from the daily injections I was barely able to make it into the house before the vomiting began.

When you are at your freshman homecoming game you are supposed to be thinking about friends and girls and the upcoming dance and the spirit competition. You are not supposed to be thinking about surviving.

What small bit of denial I could muster was due to a drug called Thorazine, a narcotic anti-nausea medication whose modern uses are limited to the treatment of schizophrenia.  Thorazine had been key in the treatment of the mentally ill, and had led to the massive deinstitutionalization of the second half of the 20th Century.

Thorazine made me feel good during my homecoming football game back in 1975. I had plenty to worry about, but on that evening I remembered feeling OK. I remembered looking up at the football stadium lights and squinting, watching the blazing brightness turn into a mass of sparkling rays...

My girls have never experienced life-threatening illnesses. I have never found myself begging God to be able to take their place in suffering. Or in death. They have seen their share of tragedy, sometimes unforgettably close, but I have never suffered in the way that a mom and dad suffer when their child is given a dire diagnosis. I now have friends walking that path, a place my own parents walked 37 years ago when they sent their 14-year-old off to a football game, dosed with Thorazine.

It was then in that swirl of memories in that same homecoming stadium that I looked to my right, at my wife. She smiled back, almost shyly, almost like that first time I ever smiled at her, not too far from that very spot.

The feeling of blessing.

I didn't die in 1975. Some kids did. I lived on and came to know Jesus and grew up. I married my beautiful high school sweetheart and lived comfortably with manageable recurrent cancer for decade after decade. I had the chance to pour my life into two lovely daughters and ministry and cherished friends. With the wife of my youth.

Cancer isn't always bad. Sometimes life swallows it up and sometimes, with grace, there is the chance to look back across the years and remember.

And squint. And smile.

For Lydia . For Angie.

10.23.12

Nehemiah

Something like six centuries before the birth of Jesus comes a particularly remarkable story in Jewish history. It is buried in the discouraging saga of the degenerating Jewish monarchy. It is part of that central message of the Bible – the inability of the Jewish people to find any consistency in their covenant with God. The promise of blessing in response to the faith of Abraham had come 20 centuries before Jesus. Moses took his turn trying to lead the Jews six centuries later. David's shaky chapter came one thousand years before Christ. The kings who followed David succeeded only in proving that human beings fail, stumble, and inevitably abandon their God, just like us. By the time of the rise of the Babylonian empire, the two Jewish kingdoms were adrift. Judaism had come to be defined by the existence of a physical temple building, with or without its proper sacrificial rituals to symbolically pay for the sins of the people. The destruction of the Jerusalem temple in 586 B.C. was therefore, in a very real sense, the tangible end of what was left of Judaism. For 60 years most Jews were refugees in Iran and Iraq. There was no temple. This easily could have been the end of the story for just another stumbling local religious impulse.

Then something different happened.

The story of Nehemiah tells us about a man who, though far from home, did not forget his homeland and the idea of a temple to be inhabited, somehow, by his God. It is a story of the rebuilding of the destroyed Jerusalem wall and temple, against the odds. Much of the story seems obscure to us, and except for the idea that this episode preserved Judaism a bit longer, the story may lack meaning for the Christian.

But look deeper. In reading this account, two very pressing and fresh messages hit home. Both are practical, even urgent, for the believer in Jesus Christ.

First, Nehemiah acted without any special call from God.  His passion, his sense of responsibility, his initiative, his creativity, his leadership, all these are described as coming instinctively from the man, unprompted. Though we may be tempted to assume that God actively commissions the pivotal leaders of history, Nehemiah shows this not to be the case. Nehemiah felt compelled to take action, and he took action with intelligence, practical consideration, and cunning. Let us not imagine that we must always wait for supernatural marching orders before we act.

Let us remember that supernatural marching orders have already been issued.

Second, the Christian finds in Nehemiah a startling allegory for the most personal of all issues­ – the revival of a fallen heart. The Jewish temple was the very imperfect picture of God's dwelling place – a picture to prepare us for the time when God's true dwelling place would be made known. In the New Covenant, the sacrifice of God himself in the person of Jesus Christ makes it possible for each believer's heart to become God's temple. As believers who have been once and for all purified, God now inhabits me and he inhabits you.

The temple is inside.

Nehemiah reminds us, however, that like the Jews, like all people, we are still unable to offer God any consistency in our relationship. 

He couldn't love us any more, but we scarcely remember to love him at all. 

Nehemiah grieved for a temple that was in shambles, surrounded by a burned wall.  It was a Jewish humiliation for all who saw it.

And what about the temple in my heart?

Is my temple, the place where God's spirit finds its earthly home, any better than this? Though there may be some impressive walls, isn't much of this temple propped up and in dire need of restoration? Is it much different from the ruined temple that so burdened Nehemiah – a monument not abandoned by God, but by those he had loved and purchased?

The story of Nehemiah reminds the Christian that we are actually responsible for the temple of the Holy Spirit within us. This is what being a disciple of Jesus Christ means. We are to grieve instinctively for its desecration, as did Nehemiah for his temple.  We are to take spontaneous initiative for its rebuilding and maintenance. We are to rediscover the worship that was intended to go on right here inside the heart. 

What Nehemiah accomplished six centuries before Christ was revival.  What we are now called to do is to recognize the urgent need for this same revival in this same temple, now found in the new place that God chooses to call home – a place that is uncomfortably, beautifully close.

10.9.12

here

O Lord you are.
You are here beside me, in me, six miles above the North Atlantic,
in the crowded lanes of Leiden, and in the winds above the city,
and in the ocean currents that swirl in the deep, where only electric eyes can see.
Every atom and every wave equation you inhabit,
and you know each bacterium and each rabbit,
and each person who ever was given a soul to carry into timelessness
where you live.

O Lord you are.
You are at a hillside on Callisto, where the chill ever-dark sky shows a weak sunrise,
where no living creature shall ever stand, you are,
looking, knowing,
across time and space, time-space, you smile and joy ever ripples,
where other sheep lived in a corner of Andromeda for a moment, long ago,
and you made your song true there as well–
a story of your rescue – the only really true story of all.

O Lord you are.
You are not all powerful, but power,
not all loving, but love,
not eternal, but the one for whom all of time is but a fallen leaf on a dappled forest floor,
where I will greet you again for the first time, calling your name,
hearing you call mine,
then holding you,
then holding every person I ever have loved,
and stroking every beloved furry animal, long lost,
then holding you.

O Lord You are.


 6.23.12

Color

I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was a teenager. I hadn't had my driver's license for very long, but I was eager to show off my independence so I drove myself to the appointment in our family's boxy yellow Fiat. The nurse looked at me. "The doctor says you have four impacted teeth. We will need to put you to sleep. Who do you have to drive you home after the procedure?"

I hadn't thought about that.

I explained that I had driven myself.

She told me to have a seat and she disappeared to consult. "You'll have to speak with the doctor about this" she said.

The oral surgeon looked at me skeptically and offered that it was possible to have local anesthesia for the operation. There would be lots of shots in the mouth and plenty of noise and violence during the extractions. I could tell that he wanted me to come back a different day, with some parental drivers.

I was young and naive and too brave for my own good.

"Let's do it."

The next hour was brutal. I never imagined you could have so many injections into gums and jaw. I never imagined how much they would hurt. I didn't realize how much debris flies around in and out of a person's mouth during the process of crushing and picking tooth fragments from unneeded wisdom teeth...and I wasn't expecting the sounds of battle ringing in my ears.

I survived and found myself driving home with a numb face.

As I pulled into my driveway I looked into the rear-view mirror, expecting to see my jaw swollen to twice its size.

I looked normal, except for a mouth brimming with blood. A little trickle was starting to run down the side of my face. I was impressed and shared the effect with my mother as I spit out a cup of blood into the bathroom sink.

The rest of the day was made tolerable by some white pills provided by the doctor. They were rich in a substance called codeine. A human body takes in codeine and the effect is similar to that of morphine, another drug isolated from the same poppy plants. I had never experienced significant doses of these drugs before, and within an hour I began to understand why addiction is possible.

I felt really good.

I lay on a couch in my basement for a long time. I didn't sleep. Instead, I looked at the basement ceiling. I looked at the ceiling tiles. I looked at the way the wall met at the ceiling to form a line. Then, wonder of wonders, I looked at how two walls met at the ceiling to form a point.

I was enthralled.

I think I spent literally four intoxicated hours studying that feature of the architecture of the basement, amazed that the great writers and artists and poets of history hadn't adequately treated this amazing phenomenon in their greatest works.

The corner held me mesmerized for hours...the power of drugs.

That night I went to sleep after a second dose of the magic white pills. I remember the night vividly to this day because it was the first time I dreamed in color.

Like many people, all my dreams are remembered in shades of grey. Not that night. I dreamed of flying high above buildings through gorgeous skies of blue and red, with lush green landscapes spread out below me.

Again, the power of drugs.

I never dreamed in color again, until a few weeks ago.

Unlike that teenage night so many years before, this day had been uneventful. There had been no codeine or other prescription drugs. My own daughters are now past their teenage years and have moved out. Driving myself around is no longer an accomplishment. I'm also less inclined to be brave.

But I dreamed in color.

It was a more amazing experience and a more important dream than the one I had so long ago. This dream was very different, very important. It was a kind of gift.

Now that I am 51 I think more about heaven.

Silly, I know, but still.

I believe in heaven. I know I will share that experience with Jesus, who died to forgive my sins and purchase togetherness forever.

What I don't know is anything else about it.

Maybe existence with Jesus Christ will be so overwhelming that its timeless joy will sweep into nothingness every joy I have yet experienced. Maybe my longing for the joys of this world, my wife, my human relationships, music, the glories of color and sensations is simply a misunderstanding of how vastly superseding will be intimacy with Jesus Christ.

Maybe.

Once, long ago, Jesus was challenged by some of his many detractors to explain how a conscious afterlife would work. How does a continuation of earthly joy play out?

Eugene Peterson's Bible translation (The Message) tells the story from the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 22) this way:

That same day, Sadducees approached him. This is the party that denies any possibility of resurrection. They asked, "Teacher, Moses said that if a man dies childless, his brother is obligated to marry his widow and get her with child. Here's a case where there were seven brothers. The first brother married and died, leaving no child, and his wife passed to his brother. The second brother also left her childless, then the third—and on and on, all seven. Eventually the wife died. Now here's our question: At the resurrection, whose wife is she? She was a wife to each of them."

Jesus answered, "You're off base on two counts: You don't know your Bibles, and you don't know how God works. At the resurrection we're beyond marriage. As with the angels, all our ecstasies and intimacies then will be with God. And regarding your speculation on whether the dead are raised or not, don't you read your Bibles? The grammar is clear: God says, 'I am—not was—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob.' The living God defines himself not as the God of dead men, but of the living." Hearing this exchange the crowd was much impressed.

"... all our ecstasies and intimacies then will be with God"

These are profoundly beautiful words.

Maybe heaven will then be beyond the kinds of sensations we now know. Maybe my very most beautiful earthly experiences of love and empathy and joy will be like walking on a foggy day—the feeling of water as humid air does nothing to prepare us for the feeling of water when we swim.

My reasoning and my study of Jesus' words tell me not to try to comprehend what living with God will be like.

But I still have been wondering more about heaven.

And so I will never forget the second time I dreamed in color.

There were no drugs to explain the experience this time—it was a kind of gift.

I was asleep in the middle of the night but became aware that I was beginning to have color vision. It lasted for only a few seconds, and it was only one scene, but it was one of the most powerful experiences of my life. What is remarkable is that I consciously felt myself opening my eyes in amazement, an experience of wakefulness even within the dream.

My vision was downward onto a patch of ground before me. In an instant I was given the overwhelming sense that I was seeing something of heaven. The impression was so clear, yet there were no words.

Immediately before my eyes, as if I was kneeling and looking closely at the ground, was a bright patch of forest floor, dappled in sun as one would see on an early fall day when trees are mostly bare. I stared. There on the ground were beautiful fallen leaves of many vivid colors, stirring in a gentle breeze.

Sensing my eyes wide open even in my dream, I looked closer. I perceived a loving message—that seasons and cycles and colors and experiences...and life...continue in this place where I will know my Lord even as he now knows me.

And then I saw something small and simple and unexpected.

There between two fallen leaves before me I saw a tiny beetle wander across the heavenly ground.

The scene faded peacefully, a gift.

As I woke in the darkness of my bedroom, my wife sleeping next to me, I found myself crying.

2.12

August 31, 2011

It was the final day of August, 2011. Chris and Laura were proud of how lightly they had packed, but the 1995 Ford Explorer was stuffed. There was scarcely room to toss in dog beds and a pair of small dachshunds to ride along to the kennel. While the two ladies were still in the house, I stood in the garage and looked at the car and thought about this day. When her older sister had left for college four years earlier I first ran the numbers. What had once seemed an infinite number of nights to share with younger daughter Christina had then been whittled down to 1,460. It wasn’t as if I was still reading her a bedtime story or sharing a bedtime prayer each night, but a sad and maybe even urgent feeling came over me when the number of nights started to be countable. It wasn’t long until it was 365 nights and then 30 nights and finally…zero. We were driving Chris off to start her college education at the University of Minnesota–Duluth. Even with the car packed and waiting, Chris didn’t really get out of bed until 9 a.m. I wondered if it was just her late-night summer routine still in effect, or if there was a bit of lingering in the familiar bed of her youth. Maybe she subconsciously cherished another few minutes before a day that would mark growing up. I gave her a hug when I saw her. She was beautiful–her warm smile flickered and her flowing wavy brown hair was pinned up wildly. Chris had grown into a lovely young woman, inside and out, and I noted how she fit perfectly under my arm as I wrapped it around her. There were no tears or regrets in her eyes as we packed the last things and started down the road. Laura and I would be back in two days. It would be a lot longer for Chris.

Lunch turned out to be the most emotional time for me. We drove to Edina in the Minneapolis suburbs to pick up big sister Elizabeth at her new job in a large engineering firm. It had been less than two weeks since she started work, and Laura and I were immensely proud of her. Elizabeth had gone from unemployed college graduate with multiple odd jobs to choosing between two full-time offers with benefits. I had heard other parents talk about the pride they felt when their kids found work after college, but this was an unexpected feeling for me. Elizabeth had only weeks before moved into a downtown apartment and disappeared from daily view. On receiving our text message that the car was full, she agreed to meet us in her work parking lot. When she rounded the corner alone in her car, I couldn’t help but break into a smile. When I opened the car door and saw her sitting there in her business clothes, lovely blond hair, earrings, nail polish, twinkling eyes, I just laughed and gave her a kiss. I suddenly found myself short of words. We drove to a local restaurant and sat down in a booth surrounded by hustle and bustle. Somewhere in the moments while we waited for the meal to be served I felt that feeling when it is suddenly hard to swallow, and I was glad I wasn’t trying to speak. I just looked across the table and saw two beautiful young women smiling and laughing and glowing with joy. I looked to my left and saw the young lady with whom I had once fallen in love, now beautiful and radiant in her own middle age, also laughing. Each of these women had blessed me beyond my wildest dreams or hopes and beyond anything a man could ever deserve. Each had accepted my love at the same time that each taught me how to love.

Each had become the very story of my life.

The emptiness that would be left by losing any of them was unfathomable. I realized that this was the last lunch we’d ever really have as the family we had been for the past 18 years. With those thoughts, though I kept them to myself, the lunch took on a deeply poignant feeling. I almost experienced the time as if I were watching it in a movie. We dropped off Elizabeth at work and I hugged her and watched her walk back into her office. This was meant to be a very emotional trip.

The last dinner with Christina was in a quiet Duluth restaurant. The last evening with her in our hotel was punctuated by constant repeats of the Duluth harbor foghorn. Her last morning with us was spent rolling carts of possessions, then negotiating with a new roommate, then previewing college classroom locations, then connecting technology, then glancing at our watches, then sharing hugs. The tears finally got the better of Laura who had come to realize that her younger daughter had also become her best friend.

Many of the essays in this collection were written about my girls, and all of them were written for my girls. Laura and I now live alone (except for Geordie and Rupert and Kyle the bunny). We cleaned two empty bedrooms and shut off air conditioning vents into spaces where nobody sleeps. Sinks and showers now stay clean. Nobody comes and goes after 11 PM.

I miss our girls terribly already.

I couldn’t be prouder of them. I pray for them constantly. I’m still trying to hold onto them as I let them go. I feel them with me when I hug Laura.

When I look into Laura’s eyes I see them there too.

I’ve anticipated these days for years, with joy, with dread, with pride, with tears, with thanksgiving. Now I know why.

Ricky Topp

Ricky Topp was a childhood friend of mine. We grew up together and got in trouble together a few times. We went our separate ways, but would see each other at high school reunions and always shared a hug and some kind words.

Ricky Topp died this weekend. He was 50 just like me.

During his struggles with brain cancer I prayed for him. One year ago I wrote him a letter. In some ways it was very personal, just for Rick. In other ways it is the letter that I want to write to every person I have ever met. That's why I've decided to share the letter here, with greatest respect and appreciation for the life of Ricky Topp, and thanksgiving for how his life and death bring focus to the most important questions we will ever ask.



Rick Topp, 5747 Roosevelt St. Middleton, WI 53562

August, 2010

Hey Rick-

It was nice to see you at the reunion last summer, and then to be able to talk to you on the cell phone from McDermid’s driveway this summer. You know I appreciated your honesty at the reunion, and you were one of the people who touched me by sharing some of the hard things along with the good stuff. People pretend too much. I saw some tears at the reunion, and they were real.

I was sorry to hear from Jon about your surgery and treatments. I’ve never had brain surgery but have had 3 cancer surgeries and chemo and radiation three times over the years, including radiation to my head and a big bald spot to prove it. My cancer is not cured but I am living with it. It is no picnic and I understand that.

I am enclosing a separate letter. That may seem weird, but I wanted to do it that way. You don’t need to open the separate letter now, though you can whenever you want.

When people face cancer, it can be an important thing because it reminds us that this life doesn’t last forever. From the moment we are born we are in the process of dying. Some die too young, some die too old, but we all will die. I will, you will. We pray for each other to live longer and get better, but in the end there will be an end.

I think you know that I am a Christian. I became a Christian when we were juniors in high school. Choosing to be a Christian has changed my whole life.

Some people are ready to die and are not afraid of what they will say when they meet God at the moment of death. Maybe you are one of those people. If so, then I am very happy for you and we’ll leave it that I will continue to pray for your recovery so you can live a long and happy life before you do meet him. You don’t need the other letter.

But maybe you are one of the many people who aren’t so sure what they are going to say when they meet God at death. Maybe you have doubts about heaven and how to relate to God now and when we meet him. If you have doubts or fears, that is why I wrote the letter in the other envelope. If you get to that point of fear or concern about the future, read it. I wrote it because I love you. Even though we’ve been separated by many years and by many miles, we grew up together and I care about you.


Jim Maher

==============================================

separate envelope:

Rick, most people think they can earn their way to heaven by being good. I hear it all the time. That’s not what the Bible teaches, but it’s what most people think. “If I follow the golden rule, or try to do my best, I can live with God forever.” “Bad” people go to hell, right?

I was amazed to find that Jesus taught something very different, and the New Testament makes it clear. Nobody is good enough to go to heaven. NOBODY. Wow. Saint Paul writes in the Bible (Romans 3:23) “There is nobody who is righteous, not even one. For all have sinned and fall short of God’s glory.” He writes in Romans 6:23 “For what we deserve is death, but the GIFT of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ.” What is that all about?

The Bible teaches that God is perfectly good, and he has planned a way to live with us forever, but it requires that we become perfectly good too. That is impossible for us to achieve by trying. God proved it by giving us the 10 commandments, and all of us have broken many of them many times. If breaking even one of them once makes us imperfect, then we’re hosed and none of us can get to heaven.

No, God made a plan so that we can be perfect and holy like him. We can have this forgiveness and perfection even though we are bumbling sinful humans. We can meet God now, and we can meet him in heaven someday, and we can be confident that we will be accepted. How? Not because we deserve it or are “good enough.” No, it is because we can receive God’s forgiveness as a gift.

The Bible teaches that Jesus didn’t suffer and die on the cross by accident or because of a tragedy. Jesus was God on earth, and he died on purpose for you and for me. He died as a perfect sacrifice in my place and in your place. He died on the cross to receive the punishment that you and I deserve. He took God’s punishment in our place, his one perfect life paying the price for all the imperfect lives that have ever been lived. John 3:16 in the Bible (what you see at football games) says that “God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that whoever believes in him would not die, but have everlasting life.”

So what do we have to do to be forgiven and receive this gift? The Bible says that it isn’t automatic, but we just have to ask. I did it when I was a junior in high school. If you haven’t done it yet, you can do it right now, and then learn more by beginning to read the Bible (try starting with the book of John in the New Testament). You can pray a simple prayer just by talking to God. I think I prayed something like “God, I know now that I could never be good enough to live with you in heaven. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m sorry that I have fallen so far short of your commands. But I am so happy that I now understand that you made a way for me to be forgiven forever so I can live with you in my heart now and live with you in heaven forever. I accept the gift of Jesus Christ, and his death for me on the cross. Lord Jesus, come into my heart as my savior and my Lord.”

Rick, if you have questions about that, or if you decide to pray that prayer, feel free to call me to tell me. I’m at 507-261-0345.

Your friend, Jim Maher




In fondest memory of my friend, Ricky Topp
8.20.11

Genuine

Transparency. It’s an easy word to say. It’s a hard word to live. One of the greatest threats to Christianity in general, and to marriage in particular, is the hypocrisy that comes from pretending one thing when we know something else is true. Transparency and integrity are opposites of hypocrisy. Admitting the truth about our lives, our motivations, our sins, and our victories, begins the endless process of sanctification—being made holy, step by step.

Laura and I have been married for 28 years. The quest for transparency is a theme of our marriage.

Some years ago we lived in a different city and were part of a small group Bible study with several other couples from that church. We did our best to be honest about our joys and struggles, and presumed the same from the other couples. We were therefore stunned to learn several years later that one of the couples had split, and that they had been privately dealing with an issue of infidelity all during the time we had been meeting together. Rather than share the issue and allow us to pray and assist, they had chosen to wear the mask of marital perfection, preferring pride to humility. This revelation frustrated and angered us. Life is too short to play games with each other. Isn’t this real life we’re living? Isn’t our faith about real life? Doesn’t Jesus Christ know the truth about us anyway? Doesn’t a relationship with Christ mean forgiveness, openness, and real power for real living? Because of this experience, Laura and I committed ourselves to being transparent and modeling transparency to others whenever we are in relationships and small groups seeking spiritual maturity.

Are Laura and I perfect in our transparency? No. We still suffer from pride. We would prefer that people believe our marriage to be flawless and unchallenged. We need grace to model humility and transparency to friends, even to our daughters…especially to our daughters.

Transparency can require discretion. Telling the truth is important, but sharing sensitive struggles and challenges may require one or a few confidential partners willing to provide accountability and loving perspective. We have found that such partners need not even be in our own church fellowship. It can be freeing to share struggles with a loving friend or advisor or mentor who is far removed from our situation. Their prayers and counsel can make transparency possible even in the most challenging matters.

So let us be the kind of church that encourages honesty in all things. Let our marriages model this kind of transparency, through God’s grace.


Reprinted from Autumn Ridge Church Ridgelines, summer, 2011

Dad

My dad turns 78 later this year. He and my mom made the trip from Madison to Rochester this weekend. They accepted our invitation to attend the combined graduation celebrations for their two granddaughters who have now finished high school and college. I had several opportunities to watch my father from across the table or across the room. As I looked into his blue eyes and listened to his kind words, I found myself reflecting on memories that had left permanent marks on my life. These are among the countless ways that my dad will forever be part of me, besides the DNA segments he left in every one of my cells.

My dad taught me to make models. Plastic or balsa wood, cars or airplanes, modern or vintage, he showed me what I needed to know. Dad had grown up on a farm and learned to fly light planes. He was good at teaching. Two model memories have stuck with me all these years. As a young boy, my dad bought me a model car. It was a metal model of a classic Ford convertible. There were plenty of parts and long instructions. It seemed daunting for a little kid like me. Even more amazing, the kit called for the parts to be assembled once to assure that everything fit and was accounted for, then the kit was disassembled and the parts were painted and put back together again. This was my first memorable lesson in patience. After supper we would spend time together on the model. Even when we had it together, I understood that all the screws were coming back out and the pieces were returned to the table for painting. When the car was finally done, it was beautiful. That model became an object lesson—doing something right may mean starting over, sometimes on purpose.

It was another model that taught me a different life lesson, and it was again my dad who was responsible. I was older and working alone in the basement on a large model glider, gluing wing spars and ribs over flat plans covered with saran wrap. After hours of work on one large wing I experienced that sinking feeling when I realized that I had used a thin balsa strip for the leading edge. The plans called for a thicker, sturdier wood piece but I missed that detail. Every one of the two dozen ribs was now improperly glued in place. I stared at the error. Eventually I called my dad to come downstairs and I confessed the problem. He looked at the wing and he looked at the plan and he looked at me.

“The wing will probably hold up alright even with the wrong piece. Nobody else will probably ever be able to figure out that there is a problem” he said. “But you will always know that there was a mistake and it could have been done better.”

There was no accusation or shaming in his words—just the observations of a wise father. When he had walked back up the basement stairs, I picked up my X-ACTO knife and carefully trimmed away all the glue, spending another hour replacing the leading edge strip with the proper strong wood piece.

I have told that story dozens of times to PhD students through the years.

As I watched my dad across the room at the busy graduation reception, I sensed that he felt out of place. He knew practically nobody in the house. I wanted to stroll over and talk with him, but I was surrounded by my friends and the parents of my daughter’s classmates. I contented myself with glancing at my dad every few minutes.

It reminded me of a memory from many years before when I had been able to observe my dad without him knowing it. Dad’s career was as a geology professor at the University of Wisconsin- Madison. When I decided to attend college there, I knew that my biology major would probably never make me a student in one of my dad’s classes. In spite of that, my curiosity ended up getting the better of me. Early in my second year I decided to sneak into one of dad’s lectures to see what it was like. Dad taught an introductory geology course (he jokingly called it “rocks for jocks”) and there were probably 200 students in the lecture hall. This gave me good cover, and I snuck in and sat in back. For the next 50 minutes I was completely stunned. My mild-mannered and quiet father was an entirely different character in front of an undergraduate class. He was quick-witted, dramatic, funny, probing, engaging—a dynamo on a stage. In fact, he was a ham. At one point in the lecture I found myself sliding down in my seat, wanting to be sure that he didn’t see me in the back. I had the terrible feeling that the magic would end if he found that he was being watched by a spy from his own family.

I never thought about my dad the same way after that day I saw him teach. I came to realize that he had a gift, probably from his mother’s side, and he had shared that gift with us kids. I often find myself thinking of him in those quiet moments just before I deliver a lecture or an invited presentation.

A poignant and meaningful echo of this stealth lecture experience came years later when the three of us kids learned that dad was retiring and would be delivering the very last college lecture of his career. We drove to Madison from different locations across the country, and agreed not to let dad know that we would attend the lecture. It was the same hall where I had snuck in to watch my father teach many years before. My brother and sister joined me outside the room, knowing that my dad would pass by before class began. We talked about our childhood memories, and we tried not to appear too out of place among the waiting students with ipods and cell phones. It was well worth the trip when we saw my dad’s eyes open wide in amazement as we stood up to hug him in the hall before class. He had no idea we were going to attend. We sat in back of the crowded lecture and listened to dad go over the review material for the final exam. At one point in the class he climbed up to stand on top of the lecture table to make a point. My sister gave me a glance of disbelief, but I just winked to her—I had seen this kind of behavior once before, a long time ago. Near the end of the lecture my dad paused and looked out at the hall full of students. To them it probably seemed like just one more in an endless series of college classes at a major state university.

“Before we finish, I wanted to take a moment to thank my three children for coming to surprise me today.” He gestured in our direction. “It means a great deal to me that they are here, because this is my very last lecture before retirement.”

As the students looked in our direction, my first instinct was to slide down in my seat, as I had done once years before, not wanting to be detected. Instead, I smiled proudly as the class broke into applause for my father.

My dad and mom waved as they drove out of the driveway after the graduation party this weekend. He’ll be 78 this winter. In some ways we spend precious little time together.

In other ways I realize that we’re never really apart.

5.30.11

Tom Regnier

Dear friends, Cynthia, and Eric—

My friend Tom left a deep impression on me because of his attitude.  He typically set
his mind to being a servant, and he made sure his service exceeded expectations.  I try to imitate this as often as I can, and I usually find myself lacking compared to the example set by Tom.

Three happy memories exemplify Tom to me.

In late 2005 the Autumn Ridge Church campus on Salem Road was completed. There was a sense that those of us on the design team were now presenting the facility to the staff and to the congregation for use in service of others.  As I stood at the podium addressing the congregation at those services, I spoke of presenting the keys of the building to a representative who would now shepherd the facility on behalf of the congregation.  It was Tom Regnier who I mentioned in this role.


Soon after Autumn Ridge was occupied it became clear that no amount of planned storage in the new facility would be adequate.  Tom immediately swung into action and studied options, resulting in the design and construction of an excellent storage building placed on the east edge of the church property, connected by a service road.  This project was executed thoughtfully, with foresight, and with huge cost savings to the
congregation.  I think Tom was always justifiably proud of his fancy barn.


In 2007 we started the Autumn Ridge Church Arts Series so that the congregation could invite two national Christian artists each year to share their craft in the performing arts center of Autumn Ridge.  Tom instantly became a valued partner in this ministry, attending to hundreds of details required to assemble the volunteer team and prepare the facility for the events.  We worked together to create a protocol for each concert, and Tom was exceedingly faithful in seeing to his responsibilities in service of the guest artists and the audience.  I will always remember how, usually sometime during the artists' pre-show sound check in the auditorium, I would find Tom quietly standing next to me, proudly.  When the music stopped, he would inevitably say

"Can you believe they're really here??"

It never got old to hear him say that with such genuine enthusiasm. Tom and I also enjoyed a little ceremony that we enacted after each show, where a framed concert poster was carefully hung by Tom on a backstage wall celebrating the Arts Series.

I will really miss Tom.  I miss him already.

I anticipate that day, maybe not so long from now, when I will see Tom again.  He'll be standing with his attention focused to the front.  I'll slip quietly next to him and I'll hear him say

"Can you believe we're really here??"


Joyfully dedicated to the memory of Tom Regnier
12.14.10