The world awards honor based on perceptions of success.
God honors kingdom focused faithfulness.
My own reflections on this appeared in the Bradenton Herald in March.
A way to get my wife riled is to remind her of her traffic citation. Her one, sole, lonely, unique traffic citation.
She received it years ago, paid it, and to this day defends her innocence.
I’ve been guilty of all 682 of mine.
Anyway, my wife is the most scrupulous lawn waterer on the planet. In Florida, we have water restrictions due to a dwindling water table, proximity to vast quantities of salt water threatening to encroach upon our water supply, and recent diminished rainfall.
If you want to know what days are legal for watering and which days are not, don’t call the county. Call Barb. She knows. And she abides.
That’s what made it so surprising when our letter carrier delivered a certified letter a few weeks ago bearing a citation accusing Barb of watering the lawn on the wrong day.
Barb was out mowing the lawn at the time (is she a great woman or what?) and I wondered how she would take it.
The facts are that on Monday, we had new grass put in a small patch of the front yard. Doing this entitles homeowners to two weeks of daily watering. However, on Tuesday, the water enforcer came by and found our water feeding the lawn ON THE WRONG DAY. He therefore drew the conclusion that my wife (our water bill is in her name) was a water-use low life needing to learn her lesson.
She already had one (unjust!) stain on her record. No way she was going to let this one stand. So, instead of paying the $100 fine, Barb stood this week before a judge and challenged the justice of the charge and consequent fine.
She won. She proudly pointed out the court papers that labeled the charge as ‘dismissed’.
Message to Mr. Water Enforcer: You don’t tug on superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off that old lone ranger, and you don’t mess around with Barb.
Over the years I’ve been challenged by people to preach on a number of topics. One woman felt that I should address the clear biblical call for couples to not use contraception. A man felt that I should address the oh-so-clear biblical call for women to not work outside the home.
Preachers face an intriguing challenge. If we are going to do the job we must of bringing the message and power of the ancient text into the lives of modern people then we will need to address the issues that are pertinent and pressing to those people. And yet, in doing this we must be faithful to the priorities and emphases of the ancient text. It can be a hard balance to achieve.
The pressure to be relevant can lead some of us to speak things that the Bible does not speak. I have what I think are fairly clear views which are, I think, biblically informed on both contraception and the proper role and responsibilities of women (and men, for that matter). I will address these in their proper context. But the danger we face and must avoid is when addressing controversial issues that we do not say more or less with greater or lesser emphasis than the Bible itself.
This past week, I sat with two others, two whose political views differ from my own, whose religious convictions differ from one another, and whose life experiences, priorities, and perspectives differ from mine and each other. We discussed race, religion, politics, history, and urban planning. I was enriched by this. Having such conversations informs me, gives me insight into how others think, and helps me to sort through in my own mind what may or may not be clear in Scripture.
Such conversations are good, and developing strong convictions is important. But the way these convictions make it into sermons where the preacher presumes to speak with the authority of God is another matter.
Though the preacher ought not be silent on the subjects with which the rest of the world is aflame, we must at the same time treat those subjects with care. We do not want to confuse our opinions with the biblical truth which must inform those opinions.
We must first speak with great clarity the central Christian truths (which, if rightly presented, often cut through both sides of a controversial subject). Secondly, we must speak with great charity on secondary matters, taking great care not to elevate these less than clear secondary matters to primary status.
John Stott’s counsel is wise:
Our task as preachers, then, is neither to avoid all areas of controversy, nor to supply slick answers to complex questions in order to save people the bother of thinking. Either way is to treat them like children who are unable to think for themselves, and to condemn them to perpetual immaturity. Instead, it is our responsibility to teach them with clarity and conviction the plain truths of Scripture, in order to help them develop a Christian mind, and to encourage them to think with it about the great problems of the day, and so to grow into maturity in Christ. (Between Two Worlds, page 173)
This is why preachers should study, read widely, and preach theologically. When we preach, we are not in the business in giving out all the answers. We are seeking to inculcate a Christian way of thinking.
I’ve had no time since returning from our trip to prepare some proper posts. However, I have had occasion to read C. S. Lewis’ Surprised by Joy (plundered from my Half Price Books raid a couple weeks ago) and was struck with his reflections upon his conversion to theism. I’ve heard/read portions of this before, but this morning was compelled to read it multiple times.
You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England. I did not see then what is now the most shining and obvious thing; the Divine humility which will accept a convert even on such terms. The Prodigal Son at least walked home on his own feet. But who can duly adore that Love which will open the high gates to a prodigal who is brought in kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance of escape? The words comppelle intrare, compel them to come in, have been so abused by wicked men that we shudder at them but, properly understood, they plumb the depth of the Divine mercy. The hardness of God is kinder than the softness of men, and His compulsion is our liberation. (pages 228-229)
This has been a silent blog for some days now. The open window which would allow me to squirrel myself away with my computer has not appeared long enough for me to put down more than a few thoughts.
Today, we spend with the family in North Georgia attending the baptism of our newest grandson Isai Jose Bautista. Tomorrow, Monday, we leave for Bradenton.
Then I will face the freight train load of real work which has lain neglected for two weeks. So, please be patient. I’ll be back.
Japan erupts into civil war! Australia destroyed by accidental nuclear blast? Yankees/Red Sox collapse/Rays make playoffs!
Any or all of this could have happened (other than the statistically impossible last item) over the last few days and I would have known none of it. All our usual sources of news have been cut off.
Barb and I get a daily paper, which Barb reads from cover to cover and whose headlines and lead articles I scan. Traveling about town, I listen to the radio and pick up on various news broadcasts. At night, Barb visits internet new sites and I throughout the day have access to several news focused blogs.
By such means we keep up with the daily news. On this trip, and especially over the past few days, we’ve had access to none of this, and we feel particularly cut off because of it. We’ve been completely without newspaper and internet, and to cap it off, until I fixed it last night, the radio in the car has not been working.
Of course, ordinary life does not require constant news updates, other than to keep up on the marital harmony of our celebrities and law-breaking of our NFL stars.
I suspect that the news over the past few days includes the fact that we continue in an economic slump, that Congress continues to wrangle over health care reform, that soldiers are still sadly dying in Afghanistan and Iraq, and that the Rays are finishing up a lost season.
But I think I’ll buy a newspaper today just to be sure.
Typical highway speeds tend to be around 5 MPH above the posted speed limits. That is the window I usually shoot for in long trips. Or should I say ‘shot’.
When one travels at such a typical highway speed, he needs to occasionally shift lanes, or slow down, to accommodate the occasional car going the actual speed limit.
I have now become the guy others switch lanes to avoid. I have become Speed Limit Guy.
I’ve learned that to travel the speed limit is much more relaxing. One normally need not worry about which lane to get into to get around the slower traffic in front, for generally there is NO slower traffic in front. And, of course, one need not ever look at his speedometer in a rush of momentary panic when spotting a state trooper.
So, I’ve settled into this new identity and am comfortable there. I’m not yet ready, however, to become Under the Speed Limit Guy. I’m leaving that to others.
After dinner Thursday evening, at a place called Harry Buffalo (the bison burger was very good!) we headed to the Coast Guard station where our son is happily stationed. He had asked us whether we wanted to go out on a boat, and we had, of course, said yes.
So, the on-duty crew of Fairport Station of the United States Coast Guard loaded us and the family members of another man on their 47-foot boat for what they call a ‘dependents’ cruise’. In essence this meant going out into Lake Erie at 18-19 knots and driving in circles.
For those of you who are old boaters, this will not seem much a thrill. For us, however, it was a blast, especially when we were offered the opportunity to drive (i.e. steer) the boat. We have pictures of us all – me, Barb, Colin, and Alissa – sitting in the driver’s seat steering.
Some could make a case that this was another example of government waste. But I could make the case that this was a small reward for my son’s now five years of active military service.
I especially want to thank the crew that took their evening time to give us this treat, and BM3 Greenwald for arranging it. What a memorable delight.
On Wednesday night as we were waiting for our table at Cleveland’s Melt Bar and Grilled, across the room on a large screen TV VH1 Classic was running footage of the 1985 Live Aid concert from Wembley Stadium in England. Matthew, my son, and I were watching but we could hear no sound. We identified Elton John and Paul McCartney – they were easy. But there was one group, particularly theatrical and animated, that we could not identify, though I felt that I should. After all, at the time of the concert itself, I was 29. Matthew gets a pass for having been only 1.
So Thursday morning, sitting by an open window in Matthew and Alissa’s cozy home, I was looking through YouTube videos of the various performances from that concert trying to figure out who this had been. I eventually identified the mystery group as The Who. (Like I said, I should have been able to identify them without the internet.)
But one thing led to another, and I began watching a clip of Led Zeppelin singing “Stairway to Heaven” at the US Live Aid concert. Barb sat down to take a peek, and as we sat there, a very distinctive odor began to surround us.
Marijuana smoke.
No, we were not doing anything improper. Either a neighbor was and his smoke was drifting through the window, or YouTube has begun to offer a new ultra realism feature.
Regardless, it was so appropriate. We weren’t watching clips of Andy Griffith. We weren’t watching The Sound of Music. We were watching a rock concert for goodness sake. Senses of sight, sound, and smell all fit as one. And we were, I should note, sitting within metaphorical shouting distance of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame.
Was it a subliminal impulse that led me to search next for Peter, Paul, and Mary singing “Puff the Magic Dragon”?