Came across this story while preparing my next sermon (yes, I know, it's my essay on Rev 4 I should be working on, but sermons are much more fun!) This one doesn't fit my sermon, but it's too good to pass by:
The story is told of a group of theologians who were discussing the tension between predestination and free will. Things became so heated that the group broke up into two opposing factions. But one man, not knowing which to join, stood for a moment trying to decide. At last he joined the predestination group. “Who sent you here?” they asked. “No one sent me,” he replied. “I came of my own free will.” “Free will!” they exclaimed. “You can’t join us! You belong with the other group!” So he followed their orders and went to the other clique. There someone asked, “When did you decide to join us?” The young man replied, “Well, I didn’t really decide–I was sent here.” “Sent here!” they shouted. “You can’t join us unless you have decided by your own free will!”
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
Solace by stars.
I am starting a new occasional series. These are random autobiographical chapters (random in time sequence). I have named the whole series Chapters from a Life.
Solace by stars
The stars were precious to me in early adolescence. They taught me about God. Grey at heart with inarticulate hurt and frustration, I would wander around the back yard at night. Tears are invisible in the dark. My parents would make silly jokes about my “communing with nature”, thankfully they were never interested enough to ask what I was really doing/thinking/feeling. So long as I jumped through the assigned hoops of being a “good girl” (doing well at school, being seen but not heard, asking for nothing) they took very little notice of the rest of what I was or did. I am glad they never knew the truth. They would have found a way to use it against me.
The dark garden, lit just enough by distant streetlights to be safe to walk in, was a sanctuary. I was safe inside our six foot paling fences, I was alone. I would look up at the stars and silently cry out all the longings of my heart for meaning and value. Most of my outer life was so meaningless; I yearned with my whole being to find something that would give me significance. The correct empty lives of my parents seemed so pointless. I have always been more afraid of boredom than of pain. I would lift up my eyes unto the stars (in suburbia there are no hills) and find peace and encouragement.
They were city stars that I gazed at, pale, high and remote. Since then I have seen country stars, sharp, fiery and close, and, while their beauty may be even greater, they are too intimate, almost intrusive, to speak the language I was hearing at fourteen or fifteen. These stars spoke a silver tongue. High, remote and lofty, they told me of a beauty that could not be sullied by the failures of this earth, a transcendent loveliness beyond my reach. But though I could not attain, I must strive towards them with everything that I was, and the very striving would be transformational. This was not the language of salvation, but it was the language that teaches the need of salvation. Though I did not know it at the time, I had fallen in love with holiness.
Solace by stars
The stars were precious to me in early adolescence. They taught me about God. Grey at heart with inarticulate hurt and frustration, I would wander around the back yard at night. Tears are invisible in the dark. My parents would make silly jokes about my “communing with nature”, thankfully they were never interested enough to ask what I was really doing/thinking/feeling. So long as I jumped through the assigned hoops of being a “good girl” (doing well at school, being seen but not heard, asking for nothing) they took very little notice of the rest of what I was or did. I am glad they never knew the truth. They would have found a way to use it against me.
The dark garden, lit just enough by distant streetlights to be safe to walk in, was a sanctuary. I was safe inside our six foot paling fences, I was alone. I would look up at the stars and silently cry out all the longings of my heart for meaning and value. Most of my outer life was so meaningless; I yearned with my whole being to find something that would give me significance. The correct empty lives of my parents seemed so pointless. I have always been more afraid of boredom than of pain. I would lift up my eyes unto the stars (in suburbia there are no hills) and find peace and encouragement.
They were city stars that I gazed at, pale, high and remote. Since then I have seen country stars, sharp, fiery and close, and, while their beauty may be even greater, they are too intimate, almost intrusive, to speak the language I was hearing at fourteen or fifteen. These stars spoke a silver tongue. High, remote and lofty, they told me of a beauty that could not be sullied by the failures of this earth, a transcendent loveliness beyond my reach. But though I could not attain, I must strive towards them with everything that I was, and the very striving would be transformational. This was not the language of salvation, but it was the language that teaches the need of salvation. Though I did not know it at the time, I had fallen in love with holiness.
Friday, April 13, 2007
The Handkerchief
Isn't this just like what God does with our hurts and disappointments?
(1952) A woman friend of John Ruskin once received as a gift a beautiful
handkerchief which she highly prized. One day as she was writing, a drop of
ink fell on it, and it was apparently ruined. Sometime later the great
artist-writer was a guest in her home. Having heard of his hostess's
accident, he asked first to see the handkerchief; then, to take it home with
him. A few days later it was sent back, more beautiful than it was at first.
What had he done? With his own deft hands he had painted on the cloth an
exquisite picture, using the blot as a basis for it.
(1952) A woman friend of John Ruskin once received as a gift a beautiful
handkerchief which she highly prized. One day as she was writing, a drop of
ink fell on it, and it was apparently ruined. Sometime later the great
artist-writer was a guest in her home. Having heard of his hostess's
accident, he asked first to see the handkerchief; then, to take it home with
him. A few days later it was sent back, more beautiful than it was at first.
What had he done? With his own deft hands he had painted on the cloth an
exquisite picture, using the blot as a basis for it.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Easter Morning
Written a few years ago, trying to get inside the experience of those women coming to the tomb
Here, in the grey-wracked morning, turning slowly
Into benighted day, liftless as a stone;
Numbed automata, with tears too dry for falling,
Down their own sorrowed way, unto death they come.
Lift, petals, lift! No, even dew seems heavy.
Down to the down of things, where the dead hopes lie.
Surely no birds? The sun for them still darkened.
Love is their lodestar, dim in a silent sky.
All Gentleness touches the hills with morning.
There is no lightening here, at the empty end.
All Tenderness touches the earth with springtime;
Whilst, into final winter they descend.
When every trust's betrayed, you may doubt your senses,
Strained beyond all surprise, too much pain to think.
So they stand blankly there, where the rock was shifted;
So they stand blankly there, on fulfilment's brink.
Gone the last talisman, stretched to utter nothing.
Nothing of angels speaks to the loss within.
Where is the key to life? In the darkness fumbling,
They cannot see, who witness everything.
Nothing compels, nothing but Joy Incarnate!
How long can Life Triumphant hold back glee?
One small-breathed name, the universe is sundered!
One word of His sets every prisoner free!
Joy, full-winged Joy, lights on the downcast shoulders!
Never such dawn, never such day begun!
The long-held secret, shouted through creation!
Drink, deeply drink, the joy of victory won!
Here, in the grey-wracked morning, turning slowly
Into benighted day, liftless as a stone;
Numbed automata, with tears too dry for falling,
Down their own sorrowed way, unto death they come.
Lift, petals, lift! No, even dew seems heavy.
Down to the down of things, where the dead hopes lie.
Surely no birds? The sun for them still darkened.
Love is their lodestar, dim in a silent sky.
All Gentleness touches the hills with morning.
There is no lightening here, at the empty end.
All Tenderness touches the earth with springtime;
Whilst, into final winter they descend.
When every trust's betrayed, you may doubt your senses,
Strained beyond all surprise, too much pain to think.
So they stand blankly there, where the rock was shifted;
So they stand blankly there, on fulfilment's brink.
Gone the last talisman, stretched to utter nothing.
Nothing of angels speaks to the loss within.
Where is the key to life? In the darkness fumbling,
They cannot see, who witness everything.
Nothing compels, nothing but Joy Incarnate!
How long can Life Triumphant hold back glee?
One small-breathed name, the universe is sundered!
One word of His sets every prisoner free!
Joy, full-winged Joy, lights on the downcast shoulders!
Never such dawn, never such day begun!
The long-held secret, shouted through creation!
Drink, deeply drink, the joy of victory won!
Monday, April 09, 2007
Strange Love
No one else has ever loved me the way Jesus did ..
So strangely, o beloved
You show Your love to me
You did not put on beauty
To win my loyalty
You did not show Your power
To dazzle my dim sight
You dressed You as a beggar
And drew men’s scorn and spite.
Ah yes, You came to woo me
For my sake you did fight
Against the fiends of darkness
You were my faithful knight
My wretchedness to ransom,
You, Lord, were wounded sore
Your very life surrendered
In that strange silent war.
O public was Your shame Lord
But quiet Your victory
In silent dawnswept morning
From depths of mystery
You triumphed there, Beloved,
You overwhelmed the grave
And, gift beyond my dreaming
Your own life to me gave
So strangely, o beloved
You show Your love to me
You did not put on beauty
To win my loyalty
You did not show Your power
To dazzle my dim sight
You dressed You as a beggar
And drew men’s scorn and spite.
Ah yes, You came to woo me
For my sake you did fight
Against the fiends of darkness
You were my faithful knight
My wretchedness to ransom,
You, Lord, were wounded sore
Your very life surrendered
In that strange silent war.
O public was Your shame Lord
But quiet Your victory
In silent dawnswept morning
From depths of mystery
You triumphed there, Beloved,
You overwhelmed the grave
And, gift beyond my dreaming
Your own life to me gave
Roses
We have a tradition in our church on Good Friday. As we go into church, each person is given a red rose. A large wooden cross is put in the centre at the front of the church. At the end of the service there is silence. People are left to go up and kneel before the cross in silent prayer, as they are ready, and at the conclusion of their prayers, throw their rose at the foot of the cross as an act of rededication.
ROSES
They lie there, on the floor,
Red as my trampled heart.
Yet each one, perfect in beauty,
Offering back it’s fragrance to its Maker:
Can a yielded heart be fragrant too?
He lies there, in the empty coffin
He who emptied the tomb
And will fill my empty heart.
He has left His beauty now,
The last part lies scattered,
No beauty, no majesty to draw our eyes.
And I lie here, inwardly,
Acknowledging my brokenness,
Feeling betrayal, scorn,
And the refting of my tattered heart.
How shall I hold Him
When my self is full of holes?
No offering is wasted.
Each one is gathered up
Precious and lovely.
He can count all His bones.
There is water for the thirsty
Peace for the broken
Hands that will gather and hold
And a gate is swung wide open to the Father’s heart.
His coffin
Not mine.
Because he claimed it
And in doing so, claimed me.
ROSES
They lie there, on the floor,
Red as my trampled heart.
Yet each one, perfect in beauty,
Offering back it’s fragrance to its Maker:
Can a yielded heart be fragrant too?
He lies there, in the empty coffin
He who emptied the tomb
And will fill my empty heart.
He has left His beauty now,
The last part lies scattered,
No beauty, no majesty to draw our eyes.
And I lie here, inwardly,
Acknowledging my brokenness,
Feeling betrayal, scorn,
And the refting of my tattered heart.
How shall I hold Him
When my self is full of holes?
No offering is wasted.
Each one is gathered up
Precious and lovely.
He can count all His bones.
There is water for the thirsty
Peace for the broken
Hands that will gather and hold
And a gate is swung wide open to the Father’s heart.
His coffin
Not mine.
Because he claimed it
And in doing so, claimed me.
It's been a while ..
But I'm back. Life got a bit busy .. with college .. with having my house unshipped for new carpet .. with preaching in church for 5 weeks straight .. and with having a lot on my mind. But I'm here, and I thought I'd include a couple of stories i've recently come across. The first I plan to use as a sermon illustration in a couple of weeks (on the passage about 'who is my mother and my brother?' what it means to be in Jesus' family) The second one I used a week ago, on discipleship, as an illustration of what it means to die to self. Hope you are as touched by these stories as I was .
It is said that Cyrus, the founder of the Persian Empire, once had captured a prince and his family. When they came before him, the monarch asked the prisoner, "What will you give me if I release you?" "The half of my wealth," was his reply. "And if I release your children?" "Everything I possess." "And if I release your wife?" "Your Majesty, I will give myself." Cyrus was so moved by his devotion that he freed them all.
As they returned home, the prince said to his wife, "Wasn't Cyrus a handsome man!" With a look of deep love for her husband, she said to him, "I didn't notice. I could only keep my eyes on you- -the one who was willing to give himself for me."
Chrysostom was the patriarch of Constantinople in the fourth century. One of the stories surrounding this faithful witness concerns the occasion when the Roman emperor had him arrested and charged with being a Christian. If Chrysostom did not renounce Christ, then the emperor would have this Christian leader banished from the kingdom. Chrysostom responded to the threat by saying that the emperor could not do so, “because the whole world is my Father’s kingdom.” “Then,” replied the emperor, “I will take away your life.” To which Chrysostom said, “You cannot, for my life is hid with Christ in God.” Next threatened with the loss of his treasure, this saint replied, “You cannot, for my treasure is in heaven where my heart is.” The emperor made one last effort: “Then I will drive you away from here and you shall have no friend left.” But again Chrysostom responded, “You cannot, for I have one Friend from whom you can never separate me. I defy you for you can do me no harm.”
It is said that Cyrus, the founder of the Persian Empire, once had captured a prince and his family. When they came before him, the monarch asked the prisoner, "What will you give me if I release you?" "The half of my wealth," was his reply. "And if I release your children?" "Everything I possess." "And if I release your wife?" "Your Majesty, I will give myself." Cyrus was so moved by his devotion that he freed them all.
As they returned home, the prince said to his wife, "Wasn't Cyrus a handsome man!" With a look of deep love for her husband, she said to him, "I didn't notice. I could only keep my eyes on you- -the one who was willing to give himself for me."
Chrysostom was the patriarch of Constantinople in the fourth century. One of the stories surrounding this faithful witness concerns the occasion when the Roman emperor had him arrested and charged with being a Christian. If Chrysostom did not renounce Christ, then the emperor would have this Christian leader banished from the kingdom. Chrysostom responded to the threat by saying that the emperor could not do so, “because the whole world is my Father’s kingdom.” “Then,” replied the emperor, “I will take away your life.” To which Chrysostom said, “You cannot, for my life is hid with Christ in God.” Next threatened with the loss of his treasure, this saint replied, “You cannot, for my treasure is in heaven where my heart is.” The emperor made one last effort: “Then I will drive you away from here and you shall have no friend left.” But again Chrysostom responded, “You cannot, for I have one Friend from whom you can never separate me. I defy you for you can do me no harm.”
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