I hate death

Let me tell you what happened this morning.

I went to have coffee, and a fine conversation about many things, with a buddy of mine. We stay a little longer than usual, neither of us having anything pressing immediately afterward. As I’m leaving, I’ve already started the van and put it in reverse, I see a boy, about age 13, with fear and panic in his eyes and voice calling to his Mom pointing to the ground in front of the van parked next to me. All I can see above the hood is the gray, balding top of a man’s head, and I get this knot in my stomach.

I jump out and run around the front to the gentleman. He’s lying on the sidewalk, cuts on his knees and elbows, a pretty bad abrasion to his cheekbone and a cut on his brow. He’s trying to get up and saying, “I… um, I… I don’t know what I tripped over.” In the background I hear a woman, “Oh God! Dad! Oh, Dad!” Then to no one in particular, “We just came from the hospital, we stopped here to get something to eat. Oh, Dad!”

I notice a few things about him. He’s about eighty. I notice the paper-thin skin with no elasticity. I can almost see through it. I can see the bruising under the bandage where the IV went in earlier. I can see other bruises, the kind that old folks seem to get so easily. He’s disoriented. But remarkably , other than the cuts, he seems alright. Hips, legs, elbows fine, no deep-bone kind of pain.

A nurse is here now assessing injuries and holding a towel on his cuts.

I notice the way panic affects his family. The teenage granddaughter standing kind of detached, and in that awkward, self-conscious manner that means, “I don’t quite know how to react”, but comes across as self-centered and a little uncaring. The grandson who saw it all happen is upset and trying, the best he knows how, to help. The daughter seems to be almost grieving in some sense. Simple questions seem to stump her for a few seconds as if the words aren’t quite registering. And her husband running back and forth trying to get ice, or a bandage, or call for help, something. They all seem to be as disoriented as he is.

They get him up and help him to their van, for the four block ride back to the hospital. I get in mine and drive away.

All I can think about is my Dad. He’ll be seventy-nine in a couple of days, paper thin skin that bruises easily. I’ve watched him become more and more feeble. tripping on things, needing help sometimes.

I understand the daughter’s sense of grief. Her Father is old and feeble, and death could be very close, certainly closer than she wants it to be. And she already feels the loss.

I know, I’m already grieving too.

The knot is still in my stomach. A mixture of hatred and fear.

I hate death.

I hate it with a passion I have for few other things in this, or any other world.

And I fear it.

Christians aren’t supposed to fear death, because death is a defeated foe. Merely a passage from this life into the next one, glorious, pain free, joyful and eternal. And why bother hating death? After all, to die is gain, right?

All theologically correct, as were Job’s friends. About as useful too.

“Where, O death, is your sting?” Right here in my gut, that’s where.

“Where, O death, is your victory?” In the grief, and loss, and regret it brings.

Death is still our enemy. Death should never have been. It’s WRONG. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. And we all know it.

So, where does that leave me?

With a knot in my stomach, and fear in the back of my mind. We don’t grieve like those with no hope, but we grieve.

Perseverance

“ Persevere – to continue in a course of action even in the face of difficulty or with little or no prospect of success.” -New Oxford American Dictionary

“I will not let you go until you bless me.” – Jacob wrestling with God.

“Where else can we go? You are the one with the words of eternal life.”- Peter, after Christ’s “hard words” that caused many to leave him.

“Are you the one we’re waiting for, or should we seek another?” -John the Baptist from prison asking if Jesus was the promised one.

Abraham waited for about 25 years for Isaac’s birth. Promised at age seventy-five, born at age ninety-nine.

The people of Israel spent 400 years in Egypt without any contact from God, then another forty in the desert on a trip that should have taken about two weeks. They also spent a silent 400 years from Malachi’s last words until the Baptizer’s entrance.

“To him who overcomes …. ” Jesus, to the angels of the churches.

“… and after you have done everything, stand.” Paul, to the saints at Ephesus.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” Paul, shortly before his death, writing to Timothy.

“Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” Author of the book of Hebrews.

 

Me, I’m whining about having to do laundry all the time.

I think I’m schizophrenic

Or maybe we have Multiple Personality Disorder. I’m not sure.

Some days I want to play the prophet and say to those around me, “Thus says the LORD!” Others, I want to withdraw completely and live a hidden, quiet life.

There have been periods of my life where learning, knowledge and doctrine have dominated my thinking. Reading and thinking great thoughts along with the great minds of the faith. And other times where I sought to be the simple man taught by God, to whom scripture and prayer were the only fare on the table.

I’ve known, and read of, some giants of the faith in all these varieties, and more. I just don’t know which of them I’m going to be.

Just about the only thing I’m sure of is that I need to be a Holy Man.

A man living in the presence of God, dedicated to Him and Him alone.

I don’t need more knowledge.

I don’t need more insight.

I don’t need more stature and favor with men.

I don’t need better preaching, teaching, reading, revelation, gifting, technique or theory.

I need to be holy.

I’m tired

Hence the lack of blogging the last few days.

Sometimes I just wear out. Mostly my own doing, but sometimes not.

Maybe I need to pay attention to the way I’ve been made.

Sleep eight hours, awake 16. 

Work six days, rest one.

Pay attention to the task at hand, quit multi-tasking.

On being a hearer

My biggest problem, bar none.

My knowledge and my actions don’t line up.

Most of my theology is an intellectual matter.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. 

To be heard

Is there anything in the world more belittling than to say something and have everyone continue on as if you’d never said a word?

Is there anything in the world more encouraging than to be really listened to?

“Being listened to is so much like being loved it is impossible to tell the difference.”- Barbara Pine

How do I … 

Love God, love my neighbor, love my wife, love my children?

1.) Shut up.*

2.) Listen to them.*

3.) Act on what I hear.*

 

*(see James 1)

 

 

I’m asking

What’s a Holy Man look like? 

I’m not asking what he does to become holy ( i.e prayer, scripture, etc…), I’m asking what are some distinguishing characteristics in his demeanor. How does he act?

For example, there is a guy who recently came into our Sunday School class and right away started talking about how he thought this and that, and how he believed this other thing. And I’m thinking, “You might be right (or more likely not), but you would definitely be the first Holy Man I’ve ever met who ran his mouth that much.” And, yes, I’m aware Holy Men aren’t judgmental.  

So, I’m still asking.

 

If I hear one more pragmatic response …

I’ve worked myself into a pretty good lather.

If I hear one more person give me a pragmatic reason why we don’t pray more than we do, I’m goin’ postal.

As a matter of fact, I’m so frustrated right now, I’m going to go cool off before I say something I’ll regret even with the anonymity.

 

Motives

When I was in grade school I figured out pretty early where I was on the Coolness Scale.

You know the one. 

Top of the scale= Good athletes, pretty girls, guys who could make fun of you and crack up the rest of the class.

Bottom of the scale= Fat, ugly, dorky, shy, awkward, weird boys/girls (we were rather egalitarian in our cruelty)

I was upper-middle class. 

I was a pretty good athlete, could occasionally get off some pretty good zingers, and pandered pretty well to the Cool Ones, carefully keeping my head down and out of the line of fire.

But I wasn’t a great athlete. And I mostly thought of great comebacks and put-downs a day later (So when I did get a good one off, I was merciless and rode it for all it was worth).

The point is I was never quite as cool as I wanted to be. If I had known about “glass ceilings” in those days I would have secretly identified more with feminism than I did. (Very few 4th and 5th grade boys were openly sympathetic to feminism in any form. Especially the dorkier guys who were picked for teams after the Tom-Boys in the class.)

But I felt like I was up against it even if I didn’t know what it was called.

Always on the strain to be in the cool crowd, but never quite there.

As goofy as it is, I’m still there. 

I still care too much about that crap. I still want to be thought of as “cool”. 

Take this blog, for instance. My motives here are a tangled mess of good- trying to tell the truth about stuff so others won’t think they’re alone and maybe be encouraged. And, how shall we say it? “impure”-wanting folks to think of me as wise and insightful.

I say I want to be anonymous, yet I’ve told a couple of other bloggers, that really are wise and insightful, to check it out. I’ve left comments at other sites as “Zelig”, secretly hoping they would be intrigued enough to visit and help elevate me into the upper reaches of blogdom coolness. 

So in order to help take a little pride out of the equation, I’m not telling anyone else, and I’m giving up blog stats forever for the next two weeks.

Keep me honest.

Once upon a time …

… I was in Africa. 

There were lions, and giraffes, and elephants. I stood on the edge of the Great Rift Valley, and slept next to the Mara River. I saw hippo, and rhino, and leopard.

I saw many wondrous things, and met many wonderful people. 

I met a man named Thomas who lived in Khartoum. He had not seen, nor heard from his brother in nine years. He had disappeared in the chaos of civil war. Thomas was caring for his brother’s family. Thomas prays for peace, and his brother’s safe return. 

I met a man whose name I don’t remember, but whose matter of fact words I still hear. There was a drought in the country at the time, and the corn, which should have been almost ready for harvest, was only two feet tall. I asked him what they would do if it didn’t rain soon. He said, “We will die.”

I met missionaries from all over the world. They graciously allowed me to come backstage, as it were, and see the way things are for them. Pretenses fall away quickly in the field. Life there is hard, and lonely, and demanding.

I met a man who was trying to raise money to build a “house” for street kids in his city. A place where children could come and get a meal and spend the night at least one night a week. His city had 20,000 street kids under the age of seventeen. 

When I came home I was keenly aware of the differences between my life here and their lives there.

That was eight years ago next month. 

Now it seems like a story that begins, “Once upon a time…”