Sonnet--Mark 1

Left Behind

Mark 1:19, 20-- A little farther up the shore Jesus saw Zebedee’s sons, James and John, in a boat repairing their nets. He called them at once, and they also followed him, leaving their father, Zebedee, in the boat with the hired men.

How hard for Zebedee to watch his sons

Discard their lines and follow this Unknown

Such disbelief, abandonment as ones

He knew linked to his loins proved they had grown

Apart.  A child is given—Mazel tov!—

Made in the spitting image of our dreams

And dazzled by reflection we resolve

To dedicate our lives to theirs. It seems

Intentions of their hearts and ours are lured

Toward certainty of similarity

The tug of bonding leaves us reassured

Relationship resides in clarity

Such web is woven so we might forget

We sit at sunset clutching empty net.

                              --Annette Lovrien Duncan

A Way in the Manger

A Way in the Manger

Away in the manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lays down his sweet head. . . .  Beautiful song, isn't it?  Beautiful image—a humble, rustic barn with a splintered feeding trough; an innocent newborn, his wrinkly hands with their nearly non-existent fingernails clenched into small fists; his little mouth, lips slightly swollen from the ordeal of birth, rooting gently into the swaddling clothes.  Doesn't that just make you want to scoop him up and snuggle his silky tuft of hair into your neck?  I guarantee every woman reading this is smiling right now. 

Good starting place.  But I invite you tonight to look a little closer with me at this picture, to consider it with the eyes of faith. 

O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining!  It is the night of our dear Savior's birth . . . . What does it mean that we have a savior, and that he was born?  Well, for starters it means that we've been saved from what might be called futility.  You know that feeling that comes as you're trying to fall asleep—or should I say trying to wrestle down the flailing regrets from the past day and fears of the one to come—when you notice in the corner of your mind a hollow whistling sound: why?  Why are you still fighting like this?  When all is said and done, what does the equation equal?  You freeze, dwarfed by the enormity of the question.  Then you turn back to the wrestling, which seems at least more manageable somehow. 

Enter Emmanuel.  And his word to us?  Let go.  Let go in order to gain.  You see, no matter how convinced we are that we know what will bring us peace and joy, we don't have the big picture.  It's only by letting God direct our decisions and our dreams that we'll become part of a purpose larger than our imaginations, larger than our self-focused selves.  Consider again the little guy in the barn.  That baby-soft skin bound nothing less than the all-powerful Creator.  "Though he was God, he did not demand and cling to his rights as God.  He made himself nothing . . . and appeared in human form."  And because Jesus was willing to let go of his own way, his own path to glory, God exalted him to the highest heaven.  We can choose to follow in his footsteps.

Hark! The herald angels sing glory to the newborn King. . . . It's not likely that the occupants of the Bethlehem Motel noticed anything unusual coming from the direction of the manger.  Anyone pushing the door open a crack would have probably seen only a very tired, pale teenager with a baby and a confused, concerned husband nearby.  In our humanness, we seldom see the sometimes glorious nature of the ordinary.  But the angels saw.  And the angels understood--and celebrated!  Now, angels are no insignificant beings.  We read throughout the Bible that often it only took the coming of one from heaven to earth to cause a huge earthquake.  Luke tells us that not just one, but the "armies of heaven" filled the sky with their praise and rejoicing!  They saw not just the sweet Christ Child, but that "because of God's tender mercy, the light from heaven [had come] . . . to those of us in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide us to the path of peace."    To guide us to the manger, and the cross, and the highest heaven. 

Joy to the world!  The Lord is come.  Let earth receive her King!  Jesus was indeed born.  The one-silo town of Bethlehem—"the house of bread"—gave rise that night to the Bread of Life.  And he is still very much alive today.  That innocent child in the feeding trough calls you to empty yourself of your emptiness, and follow him to a life made of the stuff which makes angel armies dance! 

Are we looking now with the eyes of faith?  Dare we see?

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, to you. . . .

Waiting for Wisdom

My neighbor, along with probably every other homeowner in Southeast Wisconsin on this sunny Saturday, is out doing yard work.  She and her husband are the kind that rake the snow off their roof--and the poor folks are stuck living across from us.  Though we've worked diligently this week on our own yard and it looks fair to middlin', when I watch her pulling weeds I have to peer over some of my own.  My husband, who was out early with a full e-Calendar for the day, will no doubt ask me how I spent this morning.  I'll tell him: "Waiting for wisdom." 

That should be a good conversation starter.

Hold up, all you Marthas, and give this at least temporary Mary a hearing.  My defense, ladies and gentlemen of the jury (hubby included), is this--I have been going after something more precious than gold or greenbacks in the only way it can be achieved: by not going after it. 

I was reading in I Corinthians this morning where Paul spends a good deal of time showing that "God in his wisdom saw to it that the world would never find him through human wisdom. . ." (1:21a).  Now, as an English professor, I'd like to suggest that human wisdom has its merits, and I'm not out to dismiss those.  Yet I would like to point out that there is another kind of wisdom--spiritual wisdom--and that it is not only different in nature, it is attained differently. 

Human wisdom works; spiritual wisdom waits.  Most of us have been trained from childhood to pursue answers.  From Grandma's advice to Google, our personal success thrives on taking the initiative to gain knowledge.  But, much like genuine love, the wisdom that comes from above refuses to be tackled head-on. 

Human wisdom is based on reasoning; spiritual wisdom is based on revelation.  It is a gift from God that is given only to the patiently receptive, to those who quiet their heart, their mind, their effort.  It is Spirit-breathed.

Human wisdom feels self-satisfied; spiritual wisdom feels vulnerable.  To revel in the gift of spiritual wisdom is to open oneself to accusations of "foolishness."  It is to affirm that your own smarts won't do you a lick of good in such a realm.  It is to let go of human control, to gain your own soul. 

So, wait just a minute.  Or five. Or fifty.  You'll find it to be a wise investment that pays eternal dividends.

Hidden Costs

Did you go shopping this past weekend?  New clothes for the holiday, groceries for that special Easter meal--maybe a little fast food or Starbucks to sustain you as you prepared for that special Easter meal?  If so, did you think to check the price?  I don't mean just what was written on the tag (or the menu), but the fine print.  Way down in the corner where it reads, "Cost includes a little of your life blood." 

OK, so who talks about blood in a blog?  A bit of a downer, don't you think?  Hang with me here.  You see, most of us ponder the true cost of our time and effort about as often as we completely read the user agreements for all that software we download.  But the reality is that, consciously or not, we are indeed investing our very existence into what we purchase.  The money that bought it required time that could have been spent elsewhere, demanded energy and focus that are definitely expendable resources.  I am purchasing my "stuff" with the stuff of life--my very self.

As I was reading this morning, it occurred to me that God went shopping, too.  He didn't go to the bargain rack, though.  He paid the highest price possible--His very self.  All of it.  So what was it that He believed was worth such an investment?  Our freedom.  Colossians tells us, "God purchased our freedom with His blood . . . " (1:14).  He could have had anything He wanted with His life on earth--could have demanded His rightful recognition and status, could have lived in great luxury, comfort, and fame.  But instead, He decided to pay His life to give true life--freedom from death--to us, and to do without the "good things in life" (like a house of His own) here on earth.

So, where does that leave us?  Yes, I'm going to the grocery store later today.  And I'm not likely to forever swear off Starbucks.  But reflecting on the intentionality of Christ's investment should at minimum cause me to ponder what I'm purchasing with my blood (read time, effort, and yes--money).  Maybe today I can invest a portion of my resources to bring more peace into someone's life, to invest into someone else's future, to help bring an increment of freedom to another. 

And maybe tomorrow.

Dissing Doubt

My grandmother read the dictionary on a regular basis.  She kept meticulous records of everything in her life in the days before computers. She was truly an amazing woman.  Her admirable attention to detail had a significant drawback, however: worry.  She used to say, "I worry--that's just what I do."  We all knew that was who Grandma was, how she was made, and didn't question the validity of her assessment. 

When difficult situations arose throughout the years and worry gripped my heart, I would find myself thinking, "That's just my personality.  Just who I am."  I wished I didn't have to worry, but I couldn't help myself. 

Now I know better. Worry is not inevitable or "just part of who I am." It is a conscious choice to believe that God is unable to take care of me.

 In Philippians 4, Paul tells us that we should not worry about anything, but should take our needs to God and leave them there, thanking Him for everything He's already done.  Our thanksgiving becomes an altar of sorts, a personal place of remembrance and encouragement that, just as God has won in the past, He's got this victory covered as well.  We should remember, though, that Paul was writing these words from prison, in chains.  He wrote elsewhere of the litany of things he experienced "often": cold, hunger, threats from the government and others, near-death.  Often.  Yet he did not worry.  This was a man who had seen the risen Christ and knew Him.  Knew that, beyond a shadow of a worry, He was able to work all things for his good, and that every spiritual blessing in Christ Jesus was his.  Yes, Paul had self-proclaimed daily pressures and concerns about the churches he had planted, but concern is not worry.  Worry doubts.  Worry is double-minded, being tossed to and fro between the hope of God's care and the fear of God's insufficiency.

I choose to declare by the grace of God that the grace of God is more than sufficient.  That's not just "who I am"--that's who He is.  No worries.