True confession: to this day, I— a mature, grown woman, reasonably well-balanced, and of sound mind—retain a secret, residual apprehension of the dark. This is a carry-over from my childhood and though I recognize that all children experience a certain amount of fear of the dark, mine was an inordinately deep-rooted, brain-numbing, heart-thudding terror.
There are logical reasons: my earliest childhood was spent in the jungle. Night-fall in a tropical rain-forest happens quickly—the sun just drops, seemingly, out of sight—and there it is—darkest of night. There are no lights from civilization to brighten the sky; the moonless gloom below the forest canopy is a place of mystery: nameless sounds, rustlings, sibilant whisperings, grunts and hoots. Directly outside the warm lights of our home lay a vast ocean of secretive blackness. I would no more set foot out there than face a caged lion.
One time Daddy was carrying me from our house up over the hill to the Bible school chapel for the evening service. The family had already gone ahead. My loving, but unaware father remembered something he needed to get, so midway up the rise he sat me on a stump and went back to the house. There I was, age five or six, alone and oh so fearful in the darkness.
Overhead I saw the splendid effulgence of a star-lit tropical sky. Though amazed by the spectacular clarity of each orb, my attention focused inexorably on the blackness around about me. What WAS that movement in the undergrowth? I sat, my shoulders hunched, and my heart thumping in my ears, mute with fear.
A soft breeze ruffled my hair and brought the redolence of the rain forest scents: moldy leaves, an exotic fragrance of a hidden flower; the wood smoke from the Dayak village’s cooking fires. I was hardly aware of these distractions.
Daddy could not have taken more than three or four minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. He returned and no child could have been more relieved than I was. I don't recall if I said anything to him—probably not—my relief was too great.
My strong, handsome father was my hero—then, as always. But he had abandoned me once, very early in my life, which resulted in the second reason for my fear of the dark. I don’t even have conscious memories of that season, as I was only a toddler. Dad and Mom had to leave me in the hospital, not being allowed to stay because of the contagion of the polio virus with which I was afflicted.
Daddy, who should have been my protector, my hero—walked out the door and left me there, screaming. I could not have known my parents’ own agony. Their grief is told elsewhere in my writing.
Then the nightmares began—the conscious part that I do remember.
The usual pattern in my dreams consisted of Daddy walking out of my dark room, and I, seeing his silhouette in the lighted hallway. I would call to him, but he would keep going, seeming to ignore my cries. And something lurked in my room, an evil creature that looked like a giant turtle, and I would be frozen with fear.
Thankfully, the nightmares dwindled and disappeared over the years. I never told anyone about them, but probably a psychologist would point to those episodes as part of my ongoing unease. To this day, I prefer to sleep with a nightlight, or some form of light shining somewhere, especially if Harry is away.
Light is an incredible aspect of creation. God spoke it into being even before creating the sun, moon and stars. It is an intrinsic facet of His very Being—“God is light.” Light is made brighter where there is absolute blackness. A candle can be seen on a dark, clear night for miles—how much more the blazing resplendence of God’s Light and Glory, illuminating the deplorable darkness of this sinful world.
The Apostle John, in his first letter, writes about walking in the light as God is in the light. This calls to mind the times in Borneo where our family would walk a trail at night, and I would be riding on Daddy’s back. The lantern or flashlights we carried would create a circle of light which, if we walked in that, there was security and safety. Beyond the circle was the utter blackness of the jungle.
Psalm 139 testifies, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me, even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to You.” The Psalmist had indeed experienced the “dark night of the soul”,” and yet the light of God’s presence shone for him even there.
When there are those inevitable seasons of loss, grief, disappointment or abandonment, the darkness does not have to swallow me up. “In Him there is no darkness at all.” I can choose to walk in the Light.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
THEY'RE JUST SHEEP
“We all like sheep have gone astray; each of us has turned to his or her own way….” Isaiah 53
Eliakim sat on a rock near his small herd of sheep, idly watching the flock grazing on the scrub grass of the Judean hillside. Hardly a breeze tempered the heat of the afternoon, and there remained a brooding stillness in the torrid air that made any physical exertion an effort.
He pondered once again with tolerant amusement the characteristics of these animals he owned. “We are His people and the sheep of His pasture,” Eliakim thought to himself, as he remembered King David’s song. “Jehovah chose the right animal,” he mused as he noticed a lamb wandering over the ridge. Whistling and calling, Eliakim hurried to bring the creature back to the herd. He had already made the rounds of the grazing area, looking for poisonous weeds. He knew his silly sheep couldn’t tell the difference between good grass and noxious plants.
Keeping a vigilant eye out for predators—those rangy, scrawny wolves or jackals of Palestine that lurked behind rocks and waited for any opportunity to seize one of the vulnerable flock—Eliakim continually scanned the vicinity.
Towering cumulus clouds were building up in the west and Eliakim, a seasoned shepherd, lifted his head and sniffed the air. He knew a storm was forming. The sheep seemed to sense it also and began showing signs of restlessness and unease, lifting their heads and circling nervously into a cluster.
Rising quickly to his feet, Eliakim began calling to the sheep in soothing tones, using their individual names and motioning with his staff. The herd milled around but soon followed their loving, expert shepherd’s voice as he led them to the sheepfold. Opening the rustic gate into the piled-up stone enclosure, Eliakim began counting them as, bleating worriedly, they pushed through. He knew them all so well and patted their heads gently as they passed.
“Come on, old One-Eye,” he rumbled to a ewe who had lost an eye to a thorn bush many years before. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine….”—here the shepherd stopped and looked quickly about him. “Which one is missing? Eliakim scanned the flock crowded into the sheepfold, casting about for the missing animal. There was one that always stood out from the flock . “Where is Blackie?” Eliakim asked himself. “That numbskull of a sheep has gotten lost again.” With anxiety building in his chest Eliakim glanced at the lowering skies and hurried to close the gate. He began searching the gullies and canyons nearby, whistling and calling the young ram’s name.
The wind intensified by the minute, and the rain began coming down in sheets. Increasingly troubled, the shepherd doggedly continued scouring the rocky terrain, the gale tearing at him with claw-like force. His shouts seemed to be snatched from his lips, disappearing into the storm and drowned out by peals of thunder.
Eliakim had a vivid mental image of Blackie—a mostly black sheep who had a penchant for wandering, but was very special to the shepherd. He remembered the way Blackie would butt his head against the shepherd’s leg, wanting his ears rubbed. The memory made Eliakim even more anxious and concerned.
By now, soaked to the skin, the man struggled to catch his breath and wondered if he would have to give up. Then, the tempest brought the faintest of bleats to his ears—so faint, Eliakim thought it might be wishful imagining.
He turned toward a ravine with steep sides and peered down through the driven rain and mist. There, below him, caught on a thorn bush was Blackie, hopelessly trapped. With the greatest of care, effort, and bother, the long-suffering shepherd made his way down and worked against extreme obstacles to free the benighted animal.
Carrying the dripping ram on his shoulders, Eliakim wended the muddy trail back to the sheep fold, very grateful to have found his lost sheep and looking forward to a warm fire in his hut. Maybe, just maybe Blackie would have learned his lesson…but probably not.
______________________________________________________________________
In a modern setting, the reality of sheep and their characteristics arose as a vivid example: A few months ago, Karl, who pastors a church in California, returned from the morning service feeling considerable discouragement over the spiritual state of the congregants.
Karl went before the Lord that afternoon with the weight of the world on his shoulders and a big question. WHY?
Anyone might assume that God’s answer would be, “You’re not praying enough; there’s sin in your life; you’re a weak leader; why aren’t you fasting more; it’s the devil; it’s YOU—whatever made you think you’re called of God, you useless person…”
But God didn’t say any of that.
Karl felt the gentle response of the Lord: “They’re just sheep.”
What a gloriously freeing three-word-answer—not just for pastors in regards to their flocks—but for any of us. I’m just a stupid, ignorant, prone-to-wander-Lord-I-feel-it, stumbling, fluff-headed, over-fed SHEEP.
It’s the perfect analogy for God to use. One has to wonder how this critter ever survived before its domestication several thousand years ago. A few characteristics will surface if one looks up the topic: “Easily panicked, dumb, vulnerable, follow-the-herd-stampeding, no self-defense—easy prey for predators, perverse, creatures of habit, will eat even poisonous plants, wanderers—easily lost, can’t get up if it falls over, totally dependent on the shepherd for ‘rod and staff’ guidance and care. “
Straying and hopelessly lost, we absolutely need our Shepherd—first, to find us in our lost-ness, and then to guide us in paths of righteousness. I fit the description so precisely. “I’m just a sheep.” God knows that full well and, though He may sigh a few times, He loves me as I am and His patience is endless. “They’re just sheep.” We can all be encouraged by that.
Eliakim sat on a rock near his small herd of sheep, idly watching the flock grazing on the scrub grass of the Judean hillside. Hardly a breeze tempered the heat of the afternoon, and there remained a brooding stillness in the torrid air that made any physical exertion an effort.
He pondered once again with tolerant amusement the characteristics of these animals he owned. “We are His people and the sheep of His pasture,” Eliakim thought to himself, as he remembered King David’s song. “Jehovah chose the right animal,” he mused as he noticed a lamb wandering over the ridge. Whistling and calling, Eliakim hurried to bring the creature back to the herd. He had already made the rounds of the grazing area, looking for poisonous weeds. He knew his silly sheep couldn’t tell the difference between good grass and noxious plants.
Keeping a vigilant eye out for predators—those rangy, scrawny wolves or jackals of Palestine that lurked behind rocks and waited for any opportunity to seize one of the vulnerable flock—Eliakim continually scanned the vicinity.
Towering cumulus clouds were building up in the west and Eliakim, a seasoned shepherd, lifted his head and sniffed the air. He knew a storm was forming. The sheep seemed to sense it also and began showing signs of restlessness and unease, lifting their heads and circling nervously into a cluster.
Rising quickly to his feet, Eliakim began calling to the sheep in soothing tones, using their individual names and motioning with his staff. The herd milled around but soon followed their loving, expert shepherd’s voice as he led them to the sheepfold. Opening the rustic gate into the piled-up stone enclosure, Eliakim began counting them as, bleating worriedly, they pushed through. He knew them all so well and patted their heads gently as they passed.
“Come on, old One-Eye,” he rumbled to a ewe who had lost an eye to a thorn bush many years before. “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine….”—here the shepherd stopped and looked quickly about him. “Which one is missing? Eliakim scanned the flock crowded into the sheepfold, casting about for the missing animal. There was one that always stood out from the flock . “Where is Blackie?” Eliakim asked himself. “That numbskull of a sheep has gotten lost again.” With anxiety building in his chest Eliakim glanced at the lowering skies and hurried to close the gate. He began searching the gullies and canyons nearby, whistling and calling the young ram’s name.
The wind intensified by the minute, and the rain began coming down in sheets. Increasingly troubled, the shepherd doggedly continued scouring the rocky terrain, the gale tearing at him with claw-like force. His shouts seemed to be snatched from his lips, disappearing into the storm and drowned out by peals of thunder.
Eliakim had a vivid mental image of Blackie—a mostly black sheep who had a penchant for wandering, but was very special to the shepherd. He remembered the way Blackie would butt his head against the shepherd’s leg, wanting his ears rubbed. The memory made Eliakim even more anxious and concerned.
By now, soaked to the skin, the man struggled to catch his breath and wondered if he would have to give up. Then, the tempest brought the faintest of bleats to his ears—so faint, Eliakim thought it might be wishful imagining.
He turned toward a ravine with steep sides and peered down through the driven rain and mist. There, below him, caught on a thorn bush was Blackie, hopelessly trapped. With the greatest of care, effort, and bother, the long-suffering shepherd made his way down and worked against extreme obstacles to free the benighted animal.
Carrying the dripping ram on his shoulders, Eliakim wended the muddy trail back to the sheep fold, very grateful to have found his lost sheep and looking forward to a warm fire in his hut. Maybe, just maybe Blackie would have learned his lesson…but probably not.
______________________________________________________________________
In a modern setting, the reality of sheep and their characteristics arose as a vivid example: A few months ago, Karl, who pastors a church in California, returned from the morning service feeling considerable discouragement over the spiritual state of the congregants.
Karl went before the Lord that afternoon with the weight of the world on his shoulders and a big question. WHY?
Anyone might assume that God’s answer would be, “You’re not praying enough; there’s sin in your life; you’re a weak leader; why aren’t you fasting more; it’s the devil; it’s YOU—whatever made you think you’re called of God, you useless person…”
But God didn’t say any of that.
Karl felt the gentle response of the Lord: “They’re just sheep.”
What a gloriously freeing three-word-answer—not just for pastors in regards to their flocks—but for any of us. I’m just a stupid, ignorant, prone-to-wander-Lord-I-feel-it, stumbling, fluff-headed, over-fed SHEEP.
It’s the perfect analogy for God to use. One has to wonder how this critter ever survived before its domestication several thousand years ago. A few characteristics will surface if one looks up the topic: “Easily panicked, dumb, vulnerable, follow-the-herd-stampeding, no self-defense—easy prey for predators, perverse, creatures of habit, will eat even poisonous plants, wanderers—easily lost, can’t get up if it falls over, totally dependent on the shepherd for ‘rod and staff’ guidance and care. “
Straying and hopelessly lost, we absolutely need our Shepherd—first, to find us in our lost-ness, and then to guide us in paths of righteousness. I fit the description so precisely. “I’m just a sheep.” God knows that full well and, though He may sigh a few times, He loves me as I am and His patience is endless. “They’re just sheep.” We can all be encouraged by that.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Glorious Inevitable
The months pass unrelentingly since I was last with him--my beloved 94-year old dad. Each time I say goodbye to him it's with pangs of angst, as I think it could be the last.
He's already outlived most of his peers and friends. I don't want him to outlive his brain function—entering that shadowy, empty place that so many elderly people descend into, but I still hang onto him for dear life. I can't reconcile the memory of my strong, handsome, capable father with the frail, stooped, arthritic person he has become. Yet, I don't want him to go. I need him still. He prays for me like no one else.
I want to touch the warm, papery-thin skin of my papa’s wrinkled face; hold his bent, stiff hands in mine and remember their former strength. I wrote his story, I believe, partly in an attempt to "immortalize" him. But, the day will come when I will have to let him go…….
……Then, slowly, slowly, he'll slip through the meniscus of eternity—that thin layer that separates us from heaven—just a heart-beat away. The old worn-out body will remain behind. As he traverses the valley of the shadow of death, Dad will hear the roar and cheers of a "great cloud of witnesses" on the Other Side who will be waiting to celebrate his arrival. He'll step into the Light, whole and healthy. Jesus will be standing there—the Foremost Greeter—welcoming him with a happy smile, "Well done, good and faithful servant—enter into the joy of your Lord!"
Then Mom will slip through the ranks—running to embrace him. His parents will be next—so joyful in their reunion. Hanging back, a shade timidly but with glad faces, will be two of Dad's children. They didn't survive their formative season in Mom's womb, but now they're perfect and beautiful, greeting the dad they never met. I imagine Mom turning to pull them towards his embrace.
Dad will see the brown faces of his beloved Dayaks: Semuel, Lombok, Santi, Siga; he’ll catch sight of Hermano Campos, Hermano Maman×first converts in Tucumán. What joy to see these—and countless others— fruits of his lifetime of labor.
The list will go on and on: saintly friends and family who will push forward to rejoice in Dad's Homecoming, surrounding him with their delight. Dad will turn from one to another, scarcely able to take it all in. Glorious light, vivid colors, vibrant beauty will fill his sight: brightly colored birds darting about, flowers filling the meadows, angelic voices lifted in God’s praise. Such a party, such laughter, such reveling in the bliss—it will be uncontainable happiness!
So, maybe it won't be as hard to let him go after all. Why tarry on this broken planet? Heaven is waiting.
He's already outlived most of his peers and friends. I don't want him to outlive his brain function—entering that shadowy, empty place that so many elderly people descend into, but I still hang onto him for dear life. I can't reconcile the memory of my strong, handsome, capable father with the frail, stooped, arthritic person he has become. Yet, I don't want him to go. I need him still. He prays for me like no one else.
I want to touch the warm, papery-thin skin of my papa’s wrinkled face; hold his bent, stiff hands in mine and remember their former strength. I wrote his story, I believe, partly in an attempt to "immortalize" him. But, the day will come when I will have to let him go…….
……Then, slowly, slowly, he'll slip through the meniscus of eternity—that thin layer that separates us from heaven—just a heart-beat away. The old worn-out body will remain behind. As he traverses the valley of the shadow of death, Dad will hear the roar and cheers of a "great cloud of witnesses" on the Other Side who will be waiting to celebrate his arrival. He'll step into the Light, whole and healthy. Jesus will be standing there—the Foremost Greeter—welcoming him with a happy smile, "Well done, good and faithful servant—enter into the joy of your Lord!"
Then Mom will slip through the ranks—running to embrace him. His parents will be next—so joyful in their reunion. Hanging back, a shade timidly but with glad faces, will be two of Dad's children. They didn't survive their formative season in Mom's womb, but now they're perfect and beautiful, greeting the dad they never met. I imagine Mom turning to pull them towards his embrace.
Dad will see the brown faces of his beloved Dayaks: Semuel, Lombok, Santi, Siga; he’ll catch sight of Hermano Campos, Hermano Maman×first converts in Tucumán. What joy to see these—and countless others— fruits of his lifetime of labor.
The list will go on and on: saintly friends and family who will push forward to rejoice in Dad's Homecoming, surrounding him with their delight. Dad will turn from one to another, scarcely able to take it all in. Glorious light, vivid colors, vibrant beauty will fill his sight: brightly colored birds darting about, flowers filling the meadows, angelic voices lifted in God’s praise. Such a party, such laughter, such reveling in the bliss—it will be uncontainable happiness!
So, maybe it won't be as hard to let him go after all. Why tarry on this broken planet? Heaven is waiting.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
True Worship or a Spectator Sport?
An interesting, enlightening, and perhaps unsettling, activity for a pastor or church leader would be to stand in the back of a church auditorium and scan the audience during worship. My guess is that in the majority of our churches one would see maybe around one third of the people actively participating in singing, praising, raising their hands, responding and engaging in worship. The others are usually standing there, eyes open, watching what is happening on the stage—perhaps moving their lips along with the song, maybe clapping—but no fervor, passion or fire. Then there are others that are totally unengaged, texting from their cell phones.
Contemporary worship styles can differ greatly from church to church and between cultures or countries, but one thing for sure that everyone would undoubtedly agree on—no matter what differences in setting there may be—is that the focus of worship has to be Jesus. In our doctrine, theology and philosophy most of us would be able to list Scriptural references and even do an in-depth study on it. We sing, “I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about You, Jesus.”
However, my great concern in observing and participating in charismatic church and conference worship services in many different places is that it has become mostly a “spectator sport.”
So many songs seem to be “ME” centered—about how I feel; the warm-fuzzies I get when I think about God—and even some songs which are not exactly doctrinally sound. Maybe we need a balance in the use of more God-centered, Scriptural songs that exalt His majesty, His glory; that point to the Cross and the Blood of Jesus.
I’ve wondered for some time now why we don’t hear the “song of the Lord” in our charismatic churches as it used to be. Those of us who have been around for a while remember that beautiful song, where the entire congregation lifted wave after wave of spontaneous, improvised, personal expressions of praise—sometimes a capella. I remember when our "sphere of influence" used to be on the forefront, even leading the way as an example in Pentecostal circles.
God knows that the overwhelming need is for REVIVAL, across the nation and world-wide, and that real worship springs out of this. In our home we pray daily for that fresh wind of the Spirit.
But, the focus in church services so often seems to be on what’s happening on the platform, with what one might call a “concert atmosphere,” rather than leading people into the individual and corporate response of hearts opening to the manifest Presence of the Lord.
I do some teaching of improvisation and playing keyboard for worship. One of my main points that I reiterate to my students is that in order for the focus to be on the Lord, nothing we DO musically, SAY with words, or ALLOW in our physical appearance on the platform should be a distraction to that goal.
I recall a very talented person I heard playing the piano, along with a worship team, who played such “lush,” complex chords that it was a distraction to the over-all purpose. As beautiful and professional the sound may be, the instruments and instrumentalists can, at times, create a diversion from the goal of true worship.
A musically-talented and very contemporary-minded nineteen-year old nephew of mine, observed with unusual insight, that often the words of a song are excellent and appropriate but the chords and musical progressions are that of “rock style” which DRIVES rather than LEADS and FLOWS.
(Neither am I saying that we should have “sloppy,” untaught, or amateurish musicians, nor that we should go back to singing just hymns. I love and appreciate the excellence in the contemporary blend of vocals and instruments such as most churches have today.)
Also, I was at a service recently where the attractive girl leading the songs was dressed in such a way that probably every young male in the congregation was having a difficult time focusing on the Lord. Those who lead worship should always bear in mind that their style of dress must be modest and appropriate.
And I maintain—and I’m sure others share this view—that the decibel level should NOT be a distraction either. It’s undeniably a generational thing (one has to ask if there will be a whole generation of hearing-impaired people?!) and that it is possible that our youth are so accustomed to it that they feel they can’t worship without it.
Yet, worship styles should not be solely youth-oriented. Our mode of worship should be welcoming, inclusive, and encompassing for all. There is an older generation—as well as people with physical and perhaps emotional issues—that are very much a part of the Body, and very much needed to provide balance in the Body.
Many individuals even time their arrival to enter the service midway through, because the loud volume of a driving bass guitar, pounding drums, and pulsing lights not only distract but can create physical and emotional discomfort in the eardrums, head and sight. An example of this is a very dear friend of ours, who is in the ministry, but suffers from bipolar issues (caused by a chemical imbalance) and cannot bear the contemporary hyper-driven style of music. Is our attitude toward these saints, “Just deal with it!”—rather than assuming our responsibility to make some adjustment for them?
Often the issue seems to be with the sound-board people—since they’re the ones that control the decibel level. At a recent event I had to keep my fingers in my ears because the volume was so uncomfortable and strident. But my impression is that often those of us who see it this way are viewed as “hopelessly out-of-touch, out-dated, and out-voted old fogies.”
One has to wonder if pastoral and organizational leadership is involved as it should be in the oversight, input and biblical discipleship on how worship should be done. It seems that often the worship team functions on its own, independently, with few or no limitations or guidelines.
The highest and most profound worship I have ever been a part of was led by an accordionist (yes, really!) and guitarist, with no sound amplification. The entire congregation, young and old, was totally lost in worship, the song of the Lord, brokenness and deep heart response—sometimes for two hours. Lives were being transformed as we worshipped Jesus—with no distractions from our surroundings. No one was just “spectating.”
Perhaps what is needed in our churches is for there to be clear, biblical teaching on “how to worship”—and not taking it for granted that people know how to flow in the “song of the Lord.” The church needs to be taught to move in obedience and faith, rather than emotion. I recall someone quite close to us who thought it was “hypocritical” to respond in worship if one didn’t feel moved upon emotionally.
And maybe the time has come to re-examine our philosophy and culture of worship leading—maybe it’s necessary to emphasize leading more by example, influence and Holy Spirit-flow rather than by hype. A good start might be to just push the volume-control lever down by a few decibels.
Contemporary worship styles can differ greatly from church to church and between cultures or countries, but one thing for sure that everyone would undoubtedly agree on—no matter what differences in setting there may be—is that the focus of worship has to be Jesus. In our doctrine, theology and philosophy most of us would be able to list Scriptural references and even do an in-depth study on it. We sing, “I’m coming back to the heart of worship, and it’s all about You, Jesus.”
However, my great concern in observing and participating in charismatic church and conference worship services in many different places is that it has become mostly a “spectator sport.”
So many songs seem to be “ME” centered—about how I feel; the warm-fuzzies I get when I think about God—and even some songs which are not exactly doctrinally sound. Maybe we need a balance in the use of more God-centered, Scriptural songs that exalt His majesty, His glory; that point to the Cross and the Blood of Jesus.
I’ve wondered for some time now why we don’t hear the “song of the Lord” in our charismatic churches as it used to be. Those of us who have been around for a while remember that beautiful song, where the entire congregation lifted wave after wave of spontaneous, improvised, personal expressions of praise—sometimes a capella. I remember when our "sphere of influence" used to be on the forefront, even leading the way as an example in Pentecostal circles.
God knows that the overwhelming need is for REVIVAL, across the nation and world-wide, and that real worship springs out of this. In our home we pray daily for that fresh wind of the Spirit.
But, the focus in church services so often seems to be on what’s happening on the platform, with what one might call a “concert atmosphere,” rather than leading people into the individual and corporate response of hearts opening to the manifest Presence of the Lord.
I do some teaching of improvisation and playing keyboard for worship. One of my main points that I reiterate to my students is that in order for the focus to be on the Lord, nothing we DO musically, SAY with words, or ALLOW in our physical appearance on the platform should be a distraction to that goal.
I recall a very talented person I heard playing the piano, along with a worship team, who played such “lush,” complex chords that it was a distraction to the over-all purpose. As beautiful and professional the sound may be, the instruments and instrumentalists can, at times, create a diversion from the goal of true worship.
A musically-talented and very contemporary-minded nineteen-year old nephew of mine, observed with unusual insight, that often the words of a song are excellent and appropriate but the chords and musical progressions are that of “rock style” which DRIVES rather than LEADS and FLOWS.
(Neither am I saying that we should have “sloppy,” untaught, or amateurish musicians, nor that we should go back to singing just hymns. I love and appreciate the excellence in the contemporary blend of vocals and instruments such as most churches have today.)
Also, I was at a service recently where the attractive girl leading the songs was dressed in such a way that probably every young male in the congregation was having a difficult time focusing on the Lord. Those who lead worship should always bear in mind that their style of dress must be modest and appropriate.
And I maintain—and I’m sure others share this view—that the decibel level should NOT be a distraction either. It’s undeniably a generational thing (one has to ask if there will be a whole generation of hearing-impaired people?!) and that it is possible that our youth are so accustomed to it that they feel they can’t worship without it.
Yet, worship styles should not be solely youth-oriented. Our mode of worship should be welcoming, inclusive, and encompassing for all. There is an older generation—as well as people with physical and perhaps emotional issues—that are very much a part of the Body, and very much needed to provide balance in the Body.
Many individuals even time their arrival to enter the service midway through, because the loud volume of a driving bass guitar, pounding drums, and pulsing lights not only distract but can create physical and emotional discomfort in the eardrums, head and sight. An example of this is a very dear friend of ours, who is in the ministry, but suffers from bipolar issues (caused by a chemical imbalance) and cannot bear the contemporary hyper-driven style of music. Is our attitude toward these saints, “Just deal with it!”—rather than assuming our responsibility to make some adjustment for them?
Often the issue seems to be with the sound-board people—since they’re the ones that control the decibel level. At a recent event I had to keep my fingers in my ears because the volume was so uncomfortable and strident. But my impression is that often those of us who see it this way are viewed as “hopelessly out-of-touch, out-dated, and out-voted old fogies.”
One has to wonder if pastoral and organizational leadership is involved as it should be in the oversight, input and biblical discipleship on how worship should be done. It seems that often the worship team functions on its own, independently, with few or no limitations or guidelines.
The highest and most profound worship I have ever been a part of was led by an accordionist (yes, really!) and guitarist, with no sound amplification. The entire congregation, young and old, was totally lost in worship, the song of the Lord, brokenness and deep heart response—sometimes for two hours. Lives were being transformed as we worshipped Jesus—with no distractions from our surroundings. No one was just “spectating.”
Perhaps what is needed in our churches is for there to be clear, biblical teaching on “how to worship”—and not taking it for granted that people know how to flow in the “song of the Lord.” The church needs to be taught to move in obedience and faith, rather than emotion. I recall someone quite close to us who thought it was “hypocritical” to respond in worship if one didn’t feel moved upon emotionally.
And maybe the time has come to re-examine our philosophy and culture of worship leading—maybe it’s necessary to emphasize leading more by example, influence and Holy Spirit-flow rather than by hype. A good start might be to just push the volume-control lever down by a few decibels.
Friday, November 26, 2010
My Thankful List (just a portion!)
Thankfulness
1. For the love and goodness of God--permeating, surrounding, upholding, guiding my life and loved ones.
2. For my faithful, caring husband. He has been faithful to God, to his calling, and to me--with singleness of heart and eyes. He is a good, dependable husband, father and grandfather.
3. For the Word--seven times pure, true and absolute; a sure foundation, eternal; the expression and history of God at work in humanity; grace and mercy applied to our lives.
4. For my kids: Danny, with his wonderful wittiness and insight; faithful to the Lord and His calling; standing firm in the midst of the fire. For Natalie, who loves him dearly.
Chrissy, my little girl, beautiful wife and mother; so very talented and creative--not even aware of all her potential. For Matt, gifted beyond comprehension--good husband and father.
5. For my lovely, talented, unpredictably-creative grandchildren. Their potential and destiny still unknown, untapped--but secure in God.
6. For my dad and mom--incredible heritage; siblings--related by blood and by our love for each other; our memories of rich experiences in life.`
1. For the love and goodness of God--permeating, surrounding, upholding, guiding my life and loved ones.
2. For my faithful, caring husband. He has been faithful to God, to his calling, and to me--with singleness of heart and eyes. He is a good, dependable husband, father and grandfather.
3. For the Word--seven times pure, true and absolute; a sure foundation, eternal; the expression and history of God at work in humanity; grace and mercy applied to our lives.
4. For my kids: Danny, with his wonderful wittiness and insight; faithful to the Lord and His calling; standing firm in the midst of the fire. For Natalie, who loves him dearly.
Chrissy, my little girl, beautiful wife and mother; so very talented and creative--not even aware of all her potential. For Matt, gifted beyond comprehension--good husband and father.
5. For my lovely, talented, unpredictably-creative grandchildren. Their potential and destiny still unknown, untapped--but secure in God.
6. For my dad and mom--incredible heritage; siblings--related by blood and by our love for each other; our memories of rich experiences in life.`
Saturday, November 13, 2010
POLIO—IN THE NEWS, BUT NOT NEW
________________________________________
Polio is in the news again, but for some, it never went away. This new outbreak recently reared its ugly head on another continent, far from our own doorsteps, but not so long ago we lived the terror here too. In the decades of the thirties, and especially the forties and fifties, public swimming pools, playgrounds and sidewalks—anywhere children normally played—were mostly deserted. Parents lived in fear, cloistering their children indoors, when the spectre of polio stalked their communities.
But the mass epidemics of the Twentieth Century seemed a mystery to scientists, who conjectured that perhaps the discovery of bacteria as causing illness led to more hygienic habits. This was a good thing, of course—but which left children with less immunity against the contagious virus
My own grandfather contracted polio circa 1882, though the rural doctor was not able to diagnose the illness, except that the young boy suffered a high fever and lingering paralysis, which left him with a limp the remainder of his life.
In 1947, I myself, came down with polio at the age of 18 months becoming paralyzed from the waist down. The life-long residual effects were evident as soon as the paralysis passed: a withered left leg and spinal deformity. After several orthopedic surgeries, and with a full-length leg brace, I achieved the ability to walk reasonably well.
Many well-known people from every profession are included in the hall-of-fame list of polio survivors. Some familiar names: Actors, Alan Alda and Donald Sutherland (who both played Hawkeye on M*A*S*H), Mia Farrow; movie director, Francis Ford Coppola; Judy Collins, singer and song-writer; Itzhak Perlman, famed violinist; Robert McNamara, former U.S. Secretary of Defense; Jack Nicklaus, pro-golfer. Sir Walter Scott (an ancestor of mine, incidentally), historical novelist and poet, was left lame after developing what we now know as polio, though it was undiagnosed at the time.
.
A retired schoolteacher, Eleanor Abbott, contracted polio in 1948. While confined in hospital she invented and designed a game—Candy Land—for the children recuperating there.
The most well-known polio survivor, of course, was our 32nd president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. The March of Dimes—an organization that helped hundreds of thousands of polio survivors, including me—began through his efforts and influence. My hospital care, surgeries and prosthetic devices were covered in their entirety by the generous, warm-hearted giving of millions of school children, who carefully inserted their dimes on the donation cards, then turned them in at school for the March of Dimes.
Thankfully, other than these heart-breaking incidences in under-developed countries, polio is no longer a threat. In 1955 the announcement of Jonas Salk’s successful vaccine resulted in hundreds of thousands of children lining up to be inoculated. Modern science declared a major victory in the fight against disease by vanquishing the deadly, menacing wraith of poliomyletis.
But, thousands of us still face its consequences as a daily fact of life. Of course, like World War II vets, there aren’t many of us left, and when we’re gone, barring—God forbid—another massive outbreak, polio will have passed into history.
Possibly the most intriguing aspect of polio survivors is exactly what that word signifies: We view ourselves not as victims, but fighters, warriors battling for our very existence. Every movement must be re-learned, thought out, planned ahead. What amounts to a small hill for others is cliff-climbing for us. A staircase becomes Mt. Everest; spring-loaded doors a steel trap. Challenges face us at every turn, but something within us rises to meet it. We do not give up. We improvise, innovate, sometimes fall (literally) but get up again and keep going. And we survive. Stronger, more resilient, perhaps, than others for whom movement is easy, unencumbered—thoughtless, even. The majority of survivors exhibit Type A characteristics. Thus polio has made us.
I can say, without a doubt, that my handicap has been a blessing, shaping me beyond the mere hereditary qualities of parents and ancestors into who I am today. I quote notable photojournalist, Dorothea Lange, whose polio left her with a withered leg and limp. She commented, “It was perhaps the most important thing that happened to me. It formed me, guided, instructed me, helped me, and humiliated me. All those things at once. I've never gotten over it and am aware of the force and power of it.”
Life throws some unforeseen, course-changing events at us, but by God’s grace, it is what you make of it. As of a few years, I have experienced a gradual but noticeable diminution of physical strength, resulting in the need to use a wheelchair. For short distances, I am able to walk with a cane. Over-used joints, fulfilling unintended functions for more than 60 years, are wearing out. I remain grateful for the parts that work reasonably well and for good health, all things considered.
I have accomplished many things my doctors predicted as impossible, or at best, difficult: in my childhood, learning to ride a two-wheel bike; carrying two healthy pregnancies and rearing two rambunctious children; as well as serving in ministerial roles with my husband in third-world countries.
Though doggedly independent and self-reliant to a fault, my increasing needs have required me over the years to ask for assistance, even from strangers, and I derive pleasure in their across-the-board, wholehearted willingness. People like to be needed. Even the most unlikely—at least to my age-linked viewpoint, such as the heavy-metal rockers with purple mohawks and innumerable piercings who hurried to open a door for me—have been more than eager to assist.
I am grateful for those who offer to help, who do so not knowing if they’ll be rejected, brushed off, or even resented. Thank you for caring.
Perhaps it is this cheerful giving and receiving of compassion that weaves us together in the intricate fabric of God’s creation. Something such as polio, intertwining dark, somber fibers into the embroidery of life, can reveal the brightness of that better side of humanity. Thus humankind’s best potential is highlighted in colorful threads of mercy and humility.
Connie Schisler Vellekoop
November 13, 2010
Polio is in the news again, but for some, it never went away. This new outbreak recently reared its ugly head on another continent, far from our own doorsteps, but not so long ago we lived the terror here too. In the decades of the thirties, and especially the forties and fifties, public swimming pools, playgrounds and sidewalks—anywhere children normally played—were mostly deserted. Parents lived in fear, cloistering their children indoors, when the spectre of polio stalked their communities.
But the mass epidemics of the Twentieth Century seemed a mystery to scientists, who conjectured that perhaps the discovery of bacteria as causing illness led to more hygienic habits. This was a good thing, of course—but which left children with less immunity against the contagious virus
My own grandfather contracted polio circa 1882, though the rural doctor was not able to diagnose the illness, except that the young boy suffered a high fever and lingering paralysis, which left him with a limp the remainder of his life.
In 1947, I myself, came down with polio at the age of 18 months becoming paralyzed from the waist down. The life-long residual effects were evident as soon as the paralysis passed: a withered left leg and spinal deformity. After several orthopedic surgeries, and with a full-length leg brace, I achieved the ability to walk reasonably well.
Many well-known people from every profession are included in the hall-of-fame list of polio survivors. Some familiar names: Actors, Alan Alda and Donald Sutherland (who both played Hawkeye on M*A*S*H), Mia Farrow; movie director, Francis Ford Coppola; Judy Collins, singer and song-writer; Itzhak Perlman, famed violinist; Robert McNamara, former U.S. Secretary of Defense; Jack Nicklaus, pro-golfer. Sir Walter Scott (an ancestor of mine, incidentally), historical novelist and poet, was left lame after developing what we now know as polio, though it was undiagnosed at the time.
.
A retired schoolteacher, Eleanor Abbott, contracted polio in 1948. While confined in hospital she invented and designed a game—Candy Land—for the children recuperating there.
The most well-known polio survivor, of course, was our 32nd president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. The March of Dimes—an organization that helped hundreds of thousands of polio survivors, including me—began through his efforts and influence. My hospital care, surgeries and prosthetic devices were covered in their entirety by the generous, warm-hearted giving of millions of school children, who carefully inserted their dimes on the donation cards, then turned them in at school for the March of Dimes.
Thankfully, other than these heart-breaking incidences in under-developed countries, polio is no longer a threat. In 1955 the announcement of Jonas Salk’s successful vaccine resulted in hundreds of thousands of children lining up to be inoculated. Modern science declared a major victory in the fight against disease by vanquishing the deadly, menacing wraith of poliomyletis.
But, thousands of us still face its consequences as a daily fact of life. Of course, like World War II vets, there aren’t many of us left, and when we’re gone, barring—God forbid—another massive outbreak, polio will have passed into history.
Possibly the most intriguing aspect of polio survivors is exactly what that word signifies: We view ourselves not as victims, but fighters, warriors battling for our very existence. Every movement must be re-learned, thought out, planned ahead. What amounts to a small hill for others is cliff-climbing for us. A staircase becomes Mt. Everest; spring-loaded doors a steel trap. Challenges face us at every turn, but something within us rises to meet it. We do not give up. We improvise, innovate, sometimes fall (literally) but get up again and keep going. And we survive. Stronger, more resilient, perhaps, than others for whom movement is easy, unencumbered—thoughtless, even. The majority of survivors exhibit Type A characteristics. Thus polio has made us.
I can say, without a doubt, that my handicap has been a blessing, shaping me beyond the mere hereditary qualities of parents and ancestors into who I am today. I quote notable photojournalist, Dorothea Lange, whose polio left her with a withered leg and limp. She commented, “It was perhaps the most important thing that happened to me. It formed me, guided, instructed me, helped me, and humiliated me. All those things at once. I've never gotten over it and am aware of the force and power of it.”
Life throws some unforeseen, course-changing events at us, but by God’s grace, it is what you make of it. As of a few years, I have experienced a gradual but noticeable diminution of physical strength, resulting in the need to use a wheelchair. For short distances, I am able to walk with a cane. Over-used joints, fulfilling unintended functions for more than 60 years, are wearing out. I remain grateful for the parts that work reasonably well and for good health, all things considered.
I have accomplished many things my doctors predicted as impossible, or at best, difficult: in my childhood, learning to ride a two-wheel bike; carrying two healthy pregnancies and rearing two rambunctious children; as well as serving in ministerial roles with my husband in third-world countries.
Though doggedly independent and self-reliant to a fault, my increasing needs have required me over the years to ask for assistance, even from strangers, and I derive pleasure in their across-the-board, wholehearted willingness. People like to be needed. Even the most unlikely—at least to my age-linked viewpoint, such as the heavy-metal rockers with purple mohawks and innumerable piercings who hurried to open a door for me—have been more than eager to assist.
I am grateful for those who offer to help, who do so not knowing if they’ll be rejected, brushed off, or even resented. Thank you for caring.
Perhaps it is this cheerful giving and receiving of compassion that weaves us together in the intricate fabric of God’s creation. Something such as polio, intertwining dark, somber fibers into the embroidery of life, can reveal the brightness of that better side of humanity. Thus humankind’s best potential is highlighted in colorful threads of mercy and humility.
Connie Schisler Vellekoop
November 13, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
A TIME TO MUSE ABOUT TIME
“Teach us to count our days that we may gain a wise heart.” (Ps. 90:12—NRSV)
I've been thinking a lot about time, lately. Not CLOCK time, but CALENDAR time. Clock time gallops along, ticking merrily through the day, reminding us that there are things to accomplish, chores to be slogged through. Meals need to be whipped up and ingested, and a daily list has to be checked off (if you're one of those Persnickety List People) before sagging into bed at night, brain on the verge of flat-line.
We talk about "beating the clock, working against the clock, watching the clock, marking time, killing time," referring to daily deadlines or lack thereof. We have clocks, watches (at least older people do—younger ones just flip open their ever-at-hand, ubiquitous cell-phones), iPods, Blackberries, and other electronic devices. Our frantic, panting, scrabbling life styles require us to be ever glancing at time-pieces, yet they still don't tell us much about the Relentless March of Time. Mostly, we're grateful for that welcome sleep which marks the end of the clock-watching (unless one has issues with insomnia—"is there any possible way to turn the mind off at night?!")
The calendar, however, is another whole ball-game. Twelve measly pages flip through at warp-speed.
I just completed my sixty-fifth year of life. I am now older than my mother when she died. Granted, she was unconscionably and unacceptably young for her life to have ended. But, the Calendar continues to move forward, unimpeded by my protests and denial. I am 65. There is no avoiding or changing it.
Actually, heaven looks pretty appealing. Mom is there, and more and more people I’ve known and loved. And I’ll have a new body—unhampered by polio. Best of all, Jesus is there—the Focus and Culmination of time and eternity.
I am not brooding or morose—merely looking at the facts. I have probably 25 or so more years here on God's little planet—maybe a bit longer, since longevity is a family trait. I've accomplished a few things, but not nearly as many as I had thought by this stage.
Someone said once, "Most of what we do for God is inadvertent—'accidental'" It's sort of like on the way to doing something else we touched a life, spoke a word, or encouraged someone. There are times we even get to find out we did something right. Mostly, we'll probably only get to see our fruit when we get Over There. And then it won't matter—Jesus will get all the glory anyway.
So, as I see it, the most important thing is to stay faithful, plugging away for the long haul at whatever seems to be the task at hand that God puts in front of me; don't get carried away with any sort of feeling of self-importance; shooting stars burn out quickly—so shine steadily where I'm put. I don't want to end my days a sour old woman, and for that reason I plan on aging gracefully—a jolly old lady to the end—one that kids and cats like being around.
So I'm going to keep dyeing my hair red; wearing lipstick and blue eye shadow, watching my diet and pushing myself to do that dratted hour per day on the exercycle. Most important—I'm going to keep on loving Jesus, my husband, my family. And I’ll always reach out to people and maybe get to bless a few along the way.
Heaven will wait.
I've been thinking a lot about time, lately. Not CLOCK time, but CALENDAR time. Clock time gallops along, ticking merrily through the day, reminding us that there are things to accomplish, chores to be slogged through. Meals need to be whipped up and ingested, and a daily list has to be checked off (if you're one of those Persnickety List People) before sagging into bed at night, brain on the verge of flat-line.
We talk about "beating the clock, working against the clock, watching the clock, marking time, killing time," referring to daily deadlines or lack thereof. We have clocks, watches (at least older people do—younger ones just flip open their ever-at-hand, ubiquitous cell-phones), iPods, Blackberries, and other electronic devices. Our frantic, panting, scrabbling life styles require us to be ever glancing at time-pieces, yet they still don't tell us much about the Relentless March of Time. Mostly, we're grateful for that welcome sleep which marks the end of the clock-watching (unless one has issues with insomnia—"is there any possible way to turn the mind off at night?!")
The calendar, however, is another whole ball-game. Twelve measly pages flip through at warp-speed.
I just completed my sixty-fifth year of life. I am now older than my mother when she died. Granted, she was unconscionably and unacceptably young for her life to have ended. But, the Calendar continues to move forward, unimpeded by my protests and denial. I am 65. There is no avoiding or changing it.
Actually, heaven looks pretty appealing. Mom is there, and more and more people I’ve known and loved. And I’ll have a new body—unhampered by polio. Best of all, Jesus is there—the Focus and Culmination of time and eternity.
I am not brooding or morose—merely looking at the facts. I have probably 25 or so more years here on God's little planet—maybe a bit longer, since longevity is a family trait. I've accomplished a few things, but not nearly as many as I had thought by this stage.
Someone said once, "Most of what we do for God is inadvertent—'accidental'" It's sort of like on the way to doing something else we touched a life, spoke a word, or encouraged someone. There are times we even get to find out we did something right. Mostly, we'll probably only get to see our fruit when we get Over There. And then it won't matter—Jesus will get all the glory anyway.
So, as I see it, the most important thing is to stay faithful, plugging away for the long haul at whatever seems to be the task at hand that God puts in front of me; don't get carried away with any sort of feeling of self-importance; shooting stars burn out quickly—so shine steadily where I'm put. I don't want to end my days a sour old woman, and for that reason I plan on aging gracefully—a jolly old lady to the end—one that kids and cats like being around.
So I'm going to keep dyeing my hair red; wearing lipstick and blue eye shadow, watching my diet and pushing myself to do that dratted hour per day on the exercycle. Most important—I'm going to keep on loving Jesus, my husband, my family. And I’ll always reach out to people and maybe get to bless a few along the way.
Heaven will wait.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)