Wednesday, August 28, 2019

“If a man has a hundred sheep and one of them wanders away, what will he do? Won’t he leave the ninety-nine others on the hills and go out to search for the one that is lost?” (Matthew 18:12) 

  I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood

  I know I could always be good

  To one who'll watch over me

  Ella Fitzgerald knew a good song when she found one.

                I found a little lost lamb last week-end. He has been sitting next to me when I am out on the front stoop watching the world go by. I hope he is appreciative of the fact that I rescued him off the mean streets of Peterborough.

                OK, to be honest, it is a little stuffed lamb. It was dropped by a baby whose mother was pushing him/her in a stroller by our house. I didn’t realize the lamb was sitting in the middle of the side-walk until much later. When the mother did not return looking for the toy, I scooped the little guy up and now he sits in the big chair on the stoop. If and when I see her again, I will return the lamb; if not, it has found a new home. He would be loved by any of our grandchildren, I’m sure.

                When I was an Area Minister for the Convention of Baptists of Ontario and Quebec I was working with a church and helping them through a survey I had developed. They strongly objected to the question that asked them to rate how strongly “they had a heart for the lost.” They didn’t use that kind of language in their church, so they defiantly told me. I would probably admit that the phrase can be a bit too much of a religious cliché; too old-fashioned; too evangelistic (!); too old school Christianity.

                But, despite that, I think it is a concept that needs renewal and revitalization and we need to come up with a fresh, relevant and pertinent definition as to what it means to have a heart for the lost.

                Personally, I don’t think of it only pertaining to crusades for lost souls who don’t believe in Jesus. Rather, I strongly interpret the phrase in the same context of Jesus’ example: “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” (Matthew 9:36, NLT)

                 This is not about cajoling people into the Church and buying into its Creeds, Doctrines and  Dogma.

                To have a heart for the lost is to have compassion on those who are indeed lost and bewildered in this crazy world of ours. It is the loving means for helping people who are confused or angry or who can find no purpose or meaning. It is the wisdom of love for those who are lost and are susceptible to the many strong and negative winds of culture. It is the welcoming invitation to come in the from the cold and harsh climate of a society which often doesn’t care or notice.

It is the chief ministry of those who have found great inspiration and motivation in Jesus Christ  to have a compassionate, kind, caring, loving, just heart for any who are lost – rich or poor, male or female, young or old, and so on. It is to share the opportunity to others to make better choices, to discover more meaningful values, to find hope and joy, to re-ignite the heart and soul.

Sometimes, we don’t do as good a job of having heart for the lost as Jesus, the Good Shepherd, might like. We try to cram everybody in the same sheep pen and demand that they just obey the rules of the fold. But instead, we might think of gathering the lost ones on our shoulders and giving them a lift, help treat their bruises and sores, tend their brokenness and look after their thirst and hunger.

Then and maybe only then, we tell them that we did it in the name of Jesus.

And wait to see their reaction!

Dale

Wednesday, August 21, 2019

“Even the wilderness and desert will be glad in those days. The wasteland will rejoice and blossom with spring crocuses.” (Isaiah 35:1, New Living Translation)

                We have a Dwarf Korean Lilac bush in our front flower bed. In mid to late June it bursts into its glory both visually and aromatically. The large bush is covered in blossoms and the flowers’ scent greets you as you come up the front walk.  Every year we await this brief but spectacular event.

                This week, I have noticed a truly late bloomer on the bush – a tiny, little blossom boldly defying the time of year we’re in. It’s not very big although a honey bee did find it, so it is, at least, lending a tiny portion of itself to some sweet honey hive somewhere. It really isn’t supposed to be there, this little micro-reminder of new life and potential fruitfulness.

                Perhaps, some of you may be familiar with Picasso’s masterpiece Guernica.  It is a massive portrayal of the apocalyptic horrors of war and the chaos and destruction which war brings.  It portrays the suffering of people and animals. It is impressionistic, dark and sombre, capturing the violence and depravity of war. It is a hard picture to take in fully because every inch (and it is a very large canvas) is full of symbolism and imagery.

                Yet, in the corner, being grasped by a dying soldier, is a small blossom - a white poppy, a traditional symbol of peace. Despite the waste, the horror, the dismay, the bedlam, the devastation which most of the painting reveals, here grows this flower. It shouldn’t be there. It should have been trampled, pulled out by its roots, crushed by the bloody catastrophe which was taking place around it.  You almost don’t see it. It seems out of place. Out of time. Goes against the grain. Is it blooming in a futile defiance?

                When we are in the middle of a crisis which disturbs and disrupts our lives with chaos, pain, suffering and  our sprits  are being overwhelmed with the anarchy of  whatever is tearing us apart it may be very hard to find hope, even so much as a small seed, never mind a full blossom. When all seems lost or irreparable or devastating it may seem that nothing will ever be right again. There are few if any words of comfort, counsel, solace or consolation that can fill the emotional cracks which are undermining one’s total being. Well-being seems a memory; something never to be experienced again.

                But there is always hope. “But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” (Romans 8:25)  This hope is not some simplistic, easy, magical answer to our wars of life.  It requires a great of trust and faith, finding just enough strength to lean into the fierce winds and storms, assured that God has not abandoned us. We don’t often know why this terrible thing has happened or why us, but it has and now we reach for those resources which will help us endure and cope.

                Hope is that obstinate blossom which grows against the tableau of chaos and suffering. Like our text above, when we are in the wilderness and those desert places there will come a time when the power of God’s re-creativity takes the world back again and make things right. That hope probably won’t wipe away every tear right now or immediately but it is also the right-now blossom which defies and resists the times we are in.

                “We’ve been surrounded and battered by troubles, but we’re not demoralized; we’re not sure what to do, but we know that God knows what to do; we’ve been spiritually terrorized, but God hasn’t left our side; we’ve been thrown down, but we haven’t broken.” (2 Corinthians 4: 8-9, The Message Bible)

Dale

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

“I remember your genuine faith, for you share the faith that first filled your grandmother Lois and your mother, Eunice. And I know that same faith continues strong in you.” (1 Timothy 1:5, New Living Translation) 

                He likes me! He really likes me!

                After celebrating Spencer’s third birthday on Sunday, the remaining adults were sitting around chatting and his bed time rolled around. He was asked which adult he wanted to get him ready for bed. There were his Mom and Dad, his paternal grandmother, Susan and me.  “Grandpa!” he said. Music to my ears.

                As we went through the bed time routines, goofing around while he got his PJs on, reading stories, getting him “new” water for his water bottle and the like, it struck me how much our young grandchildren simply enjoy me for being me. I had also wrestled and played with William and Henry on Sunday. Declan loves it when we are tickling each other and I blow raspberries on his tummy as I did when they visited us at our rented vacation place on Lake Erie. In their eyes, I don’t have to be a super hero or a rock star or a millionaire or an astronaut or have invented a cure for cancer. All I need is to be Grandpa – available, ready with hugs and kisses, ready to rumble, ready to play and read stories. I can do that. Thankfully, it doesn’t take a genius either. I don’t even have to practice.

                There will come a day, no doubt, i.e. when they are  teenagers, in which  they will breeze into the room, give a quick wave and be gone before I have a chance at making some corny joke or telling some same old story to which they will roll their eyes and hide in their bedroom for the rest of my visit. So, I am going to enjoy and treasure every moment of these precious youngest years and savour them like fine, aged single malt scotch. I will have many more such blessings to come as we anticipate the births of two granddaughters and a grandson over the next few months. But they seem to grow up too fast too soon.

                Our verse comes from Paul’s letter to his protégé, Timothy, now a young man. Paul remembers the environment of his grandmother and mother’s faith which surrounded Timothy as he grew up. The legacy of that faith vibrantly continues through Timothy’s life. 

I am always sorry when I hear adults recount bad or painful memories about their religious upbringing. Being forced to go to church. Boring church. Experienced too much hypocrisy.  Parents, especially clergy parents, who were too strict and severe, especially in their disciplinary methods.  This cold, hard type of religious upbringing makes good pagans and understandably so.  Severe religious demands upon children do not mirror the Jesus’ practice of suffering the little children to come unto him.

                It would appear that Timothy had a warm, loving, inspiring and nurturing childhood which faith played no small part. As a boy he watched this Christian faith being played out by his grandmother and mother. He wasn’t just force-fed religion; he watched it in action.  And I wouldn’t wonder at all if there were also hugs and tickles and kisses and stories. Lois and Eunice knew what it took to raise a child.  Otherwise, Timothy wouldn’t be the sort of person he was becoming.

                So, for as along as my grandkids allow, I am totally into this grandparenting thing. “Grandpa!” – now that is music to my ears! 

Dale