Minus Tide

Posted on October 29, 2026 by Mark

Few things are stranger than being on a familiar beach at a minus tide. A vast expanse of wet sand opens up where waves once crashed. It is possible to stand in places where a few hours ago the curling waves were higher than your head. Within reach are the sea stacks against which waves once exploded into showers of white light.

Fish and other creatures seldom seen near the shore find themselves pooled near the rocks or sandbars. Sea urchins, green and pink sea anemones, red and purple sea stars crowd every rock armored with black mussels and pale gooseneck barnacles. Sea caves usually underwater yawn mysteriously in dawn’s pale light.

I expect there are gravitational reasons that the lowest tides come at night or the early hours of morning. For the indigenous people who once lived here a minus tide was a feast because of the clams, mussels, and other shellfish that could me reached. The ancient shell middens up and down the coast testify to the bounty the emptiness of a minus tides offered.

A minus tide brings strange quietude . Most of the time it is the fullness of the ocean and noise of the surf that bedazzles us with light and motion. A minus tide surprises us with emptiness. On the stretches of bare sand every rock stands dark and important in the morning light. Every sea stack stands like a sentinel against the fury of the ocean now in retreat.

All this feels like my life now. There is a strange emptiness. I have retired from the classroom with all the noise of students and their dramas. The committee meetings, thankfully, are over. We have moved from Myrtle Point where we knew many people to Gardner, Kansas where we only know our family and few old friends. We attend a church where some know our name, but few know us.

Recently a friend back in Myrtle Point sent a picture of the lot where our home once stood. The hedge and trees and every trace of the house had been bulldozed and removed. Four generations of my family had lived there. It was scraped clean and new house has gone up. Gone was the place filled with so much love and heartbreak.

All Teckla’s memories of the house are also gone. We do not reminisce. The storm of dementia has scoured the beach clean. The stories I tell Teckla about our life are stories about another time and other people. There is no “Aha” moment or light of memory in her eyes. In many ways, she too is gone.

But like a minus tide on the beach, this emptiness affords a clearer view of what remains. I can now see some things that once seemed peripheral, things hidden under the surf of a full life.

For instance, I am surprised at how important Bible studies have been over the years. During my last two years of high school, I led a small Bible study at the school and later in a ramshackle coffee house on Highway 42. Nothing earthshaking happened except my decision to be unashamed of the gospel.

 After getting married and beginning work on my Ph. D., my friend Daniel and I took turns leading a Bible study for graduate students at Washington State University. For a while we saw 30—40 people show up. We sang simple worship songs; one of us talked about 20 minutes about some Bible verses—no big deal. Because most of those attending were working on a Ph. D. (many in the hard sciences), I was filled with a boldness that made me unapologetic about the gospel and unintimidated by intellectual challenges to my faith.

For about 15 years I attended a men’s Bible study Thursday mornings at the Presbyterian church in Myrtle Point. We ate a quick breakfast together and then took turns reading passages from the book of the Bible we had decided to study. Actually, “study” might be too generous. We had no leader and we did no research; people made comments and asked questions. No big deal, but when I was adrift in grief over Peter’s death, this place and these men were a safe harbor. When I faced difficulties in getting ready to move, these men helped.

At the end of life, in this minus tide, the impact of small churches stands tall. I have attended some large churches with impressive pastors and programs, but it has been small churches like the ones in Myrtle Point that have shaped my character and deepened my love for God’s people. When I was in high school, Rev. Stanley—I forget her first name—pastored the United Methodist Church. She brought in a Jesus band called The Brethren which did a concert at the high school and then one at her church. Some kids got saved and she invited all the kids and the band to her house. It was there that I got baptized in Holy Spirit and into the kind of good trouble God’s Spirit brings.

Small churches have been important to me because they offer no sorting according to class, status, or education. After a week at the college with students and professors, I worshiped with high school dropouts, ex- addicts, loggers, mill workers, and the folks living on disability. They are my tribe—beloved sisters and brothers in Christ.

This minus tide has shown me the importance of kindness. I worked until I was I was seventy so I would get the maximum social security and because we were still in the middle of caring for Peter as he struggled with addiction and brittle diabetes. We were also the guardians for Peter’s son, Ari. Before these responsibilities, we cared for my mother and brother who have both died. I see now in all this loss and emptiness that my most important achievement is not what I have done, but the kindness I have shone. I was recently awakened to the joy and beauty of kindness by Ari, who is ten now. After a soccer game, when my arms were full of folding chairs, Ari often takes Teckla’s hand and gently leads her to our car. I am full of grief and joy by the tenderness in his eyes as he helps the grandmother that cared for him through such great trials.

More clearly than ever I see Jesus as our rock in the midst of all this emptiness. Teckla doesn’t recall what to do during communion, so I have been her priest. I give her the little cup and tell her, “This is blood of Christ.” And I give her the wafer and say, “This is the body of Christ.” To see her emptied of her understanding of communion is, of course, heartbreaking. But I rejoice that in all this minus tide I see Jesus loving Teckla and forever saving her. In the lowest time, Jesus is the rock within reach.

In this minus tide every act expression of love is like a precious agate uncovered by the retreating waves: a hug from my grandchildren, a call from a friend, or a conversation with my sons. Most days Teckla doesn’t remember my name or that I am her husband, but when she rests her head on my shoulder my heart overflows.

Tides change, but I suspect this minus tide will stay awhile. Perhaps until I die. I am content to let this emptiness show me new wonders. I will walk beside the retreating tide and hum the hymns I learned as a child. I will wait for the tide to change. My presence at the edge will be a prayer until, as it says in Psalm 42, “All Thy breakers and Thy waves have rolled over me.”  

Posted in Life, On Faith | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Teckla Keeps It Real

Posted on October 11, 2026 by Mark

Teckla and I read Scripture, sing hymns, and pray together every morning.  We take turns reading Psalms but because of her dementia she can’t read from a book. I don’t know if this is because she loses her place or because she no longer remembers the words she sees. So, I read the Bible out loud while she agrees with a whispered “yes” or a quiet “hmm.”

A few days back I was reading Psalm 119:105: “Thy word is a lamp to my feet, and a light to my path.” To my surprise, Teckla added, “But not to my mind.” Her voice was without anger, bitterness, or complaint. It was stated like an observation, a fact that had just occurred to her. Of course, it broke my heart because it was true. And it is hard to see how God might be a guide to her mind—one that malfunctions more each day. She climbs into bed on her hands and knees and then can’t remember how to lie down.

As I meditate on Teckla’s commentary, a quiet joy has filled me. Her matter-of-fact comment reminded me of how grounded her spiritual life has always been. Nothing, to use a trendy word, was performative. She has always wanted reality—a God that meets us in the mess and mire of daily life. In the pathless swamp of dementia, she wants God. I suspect Teckla’s path isn’t lit because God is carrying her.

Teckla has always been a woman of God’s Word. When I read the Scripture to her, I can still see her leaning in to understand and be shaped by God’s words. And to whatever degree her words were a complaint—such a complaint fits perfectly with all the complaints of David. These are complaints anchored in God’s promises and a revelation of His goodness and everlasting mercy. Her comment still brings me grief, but I rejoice in Teckla’s faithfulness to open herself completely to God.

 Today, Teckla could not remember her name—but I know she is remembered by her God.    

Posted in Life, On Faith | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Yes God, But What Have You Done for Me Lately?

Posted on October 6, 2026 by Mark

It is hard to be honest about this. We know, after all, that it is wrong to be apathetic and peevish toward God. We get tired of praying the same prayers for the same people day after day. Even though we know all the right doctrines about Christ dying on the cross for us, we get bored. We can even recite the list of blessings:

  • Forgiveness of sins
  • Regeneration and transformation
  • Adoption as God’s own children
  • The gift of the Holy Spirit
  • Becoming joint heirs with Christ
  • Eternal life as we reign with Christ
  • The promise God will never leave us or forsake us

Yes God, but what have done for me lately?

As terrible as this question is, it should not surprise us. Israel said this over and over after being delivered from Egypt miracle after miracle. The power of God was displayed as He pried Israel out the grasp of the Pharaoh. Israel saw the love of God toward them, yet they complained and doubted. Despite seeing all God did to deliver them from Egypt, they doubted God could give them the victory in the promised land. They were bored with their wandering in the desert, but too afraid to enter the promised land.

We all suffer from spiritual amnesia. Familiar spiritual truths lose the power to move us. Certainly, the Israelites remembered their deliverance from Egypt—but that memory wasn’t applied to the giants of Canaan. The memory stirred no faith. In a similar way, our knowledge of spiritual truths can be emptied of all emotional and volitional content. We can know we are God’s children and yet live like orphans. We can know God has given us eternal life and yet be peeved over unanswered prayers or difficult circumstances.

God gave Israel the Passover and other festivals to help them remember what God had done and who they are. We have the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper. We have the Scripture. We have, if we seek it out, the community of saints to remind us of God’s grace. Nonetheless, I must actively practice the discipline of gratitude throughout each day. When a prayer is answered, I tend to say, “Thanks, but what about this other thing?” No matter how marvelous the answer to prayer is, my gratitude is evanescent. Only naming my blessings each morning works to realign my heart to reality.

The other day one of my sons explained how close and real God had become. He said something that brought me to tears. He said, “If God never did another thing for me, it would be enough.” My dark-night-of-the-soul battered heart wanted to say, “No son, it won’t be enough, but I am glad you feel that way now.”

My son had arrived where we should all want to live—or at least the place to which we are always returning. Jesus is not only enough, He is the ocean of goodness whose currents carry us home.

Posted in Fathers and Sons, On Faith | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Acedia: The Noonday Demon

Posted on September 23, 2026 by Mark

Welcome to my suburban hermitage. Recent thunderstorms have left the grass green and trees lush even though the temperatures are high, so I can’t call myself a desert father in the making. I am, however, battling the same demons the desert fathers encountered.

Retirement, caring for Teckla, and moving from long-time friends in Oregon have combined to empty out our days. We go to church on Sunday morning and sometimes to soccer games, Saturday morning, and then to the store twice a month. Most days pass without us seeing anyone. Occasionally we walk over and get hugs from the grandkids a couple blocks away.

Each morning, Teckla and I read Scripture aloud, sing songs, and pray together. Then I settle in and read until a late lunch around two. Then I will pray for 10 or 15 minutes and try to do some writing. We weave some walks into the day if the heat is bearable. In the evening we eat something light, watch some TV. I try to conclude the day with a few minutes of prayerful self-examination and thanksgiving. Because of the care Teckla now needs this rule must be more flexible than a monastery.

This routine is not anything close to a Benedictine Rule or the ascetic practices of Desert Fathers, but it is enough of a rule to attract what has been called the noon day demon—acedia. No one word captures fully all the dimensions of acedia, but they include boredom, emptiness, apathy, restlessness, and melancholy. Later clerics make acedia a child of sloth. More modern writers like Sartre might call it nausea or ennui.

The fourth century desert father Evagarius Ponticus wrote the most about fighting acedia. He warns that we often fail to recognize the demon because of its disguises and because it attacks us at noon—not the dark hours of night. The restlessness it brings can be masked as a need to skip prayer so we can get things done. It is impatient with the slow process of spiritual formation through solitude, silence, prayer, and listening for God’s voice. Acedia asks, “When is the payoff?” In the bright light of noon, the invisibility of God is startling and discouraging. We are not hit by the presence of evil but by the emptiness of everything.

We are tempted in two contradictory ways. First, we long to flee prayer for novelty and distraction. This temptation is easy to recognize in ourselves and ever-present because of technology. A second temptation is to seek the novelty of a more extreme rule of devotion. We are bored with faithfully doing what God has asked of us and we long to do something more radical, more challenging—something that feels more like a real spiritual achievement. We want a humility worth bragging about.

This is not to say God never directs one to do radical or extreme things like long fasts, weeks of solitude, or whole nights in prayer. But we must be cautious about what (or who) it is that is calling us. Is it God or novelty? Is it faithfulness? Or our preening image of ourselves as radical followers of Jesus? One test in our media-soaked world is to ask ourselves if we will be content to never tell anyone about our extreme spiritual adventures. Can I resist the temptation to mention it in a blog post, so that my two dozen readers (bless you!) know how spiritual I am?

The first way to fight acedia is the simplest—just stay the course—keep doing what God has directed you to do. Avoid needing something new and different—refuse the addiction to novelty. Refuse to read another book about prayer instead of praying. Athletes and artists know that perseverance in the face of boredom is necessary to achieve excellence. We should bore the demon with our steadfast obedience. Bored demons leave.

A second way is to refresh our vision of Jesus. Most spiritual boredom comes from a dull familiarity with Jesus. We hit refresh by meditating on Scripture, especially the last supper and crucifixion of Jesus. When we fail to see, we fail to love. A clear vision of Jesus as the perfect revelation of God’s love yanks our eyes off our selves makes us marvel at the goodness of God. The Lord’s Supper does this when we give God our full attention. Love cures boredom. Many old married couples like Teckla and I know that it is hard to get bored with each other when you are passionately in love. Being together is enough.

A third way to fight acedia is to fully embrace our identity as children of God and joint heirs with Christ. The meek do inherit the earth. In the coming age and full breaking in of the kingdom of God, we will reign with Christ. Acedia often invites us to sink into our animal life of comfort and pleasure. Thomas Aquinas calls it faint-heartedness. Acedia distracts from our call to greatness in God’s kingdom. It is like Israel’s refusal to enter the promised land and lay hold of all God’s promises. For us, it is often apathy about possessing the fruit and gifts of the Holy Spirit. The cure is our “Yes!”  to all God has called us to be.

The most effective weapons against acedia will vary because this demon attacks us where we are the weakest. Acedia knows which mask to wear. We can sink into passivity and call it our surrender to the sovereignty of God. We can shrink back from God’s call and call it humility. Our sloth can be called “waiting upon the Lord.”

I have been mightily helped by quiet explosions of wonder as I walk through the woods and meadows of Kansas. The verdant fecundity of late summer as the oaks, hickories, and sycamores spread over the creeks testifies to the extravagance of God—life abundant in myriad shades of green. Virginia creeper and wild grape stitch the canopy together as the pawpaws sag heavy in the understory. Butterflies dance in the sun that slips through the leaves. Even at noon, praise Him.

Posted in Life, On Faith | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Sighs to Songs

Posted on September 13, 2026 by Mark

My Dad was a wood carver and had an assortment of knifes and chisels—even a few carving knives he made out of old straight razors. He also had a good collection of sharpening stones, his favorites being the Arkansas stones. These stones come in different colors, but Dad’s were jet black and smooth to the touch, so smooth you wondered why they could sharpen anything. These stones are called finishing stones, the ones you use after the coarser stones have created the bevel. Arkansas stones take off the little burs and slight irregularities your eye can’t see. They “set” the edge.

These days, late if not deep, into my walk with Jesus, I have found St. Ignatius prayers of Examen to be the spiritual version of Dad’s Arkansas stones. These are prayers of self-examination usually done before bed. It is simply presenting the good, bad, and ugly of your day before God. Thanking God for the blessings small and big. Asking forgiveness for the sins. And then giving time and room for God to comment on your day. Sometimes God draws my attention to something I need to do differently tomorrow.

For instance, the other evening I prayed Psalm 139:23-24:

Search me, O God, and know my heart. Try me and know my anxious thoughts. And see if there is any hurtful way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way.

It had been a hard day. Much of the day was spent putting back things Teckla had moved from one place to another. She had moved some spreading thyme seedlings I was growing and spilled dirt on the floor and turned a couple seedlings upside down. I also had to go through the trash to make certain Teckla hadn’t thrown anything valuable away. There are some things I still haven’t found.

I had thought I had done well because I had not directed any frustration or weariness toward Teckla. Usually, I said nothing. But the day was punctuated with a long string of heavy sighs. And not just any kind of sigh—the “put upon” and exasperated kind. As far as I could tell, Teckla took no notice of my sighs. But God was clear these sighs were a “hurtful” way”. I felt challenged not only to hold my “sigh”, but in those moments of weariness to thank God for these days with Teckla.

I imagine that at different times and with different people, prayers of self-examination could be a chainsaw, rasp, or file. God will make it what needs to be. But it has been a means of grace and a way of transformation for me.

I understand that heavy sighs may seem a small thing, like bur removed by an Arkansas stone, but it’s removal has changed my days. It has changed chores into a privilege and my sighs into songs.

Posted in Life, On Faith | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

I Forgive You, Mrs. Ferguson

Posted on August 18, 2026 by Mark

“Who knows this word?” asked Mrs. Ferguson as she looked at the faces of kids in reading group one. I was in reading group two and was not supposed to be paying attention to the word she had written on the board. But none of the kids knew the word “pretty,” probably because we pronounced it “purdy.” I blurted out, “It’s pretty!” Mrs. Ferguson was furious and hissed at me to turn around.

Another time I was goofing off while waiting in line to go to recess. Mrs. Ferguson thumped me hard in the head and then lectured me on how shameful my behavior was and how the son of a teacher ought to behave better. My mother taught 4th grade at the same school. For some reason, I burst into tears and yelled, “That’s not fair.” I can’t remember exactly what I thought was not fair, but saying that I was an embarrassment to Mom seemed low and dirty.

I was in reading group two all of third grade. In fourth grade I was redeemed by Cheryl’s blue eyes and bright blond hair. On the wall was a poster with each of our names and stars in each box for every book we read. Despite Mrs. Ferguson, I read well and easily. I desperately wanted my stars to be right out there with Cheryl who was, I thought, the cutest girl around. I read like crazy to win the reading contest. Tragically, Cheryl never noticed. She did, however, kick me in the head at recess one day. I can’t remember why and I may have deserved it. It turned out she could be mean.

At the end of the fourth grade, we all took state mandated achievement tests. In those days neither the parents nor the students were told how they had done on the tests. But since my mother taught the other fourth grade class at the school, she saw all my scores. I was a happy boy, a free-range kid who climbed trees, waded creeks, caught snakes, and built forts. School was not a major concern. I was surprised when Mom took me aside and showed me how well I had done on the tests. I vaguely remember her pointing to some scores in the nineties.

But it was too late. Probably because I am lazy, I clung to my identity as a kid in reading group two. I was off the hook. Since I was a C and B kid, no one should, I thought, expect me to get A’s. Even worse and more addicting, I discovered I could get C’s and B’s without working much at all. I had no ambition to prove Mrs. Ferguson wrong. Her words may have been a curse, but I embraced the label as a blessing that took away any pressure to get good grades.

For the next eight years, the word “potential” kept cropping up on report cards. I partly blame my parents for my low level of academic achievement. They were wonderful and made me feel completely loved and accepted just as I was. They never made me feel that I needed to be more or do more to be loved by them. I never had to scramble to get their approval. When I really needed some neurosis to help me achieve, my parents failed me gloriously.

I graduated from high school with C+ average. I did almost no homework in high school. If I couldn’t do it during study hall or during class, I did not do it. In Myrtle Point if you didn’t go to college, you worked in the woods as a logger or pulled green-chain in the mills. Both my parents and my two older brothers had graduated from college, but I doubted I could make it in college. Mom and Dad convinced me to try one year of college.

It was not the fear of the Lord but rather the fear of flunking that helped me. I did something new—homework. Again, I was helped by a girl, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I met Teckla in the cafeteria the first week of college. It turned out that she studied in the library from 7:00 to 10:00 every evening. To my surprise, I found myself on the same floor of the library with all my textbooks not far from Teckla.  

My first semester I got three A’s and one B. I was amazed, but my parents weren’t. They were pleased, of course, but had always believed I could do better. For the next two years, I would always choose one class to get a B in because I could not imagine myself as a person who got straight A’s. Finally, I said to myself, “This is stupid. Why not get all A’s?” So, I did. I graduated with a 3.75 GPA and did well enough on my Graduate Record Examination to get accepted into Washington State College’s graduate school. I was also awarded a graduate teaching assistantship that paid for all my graduate work.

It took a while, but I finally got out of reading group two. I have repented of my sloth, and I have forgiven Mrs. Ferguson. I discovered as a college professor, that lots of kids have been told lies about who they are or aren’t. Early in my teaching career, I was walking around the classroom handing back essays I read. I stopped before one young girl, and said, “You don’t think this. But you are smart.” She burst into tears and said, “My father always called me “stupid.” We are still friends.

It is easier to recognize lies about us that are mean and ugly. But lies that are convenient instead of condemning are harder to identity, especially if you struggle with passivity rather than ambition. I could disguise my laziness as modesty. I was comfortable and at home in reading group two. And I think this is key, staying in reading group two was safe and risk free. What if I tried to get A’s and failed? I certainly had more anxiety in college, but it was the kind that made me study more, learn more, and eventually leave group two forever.

It is important for us to reject every lie spoken over us and repent over every way we made use of the lie. I am now content to let my identity be hidden with Christ in God as Paul says in Colossians 3:3. It is enough to know I am deeply loved by my heavenly Father and that He delights in me becoming who He created me to be. I almost 73, but I am letting God put on his finishing touches.  

Posted in Culture, On Faith | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Love Walks With

Posted on July 27, 2026 by Mark

Teckla and I walk a lot. It used to be on the beaches of Oregon. Here it is usually on suburban sidewalks, occasionally on the park trails through scraps of woodland and prairie. In town we walk hand in hand, mostly for the sweetness of it, but also to avoid falling hard if one of us stumbles.

Because we have walked together so long and so much, Teckla and I usually hit a pace that works well. But the other day, I was puzzled and annoyed. Teckla was going slower than usual, and I felt like I was pulling her along. Despite me helpfully pointing out to her that she needed to walk a little faster, she plodded along at the same slow pace.

Perhaps stopping and stretching and then starting again at a faster pace would help, I thought. But no. I still felt as though I was dragging her along, like a teacher pulling a kid down the hall to the principal’s office. None of my exhortations to pick up the pace yielded more speed. Worst of all, my tugging her along made it more likely she would stumble or fall.

It is probably a sign of spiritual immaturity that in times like these I have to ask myself, “What would love do?” But I asked this question, partly of myself and partly of God. Immediately the answer came: “Love walks with.” I immediately slowed to Teckla’s pace, and we had an enjoyable walk.

The phrase “Love walks with” has echoed in my heart for days. I have thought about how it is a key to being a good father—walking with our kids instead running ahead and making them chase after our success and our love. As a father and grandfather, I walked bent over to hold the hand of a toddler carefully matching my steps to his.

I thought how the best husbands and wives walk with their spouses as they struggle to mature and become more like Jesus. There is no exasperated sigh or roll of the eyes, just encouragement and loving presence. (Thank you, Teckla!)

I also thought of the pastors who know their sheep and walk with them. They take time to explain how to get from A to B instead of scolding the people for not being where they should be. Instead of projecting an image of unattainable spirituality, they are transparent and travel the road to maturity with their sheep. As with Teckla, tugging people faster than their pace makes falling more likely. Or pastors just stop holding hands and let the distance grow between them and their flock. I am blessed to have had many pastors who have walked with me.

Most of all, I think of Jesus who laid aside his glory to put on flesh, so he can walk with us. When we fall in love with Jesus, we discover his burden is light and his pace is perfect.

Love walks with.

Posted in Life, On Faith | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Through Why to What

Posted on July 24, 2026 by Mark

Although I am by no means an intellectual, I do question everything and think deeply about my beliefs. By temperament, I am skeptical, which is both a blessing and a curse. But in my relationship with God, I have found my willingness to ask honest questions a real help.

We often make the mistake of not taking their biggest and most troubling questions directly to God. In counseling folks, I have often listened to people recite all their doubts and questions about a tragedy. I then ask them, “Have you asked God these questions and then waited for an answer?” The answer is usually “No.”

When faced with an unexpected tragedy, incurable disease, or crushing disappointment, our broken hearts cry out, “Why God?” But this cry, especially at first, is often more a complaint, or even an accusation, than a question we expect God to answer. When our complaint is based on the promises of God, God hears us. It is, however, important to move beyond complaint to asking God our thorniest questions directly.  

The reasons we avoid asking the big questions vary. First, we may live in, or have grown up in, a religious culture that regards unquestioning obedience as the highest value. Asking God questions are tantamount to challenging God—or talking back. However, reading Job and many of the Psalms shows us God is not offended by our questions and can handle our doubts. We can ask, “Why?”

Perhaps an even more common reason is that we don’t think God will answer. Even those of us who regularly talk to God, often don’t expect God to talk to us. We have low expectations for two-way communication. And we evangelicals often don’t expect to talk to an actual person on the heaven’s helpline and instead look in the Bible for the for the FAQs that address the cry of our heart.

A perhaps odd reason for not asking God is the sense that there is nothing new about our questions. People ask why about every tragedy, terrible scandal, or crushing disappointment and few people every come back and share an answer. It is not as though after thousands of years of asking why, God is going spill the beans to me! Nonetheless, it is important, I believe, to ask God our biggest questions—the especially the ones that threaten to derail us.

For example, much of my life has been shaped by the quest to see God moving in His people in power and holiness. Since I was sixteen and got baptized in the Holy Spirit, I have sought to see the church proclaim the message of the kingdom and do the works of the kingdom. Fifty years later many churches are drifting into secular humanism—embracing “a form of godliness but denying it power” (II Timothy3:15). On the other hand, charismatic churches have been deluged with scandals that cause many to question both the fruit and the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Sometimes it seems like God’s kingdom is going instead of coming.

So, I have asked God, why? The response I got was my mind being flooded with a list of variables: God’s timing, people’s responses, preparation for revival, need for unity. We also need humble leaders who can steward the power and presence of God’s kingdom. People need the vision and the courage to defy a culture of unbelief and rationalism. This was not merely a list of ingredients in a recipe; it is holy chemistry because all these ingredients interact with one another. Oh, we need new wineskins too.

In my prayer time, I had no sense that God was annoyed by my why questions. What God could explain, He did. Where the answer depended on myriad variables, God simply said, “This is beyond your understanding.” I felt God saying, “Mark, even if I wanted to explain the complexity of all these things, there is no way you could understand how all these variables work together. Can you leave the why and when to me? Ask me, ‘What now?”

The key to getting unstuck spiritually has been for me to ask, “What now?” God seems quick to answer this question. I don’t know why so few people are healed, but I know I ought to keep praying for the sick. I don’t know why there is so little prophecy that builds up the church and draws people closer to God, but I will keep listening for God’s voice. 

I still do not know all the reasons my son Peter tumbled into sin and addiction. What should we have done differently? So many variables: genetics, environment, decisions, friends, identity crisis, parenting, spiritual inheritances, and more. Why were all the promises about Peter turning to ashes? All God would tell us was, “Love, him.” So, we did, to the very end. When hammering heaven with questions after Peter died, I cried out, “But God, I loved Peter.” God’s reply to me was a gentle as a dove, “I loved him first.” This answer did not address all my questions about causes and effects, but it answered the question I needed answered. God had been, and still is, with me.

I have asked God why He has not answered my prayer and Teckla’s prayer, that she would not have dementia. Because I have always felt keenly how much God loves Teckla, I had assured her that God would not allow her to suffer with dementia. I have no answer to why God has allowed this. I asked God, “Should I stop praying for her healing?” I felt strongly that I needed to keep praying for her healing even though I had no promise healing would come. I have surrendered my why for a what.

If we live in a bramble patch of “whys”, we stay stuck—unable to move forward with God. Every pastor has encountered traumatized people who have been stuck for years after a tragedy or terrible disappointment. They may have grown bitter, they may have grown timid, or they become paralyzed by fear of the future.  If we simply ask, “What now?” we find God is specific enough to keep us moving, loving, and growing. However, I don’t think we can skip the “Why?” but rather should move through our why questions into “What now?” If we try to shoulder aside all the why questions, they often crouch like gargoyles in the corners of hearts stealing our joy and purpose.

Living with the “What now?” foremost in our heart frees us from fear. Past trauma can easily make us cringe and hunker down in fear of the future. Too much concern for the past or the future can blind us to the present—and the present is only gift we can really give to God.

Everyone moves from why to what at different speeds. For some it may take weeks, for others years. And we may often find that answers to our deepest questions come in installments and are answered by life itself rather than special revelation. What is important is that we are moving and Jesus walks beside us.

Posted in Life, On Faith | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

And Proven Character, Hope

Posted on July 9, 2026 by Mark

For years I have been puzzled by the logic of this sequence in Romans 5:3. Here Paul lists what a right response to tribulations will bring:

And not only this, but we exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

This all makes sense to me until we get to “proven character” leading to hope. I would have put hope before perseverance. We endure and persevere because of the “hope of glory” mentioned in the previous verse. Isn’t hope what keeps us going? But I think, after a boatload of tribulations, I understand the sequence.

When we see God changing us, we have hope for the everyone else and the world. And there is nothing that makes us more certain of our own transformation than persevering in the midst of tribulation. When we are tested and remain steadfast, we know God’s grace has changed us. It is hard to hope when you are stuck in the same old swamp of sin, disobedience, and unbelief. But when we hold fast to our faith through storms and disappointments, we will see ourselves as we are. Simultaneously,  we see that we are a flawed character who, nonetheless, possesses godly character.

Not long after I moved to Kansas, my spiritual director asked how I was doing spiritually. Trauma after trauma had rolled over my family, and I was ready to declare myself a complete disaster. I had earned the right to fall apart and didn’t want to pass up the opportunity to mope and explore the exquisite pains of bitterness and despair. I hadn’t done much drinking, so I wasn’t sure whether to begin with whisky or rum. (Pirates drink rum and cowboys whisky.) To my disappointment, I had to confess that I was doing fine. That God’s people had surrounded Teckla and me and helped us with extraordinary generosity and love.

So what I had done? I wrote verses on 3/5 cards, sang hymns with Teckla, and cried out to God even though He seemed absent and silent. I complained to God that it would be nice if we could talk friend to friend. In other words, I didn’t do much but bellyache and challenge God to keep his promises.  

But this is the wonderful thing about perseverance, it is more about the things you don’t do. I didn’t quit. I didn’t accuse God. I didn’t seek comfort in sin. I didn’t build walls, get bitter, or let my wounds give me a license to wound others. I didn’t get caught up in some kind of victorious hyper-spirituality to escape the pain of a son dying and wife fading. I just kept plodding along. But to my surprise, and perhaps to the surprise of everyone, all that trudging along after Jesus resulted in deep changes in my character.

It is, of course, hard to judge changes in your own character, but I see a couple things. First, I am almost completely unentangled from a transactional relationship with God where I do things for God so He will do things for me. I will not love God less if He does not answer my prayers. Nor will unanswered prayer provoke doubts about whether God sees and loves me. I have no insight into my usefulness to God, but I know that I love the Father, I love the Son, and I love the fire of the Holy Spirit burning joyfully in my heart. I know that—not much else.

 I don’t know more about God, but I think I know God better. In the struggle to keep my son alive, and Teckla and I free from cancer, I could not hear God—despite praying the Psalms every day. But persevering through God’s silence (or my inability to hear) has sensitized me to all the small and big ways God communicates. We are friends, of a sort.

Second, I can tell that my economy is different. Small acts of kindness, remembering others, calling others, and giving to others are big deals now. It is more important to be fully present to God and others. Doing small things and being grateful for small things transforms your daily life.

For instance, the other day I had to take Teckla home before Ari’s baseball game was over. Ari was in the dug-out with his team waiting his turn to bat. Seeing us heading out, he yelled, “Love you Grandpa, love you Grandma.”  His freedom to yell out his love in front of all his friends broke and healed my heart in the same moment. My heart and my days run on the economy of heaven—which is an economy of love.

Seeing these changes in me gives me hope because I know these changes are only the beginning of the inbreaking of the kingdom of God. God takes more of me each day. I am learning to quiet myself and let the Holy Spirit fill me with hope that does not disappoint. I am no longer dithering about whether God loves me. I am changing and will keep changing until changed by His appearing.

And yet I still think hope helps us persevere through tribulation. It is a loop of spiritual growth. When perseverance changes our character, we have hope, and that hope then encourages us to keep persevering. Because we see the good that God can wring out even the worse tribulation, we see that our trials are not meaningless. We are on an ascending spiral of transformation into the likeness of Jesus.

Posted in On Faith | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Turtle Rapture

Posted on June 27, 2026 by Mark

In my neighborhood rocks are regularly used to landscape yards, but as I looked out my window, one of the rocks moved slowly down my neighbor’s driveway. I walked across the street to get a look at this suburban miracle to discover a red-eared slider headed into a desert of concrete and lawns. I picked him up and moved him further back under the trees, but in twenty minutes he was back in the front yard of the house, so I decided he needed rescuing.

He was old and big for a red-eared slider. The red markings on the side of its head were now dark brown. Sliders are pond turtles, so this one was probably washed into the neighborhood through the big pipes that drain this development. He had descended and arisen from the bowels of suburbia. Now he ventured to cross a great expanse of lawn, cement, and townhouses.

I trotted back across the street and gently set Odysseus in a big shoe box. I took Herman to meet the grandchildren who delighted in him. Then Teckla and I drove to the pond near the cemetery. I set him in the mud near the edge. He paused and then slowly moved across the mud and sank beneath the duck weed of Ithaca Pond.

Turtles probably don’t smile, laugh, or sing, but Herman seemed full of joy when he resurfaced wearing a bright crown of duck weed—adorned in green glory. He was home. Odysseus was fully in his element, and all was right with his world. His sojourn through the great desert called Suburbia was over, and now he had song of redemption to sing. In the cold of a Kansas winter, asleep in the mud, he would dream of the hands that lifted him up and brought him home.   

Posted in nature | Tagged , | Leave a comment