Riptides

I felt foolish and terrified. I had let my boys venture into the surf on boogie boards near the jetty at Bastendorf Beach. They had gone far enough out to catch some waves, but no matter how much they thrashed around they could not get back. They were fighting a current that would not let them paddle to where Teckla and I stood yelling over the roar of the surf. This is Oregon where the water is cold and the surf, rough. They did not have on wetsuits, so we feared the cold, current, and exhaustion would drown them.

In a panic, I jogged back to the dunes where some surfers were basking in the sun. I pointed to my boys and breathlessly asked a surfer, “Would you help my boys? They can’t make it back to shore.” I expected him to grab his board and rush into the water, but he just looked out at my boys. Then he said, “They are caught in a riptide. Tell them not to fight it. It will carry them south and spit them out on shore.” Sure enough, by the time I got back to surf’s edge they were wading through the waves to the beach.

Over the years, I have seen many believers caught in spiritual riptides. They are a pastor’s nightmare. No matter how hard they paddle, they don’t make any progress or move any closer to God. They exhaust themselves, and in their exhaustion, risk giving up and sinking beneath the waves. There are several kinds of spiritual riptides.

A common riptide is the cycle of trying harder and failing harder. We thrash around feeling guilty and ashamed, vowing to try harder and do better. But we never do, no matter how hard we paddle toward shore. I was saved at age nine but was stuck in this riptide until age sixteen. To be honest, I was not enjoying being a Christian no matter how many altar-calls I answered. Finally, I said, “God I can’t do this in my own strength, but I am going to follow Jesus without giving up. And if I fall, I will fall toward you.” At the time, I did not know I was doing this, but I began to trust God to keep me and give me strength. I also trusted in His unchanging love—love that did not disappear every time I sinned. I trusted in the current of His grace to save me. The result was joy—and growth.

Another riptide we can get caught in is fear and unbelief. This happened to Israel when God was ready to lead them into Canaan. Israel refused to listen to the good report of Caleb and Joshua and would not trust God to give them victory over the Canaanites. They were stuck wandering in the desert because of their unbelief and disobedience. Sometimes we are stuck because in one area of our life we have said no to God. We fail to grow spiritually  anywhere because we have declared one area of our life off-limits to God. Only complete surrender to the current of God’s brings us safely to shore.

A third riptide is a transactional relationship with God. This where we follow God to the degree that He keeps His end of the bargain. We will follow God if he gives us good health, a successful career, a happy marriage, godly children, and pastors that never fall. This huge tangle of “IF’s” makes all obedience partial, contingent, and tentative. To our stupid surprise, this approach never brings us closer to God. We never grow and never have the father/child relationship our heart longs for. To our dismay, we discover God will not stop being God. Clinging to Jesus and surrendering to the love revealed in His life, death, and resurrection sets us free from this riptide. We need to be able to proclaim that if God did nothing more for us than what He has done in Jesus on the cross, it would be enough.

A fourth riptide is our individualism. There is growth God can and will give only in the context of the Body of Christ, the church, the family of God. Because evangelicals rightly emphasize a personal relationship and experience of God, we are often blind to how central community is to God’s heart and his purposes. All the gifts of the Holy Spirit in I Corinthians 12, 13, and 14 are given for building (edifying) the Body of Christ, not so that individuals can have a successful ministry. Even the offices of apostle, prophet, pastor, teacher, and the evangelist are for equipping the saints.  When we seek in isolation what God will only give in community—we are stuck.

And as with real riptides, escape comes when we surrender. One of the paradoxes of faith is how hard we must work at resting in God and surrendering to His will. So much of our peace and growth comes from letting God undo much we thought we had to do to please Him. God will unravel our agenda, raising up values we ignored and bringing down castles we built on the sand of our pride.  

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The Snake in my Tears

There should be a myth about a species of snake that lives off our tears and bites us when they begin to dry.

For the last couple years, after the death of my son, if asked how I was doing, I would say, “Terrible.” I said that to give myself permission to grieve, permission to feel my loss and brokenness. I recently finished All the Noise is in the Shallow End, a book by my pastor, Mark Warren. It is a bracing and honest account of his journey out of the shallow end of ambition, anxiety, and depression to the deep end of God’s grace and unconditional love. The book is a call to rest in just being with God and feeling God’s love in our bones and blood. In his excellent book, Mark challenges us to carefully examine ourselves.

I did not like the result of my examination.  I discovered, to my dismay, that I am doing well. I feel loved by God and have deep peace in the midst of genuine heartbreak. I am not “terrible” even though I will never stop grieving the loss of Peter. I am full of what I call “stupid joy”—stupid because all the facts of my life argue against it. It is probably more like a “holy joy”, but this claim seems pretentious. There is a calm and peace I cannot explain and is not the result of being zapped by God. My heart even feels free and open to love others.

What disturbs me is that part of me doesn’t want to be okay—at rest in God. Peter’s death, and the terrible years leading up to it, were genuinely traumatic. And trauma has given me a license to be broken, messed-up, and a little self-centered. If we have wounds, people let us take time to lick them. Our pain can numb us to the pain of others. I didn’t want, I discovered, to lose the license to not care—to be self-absorbed.

Even worse, my poetic soul does not want to give up the tragic aura of being ruined by the loss of those I love. Part of me, I must confess, wants to be sick with melancholy. It is hard since I don’t drink—but people might excuse me becoming a sloppy drunk, crying in my beer. I can finally be a hero with a tragic back story. But I can’t hold the pose of tortured poet without feeling ridiculous—and dishonest.  

I gave into temptation and revisited all the most traumatic moments. I cried a little, but realized I only had a healthy and reasonable grief—nothing grand, nothing poetic, nothing tragic. And these tears were a little forced—tears from the bite of the snake that feeds on them. I think all who go through trauma and grief must beware of this serpent and the license that trauma gives.

I am well because of all the little things. Each day Teckla I read scripture aloud, sing three hymns, sing some worship songs, and pray. God has not powerfully visited us during these times, but this practice has kept our hearts steadfast. As Mark Warner urges in his book, we have not been trying to get well or whole, we have been training—doing the spiritual exercises that allows God to heal us. We have not made it rain; we have only set out buckets and prayed. God’s grace and help has filled the buckets. Walks in the woods and prairies, hugs from grandchildren, and breakfast at Perkins with friends are a few of the common graces that sustain us.

I have traded the license of trauma for the freedom of the Spirit.

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If God Were My Pastor

Once I taught a year-long Bible study on getting unstuck, so it is embarrassing to admit that I have been stuck in one area of my life: hearing God’s voice and experiencing His presence. Through all the heartbreak of my son dying, Teckla’s breast cancer, my cancer, and then Teckla’s dementia, I have not heard God say anything but, “Trust me.” For two years, I kept a journal titled, What God is Saying to Mark. Each day I meditated on Scripture, I wrote my name followed by a comma, and then scribbled whatever I thought God might be saying. Before coming to Kansas, I read through all my journals. After reading my record of God speaking to me, I tossed the journal in the fireplace, not in anger or frustration, simply because I could easily remember that I should trust God.  

I have been stuck yearning to experience God’s presence more directly. By faith and as a discipline I proclaim that God is always with me and his promise to never leave us or forsake us is true. However, in all my heartbreak and loss, I find a God who is silent and invisible no different from a God who is absent. I have been comforted by my faith God is with me but not comforted from God himself. I can, by faith, testify that through all the trauma and grief, God is with me, but I have had no direct experience of His presence.

I have felt stuck partly because so many testify that God was near them and strengthened them through the difficult times. On one level, nothing we possess comes from us, so if we simply endure, we have received grace and strength from God. And God is omnipresent, so He is always with us. But people usually mean they experienced God’s presence and felt His strength through trial. They also testify to how God used the trials to help them grow closer to God. Perhaps steadfastness in the face of heartbreak is evidence of growth, but I do not feel more spiritual or any closer to God. I cannot testify that these trials have resulted in spiritual growth.

Another reason I have felt stuck is that so many speak of having conversations with God. Despite meditation on God’s Word, active listening, silence, and solitude, I have not had conversations with God. During all the years when Peter was in and out of ICU’s, often near death, ravaged by addiction and diabetes, I longed to have a conversation with Jesus. As I watch dementia steal away Teckla’s memories and ability to communicate, I would love to have a conversation with God. I am left wondering if there is something wrong with my heart since I do not have those give-and-take conversations with God.

If God were my pastor, here is what I think He might say

Mark, you are right: I have been and always will be with you. But the noise of your pain and grief makes it hard for you to hear me, so I have surrounded you with believers whose love and help could make my presence real to you. When you needed me, I was there through Tom, Carl, Mark, Phil, Steve, Andrew, and Rick. I was with you and Teckla through Rosalie, Amy, Erin, Petra, Christina, Heather, Judy, and Jessica. When your heart broke for Ari, mine did too so I have wrapped him in the love of many—Carol and Ross and all your church family at the Presbyterian and the Nazarene church in Oregon. I opened the hearts of Dylan and Vanessa to adopt Ari and even moved the heart of the judge to finalize the adoption. I have made my presence real to you through the flesh and blood of my Son’s body.

Mark, you hear my voice more and better than you think. Although many may talk about conversations with me, I am God. Conversation with me is not the same as talking to a friend. I choose the topics. I also know that direct communication with you would mess you up. The more direct I am with you, the more accountable you are. What you say is my silence is often my mercy. And I know you perfectly, so I know when direct communication would blow up your life or make you unable to move or live without a clear word from me. I also know that an answer to one of your questions would only bring a hundred more. Often, I just need you to be still and trust me. By the way, I told you this.  

Mark, what I desire from you is more than obedience to commands. I am forming the character of my Son in you. I am more interested in you learning and walking in my ways than you getting information from me. When you feel my nudge, or a holy “ought” in your heart, I am inviting you to walk with me—not just work for me. I know this is not the conversation that answers your swarm of questions, but it is all you need to enjoy me.  

Yes, Mark, I am invisible, so you must walk by faith. But my Holy Spirit is in you and the Church is my Body—they will bless you and slap you whenever you need my touch. But be honest, you see me in many other ways. You saw me in Ari’s big smile when you told him his adoption was final. You heard my joy in chatter of the sparrows after the snow-storm. You saw my glory in the sun shining through the ice-covered branches. Yesterday, you saw my beauty in the bluebirds on the snow and the red-tailed hawks soaring in the blue Kansas sky. I could go on all day.

Mark, you have probably noticed that you feel my presence best and hear my voice most clearly when you are praying for or speaking to others. Even though you think this unfair, this too is my way. I want to flow through you, not to you. Your healing comes as you pray for the healing of others. You hear my voice best when I can use your voice to bless and encourage others.

Mark, don’t try to measure your growth through all these trials. Yes, I know you want to have “the good testimony” about all I have done for you through these hard times, but you will only see your growth clearly when we see each other face-to-face. And no, I am not telling you when that will be.

Mark, one last thing: I love you and we will talk soon.  

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Teckla: Woman of the Word

Of all my blessings, one of the greatest is that I married a woman who has given herself to living out the truths of God’s Word. Among the pictures sent on her birthday, was one of Teckla sitting with high school friends in Pioneer Park  (Walla Walla) having a Bible study. From her earliest days as a Christian, Teckla has sought to know, and more importantly do, God’s Word.

Teckla was never one to clobber people with Bible verses. She always let the Spirit apply the verses to her life and heart, not in any legalistic way, but in a way that she felt pleased Jesus. Over the years I have seen a verse of Scripture put her on her knees asking God to change her and make her more like Jesus. Tenderly, she opened her heart and life to the scalpel of God’s Word.

Many may not know this, but Teckla was a Bible scholar. During the three years I taught at Mid-America Nazarene University in the 80’s, Teckla completed (with straight A’s) two years of New Testament Greek and numerous classes in Biblical Literature. She knew a solid hermeneutical approach to Scripture when she saw it. She knew how to do a word study in Greek or Hebrew. When she prepared for a Bible study, she was surrounded by commentaries, concordances, and word studies. Had she wanted the degree, a couple more classes would have given her a B. A. in Biblical Studies.

But for Teckla, God’s Word was never only academic, it was a stream of living water—headlights on life’s dark road. In our winding spiritual pilgrimage, Teckla would follow me anywhere that conformed to God’s Word and heart. The summer before my father died, I told Teckla that the commandment to honor my father and mother was burning in my heart and that I wanted to spend the summer painting my father’s and her mother’s houses. Teckla was quick to agree. Even more amazing, she was willing to sell our house in Kansas City and move to Myrtle Point to help my mother when my dad’s cancer became critical.

A few years later, After doing devotions in Job 29, I felt a strong call to be a “father to the fatherless”. Teckla and I had already adopted our son, Peter, so I initially thought this might mean being a soccer coach or something else on weekends. But within just few days a young man in Teckla’s youth group asked if we would consider adopting his older brother’s three boys. Because of God speaking to us from Job, we were certain this was God’s will. Because we listened to God’s voice through His Word, soon we were parents of four boys.  

In our theological journey, which meant losing my job at Mid-America, all I needed to do was show Teckla that I was being true to Scripture and we were of one heart. Making God’s Word the final authority in our lives left us with almost nothing to argue about. Our forty-six years of marriage have been amazingly free of disagreement and fighting. Part of the reason for this is that we love not just the Word of God, but the ways of God. Together we have come to value what God values, love what He loves. We have embraced the upside-down kingdom where the servant of all the greatest of all.  

Even though Teckla is struggling with memory loss, we read a chapter of the Bible aloud each morning. She still reads well but sometimes switches one word for another. Her first try at John 15:12 was “This is my condiment, that you love one another, just as I have loved you.” She caught her mistake, but I liked her “Living Bible” paraphrase. Her life has been full of the condiment of obedience to God’s Word—nothing stuffy, just the rich, sweet fragrance and taste of God’s love.

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Selections from Birthday Cards for Teckla 2024

  • What a beautiful woman you are inside and out. I have always remembered the “Blue House” days, pulling taffy, going out to cut down a Christmas tree, meals at the dinner table, your smile, laughter and tears as a handful of us sat around while you read The Chronicles of Narnia and Pooh.
  • I have always admired how well you get things done, mostly loving others well.
  • When I think of spending time with you, I’m reminded of how you allowed me to be a part of your family and your boys calling me Aunt Jo-Jo. You are forever my friend, and forever family.
  • The one thing I will forever be grateful for is that you were an amazing counselor and confidant to me back in the Blue House.
  • You were and are always someone I loved so much—you had the quietness and grace of a godly woman.
  • I will always remember your warm welcome when I first volunteered at the Pregnancy Resource Center. Thank you for your kindness and help.
  • I don’t know if you remember me (Class of 72), but I remember you, as this sweet, soft spoken and quiet young lady.
  • I so appreciate working with you at the Pregnancy Resource Center; it was so good to see your patience and caring that shined out in all circumstances. I was so blessed to know you.
  • We would meet in Pioneer Park in Walla Wall for prayer, Bible study and fellowship (singing, laughing, sharing). What a special time. Your friendship and love remained in my heart all these many years.
  • We still think about the time when we were homeless, and you welcomed me to live on your enclosed porch even though the house was full. Thank you for loving and caring for us while we were establishing our new marriage.
  • I always loved it when you prayed before my shift at the Pregnancy Center. I would arrive with worries about my ability to do the work at the Center, but somehow when you finished praying, I had no doubt that God had it all under control.
  • You and your family introduced me to the Nazarene Church in Walla Walla. You were instrumental in my accepting Jesus as Savior, and I will always remember your genuine and loving faith.
  • You took me under your wing and in your beautiful, quiet way, taught me so much, not only about volunteering at the Center but sharing your unshakeable faith in God and the importance of giving the day to our lord.
  • You made the WOW [Women of the Word] Bible study really come alive for me. You always had a way of digging deep into Scripture and bringing out truths I had never seen.
  • It was wonderful getting to worship with you; you led us all so well.
  • I will always remember your lovely playing on the hammered dulcimer and how sweet and gentle you have always been.
  • I will never forget that at my wedding, you spoke kindly about my character and my love of God. I have carried your kind words with me since then.
  • Thank you for showing me what a godly woman looks like; you are a Proverbs 31 woman.
  • I remember when you taught my children and me primer Hebrew. You were the best teacher! I will never forget your gracious patience towards me, my children, and everyone.
  • In high school we were buddies. You were so sweet and funny. You always made me laugh.
  • Thanks for the early years of helping me get the tools I needed to raise my son while at the Caring Pregnancy Center. My son is now an officer at the US Air Force Academy in Colorado class of 2028.
  • I remember your gentle and kind spirit. Your smile always made a room brighten up. It made you so approachable. Also, I remember your sweet singing voice.
  • Your sweet prayers always spoke to me. Your quiet, gentle spirit was so much what I wanted to emulate (still working on that).
  • I will never forget how you stepped up to take the president’s job at the Pregnancy Center. You were so faithful to bring board enrichment every month and lead us through the many changes.
  • God has used you to change lives and many of us are so incredibly thankful for your loving obedience, your surrender, and your love.
  • I have missed your sweet, gentle spirit, and remember fondly all our time together at the OYAN workshops.
  • We have enjoyed knowing you with your kind smile and the love you have for Jesus and family.
  • I will always remember your gentle, sweet spirit and your gentle and consistent presence in my life during a difficult time.
  • What we remember best is how special you made us feel. Always ready with a sweet hug, encouraging words, cheerful countenance, and a caring heart. Our encounters with you refreshed our hearts. Your gentleness is evident to all.
  • The very best times were when we prayed. Your heartfelt, deep, wise prayers still mean so much to me.
  • You were always such a bright light and calming influence at the Pregnancy Center. You brought much joy and God used you mightily there.
  • I visited your church [Olathe Fellowship] in 1985, and you were on the worship team. You were radiant for Jesus. It showed me that there was more than I had yet experienced of God. It began a journey that continues today.
  • You were a great spiritual leader in Women of the Word Bible studies and many women were blessed by your love for Jesus. You always modeled a gentle, quiet spirit and your prayers showed that had deep friendship with Jesus.
  • I have good memories of women’s Bible study in the Blue House. Thank you for your encouragement, prayers, and love during difficult years in my life.

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On the Edge

I never tired of hiking Oregon beaches. Along this dynamic edge of the continent, everything is alive. Purple sea urchins, sea stars, green anemones, goose-neck barnacles, and muscles cling to wave-pounded rocks. The kelp beds shelter and nourish all kinds of fish. Sea lions bark and roar and harbor seals bob up and down just beyond the surf. Waves of sandpipers fly up and down the beaches while gulls fill the air with their cries.

Even the beach seems alive. Each tide changes its shape. The creeks that snake into the ocean change their course after each storm. Sand moves in and out and up and down the beach, sometimes uncovering gravel beds full of agates that glow in the sun. Cliffs collapse and dunes drift across trails and roads.

I have also learned to love the edges of Kansas. During our first sojourn in the Kansas/Missouri area, I often walked an abandoned railway to the school where I was teaching. The rails not only open the woods to the sunlight, but also transport wildflower seeds up and down gravel bed. Prairie penstemon, blazing star, blue vervain, evening primrose, and verbena grew in the gravel beds on each side of the tracks. Red foxes used the rusty rails to move silently as they stalked their prey through fallen leaves.

The hedgerows at the edges of fields are filled with life. These hedges, planted long ago when the land was settled, are anchored by thorny honey locust, Osage orange trees, and eastern cedar. Here sparrows, finches, and other seed-eaters nest. Hawks and owls perch on the branches as they scan nearby fields for mice, voles, and rabbits. White-tailed deer shelter in the undergrowth of the hedgerows.  

Spiritually, Teckla and I have always lived on the edge. We have walked in the hedgerows that divide holiness and charismatic movements and seen the richness of each field. We have walked the shoreline where faith and reason meet and found it full of life. When we moved across the country and when we adopted four boys, our obedience pushed us to the edges of our faith. Recently, cancer, the death of our oldest son and now dementia has brought us to the edge of our trust in God—but here too life abounds.  

Recently we hiked along an old hedgerow near our house. It marks a ragged boundary between the subdivision and the huge industrial park to the west. The warm fall was ending, and birds were beginning to flock together. Robins and red-winged blackbirds filled the tops of the trees. Teckla and I walked in the shadows cast by the warehouses, but high in the branches the birds all faced west, catching the last rays of the winter sun. Our hearts were lifted up.

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The Porch and Mudroom of Heaven

Is this all there is? What happened to all the dreams of revival? All the hopes for our children? I am 71 and it seems like life has gone by in the blink of an eye. So many prayers prayed! So many unanswered. So many hopes have packed up and left town. Like an unrelenting tide, death and time have silently swept away those who mentored me. Is this all there is?

No. This life is only the porch of heaven, a brief time stay on the porch of eternity. My life has been blessed. God’s grace, help, and favor has been a shady porch on a hot Kansas day. His love has been a glass of ice-tea; his voice is the voice of a friend, tried and true.

But as wonderful as the porch is, it is not the house. The winter winds batter the porch and the wooden chairs, even the rockers, are hard after a while. On the summer nights we might delight in the fireflies, but in the winter we long for the hearth. We long for the door to open.

Here on the porch, we pour out our lives in service of Jesus, knowing our story is only one of thousands, and that all these years are only the preface of the book, the porch of the house of God. On the porch we suffer the heat and cold; we long for the rest offered in the house. We long to sit at the table with the Lord of the house and hear his laughter shake the walls.

I believe the last of a believer’s years, as troubled and painful as they can be, are like the mud-rooms of old farmhouses. Sometimes these rooms were connected to the front or back porch. Here muddy boots and wet coats could be kicked off. If on the back porch, there was often a sink and some Lava soap for scrubbing off the grease or manure.

The last years of our lives scrub our souls. The deaths of parents and friends clear away the clutter of worldly values and clarifies what matters. Suffering, especially the suffering of those we love, scours away our selfishness. Our own pains and mortality make us long to enter the house of Jesus—to be absent from this body and present with our Lord. The mudroom of our suffering offers few comforts beyond our cleansing, but it is here that we are made ready for all the joys and comforts of God’s house.

No, this is not all there is. It is hard many days and glorious a few, but it is only the porch. The lights of the house are on; the aroma of the feast fills the air.

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A Tale of Two Tales

With great insight and common sense, Sam explains to Frodo that there are two types of tales. The first is the kind Bilbo had when he left the Shire and then returned well and wealthy—tales of “coming home and finding things all right, though not quite the same.” But there are also those who embark upon adventures, and despite opportunities to turn back, don’t, and never come to “a good end.” Sam goes on to say tales with the good endings aren’t always the best tales to hear but might be the best tales “to get landed in.”

I think most believers hope for the good-ending stories where the miracle comes, the marriage is healed, and the prodigal son comes home. We celebrate, rightly I think, how the relentless love of God sets free the son and daughter captive to sin. Yet, we are vaguely aware of the other kind of story. When Sam muses on two kinds of tales, he is on the stairs of Cirith Ungol and about to face his most terrible battle and deepest sorrow. Sam does not know what kind of tale he is in, or even if there will anyone to tell his tale.

Scripture supports Sam’s observation about two kinds of tales. Both kind of tales are mentioned in Hebrews eleven—stories of those who by faith shut the mouths of lions and those who by faith were sawn in half. Most of us like the stories of mighty and miraculous things done by men and women of faith. Hebrews is up front is saying that many of these heroes of faith never received that which was promised (v. 13, 39). We prefer stories where persevering prayer is answered, promises realized, and then glorious testimonies of deliverance shared.

The twelfth chapter of Acts also has both kinds of tales. The unhappy tale is only one verse long: “And he [Herod] had James the brother of John put to death with a sword.” In the next few verses, we get the tale of Peter being arrested. An angel appears, the cell fills with light, the chains break off, Peter walks out past all the guards, and the gates open by themselves. Honestly, I usually read right past the story of James beheading. I keep hoping for Peter’s kind of story.

I named my oldest son Peter even though the boy’s name we had picked out was Luke. I felt that he would end up being more tempestuous than the biblical Luke. In all his wanderings from God, I held out for a tale like the apostle Peter—who denied Jesus but was restored and became an apostle to the Jews. My son struggled with a deadly combination of addiction and type one diabetes. As my son landed in one ICU after another, I held onto the hope of the glorious testimony he would have when this tale was over. Then he died. I was not ready for this kind of tale.

In the church, I had mostly heard the tales where things are hard but then God breaks through and saves the day. God, I pray and hope, did this for Peter the night before he died, but I have no tale (not yet at least) of a prodigal come home, a denier of Jesus restored, a mighty man of God who knows the depths of God’s grace. I would never see Peter fulfill the life-verse engraved on the sword I gave him: “Feed my sheep.” It is impossible, even for a father, to know his son’s spiritual condition. On his foot, Peter had a tattoo that said, “Not all who wander are lost.”

It is dangerous to act as though we only live in a tale with a happy ending. If we think that we will always stop the mouths of lions, we will be unprepared for their bite. If we think every prodigal is coming home, we are ruined when our child dies alone under a bridge. The Israelites (Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego) thrown into the fiery furnace, declared that God was able to deliver them from the furnace, but if not, they still would not bow down to Nebuchadnezzar’s golden idol. They hoped they were in a happy ending story but knew it was possible they were in the other kind.

Pastors and church culture do not prepare believers well for the “if not.” We are always wanting a happy-ending tale like Bilbo’s, not a story of dying alone in Mordor. We want to hear of Peter whose chains were broken by an angel, not James who is beheaded. But I think Tolkien helps us recognize that our lives contain both kinds of tales.

As they trudged up the side of Mount Doom to destroy the ring, Sam and Frodo realized they were without a way out of Mordor. As far as they knew, they were in a tale that no one would hear and from which they would never return. Yet they put one foot in front of the other. Friendship and duty carried them forward in a tale with no happy ending, no hope.

Of course, it turned out they were wrong about the ending.After the ring is destroyed, they sit on the side of the mountain and wait to die. Eagles come and carry them away to safety. They later hear of how great a victory was achieved and how much evil has been undone and vanquished. When Sam discovers Gandalf was not truly dead, with laughter and tears, Sam asks,“Is everything sad going to come untrue?

For believers, there are always eagles, no matter what kind of tale we are in. Whether we see the eagles (angels) in this life or the next depends on how our tale is written. Like Sam and Frodo, we must be ready for either kind of tale. In faithfulness and friendship, we must trudge forward.

My wife, Teckla, has dementia, and as far as I kind tell, dementia never has a happy ending—only death. More prayer, or more faith, probably won’t change the ending. All the prayers and biblical promises of deliverance seem not to apply to tales of dementia. No eagles will come this side of the grave, yet I pray for her healing every morning. I do not think I will wake up and discover everything sad is untrue. But the day is coming when every tear is a tear of joy, and all our tales, sad and happy, are woven into the tale of Christ’s victory.

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Faramir and Hope

A line spoken by Faramir, in The Lord of Rings, pierced my heart and grief. Although full of Christian truths and values, The Lord of the Rings is not, Tolkien insists, a Christian allegory. Middle earth is perhaps best understood as a pre-Christian world. There are some mentions of “a change of days” that will someday happen, but it is unclear what this change will bring or whether after death there is any hope of life.

Hope, and often hopelessness, are common themes throughout Tolkien’s work. Before sending Frodo on his way, Faramir tells him that his quest to destroy the ring is “a hard doom and a hopeless errand.” Much of the LOTRs is about doing what is right when there is no or slim hope of success. Gandalf says there is only a “fool’s hope” of destroying the ring of power. Here Faramir agrees with Gandalf and says to Frodo: “If ever beyond hope you return to the land of the living and we re-tell our tales, sitting by a wall in the sun, laughing at old grief, you shall tell me then.”

These words were spoken in one of Frodo’s darkest moments, right before he leaves the safety of Faramir’s protection and enters again into Mordor. Neither Frodo nor Faramir have reason to believe the quest to destroy the ring will succeed. And yet, there is this hope we will someday sit “by a wall in the sun, laughing at old grief.”

I have similar hopes. All my family vacations as a child and a parent have been on the Oregon coast near Yachats. Even in the summer, the north wind whipping down the beach could drive you to seek the radiant warmth of rock wall. I can still point to the rock where my mother nestled as she read her books and knitted her afghans. After playing in the surf, my brothers and I would seek the warmth of rocks on Cape Creek beach in the southern shadow of Cape Perpetua.

We would bask in the sun and retell tales from past camping trips. We would laugh about past mishaps and injuries. We would talk about what had been happy and sad. We would laugh about the trivial griefs of a happy family—a rain- soaked tent, lost toys, falls on wet rocks in the creek. In the roar of the surf under the blue sky, many hard and sad things lost their sting.

I believe in Jesus and the resurrection and a new heaven and earth. I hope to sit in the sun by a wall and laugh at grief with my father and mother. I hope to again walk beside my brother Stanley and rejoice in the glory of God’s new creation. I will again, I hope, walk in the sun with Peter and rejoice at the mercy of God that saved him right before he died. 

Teckla and I will laugh at the days when she could not remember her name or mine. We will laugh at how wonderfully God remembered her when she couldn’t. We will marvel at how much good came from obedience when Jesus was our only hope. In the light and warmth of His glory we will “retell our tales.” Chapter by chapter, we will see how God’s mercy and wisdom ennobled us and prepared all things for the return of the King.

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Boromir and Some Good Thing

The “victory” of Boromir in The Lord of the Rings baffles modern folks.  Boromir is one of the more complex and tragic characters in Tolkien’s story. In a moment of weakness, he tries to take the ring of power from Frodo. He was convinced it could be used to save his kingdom, Gondor. He is moved by noble motives to do an evil thing. He also seems to have come under the spell of the ring. But after Frodo puts on the ring to escape him, Boromir is filled with shame and regret. Then he hears the orcs grabbing Pippin and Merry and dies valiantly trying to rescue them. The orcs are too many for Boromir. Although he kills many of them, the orcs run off with Pippin and Merry. So what, exactly, was his victory?

Boromir did not feel victorious. His last words were, “I have failed.” Aragorn takes his hand, kisses his brow, and says, “No, you have conquered! Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace. Minas Tirith shall not fail!” Boromir smiles but says no more. Gandalf remarks later that although in “great peril,” in the end Boromir escaped, in part because of the hobbits he sacrificed his life to save.

Later when talking to Frodo, Faramir says of Boromir, “Of this I am sure: he died well, achieving some good thing.” Faramir says that when he saw Boromir pass by in the elven boat, his brother’s face was “more beautiful even than in life.” Faramir regards this as evidence of a noble death.

I admit when I read this as a teenager, I was not convinced that Boromir had won any victory. We are told that before dying he killed over twenty orcs, but this is nothing since Middle Earth teems with orcs. He fails to rescue the hobbits. The exact nature of his victory is elusive.

However, when we look at all the whole story of the ring, we see the greatness of his victory. It is clear, first of all, that Boromir is truly humbled and repentant after he tried to take the ring from Frodo. Repentance and mercy are extended to Wormtongue, Saruman, and even Gollum—but none takes it. Boromir, however, is quick to repent.

We also see his repentance immediately bear fruit when he rushes to defend Merry and Pippin. Merry and Pippin, as far as Boromir could see, had no strategic importance and could do nothing to save Gondor or defeat Sauron. But Boromir chooses to help them rather than continue his search for Frodo and the ring. Although he had been willing to use an evil means to achieve noble end, Boromir now chooses to what is right and good even though there is no practical end.

Boromir leaves behind all cost/benefit analysis or weighing of strategic value. He simply does the good thing before him. The story of Boromir gives hope for all those who have made a mess of things.  In the end, in ways that no one could have imagined, Merry and Pippin are of tremendous strategic importance. They end up mobilizing the Ents and Fangorn forest against Saruman. But none of this is part of Boromir’s victory. His is a moral victory. He wins back his heart from the evil that gripped it. He dies well, doing what good he can.

Although growing old and closer to death makes this kind of victory seem more important, Boromir’s victory is relevant to any who have failed miserably. Some of us have failed as parents, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, and leaders or disciples. Boromir failed as member of the Fellowship. In the victory of Boromir, we find hope that after failure we can still do what is noble.

All we can do is repent deeply and do the good thing before us—every day. We must do the good things even if they offer no hope of reversing our failure or healing the hurt we have caused. This may seem less exciting than some hyper-spiritual victory that desolates the enemy. We would all rather be Aragorn than Boromir, but if we are honest, most of us probably have more in common with Boromir.  

Aragorn is right to tell Boromir that few achieve his kind of victory.  St. Paul would say perhaps, we are called to die well daily, so we can know Jesus and enter the fellowship of his suffering. Whether young or old, it is never too late to do some good thing.

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