Why?

5 

     The prophet scratched his beard, sighing in frustration. Sometimes, frequently, he found the Lord frustrating. It seemed as if the Lord never gave him the answer he sought. Habakkuk looked out across his nation in despair. So often it seemed that God did not care. Everywhere Habakkuk looked he saw wickedness and violence. Judah seemed beset by wanton iniquity within and powerful enemies without. Unremitting pressures from the powerful and wealthy ground the feeble into dust. It appeared that either God did not care or was too infirm to stay the hand of evil men; both of which the prophet could not accept. Perhaps; and this too seemed incomprehensible, God had retired from active work in the world, leaving it to unwind on its own. Yet, as he looked over the parchment, his most recent missive, he felt deep within that all of those did not represent God at all. Sighing, he collected his pen, ink, parchment, and thoughts. Soon the soft scratching of pen on velum filled the quiet room as Habakkuk’s chaotic thoughts and feelings coalesced into words.

5 “Look among the nations, and see;

    wonder and be astounded.

For I am doing a work in your days

    that you would not believe if told. Habakkuk 1:5 (ESV)

     Today we often look out into our world, wondering if God has schlepped off to the great “man-cave” in heaven to watch reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and Happy Days on the real big screen. Maybe, He, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit have their feet up and are munching on pizza, popcorn, and Doritos? Like Habakkuk we look out on a landscaped filled with sin and depravity. It seems as if powerful forces rage unchecked across the globe. Where is God, why does He not act? Sometimes we crave a Jobesque audience with God.

     Job, in the midst of great suffering and pain, demands a bit of face-time with God. And God shows up. He and Job engage in a bit of chit-chat with Job demanding an answer to the perplexing problems of his suffering. A careful reading reveals that God never truly answers Job. God says, “Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty? He who argues with God, let him answer it.”

     Job replies, “⁴Behold, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand on my mouth. ⁵ I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but I will proceed no further.” Job 40:2-5

     God continues challenging Job and Job finally says, “⁵ I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; ⁶ therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” Job 42:5-6.

     So what am I, a twenty-first century American to make of these ancient men who grappled with God and His often inscrutable ways? How can the three of us relate? Do these two speak across millennia and miles to me, sitting at my kitchen table in West Texas? Yes, I believe they do.

     I need to put my faith and trust in God. We often speak of getting to see the big replay in heaven. I’m not so sure we do and I am even more convinced that we could not fully grasp the span, depth, and strategy of God. Both Habakkuk and Job seek an explanation from God and both get a different answer than they wanted. God responds to Job by revealing His creative might, asking Job where he was when God did all these things. God tells Habakkuk that he could not take it all in; it’s just too big for Habakkuk’s finite mind.

     As a child and partaker of our modern enlightenment influenced culture, I tend to place a great trust in my ability to think through any problem or quandary. If I study hard, get myself into a good quite place with some West-Coast Jazz in the background, and a good cup of coffee at hand I will uncover the solution to almost any problem. My life, personal and professional, has fully convinced me of this truth. No problem is without a solution. But God, through His prophets, teaches something else.

     While loving, compassionate, and caring, always seeking my best, God does not owe me an answer to all my questions. He reveals enough to bring me to faith, but periodically reminds me that His ways are not my ways and His thoughts are higher than mine. I do not believe this allows me to give a spiritual shrug and walk away from seemingly intractable problems. God still expects me to lift my hand to the task at hand, working to further His kingdom as I understand it. But, God’s purview is larger than mine and as He reminds us through Habakkuk, “For I am doing a work in your days that you would not believe if told.” He is great. He’s got many irons in the fire. And He says, as we say in the Army, “Watch your lanes.”

No Fear!

     “Mr. Robinson, don’t you think our country is corrupt?”

     “Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid of ISIS.”

     “Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid that Donald Trump will become president.”

     “Mr. Robinson, I don’t know what I’ll do if Hillary Clinton becomes president.”

     “Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid of ______________________.”

     I hear these and other such statements almost every day in my classroom, and it grieves my soul. Our current political campaign; perhaps our culture, breeds such needless anxiety. I have watched over the past decade or so as politicians and talking heads exploit fear. This despicable practice seeks to separate and divide, doing precious little to address the real, substantive problems we face. Both parties use this tactic, wielding fear as a cudgel to keep the faithful in line. This insidious practice worms its way into our Churches. Pause in almost any foyer and you will hear hand-wringing speech; often encouraged by the very shepherds who stand in pulpits.

     I hate to disappoint; but, this practice is wrong-headed. In our country we live in a time of unparalleled opportunity and abundance. Look at almost any metric you care to examine and you will find cause for rejoicing. In most places crime is down. Our economy improves monthly, admittedly at a slower rate than we would like, but growth nonetheless. We keep our enemies at bay. More Americans enjoy access to education and healthcare than before. Advances in various technologies provide a quality of life unseen in previous millennia. As whole, our nation enjoys great material blessing, yet we stoke the fires of dread.

     I have lived and worked in countries that face serious existential problems. I have had to work with truly corrupt governmental officials; men who I knew had killed to attain their position of power. I have seen places where fathers laid their children down to rest not knowing if their children would rise to see the next sunrise. In these same places wives send their men off to work praying for their safe return in the eve. In other locations people eke out an existence, toiling day by day in mind-numbing conditions with no hope of improvement. Millions on our globe rise up and exist only to sink back to dust after years of painful labor.

     In these places I understand a sense of despair, but not on our shores. I do not believe our best days lie in the past, they reside in our future. Our nation is not perfect. There are a variety of dark corners in our land that need the light of liberty and freedom. But rather than bewail them, we ought to roll up our sleeves and bend our arms to the task at hand. I believe we can leave our posterity a nation with ample resources and opportunities for education and creation.

     While I might understand those in the world slipping into this morass of gloom and doom, I find the Christian embrace of such thought-patterns mystifying. Of all people we ought to be the most positive, joyful, and hopeful. We need to remember that, “God has not given us a spirit of fear…” II Timothy 1:7. Of course we face challenges as a nation and a culture. We will always find problems to solve; but, they need not overwhelm us. We know the end. We can face troubles knowing that our fate is secure. God’s arm is not shortened; His grasp is not so feeble as to let His cherished ones slip through His fingers. When some politician calls, pandering to fear and peddling divisive distrust of the other, we should ignore the siren call. We want men and women who provide inclusive solutions. After all, God has blessed us immeasurably. Rather than spend our time complaining looking furtively over our shoulders, a spirit of thankfulness and joy should animate us. This thankfulness for God’s gracious provision should propel us into new arenas of endeavor and service. We have His promise to meet all our needs, perhaps we ought to spend ourselves joyfully working to better the portion of the globe we inhabit. 

The Enemy

     The campaign season rages on, roiling in newspapers, television, Facebook, and other forms of social media. In the halls of my school students recklessly hurl insults around blissfully ignorant of the issues at hand and the injury they may cause each other. Politicians and other leaders stoke the fires of fear and ignorance, hoping to gain ideological support for their party, continued employment, and positions of power and influence. This maelstrom sucks Christians of all types into the swirling chaos of contemporary culture. All too often we give into these forces letting them conform us to their shape. We search holy writ for some scrap of scripture that lends itself to our purpose. Somehow position trumps love. All the while God calls me to love my enemy. How can I love those who insult? How am I to love those who hate from far, far away? How do I maintain love in the face of continual encouragement to despise and demean? How do I love those who seem so different, so estranged, so opposed to what I consider best or normal? In I John 4:18-20, John, Jesus’ best friend, gives me some gentle and challenging pointers in my struggle to love.

     When fear motivates me, I’ve stepped out of love. Love takes up all the space in my heart, leaving no room for hatred. Apparently, in some spiritual way, this is an all or nothing prospect. I either love or hate with nothing in between. In Revelation 3, Jesus speaks to this, “¹⁵ “‘I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were cold or hot! ¹⁶ So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth.” No matter how I try, I cannot mix love and hate. One or the other serves as my primary motivation. Hatred moves me to view those who are different with suspicion, consigning them to the status of, “the other.”

     Once I think of someone as, “the other,” I more easily dehumanize them, ridicule them, suspect them of ulterior motives, spread rumors about them, describe them as the enemy, and hate them. All of these are the antithesis of how God views them. God calls me to love my enemy, pray for them, seek the best for them, hope for their success, to see them as He sees them. I think I do well when I pray for my enemy. It is a start. However, I still fall woefully short of the mark. In my prayer life I do lift up my enemies, but I still consider them, “the enemy.” I am wrong. They are my brothers and sisters.

     God loves them just as much as He loves me. Jesus came, lived, and died for them as much as He did for me. God does not secretly rejoice when my enemy fails, or perishes lost, estranged from the loving embrace of God. He weeps. II Peter 3:8-20 reminds me that God wants all of His children to come home. It grieves Him that so many live in darkness. And when I treat my fellow man, fellow children of God, with disdain, He grieves. As a parent, it gives me great joy to see my children enjoy each other as adults. They still laugh together and rise up to defend each other. When one struggles, the others weep. They love each other and want the best for the other. Oh, that I would feel the same level of compassion for those I consider my enemy. I should not avoid the other; rather I should run to them. I must learn to stop praying for “my enemy” and instead lift up my brothers and sisters, earnestly seeking God’s favor for them, longing for the day when they enjoy the same outpouring of God’s grace that so enriches my life.

     If those of us who claim Christ could grow in this particular grace, perhaps our campaign season might pass more calmly. Perhaps we might find that the other side actually desires good for our nation. Perhaps, even, we might discover some better solution to the problems that vex us so. And most importantly, perhaps we might serves as better ambassadors for Christ, a more pleasing aroma.

Big Shoulders

     God has big shoulders, bigger than I can imagine.

     As some of you know, my youngest son struggles with a variety of issues, including substance-abuse and all the related problems that cascade from it. Some parents rejoice at weddings, graduations, and grandchildren. We rejoice over a chore properly completed. I find innocuous decisions evidence of a long hoped for turn. At a time when I expected to move into a more relaxed stage of parenting, I must adopt the familiar persona of a drill-sergeant, treating my son as I would a recalcitrant soldier. I tread carefully when talking with siblings and other family members lest I poison their relationships with my frustrations and anxieties. I draw heavily from God’s abundant supply of joy. Recently in a fit of pique my son stormed off disappearing for a couple of days; returning to knock at the door and stand abjectly on our front porch. Oddly, I took the short duration as a good sign.

     So there we stood on the front porch a disconsolate son and testy father. As always in these moments my mind wandered to the story of the prodigal son found in Luke, the parable father, my father, and now I faced the same challenge. As the evening son colored the billowing clouds in the Southeast apricot, gold, and orange, I struggled to find words that meant something, words previously unsaid, words that might carry weight, words that might influence or touch. I know this path very well, every pothole, ditch, smooth spot, defile, chasm, and hairpin turn. I’ve been here many times before and I do not find the view encouraging. This is a dark place.

     As I stood there on the porch my reality shifted, presenting a new, disquieting perspective. A father and son no longer stood on the quiet West Texas porch; instead to brothers stand jaws clenched faces hard and set. I over estimated my spiritual maturity. I do not deal well with repeated insults or infractions, assuming incorrectly that I’m the offended party. Like the older brother in Luke I find a dismal hard core of resentment in my heart. Why should I go in and rejoice with my family? How will I put this offense in “the depths of the sea (Micah 7:19)?”

     This is no longer about my son’s spirituality. That struggle is between him and God. I may help by setting appropriate boundaries and creating an environment where God is glorified. If the color and character of my life somehow reflect the Holy Spirit’s leavening influence I might be of use. This does not mean that I enforce no standards; however, I do so understanding my own spiritual poverty. Focusing on my perception of my son’s offenses against me leads me to anger and resentment. Remembering my own repeated offenses and God’s gracious forgiveness leads to compassion. Now this is more about how I let God conform me to His shape. Will my story end with me on the front porch, refusing to join the party? Perhaps, with patience, God will lead me gently home, home to join the party. 

Pascal Lamb

     The garage door complains slightly as it rumbles up, admitting our van into the somewhat cluttered interior. As I swing out of the van the smell of roasting lamb, shallots, garlic, Rosemary, olive oil, potatoes, onions, and carrots greets me. I anticipate an excellent family dinner. Thoughts of Passover and the Pascal Lamb rise, competing with hunger. Soon, apron donned, I hustle around my kitchen, mixing, measuring, and yes, tasting. Horseradish, sour-cream, and dill work together in subtle bitterness. The lamb, rubbed with a puree of shallots, olive-oil, Rosemary, and garlic emits increasingly pungent odors as I make final preparations. Hastily, combined coarse flour, cumin, and caraway seeds kneaded, shaped on a stone replace the lamb in the oven. Coarse grains heat adding sweat earthiness to the mélange filling the kitchen. Glancing out the window, I smile as the final participants arrive.

     A few minutes later, sliced lamb, warm bread and vegetables steam on the table as we all gather round. We share a few thoughts about sacrifice, guilt, cleansing, bitterness, and forgiveness. Strange how God uses simple everyday things, meat, bitter herbs, crushed grapes, unrefined grains, and vegetables to remind us of His deep abiding sacrificial love. After prayer, thanking Him for His largess, we engage in our own Passover. Laughter and food pass round the table. Through His work and gift we enjoy each other. His forgiveness is the healing balm, the relational oil, which lubricates such joyful gatherings. His work, His sacrifice, His Love make this goodness, all goodness, possible.

     

A Comfortable LIfe

     I like comfort. I spent over twenty years in a career in which personal comfort did not matter. In fact, my superiors evaluated my worth on my ability to absorb significant does of physical and mental stress. I learned the value of being able to sleep almost anywhere or any time. I’ve spent long periods of time sleeping in the back of a HUMVEE. Periodically I placed extreme value on a fresh pair of socks or change of undergarments. During one particular stretch, I went for almost six months without a hot shower, occasionally bathing out of a bucket with a rag. At the end of that time, I was overjoyed to find out that what I thought was some sort of black fungal infection in the soles of my feet was simply dirt. A hot shower cured me. For a year I wore two uniforms; wash one, wear one. My experiences as a soldier are neither unique nor unusual. Ask any veteran and they will share similar stories, some much worse. Now, as a retiree, I enjoy a life of comfort.

     Very little discomfort intrudes upon my life these days. I sleep in a good bed. I enjoy ample chow of my choice. In the eve, when I start to yawn, I lie down for sleep. I slumber uninterrupted, save for the occasional trip to the latrine, until it is time for me to arise. After seven hours or so I awaken, usually before the clangor of my alarm. I trundle off to work which fires my passions and for which I’m adequately remunerated. I share this pleasant, abundance with a woman I love who returns my love. We relish the quiet rhythm our current situation affords. Most Sundays, after worship we share a communal lunch with our immediate family, enjoying laughter and interesting conversation. Yet, periodically, something roils the placid stream of my life.

     I forget that save for God’s grace I stand justly condemned and lost. Sometimes I fall into the trap of believing my own good press. I look over at someone, grappling with an issue foreign to me, and judge them as unfit. I think poorly of them. I forget that without the sacrifice of Jesus I stand of the wrong side of a vast chasm carved by the rushing torrent of my selfish intransigence. In my arrogance I conjure up an image of God being somehow glad that I’m on His side. As if I have something He needs. And in these darker moments I find myself sitting on the stoop, sulking.

     Recently someone came to me, seeking help and assistance; and not for the first time. This is a repeat performance for them. More than once they’ve spurned my extended hand and good counsel, heaping scorn on me. Now, they desperately need my succor. I can summon the willingness to help; but, at a cost. I want to extract my pound of flesh. My aid and assistance come at with conditions. I want to remind them of their previous boorish behavior and faulty decisions. I do not deal in grace. I charge a rather steep price for my “help.” This is not love. It is vengeance disguised as care and concern. It is a deep and dark place.

     God comes to me there, in my sulky solitude. “Why, He ponders, “are you sitting out here in the darkness? Come in and enjoy the light and party.”

     “Why are we throwing a party for those sinners? They’ve done nothing to cause such celebration. They’ve born no fruit. In fact, they’ve sullied our good name with their reckless immorality.”

     “Yes, it’s true. They have. But, now they’ve come home. How can we not rejoice?”

     “What if they do it again? How can we be certain that they will not wander off? They may hurt us…again!”

     “They may. But, today, we rejoice. Come inside, enjoy the moment. And for heaven’s sake, leave that baggage out here in the dark, where it belongs.”

      I so like to think I’m worthy. I enjoy a comfortable, buttoned-down, well ordered, disciplined life and I think that somehow that elevates me above others. In reality, spiritually speaking, I’m sitting out in the dark desperately trying to rearrange my filthy rags in such a way as to cover up my own dirty, wretched nakedness. I need God just as much, and perhaps even more due to my pride, as the person whom I’m called to help. Perhaps I’d better come in quickly before the queso is all gone.

Why Things Are The Way They Are

     I’m watching the current political campaign unfold with a mixture of interest, chagrin, embarrassment, and dismay. The Watergate scandal that roiled the final days of the Nixon administration marks my first political awareness. Watching those pivotal events flicker across my parent’s small black and white television in Abilene, Texas, I realized that decisions made far away influenced my life in strange and mysterious ways. Now, forty-two years later I follow politics, understanding that these things, not matter how grievous or mortifying, matter and greatly. Many reporters, politicians, pundits, and preachers lament the low level to which our national debate has sunk, including me. Most express surprise at the crass exchanges that daily scroll across our screens. I do not share their shock. We created this situation.

     During my life, which contrary to what my students believe is still short, we slowly exchanged substance for show. A well educated person used to read the great works of antiquity, developing the skills needed to plunge such depths and weigh serious matters. A classical education required careful examination, and memorization, of great literary works and large bodies of facts concerning the world around us. We spoke of areas of study as disciplines since it took discipline, time, and effort to master them. Civilized men engaged in debate, which consisted of a reasoned exchange of ideas, not red-faced men exchanging insults across the table. Sometime, before I was born, we started divesting ourselves of these standards, accepting in their place a paltry, anemic substitute that eschews scholarship and civility and instead embraces bombast and the one hundred and forty character sound-bite.

     Students, and adults alike, recoil at the thought of writing a well-reasoned and supported essay. We want everything packaged in small easily digestible bits. During interviews and what passes for debates, participants regularly avoid difficult topics and spew out an endless diatribe of sentence fragments designed to play well on the next thirty minute news segment. And we let them. Our embrace of the plasticized social-media driven culture produces such meaningless dreck. They get away with it because we will not summon the intestinal fortitude it takes to reject such pandering. Politicians from both parties and the media participate in this erosion of the national conversation. Perhaps we lack the acumen necessary to call these pretenders, and that is what they are men in suits pretending to be men of substance, out and demand legitimate solutions to very real and convoluted problems. They believe, and perhaps rightly, that we do not understand well enough to discern substance from Shinola (you need to have been in the Army the days of the universal suede boot for that particular reference). In our thirty second spot, thirty minute sitcom frame of mind we find it hard to seriously consider what character is and how to recognize it.

     Due to our mental laziness, or in some cases lassitude, we willingly support anyone who says a few things we want to hear. Often we choose to embrace a single issue as paramount, forgetting that often the person who drapes themselves in that particular issue may not be running for an office that can materially influence it or has not plan to attack the proximate cause of the problem we find so odious. Our continual willingness to overlook bombast and self-aggrandizement and not demand substantive plans coupled with a general unwillingness to sacrifice for the good of the nation draws politicians, not statesmen or patriots. Consequently we get the current crop of politicians; well coifed and stuffed suits who engage in the kind of sophomoric antics I see in the halls of my junior high each day, the big difference being my students act their age. We must change the paradigm.

     We must embrace the work needed to educate ourselves, to learn once again how to think, deeply and critically.  We must develop that discipline required to understand the complex issues which vex our nation, and world. Few problems require solutions that fit into a snippet of text. Those that will succumb to such a short solution do not merit our effort. We must refuse to support those who would ingratiate themselves by pandering to one or two issues. Those who seek high office need to apply armed with good ideas and a willingness to roll up their sleeves and work. Refusal to discharge Constitutionally mandated duties in the name of party or ideological purity is not the moral high-ground. And neither is shutting down the government to make a point. We must relearn that true patriotism is not about flag and bunting waving. The signers of the Declaration captured patriotism very well in these words, “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” And until we once again educate ourselves to these matters we will endure an endless parade of poltroons disguised as viable candidates.

     Since I am currently a teacher, I harbor great hope for the future. If my students are any indicator of the upcoming generation, they want and are up to the challenge. They willingly allow me to try and test them. Early on in the year I would get a few anemic scratchings passed off as a paragraph. Now, I regularly see fully formed thoughts in paragraphs that explore ideas. Recently one of my students came up to me in the hall and said, “Mr. Robinson, do you have a limit to how many pages I can write on this subject? I’m really enjoying this project and have a lot to say about it.”

     And she said this in front of my principle! Yes, I think they are up to the task. The question is, am I up to the challenge of guiding them into education?