Monday Morning Music Ministry

3-21-22

We can think about Easter all year, and we should. But the Lenten season invites us, makes us ready. The Truth of Jesus’s incarnation… His teachings… His miracles and healings… His willingness – or determination – to be sacrificed for the sin-penalties we deserve… His arrest, imprisonment, and torture… His betrayal… His suffering and crucifixion… His death… His Resurrection… His Ascension: there are things that should be true to us on any and every day of the year.

I mean, Easter is not just for Easter; Christmas is not just for Christmas. The importance and relevance of every moment of Jesus’s life, and the Gospel, should burn to us and through us, every moment of our own lives.

So if we contemplate the details of Holy Week and Easter during Lent, it is a good thing. We can do the same thing around, say, May Day or Hallowe’en too; but here we are. I often find myself imagining what it would have been like to be one of the Disciples. The streaming series The Chosen – the fellowship of Jesus and His followers – is doing a good job of that.

It has always amused me when skeptics and agnostics say that they would find it easier to believe in Christ if only they could see Him; have some tangible proof that He lived and was the Son of God. Why am I amused? Because the Disciples themselves – never mind the multitudes who were taught, fed, and healed – lived every day with Christ. They saw Him walk on water, feed multitudes, heal the sick, raise people from the dead; more things than books could hold. For three and a half years! Day after day, week after week!

… and yet when Jesus was in jeopardy – as He even foretold, just days before – these Disciples fled. They scattered like dry leaves on a windy street. And we think that we would act differently?

I have further guessed that compared to the beatings, torture, whipping, thorns pressed down on His head and nails hammered through his wrists and feet… that the worst suffering felt by our Savior was the betrayal of His friends, their abandonment of Him.

We fool ourselves – and dare to fool God – if we believe that we would have been any different than the Disciples in those days before the Crucifixion.

“Different” is the operative word. Let us understand that Jesus chose the Disciples because they were not different. They had different talents and backgrounds, yes; but they were ordinary people – no celebrities, no dignitaries – and they were no different than you and me. So we can identify. We can learn from their experiences, admirable and cowardly and… human.

A great lesson, drawn from the actions of the Disciples that week, is presented by the different choices of two of them, Judas and Peter.

Judas, from the little we know, was sort of the treasurer of the little group, at least handling affairs as Matthew also did. As is well known, Judas betrayed Jesus by accepting a bribe from Roman authorities to reveal Christ’s whereabouts, and further to identify Him by embracing Him, on cue, before centurions. Jesus was then arrested and thus began His “trial” and execution.

He betrayed Jesus.

Soon remorseful, he scattered those 30 gold pieces and hanged himself.

Peter, during those same hours of turbulence, was asked by authorities if he were associated with the Man who called Himself the Christ. Three times Peter denied even knowing this Jesus. When he heard a rooster, he was thunderstruck and remembered that Jesus recently had predicted, “Before the cock crows three times, you will deny Me.”

He denied Jesus. He knew Him… but denied knowing Him. Was it much different than betrayal? I don’t think so.

Peter, to me the most impulsive, sometimes random, and always most human of the Disciples, was remorseful too. But he did not hang himself. It is not recorded that he was at the cross – Jesus’s mother, Mary, remained faithful – but we know that he huddled in fear after Jesus died, with the remaining Disciples. He endured, avoiding the self-abnegation of Judas and the skepticism of Thomas… and he met the Resurrected Christ.

From the accounts, he was the “same” Peter while Jesus showed Himself and ministered and preached and healed for those 40 days after the Resurrection, and before Ascending to Heaven. And he seems to have been the same Peter, huddling in confusion in the Upper Room where Jesus had told them to wait.

Wait for what?

The Holy Spirit is recorded to have come upon them, and others, “as a mighty rushing wind.” After that, people were transformed. They spoke in “strange tongues,” the languages of angels and of foreigners. They were imbued with knowledge and power… and wisdom.

After that experience Peter became a mature leader. He might have remained impulsive, but now it was to establish the Church and plant communities of believers. On that day, the Feast of Pentecost, the Church was born, and lives yet today.

Judas had betrayed more than Jesus; he betrayed the hope of Salvation and Forgiveness that easily could have been his. Peter denied knowing Jesus, but he exercised that glimmer of hope that redemption was drawing nigh.

Are you a Judas, or a Peter? I don’t mean betraying or denying Jesus… because when we sin, as we all do, we betray Him and deny Him.

It is our choice, however, how to react; to be remorseful and turn inward like Judas, or to wait upon Jesus and His promises, His Resurrected power, to come to us. To embrace the hope of Christ’s forgiveness.

Easter is about that hope.

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Click: Whispering Hope

1-19-15

Words matter. They matter to me, as a writer; they matter to me when I teach and mentor; they mattered to me as a father around the dinner table, correcting my kids when they would say “quote” instead of “quotation,” or “may” when they meant “might.” Yes, they did roll their eyes, continually (NOT continuously)… but in later years have thanked me for instilling rules of grammar. My son is a TV news writer and producer, so his skills were honed.

Words matter to God Almighty too. The Holy Bible is His written Word. He WROTE the 10 Commandments. And “in the beginning was the Word, and the was with God, and the Word was God.” These are the very first WORDS of the Gospel of John, and as we soon learn in verse 14, the pre-incarnate Jesus was the Word through which the worlds were called into creation: “The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.”

I generally am not a fan of bumper-strip theology or slogans, but they have their place; sometimes a very good place, if people can grasp truth in a phrase or sentence. So I value words highly, yet realize they must be respected. Over-simplification can be as dangerous as contumelious obfuscation. (See? I mean mean-spirited confusion.)

In that spirit of caution, I venture to make good on the promise of this essay’s title, a guaranteed cure for the hopeless. A little play on words – but not a game. Thinking about the words, and considering what they mean, can lead to new ways of thinking about a lot of other words… and attitudes… and directions in your life. Stick with me:

Hopeless. We have all experienced this emotion, whether a fleeting mood or a profound form of grief. But try to act on this: when you are hopeless – when you hope less – resolve to HOPE MORE. Easily said, right? Yes, it is. And usually hard to do. At first. But we can hope, always. There is always that better place. Faith, after all, is the substance of things HOPED for, the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1); that’s what faith is.

I once had a friend in a men’s Bible study years ago who was having the worst luck, as we call it, in his career, financial situation, family security. Disappointment followed disappointment, and his news was always bad or worse. Finally he passed some hurdles in a job search, and everything seemed sure for him. On an appointed Saturday morning we waited for his arrival so we could hear the good news. He reported that at the very last moment the whole thing fell through, and he was back at the starting-line. We all felt like crying; a few of us did weep for him. But he was virtually cheery. How could this be, we asked. He replied, “For a few weeks there, I experienced hope. Sure I’m disappointed, but it was so sweet to experience that joyful hope the Lord granted me!”

A superhuman faith, I thought. But he let Hope-less turn into Hope-more and it soothed his soul.

Once you think of similar word-surgeries it can change your attitude in uncountable ways – maybe throughout life, not only in a current crisis:

Thankless? Turn it into “Thankful.”

Does “Sorrowful” describe your mood? Trade it in for “Joyful.”

Are you prone to Counteract? Try to Interact.

A buzz-word is “maladjusted.” Tell it to buzz off, and choose to be well-adjusted.

Are you fearful? Remember that Jesus said “Fear not” dozens of times. Fearless you will become.

Is your habit to be tasteless? Be tasteful. Do you always ask, “Why me?” Emphasize correctly when you think how God loves you: “Why… ME!” Do you worry that your boss or friends think you are a “good-for-nothing”? Be good for something!

Being friendly will transform being friendless into being a friend and having friends… and having the most important Friend.

Romans 8:25 explains, “hope that is seen is not hope. Who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” Hopeless no more, an attitude of hope – the foundation-stone of faith – can change your life.

My Word!

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Our music video answers a question that some hopeless-feeling readers might ask, “how can I turn things around so easily?” Well, on our own, it CAN be difficult. But God sent the Holy Spirit to be our guide, to instruct us, encourage, grant us supernatural portions of wisdom, knowledge, strength, faith… and hope. Here, the Forbes Family sings a gospel song written just more than 100 years ago by George A Young. Young was an obscure preacher living in poverty. Also a carpenter, he built a modest house for himself and his wife, which village thugs burned down when once he was away preaching. Not trained as a poet or musician, nevertheless he wrote this song in response to his devastating situation:

Click: God Leads His Dear Children Along

1-5-15

Life has been likened to a game through the ages by saints and sages, by poets and even pastors. We are warned on one side against a game of “eat, drink, and be merry,” because one day we die. Or sometimes we properly are reminded that like some sports, life can be a very grim game indeed. Me? Sometimes I see life as a grand chessboard. Unfortunately I see myself a checker, not a chess piece. Gulp.

Today we think of our lives as vast jigsaw puzzles, not at all illogical.

See how the pieces fit: babyhood, youth, adolescence, nonage, adulthood, dotage. They usually fit together well, although some of us, putting this puzzle together, really have to search for the piece that depicts maturity. But into each life also come pieces that represent curiosity, hope, disappointment, joy, sadness, grief, happiness, greed, ambition, pride, modesty, temptation, sin, desires, charity, unforgiveness and forgiveness, envy, intellectuality, faith…

Have I left any pieces out? Surely. But I have not only described life’s jigsaw puzzles of me and you, but everyone who has, or has had, a pulse, on this earth. Those pieces, in my analogy, will be of different shapes, some of mine larger than yours; some of yours smaller than his or hers. We all, when complete, form different pictures.

And we know, don’t we, that even the kindly old lady down the street has had bouts with envy or pride. “There is not one amongst us in whom a devil does not dwell,” Theodore Roosevelt once wrote to the poet Edwin Arlington Robinson; and we note he metaphorically used a lower-case “d” in “devil.” He continued, “It is not being in the “dark house,” but having left it, that matters.”

In the same way as the kindly old lady we all know, or TR’s Everyman, there are awful folks and hardened criminals who have tender spots, and are capable of conversions. Think of Ebeneezer Scrooge; of St Paul who, as Saul, persecuted Christians; of John Newton, slave-trader who saw the light and write the words to “Amazing Grace”…

But I want to suggest that no life, no matter how long, or how many pieces make up the picture, is or complete without a piece I did not list above. Did you catch that? Can I give you a hint? – it is shaped like an “L.” Ah! There are a couple holes in the jigsaw puzzle of completed lives.

See the missing piece, shaped like an “L,” for Love.

We have all experienced love, even the most miserable amongst us. We have expressed it and shared it – given it away – some of us more than others. But it is a common and irresistible force. To humans it is mysterious because, as serene as it should be, it can also bring heartache and disappointment. It can be the basis of charity but also frustration of broken dreams.

There is a reason that 95 per cent of songs have love lyrics. Even “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog” is a love song, about dashed dreams. So are the melancholy lieder of Franz Schubert, and the many grief-toned piano sonatas of the perpetually lovelorn and frustrated Beethoven.

OK… that “L” piece fits there. One more hole in life’s jigsaw puzzle. It looks like an L-shape could fit there, but a little differently. Maybe, turned around a little bit, it looks like a “J.” Yes, J for Jesus. Now our life’s jigsaw puzzle is a complete picture.

Those similar-looking pieces, L and J, in fact make any life complete – especially puzzled lives, to reinforce my metaphor! They are the most important of our lives’ components. Indeed, we are not complete without them. We occasionally might flatter ourselves that we are pretty good puzzle-masters; and perhaps so, occasionally. But we are not puzzle-makers, and cannot be. God plays that role.

I sometimes wonder if Love did not exist, could we imagine it? Like a color that might exist but we’ve seen; or a seventh sense: hard to imagine what we cannot imagine. God’s Love, expressed in the Person of Jesus. He loved us so much as to create us and place us on this beautiful earth; loved us so much as to be forbearing as we humans have sinned and rebelled generation after generation; loved us so much as to share the Truth, offer forgiveness, to open Heaven’s gates…

… loved us so much as to lower Himself to the form of a human, His Son, to share our sorrows, show us the Way, and to offer healing and salvation to those who believe on Him; loved us so much as to remain amongst us in the form of the Holy Spirit, to guide, comfort, and empower us. To have His Son take our sins, our deserved punishment, upon Himself – could we imagine such love? And all this, while we were yet sinners?

Surely this love – our puzzle-piece “L” and the similar-shaped “J,” signifying Love and Jesus – can make the puzzles of our lives complete, whole… making sense.

Look at either one, and if you really can’t understand them fully, just accept them and fit them into your life’s picture. Each one is a piece that passes understanding.

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“The Love of God” is a traditional hymn performed here by the three brothers Aaron, Nathan, and Stephen Nasby, The “NCrew,” their band called Eli Eli. It is a hymn that comes as close as any to defining the indefinable, indescribable unspeakable mystery that is God’s love. There is a legend that a madman in an asylum once heard the song through his barred window and wrote the words of the third verse on his wall. Somehow the plausibility of that story reflects the love, the peace, that passes understanding.

Click: The Love of God

8-11-13

A friend, the noted theatrical impresario Charles Putnam Basbas, recently forwarded one of those oft-forwarded internet stories to me. The story of a miracle baby born prematurely, it was not outrageously implausible (not to me anyway; my children were born 10 weeks, five weeks, and eight weeks early around 30 years ago when those factors were dicey; and they had, and have, healthy, robust lives). Yet this story, as full of meaning as of surprises, checked out as true when I pursued “truth or fiction” sites.

Maybe you, too, have read it:

The Smell of Rain

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery. Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news. That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver couple’s new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor’s soft words dropped like bombs.

“I don’t think she’s going to make it,” he said, as kindly as he could. “There’s only a 10 per cent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one.”

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.

“No! No!” was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.

But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae’s underdeveloped nervous system was essentially “raw,” the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn’t even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Danae turned two months old. her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

[Five years later] Danae was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother’s lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin’s baseball team was practicing.
As always, Danae was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby, when she suddenly fell silent . Hugging her arms across her chest, little Danae asked, “Do you smell that?”

Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, “Yes, it smells like rain.”

Danae closed her eyes and again asked, “Do you smell that?”

Once again, her mother replied, “Yes, I think we’re about to get wet. It smells like rain.”

Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, “No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on his chest.”

Tears blurred Diana’s eyes as Danae happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter’s words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

Back to MMMM. As I noted, in recent years, Danae’s story has circulated on the internet. It first was published in Richard L. Scott’s book, Miracles In Our Midst: Stories of Life, Love, Kindness, and Other Miracles (Wessex House). Scott, the former CEO of Columbia Health Systems and currently the Republican governor of Florida, sought out tales of triumph over medical odds. Danae’s story (then titled “Heaven Scent”) is his favorite. That little girl Danae, without knowing it, has inspired many people. An angel, in her own way.

To me, the spiritual “icing on the cake” to this story Charlie forwarded was someone’s legend at the bottom:

ANGELS EXIST, but sometimes, since they don’t all have wings, we call them FRIENDS.

And this summation reminded me of a song with a spiritual message, sung by a secular singer, the great Delbert McClinton (who is great even when Vince Gill and Lee Roy Parnell are not backing him up…) —

Click: Sending Me Angels (Just Like You)

4/7/2012

RE-POSTED BY REQUESTED. From March 29, 2010, a great Easter-Sunday message.

Here is possibly the most unique, certainly a most memorable, version of the Easter story you might ever see. A little account of a kid’s Easter pageant. Father and son; death and resurrection; humor and Truth.

It is pianist Anthony Burger a few years ago talking about his five-year-old in an Easter pageant. Ironically, not long after this, Anthony himself died, suddenly, at the keyboard on a gospel-music cruise. His life was a mighty testimony… and so was his little boy’s story.

Click: We Shall Behold Him

8-15-11

By Cheryl Hults Meakins

Recently it was reported that an online pedophile pornography community was shut down by the federal government, which also confiscated 123 terabytes of video, roughly equivalent to 16,000 DVDs of atrocities against children. The cancer of pornography has grown for decades and this giant seems much more powerful than Goliath ever was.

1 Samuel 17:4 “A champion named Goliath, who was from Gath, came out of the Philistine camp. He was over nine feet tall.”

I have a hard time watching the news every day. There are so many choices we have made in America that grieve my heart, even overwhelm me and paralyze me with fear.

It seems while I was growing up, so was sin on the increase in our culture. I stopped at 5’5” but our sins have grown like a cancer and loom before us like Goliath, mocking us, until we tend to live in fear. Will our children be swiped from our streets? Will a picture snapped on a passing cell phone be plastered on the internet? Must I help my children lose their innocence when warning them of the real “stranger danger?” Is this living in freedom?

Hollywood used to condemn movies with bare bottoms and curse words with R ratings. Now those are rewarded with PG-13 ratings. I remember in the ‘80s being disgusted at the mainline magazines that were boys’ rites of passage to manhood. Even worse is the rise of human trafficking in our own nation that is swiftly becoming more lucrative than drug sales for organized crime.

The giants that seemed so big in the ‘80s are dwarfs compared to the monsters confronting us today. The battles we once had to fight we now see were just the opening skirmishes in wars much bigger, and more deadly.

I look in the face of the giants that believers must fight… and I struggle to keep standing. I am overwhelmed with thoughts, even of children who survive sexual assaults, who grow up with pain their souls have recorded and their minds can barely contain.

I confess: often I become paralyzed; by the size of this giant but even more at the depth of healing needed for those who were forced to become victims.

You see, as long as I look at the face of the giant, I will fear, I will give up fighting, I will lay aside my weapons so my hands can cover my ears and dampen the noise of the helpless souls being ravaged by sin. I grieve that the sin we tolerated in the ‘60s, enjoyed in the ‘70s, humored in the ‘80s, and applauded in the ‘90s, has taken up residence in our midst; and now we know its full dangers.

The Church in America needs to know that there are giants in our land! And facing these giants builds a conflict in our focus. We need to attend to our personal godliness and obedience, but we must also tend to those who cannot fight for themselves.

Lift up your eyes, Church! Look to the hills! Where does our help and hope come from? He is our hope and our help (Psalm 121). His arms outreach the growth of any cancer in our nation. His blood will heal any wound and cover any sin.

Louie Giglio found himself afraid to go to sleep. Night after night he suffered as a cloud of panic or anxiety moved in to his mind. He spent months undergoing medical testing to diagnose his struggle but the turning point towards healing began with a decision he made in the face of his attacking giant. One night, as he was awakened again by this cloud he decided to praise the Lord.

Then he remembered Psalm 63:4 NIV – “I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will lift up my hands.” And in verse 8 “My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me.”

Out of this desperate meditation came these words:

“Be still, there is a healer
His love is deeper than the sea
His mercy, it is unfailing
His arms a fortress for the weak”

Louie later shared these words with Chris Tomlin and a song of healing was born out of desperate obedience. Meditate on “I lift my hands.” And after you have found your peace, let your faith arise, pick up your swords and find a battleground to fight.

I have found mine!

Today’s Guest Writer:
Cheryl Meakins is an author and speaker who is passionate about women stepping into their callings as healers and warriors. More of her thoughts can be found at: www.MeakinsSpeak.wordpress.com.

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Click: I Lift My Hands

1-10-11

That we live in a “throwaway culture” is a cliché. Clichés usually become clichés because they are true. In the 1950s a big topic of discussion in America was  the business concept of Planned Obsolescence – the manufacture of things just shoddy enough so that consumers would get a Buzz from the Bling of the New, until those things fell apart. Next, advertisers helped convince people that replacing those obsolete things was better than fixing them.

The slippery slope was greased. The American culture has moved to Disposable Everything. From appliances needing repair to clothes that need mending, fixing is not just out of fashion, but practically disreputable. Near the bottom of the cultural slide, inevitably, are disposable marriages and disposable kids. Then, abortions, “mercy killings,” and, yes, government-sponsored “death-panel” counseling. Another manifestation is revolving theology – “moral relativism,” a pick-and-choose set of standards that represents Open-Mindedness; that is, minds so open that peoples’ brains fall out.

But some things are right anyway, true anyway, worth it… anyway.

A major denomination whose membership rolls have been shrinking in recent decades (coincident with its Disposable Theology, more and more and more liberal on doctrine) is running a TV commercial campaign, imploring people, “Visit us; you’ll like us.” I suppose they hold nice pot-luck dinners, but for a church to twist its message to be something people “like” to hear, is to bring Planned Obsolescence to religion. Jesus did not go the cross for telling people what they wanted to hear.

He was condemned to the cross because He said things people NEEDED to hear.

Dedicated Christians are swimming upstream these days – to state the situation mildly. We tell the old, old story… and are met by firestorms of opposition from the culture, from the entertainment world, from the music industry, from radio and TV, from Hollywood, from the mainstream media, from the courts, from politicians and bureaucrats… and, too often, from apostate churches.

How do we respond? If we hate compromise on every side, the first thing we should avoid doing is to… compromise.

This week, amateur divers found the wreckage of the USS Revenge. The ship, commanded by Oliver Hazard Perry, was lost in a storm 200 years ago off the coast of Providence. Two years later, in a naval victory on Lake Erie, he uttered the famous words, “We have met the enemy and they are ours!” The motto on his battle flag became, “Don’t Give Up the Ship,” still the U S Navy’s motto.

America needs citizens who say, “Don’t give up the ship,” and Christian Patriots must be in the front of the lines. It can be discouraging to lose battles and see our culture slip away – our heritage rudely transformed – but we must fight anyway.

Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love Him. — James 1:12

We might lose some battles, but we fight anyway. We might lose some goals, but we dream anyway. We might lose some allies, but we pray for them anyway. We might lose some denominations, but not the Word of God.

These things might be tough to put into practice, but they are essential to remember. That’s why stirring words and music, a good anthem, is needed today… and here is a nomination. Martina McBride’s classic song is a grassroots battle-hymn, perfect for this moment of crisis in our culture wars.

Click:  I Do It Anyway

A little departure — not a “religious” message; but, I hope, a spiritual one!

It is to share a moment with you who are engaged in creativity. Nobody run for the exit, because in a way, we all are so engaged. I thought of this because I was on the phone this afternoon with a friend, and I bollixed up a couple of things having to do with numbers… typical for me, stupid things. Some of us typically mumble things about “right brain, left brain,” but working in the creative arts is not always the same thing as exercising creativity!

Many of my friends are writers or cartoonists, and what I am about to say is common to them, and to musicians and poets and singers and painters and composers and actors and photographers. And public speakers. And counselors. And designers. And decorators. Teachers. Pastors. Charity workers. Those entrusted with law-enforcement. Ministers, by definition. Even accountants (ha) and politicians making claims and taping commercials (ha ha) have to be creative. Certainly mothers and caregivers, a thousand ways every day.

… Actually, you can’t name a human activity where creativity does not come into play. And if you think you have found someone, or some profession… surely that person ASPIRES to write or perform or draw in private time. Or to receive that mysterious, soul-satisfying sustenance from enjoying the works of people who do — which is, just as real, a Bond of Creativity.

All of this is commonplace — banal if it is in fact so universal — except that we don’t always realize it. We don’t appreciate it in others, but anyone who creates some work of art, on any level, bares his or her soul to a world that can reject or ridicule or despise it. Yet we do what we do because we have to. We have to share it; we have to “let it out”; we have to touch someone we probably will never meet. The cliched creator who lives a hermit-like existence is actually the most open and vulnerable of God’s creatures.

Create… creatures… Creator. Here we bring a message full circle. If we fail to appreciate creativity in others, surely a lot of us tend to miss the creativity in ourselves. It is there, it should be encouraged, and, as a principle of life, must be exercised to be healthy and strong. Some people believe that to say that humans “create” anything is blasphemous — that only God can create anything. I think that is true if you are playing word games.

God has given us, among His unique gifts, sparks of creativity. Anything we “create” is therefore an extension of His grace and His glory. J S Bach began every one of his works with the words, “Help me, Jesus,” and ended every work with the words, “To God be ALL the glory.” Nothing we can create is apart from Him.

Illustrating my message is a secular song, not by Bach but by the singer/songwriter Lacy J Dalton. It perfectly catches the creative process — the inchoate passion, the unquenchable dreams, the insane struggles, the breakthroughs; the success that is not always commercial, but measured by the “Aha!” moment in whatever pursuit you choose. Her metaphor is the singer/songwriter (the best art is inescapably self-referential). 16th Avenue, Nashville’s street of dreams where recording studios and performance stages abound, is her metaphor of the world. Oh, she nails it. Aha!

Appreciate your own creativity this week, and that in others. Celebrate it. Exercise it. And remember its source — the One who is reflected and honored in what you do.

Click:  An Anthem to Creativity

This week, the whole world watched the rescue of the miners in Chile, and the whole world was inspired — it could not be otherwise.

I watched through the night; many of us did. Being an old guy, a portion of my amazement was the technology improvised for their rescue, but more, the fact the cameras could broadcast from half a mile under rock; and then, I could watch it in real time 6000 miles away. (Frankly, I was amazed that I could make my TV-remote work that evening, but that’s me)

We have heard a lot about the miners, and will hear a lot more as interviews, books, and movies will surely follow. But I share with you a few random impressions I had:

* 33 miners, 69 days… I am not into Bible codes and biblical numerology, but occasionally God DOES leave spiritual reminders in worldly events (three is the Biblical sign of godly perfection — the Trinity; three days before the Resurrection; etc) to remind us of His workings. That said…

* The miners were resourceful, strong, and organized… but also, it seems almost a man, spiritual. Reportedly half were Catholic and half evangelical or Pentecostal. The Vatican sent missals and Rosaries down the first shaft, when opened; and a Baptist church sent Bibles and hymn books. (Evangelicalism is sweeping the continent. There are more Pentecostals than Catholics, for instance, in neighboring Brazil.) There were frequent services and constant prayers underground.

* Through the night President Sebastian Pinera was seen praying quietly on a bench, not showing off but with head bowed, crossing himself afterward. The first rescuer who descended in the capsule said a prayer and crossed himself before the door was closed.

* Many miners used their first words above ground to thank God. Some fells to their knees immediately — were they collapsing? No, they were in prayer; some held their little Bibles high.

* Several miners donned T-shirts when they were unhooked from the capsule. Family members, too, had been wearing them. On the front they said, “Gracias Senor” — Thank you, Lord. And on the backs was a Bible verse: “To Him be the glory and honor. Because in His hands are the depths of the earth; and the heights of the mountains are His” (Psalm 95:4)

* At least one miner received Christ during the ordeal, and — regarding that number “3” — one miner said that there were really 34 in the mine, because he felt that Jesus was always with them.

* Finally, I remember that one miner said something along these lines: “We faced God down there… and we faced the devil. God won. We reached out and held His hand.”

Holding to God’s unchanging hand… do you know the simple but powerful song with that title? It seems almost written FOR this event we witnessed! Franklin L Eiland, composer of many great hymns, wrote this about 100 years ago (He was grandfather of Cindy Walker, the first female songwriters elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame).

This version is sung by Lindell Cooley, who was Worship Leader at the Brownsville Revival in Pensecola when I went there a couple times a dozen years ago. Today he is pastor of Grace Church in Nashville. Powerful performance, and relevant to the miracles of faith we just witnessed.

Click:  Hold to God’s Unchanging Hand

Have a great week holdin’ on…

10-10-10

A friend, the noted theatrical impresario Charles Putnam Basbas, recently forwarded one of those oft-forwarded internet stories to me. The story of a miracle baby born prematurely, it was not outrageously implausible (not to me anyway; my children were born 10 weeks, five weeks, and eight weeks early around 30 years ago when those factors were dicey; and they had, and have, healthy, robust lives). Yet this story, as full of meaning as of surprises, checked out as true when I pursued “truth or fiction” sites.

Maybe you, too, have read it:

The Smell of Rain

A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery. Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news. That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver couple’s new daughter, Danae Lu Blessing.

At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor’s soft words dropped like bombs.

“I don’t think she’s going to make it,” he said, as kindly as he could. “There’s only a 10 per cent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one.”

Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.

“No! No!” was all Diana could say. She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.

But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae’s underdeveloped nervous system was essentially “raw,” the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn’t even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Danae struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

There was never a moment when Danae suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Danae turned two months old. her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Danae went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.

[Five years later] Danae was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.

One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother’s lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin’s baseball team was practicing.
As always, Danae was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby, when she suddenly fell silent . Hugging her arms across her chest, little Danae asked, “Do you smell that?”

Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, “Yes, it smells like rain.”

Danae closed her eyes and again asked, “Do you smell that?”

Once again, her mother replied, “Yes, I think we’re about to get wet. It smells like rain.”

Still caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, “No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on his chest.”

Tears blurred Diana’s eyes as Danae happily hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter’s words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.

During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Danae on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.

Back to MMMM. As I noted, in recent years, Danae’s story has circulated on the internet. It first was published in Richard L. Scott’s book, Miracles In Our Midst: Stories of Life, Love, Kindness, and Other Miracles (Wessex House). Scott, the former CEO of Columbia Health Systems and currently the Republican candidate for governor of Florida [since elected — ed.], sought out tales of triumph over medical odds. Danae’s story (then titled “Heaven Scent”) is his favorite. That little girl Danae, without knowing it, has inspired many people. An angel, in her own way.

To me, the spiritual “icing on the cake” to this story Charlie forwarded was someone’s legend at the bottom:

ANGELS EXIST, but sometimes, since they don’t all have wings, we call them FRIENDS.

And this summation reminded me of a song with a spiritual message, sung by a secular singer, the great Delbert McClinton (who is great even when Vince Gill and Lee Roy Parnell are not backing him up…) —

Click:  Sending Me Angels (Just Like You)

Good Morning! Good Morning? Some folks these days would not jump to characterize this day, or this week, or “these times,” as “good.” Just about everybody has been affected by the awful economy or the government’s responses that seemingly work to make Bad things Worse.

Several friends have declared bankruptcy; another friend desperately is finding no buyers for her house; my daughter sold hers after three years of lowering the price, drip by drip. The government tells us that the recession ended in June, and I am reminded of a high school teacher who once told me, “statistics don’t lie… but statisticians do.”

Houses underwater — fiscally or literally — or jobs or investments or retirement accounts: things look bleak, and the horizon seems bleaker. God tells us to keep our eyes on things to come; we do count our many blessing, and we try to keep things in perspective. We do so — Christians must!

There was a time about 30 years ago I was in despair, experiencing these types of crises. I knew the Bible verse, “Be anxious for nothing…” but I was anxious about EVERYTHING.

And then God did something interesting. Another verse I knew was Jesus’s reassurance that not a sparrow falls to the ground without our Father’s knowledge; and that we are more precious than sparrows in His sight. But surely I was not feeling it… not really knowing it.

One day in my deepest distress, my morning devotional reading was based on that passage. Sparrows. Later that day, a preacher on Christian radio (background noise till that moment) addressed that parable. Sparrows. That evening, on the car radio, a station played the gospel song, “His Eye Is On the Sparrow.”

OK, the first point is that I got the point. And it encouraged me mightily. But the other point has never left me: God doesn’t just speak to us through His word — sometimes He repeats His message in various ways, over and over, even shouting to us, until we get it!

Oh, Lord, open our ears!

Here is a beautiful version of that comforting old hymn, sung by the wonderful singer of spirituals, Ethel Waters, from am old black-and-white movie. She asks, “Why should I be discouraged…?”

“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows!” Matt. 10: 29-31

Click:  His Eye Is On the Sparrow

I once heard a prominent preacher in the “emergent church” trash one of my favorite old gospel songs, “I’ll Fly Away.”

“If I could, I would rip that song out of every hymn-book,” he said. He considered it irresponsible and against Christ’s teachings to want to leave this world, when there is so much to do here. So much poverty and injustice to fight… and so on.

That type of analysis is one reason I wish the emergents would become the submergents. Christ admonished us to look up, and wait expectantly for that day. Bible prophecy tells us of no sweeter promise than when we shall meet Him in the air. Yes, God has tasks for us here in this world, but it can be arrogant, not just irresponsible, to suggest that God cannot do things without us. And… there is a danger in putting too must trust in doctrines of works.

The whole Gospel must hold. Comfortable suburban (faddish) teachers who cannot relate to worshipers whose lives have been hard and challenging, those who hope for the Bible’s promised release, those who find comfort — and even perseverance — in songs like “I’ll Fly Away”… pity those teachers, or ignore them. They preach to each other.

Fasten your seat belts, because I’m going to share a very unorthodox (in some neighborhoods, anyway) version of “I’ll Fly Away.” Two decades ago I was writing a three-part biography of rock ‘n’ roll pioneer Jerry Lee Lewis, televangelist Jimmy Swaggart, and country singer Mickey Gilley. They are all first cousins, and grew up in Ferriday, Louisiana, attending the same little Assembly of God church.

I learned that for a brief time, Jerry Lee had attended Bible College, in Waxahatchie, Texas. I interviewed a fellow student, Charles Wigley (later a district superintendent of the Assemblies of God) who told me that a few students used to get together and play gospel music… and got in trouble for “juking it up.” Of course Jerry also got invited to leave the school because he used to sneak out at night and go to the Deep Elm section of Houston…

Be that as it may, the jazzed-up style of rock and country and the fervent evangelistic piano playing in Pentecostal churches sometimes straddled an indistinct line. Here is a video of Jerry Lee Lewis and his cousin Mickey Gilley performing “I’ll Fly Away” in what you might consider another installment in our “Doing Church Another Way” series! (Definitely NOT Baroque music)

This is how old it is: it was recorded, I think, the day after Reagan was elected president in 1980 (Jerry Lee throws in a reference to that fact)

To close the circle, see if you think worshipers in a little country church would have felt irresponsible about their faith after joining in with this song. Would you rip this out of a songbook?

Click:  I’ll Fly Away 

How often have we heard the story of the shepherd leaving the 99 sheep to search for the lost one; or the Prodigal Son welcomed by the father with a great feast… and wondered, in our hearts, what it must have felt like among the 99 sheep, or how the faithful son felt: Hey, what about us? Haven’t we been faithful and good all this time? Is this the reward of obedience, of doing good?

The truth is, of course, that Jesus wants us to see the complete story through the eyes of the lost ones, and the sinner. Because that is who we are. If truth be told, those 99 sheep and that faithful older brother in the parables were only “safe” and “good” at those moments. There, but for the grace of God, they too would have strayed or been prodigal.

But the best parts of the parables are what happens when the lost sheep, and the prodigal son (read: you and me!) are found! Feasts, rejoicing, and the JOY of Heaven awaits!

“I tell you that in the same way, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance” (Luke 15:7).

Christian music should be joyful, and here is a gospel song by Vep Ellis that mirrors the joy awaiting us in Heaven. Performed joyfully by the Vocal Band and Signature Sound at a concert in Louisville. Comedy (and some musical instruction) beforehand… words of hope… and a joyful noise unto the Lord!

Heaven’s Joy Awaits

When we leave this lowland, We will cross the Jordan;

Past the chilly torrent, Heaven’s joy awaits!

Just beyond the blue horizon, Just above the starry sky, starry blue sky.

Far above this land of sorrow, Way above each tear and sigh, every sigh.

Just a few more miles before us, Just a little while to wait, patiently wait.

Soon we’ll sing redemption’s chorus, Heaven’s joy awaits, Heaven awaits.

Heaven’s breeze is blowing, Gently to me calling.

I will soon be going, Through the pearly gates!

Just beyond the blue horizon, Just above the starry sky, starry blue sky.

Far above this land of sorrow, Way above each tear and sigh, every sigh.

Just a few more miles before us, Just a little while to wait, patiently wait.

Soon we’ll sing redemption’s chorus, Heaven’s joy awaits, Heaven awaits.

Click:   Heaven’s Joy Awaits

Easter Week has ended in the US (of course, we should pray that it never ends — its Truth is everlasting), but it is not so everywhere. Orthodox churches celebrate Christ’s resurrection according to other schedules and, I have just learned from my college friend John Siegmund, now a Lutheran pastor in Germany, there is an “Easter Monday” too:

“Thanks so much for your good wishes for a blessed Holy Week. I will be celebrating Holy Thursday with the mass of the Institution of the Lord’s Supper. Immediately following we will strip the altar, removing everything that can be carried but the remaining eucharistic gifts into the sacristy until Easter Vigil. I will climb up to the main cross in our church and give the Lord a black drape which will hang until the preparations for the Easter Vigil.

“Weather permitting, we will hold the Stations of the Cross in our town following the Good Friday service of penance and veneration of the Cross of Christ. On Saturday night we will celebrate the Vigil of Easter followed by Easter breakfast, donated by church members. On Easter Sunday and on Easter Monday we celebrate the glorious resurrection of our LORD and Savior Jesus Christ with a festive liturgy in the morning.

“Easter Monday is still a legal holiday here, although particularly mainline Protestant parishes don’t observe it with a festive service, but, at best, with evening concerts or the like…”

Isn’t there a comfort — beyond the spiritual reality, which is paramount — but isn’t there a comfort in the old traditions, the old hymns, the old fellowships? Indeed, the Old Gospel? There are reasons they all developed, and established themselves, and became beloved and old. Can’t our world and our lives slow down a little bit, so all of the Old — “Good Old” — doesn’t disappear from view?

Enjoy this old-time gospel song. “Ye who are weary, come home…”

Click:  Softly and Tenderly

Happy Monday.. and Happy Holy Week.

“Happy”?

Sure. It was a happy week, back in Jerusalem. Jesus rode into town; if we were there, we probably would have joined the happy throng with our palm-branches. Things turned ugly, the crowd was incited, Jesus was falsely accused. He was tortured, put on the cross, and died. Chances are that we — or at least I — would have been part of that crowd too. In fact, I sort of am, every time I sin.

But it sure was a happy week, after all, because He rose from the dead. He took the sins we commit upon Himself… died the death we deserve… and conquered death so that we might live with Him. I’m happy; are you?

Even Good Friday… etymologists speculate its origin was “God’s Friday”; maybe so. That willing, sacrificial death was Good indeed. Greater love hath no man than this.

Here is possibly the most unique, certainly a most memorable, version of the Easter story you might ever see. A little account of a kid’s Easter pageant. Father and son; death and resurrection; humor and Truth.

It is pianist Anthony Burger a few years ago talking about his five-year-old in an Easter pageant. Ironically, not long after this, Anthony himself died, suddenly, at the keyboard on a gospel-music cruise. His life was a mighty testimony… and so was his little boy’s story.

Click:  We Shall Behold Him

All the Merrys of this season, and the Happys of greetings like the thousands we hear and say, cannot mask that sometimes life is not always merry and happy.

Even Christians, as secure as they can be in their faith, and mindful of God’s many blessings, not only have difficult times and enormous challenges (not warned about in the Bible, but promised to occur)… but also deal with moments of doubt.

To be a follower of Jesus, and admit to these things, does not make you a bad Christian; it just shows that you are… a Christian. We believe, but sometimes doubt things. We trust, yet need His hand to walk forward. We take the risk of trusting like a child…

Those last words are in Bill Gaither’s song I Believe… Help Thou My Unbelief. If you are ever in that fragile spiritual state, or ever have been, or might be sometime, this brief emotional song might minister to you:

Click:  A Hymn for Doubters

Last week my daughter Heather, who is expecting her second child, received a shocker. Awakened by a phone call from her doctor, she heard a disturbing possible prognosis after tests on the baby.

I’ll fast-forward and let her note of a couple days ago tell the story:

Hi, family and friends
This week was a weird one…we all got sick, Pat had a deadline at work so was working 15-18 hour days, and on Tuesday we got a call from our Dr. that blood work showed a possibility for our baby to have spina bifida.

Not knowing much about the condition but also realizing that dreams of a healthy baby might not be the case, we were initially worried but as we took time to pray together and on our own we both felt stretches of incredible peace. We’ve been praying since we were married, for any future kids God had planned for us, that in everything He would be glorified. So during this time, we kept reminding ourselves that God was still in charge and if this is what he had planned for this little one and us, that it would be fine.

We went to UofM hospital today to meet with a genetic counselor and have an ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed NOTHING wrong and everything looks perfect: strong heart, spine is in the right shape and position, brain has no abnormalities, and there are no holes in the abdomen. It turns out that sometimes blood work just reveals higher levels of this protein and only 1/2% of those who have this elevated protein level actually go on to have babies with problems.

This has reminded us to continue to pray for our kids and that no matter what happens that God is still God and will give us what He feels is best. Thank you all for your prayers and encouragement this week!

Love,
Pat, Heather, Gabe and Zachary (yep, we found out it’s a boy!! He was proudly doing somersaults!!)

Heather’s testimony is a tale of faith and trust in God. I have been wanting to share the video of Janet Paschal’s conversation with Bill Gaither about her own health challenge — hers was with a cancer diagnosis — and her performance of the beautiful love-song to God, rejoicing in His sovereign care and the supportive love of friends like Gloria: “It Won’t Rain Always.”

Many people who pray, and singers who sing, and preachers who preach, concentrate on the “storms clouds passing,” and “it’s dark, but morning time’s coming!” Those things are true, as symbols and reflections of reality in the life of believers… but so is the line from this song about “dark clouds” — “the Sun that they’ve been hiding has been there all along.”

Have you ever gotten up before a trip… and it’s raining or snowing? You have a miserable ride to the airport, full of delays and dangerous traffic. The flight is delayed because of the rotten weather. The plane finally takes off into the black clouds… and then the blue sky and blinding sun meet you above the clouds.

It’s been there all along!

Click:  It Won’t Rain Always