Monday Morning Music Ministry

4-27-20

Plandemic. That is not a typo.

I believe this current crisis, across the entire earth, touching health and finances and well-being and emotions is not random. I believe it has been planned.

We hear of “Acts of God” on the news and in insurance policies. To me, acts of God are not hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes, nor epidemics.

Acts of God are love. And beautiful days. And happy families. And babies’ smiles. Generosity; charity; forgiveness; gratitude; joy.

These current hard times have us confused and worried. Soon, these emotions might turn into widespread bitterness, suspicion, anger. Maybe not soon, but… eventually. We do not know, now, how long this all will last. People read this message all over the world, and if there still is a world, might read these words ‘way into the future. Now, we see through a glass darkly, because that is as far as our eyes can discern today.

So I say that I am persuaded that this pandemic was planned. Readers who are not Christians might share my own immediate suspicions that China charted a war but without bullets or bombs. Lab-made or natural virus, it is plausible that the worldwide spread was not an accident. Our instincts tell us that, like children caught in the jelly jar, Communist China’s myriad stories, versions, corrections, cover-ups, disappearances, suppression of news, falsified statistics, denials of reliable assistance, arrogance toward truth-seekers… prove them as culpable as gunmen in a bank heist or drivers of getaway cars. If they act guilty, they likely are guilty.

Readers who are Christians may see this view as irrelevant. But I invite skeptics to consider the other evidence of “planning.”

I am persuaded that there is a God; there is a heaven and there is a hell; there is a Savior, Jesus, through whom we are reconciled to the Father. When humankind chose to sin and to rebel against God, yet He sent His Son to bear the penalty for our sins.

As part of our rebellion, for some reason people – even His chosen, those who know Christ – often think that sickness and sorrow are sent by God; and that events like epidemics and death are, oh well, just part of life; not part of Satan’s evil intentions.

Believers and skeptics alike still have to deal with the details, fine-print, and reality of such a worldview. But our 100 per cent understanding of the world and its woes would not change anything in the world. Including the dizzying array of theories and “solutions.” Especially we must deal with things like this awful, stark reality before us.

How do we deal with things? For personal security, a current view is that we engage in social-distancing. OK, having chosen the professions of writer, historian, and cartoonist, my own decisions have put me closer to the “hermit” mode of daily life. I am a little primed, but believe me, I realize this is not for everyone.

First (among many perspectives) we must realize that, at the moment, it might be said that more disruption and misery has been caused by fear than by the virus itself.

I recommend to you not to surrender your spirit to this bizarre solo life of isolation. Rather, realize that as Christians – which I hope all readers are, or will be while there is time to deal with the Truth of the Gospel – we all actually are pilgrims and strangers in this world, already.

We are called to “be apart.” To be “in the world, but not of the world.” This world is not our home! And “I don’t want to get adjusted to this world.” “Be not transformed to this world.” We’re headed for the Promised Land!

I have used quotation marks here because I quote Bible verses and song lyrics – sermons in song, poetic and life-saving advice.

So you may follow the news and the advice about the virus. That is good! You might be curious about whether we are under attack by forces of flesh and blood. But be aware of the real enemy. Through boredom and annoyances and inconvenience, discern the enemy of your soul. Be aware – this is a war, whether we like it or not. Trust God, not headlines.

Spiritual terrorism is being waged against us. You might perceive sniper-fire. But Kamikaze attacks are what we face.

Oh, what a weeping and wailing,
As the lost were told of their fate;
They cried for the rocks and the mountains.
They prayed, but their prayer was too late.

The soul that had put off salvation,
“Not tonight; I’ll get saved by and by,
No time now to think of religion!”
At last, they had found time to die.

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On Easter, Lily Isaacs and her children Sonya, Becky, and Ben were quarantined, but recorded a message and song in the little chapel at Sonya’s home.

Click: I Have Decided… It Is Well

4-20-20

The late pianist Anthony Burger used to tell a story about his son Austin, at five years old, in his church’s Easter pageant. He was cast as Jesus, dressed in sandals and one of his dad’s old T-shirts.

The other kids in their little costumes beheld the empty cardboard tomb. The little girls acted sad, and when little Jesus appeared he told them not to be afraid, or to be sad. “I died, but now I am alive! I will never leave you!” Parents in the church audience were moved, and proud.

All of a sudden, Austin ran back into the tomb – not in the script! But right away he popped out and yelled, “Ready or not – here I come!!!”

Somewhere between parents’ embarrassment and the church’s laughter we might find – “out of the mouths of babes!” – some decent theology.

Ready or not, Jesus did leave that tomb. He conquered sin and death. He returned. To live among us.

He actually never did go back into that tomb. He just needed it for the weekend. He lives; He lives; Christ Jesus lives today. He walks with us and He talks with us, along life’s narrow way… We sing it, but are we ready… or not?

Jesus was ready, but are we?

We have to be ready. When a Savior dies – for us; and lives – for us, we cannot be indifferent. Life on earth was never the same again, and when we meet the Incarnate Lord, the Risen Savior… we cannot be the same again. Ever.

If you are not changed, you need some serious time with Jesus… but with yourself too.

Maybe, make use of the self-isolation these days.

Jesus used His isolation to live again.

Let us use our isolation to be born again.

Ready? Or not?

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Click:A Child’s Easter Story

4-12-20

The night was so different from all the rest,
And a silence covers the Earth;
The stars have no glimmer, the moon tries to hide,
For in death lies the Man of their birth.

The night was so different from all the rest,
And a silence covers the Earth;
The stars have no glimmer, the moon tries to hide,
For in death lies the Man of their birth.

In a room filled with sorrow, a mother cries,
For Jesus, her Son, now is gone;
Her Child sent from Heaven was taken away,
Heartbroken, she feels all alone.

At the feet of his mother a little boy cries,
Saying, “Mama, I don’t understand’;
I remember the look of love in His eyes,
That I saw, by the touch of His hand.

The King of all ages, the Giver of life,
For a moment lies silent and still.
But a power sent from heaven comes breaking the night,
And death must bow to His will!

The stone moves, the Earth shakes, and birds start singing,
The sun shines, the Earth warms, for the new life it’s bringing!
That little boy stops crying, a Mother is smiling,
For death could not hold a King!

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Every year it’s the same story – not the “same old story” – but the Story we need to hear again and again, not every year, really, but every day of our lives. Death could not hold our King. Spiritual death, emotional death, both symbolic and real. It’s about death… and life.

Every year since that first Easter, skeptics ask, “Yes, but…” or “That was Jesus. This is now…” This year the Coronavirus prompts the questions and doubts and fears. “Jesus said He came that we would have life…?”

Yes, He did. “… and life more abundantly.” While we are here we can have life, and it more abundantly. We don’t avoid the questions, because Jesus didn’t. Did He heal? Can He heal? Does He heal?

Yes, yes, and yes.

Then we demand to know, Why… this person? Why… these numbers of sick? Sometimes… Why me?

Yes, Why? If we knew, we’d be as God. It is very hard to say, and hard to believe, but God’s Hand is in all, and as the Bible says, “the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.” That is not the opening line in a debate. It is a fact. God does not demand that we understand all things; He asks us to have faith. He lovingly requires that we be obedient.

Just as “Jesus was obedient to the cross.” His sacrifice was God’s plan to substitute for the punishment we deserve as sinners.

But there is no point to the Easter story, by itself as it happened and was witnessed by many, even with all the ifs and buts through the centuries, unless the story does not include the next part.

Jesus overcame death. He promises us a new life. A new life. A new life.

Viruses – and broken bones, and infections, and diseases – are gruesome, and deadly, yes. And different but horrible, too, are sinful habits, and broken relationships, and hatreds, and abuses. I don’t suggest a game of comparison, but sometimes a broken heart is harder to mend than a broken bone. Sin can be deadlier than a virus. If we don’t stick to diets that help our bodies, can we commit to blameless lives for the sake of our souls?

Jesus came to help us with those dilemmas. Jesus died to save us from those weaknesses. Jesus rose to redeem us from our sins and weaknesses and failings.

The night before Easter – between His physical death and His resurrection – were the loneliest, most desolate days in humankind’s history. Despite the numerous prophecies, despite His disciples seeing uncountable miracles performed, and despite Jesus’s own words… there was despair and hopelessness. Even His Mother despaired; the earth was dark; heartbroken, they felt all alone.

But then…

The stone moves, the Earth shakes, and birds start singing,
The sun shines, the Earth warms, for the new life it’s bringing!
That little boy stops crying, a Mother is smiling,
For death could not hold a King!

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Click: The Night Before Easter

4-3-17

A guest essay by one of my favorite writers, Leah C Morgan

Winter serves its purpose necessary for cycles of life and growth. Including sorrow and darkness. But no one mourns its departure. There are no weeping farewells, no fierce clinging to its coattails. Winter’s last cold breath could easily be mistaken for a communal sigh of relief.

But Spring. . .

Spring is like hope, often suppressed by doubt and crushed by fear before finally bursting out of the barrenness with such lush beauty we would think it audacious if it were a woman crossing the landscape.

Or a dream on the horizon.

But Spring is so universally pined after, we allow her to paint the town in pastels and festoon it with flowers. To declare a new season and prophesy a resurrection of all dead things. We are so in need of warmth, we want to believe.

Snow comes just as we’re tempted to forget coats and gloves; and we’re buried again in self-doubt, certain that winter is eternal. And that second chances, green buds, and fresh starts are myths.

Then the smallest patch of sunlight shines its way indoors, warming our faces. A song of warbled notes reaches our ears, and the perfume of living things wends its way to our senses. Our hearts thaw. Something flutters within and pushes its way forward like a new beginning.

And there we are against all odds, in spite of the dead branches and brown grass, joining the parade, waving banners, and getting all caught up in the longing. We believe in the getting up, in the rising again.

If forgotten bulbs buried beneath the frozen ground can resurrect their remembrance, and dormant plants survive long months of deprivation, if distant birds are spurred to make lengthy migrations in expectation of better days, and insects lie quietly in wait for a feast about to commence, how can the human heart settle for dearth? The very bowels of the earth offer up an invitation to rejoice. To hope. To muster up enough courage to try again.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Spring is the season to put away the wool and furs, the weighty things that make for despair.

It is the reminder that buried things are not always dead things, and that dead things can live again.

Spring is the occasion to pray for the miraculous, for rebirth and resurrection. It is the opportunity to enjoy perpetual youth. Nothing is so young as new life, and new life can sprout in the faith of a fertile mind, coming to life in a fresh idea. It can spring up in the purpose of heart, taking the shape of brilliant creativity.

Buried talents, forgotten intentions, failed attempts – they all want to be born again, and Spring makes the yearning reasonable. If daffodils can fan out their pretty bonnets after keeping still for a year, what unexercised muscle of faith might be stretched out in the light of understanding?

The time for understanding has come. Flamboyant Spring steps forward on a pale, monochromatic stage to pantomime the Gospel in living color. The Old Man Winter is past, and now a light shines in the darkness, its transformative power producing new life. The fields and forests are born again, their naked knolls and branches clothed in glorious wardrobes. They develop, mature, producing fruit and dropping seeds. The seeds are buried, left to die and decay, before shedding their form to be resurrected, coming forth from the ground in a new body.

“Sown in weakness, raised in power” (I Corinthians 15:43). How we begin is not how we’re destined to remain.

A sweet, scented breeze is blowing, whistling a melody. And a voice that sounds a lot like Spring sings:

My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

 The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away” (Song of Solomon 2:10-13).
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Click: Rise Again

10-13-14

Sometimes when we make life-transitions, what we leave behind is ugly: think of a chrysalis and a butterfly. I am reminded of Mark Antony’s oration over the body of Caesar: “The evil that men do oft lives beyond them; the good is interred with their bones.” But when I “process” Shakespeare’s words what comes to my mind is not only the question of evil. Because good – good works, good deeds, sacrifice and service – can survive our lives to encourage others, at least.

In fact, sometimes we confront the anomaly that what is “left behind’ (please, I am not talking of the movie) can be beautiful – maybe more memorable than what is supposed to be more important! The wisdom that can be drawn from this, and life-applications, struck today’s guest essayist, my friend Laura Pastuszek. She will state her revelations better than I just attempted to do:

Laura writes, My friend collected many colorful shells at the beach on Sanibel Island in December of 2011. And it appears she had a reason in mind for how she wanted artistically to display these dead creatures. However, she never did tell me.

If anything, she may have placed them with care, and they were purposely arranged, or maybe done in a random act? I really can’t recall. And yes, in a way, it matters because these shells helped me through some of the most difficult events that I could have never imagined.

In the three years since we spent this week at the beach together, both of us have had our share of tragedy. Mostly random. Funny how life works that way. It is inconvenient to say the least, unbelievable to sound almost cliché when describing sickness and death. Little did I know that I would experience losing eight people that I cared about, including my brother, mother, and father within one year. And I never dreamed that the “collector of the seashells” would go through radical breast and lymph surgery due to an aggressive cancer that nearly took her life.

The shells I photographed are beautiful!

But they are dead.

How can this be? The sickness and deaths I have experienced were anything but beautiful. In the months and years that I have suffered great loss, I have often asked myself where to find the beauty in the midst of my world. Quite frankly, it has been hard to see, and I have often prayed for the ability to look through such lenses.

Looking more closely at the photograph of beautiful and colorful shells, I could not help but notice the red, brown, purple and other hues of colorful shells. Vibrant, even in death. Really? Death is certainly not vibrant, it is depressing and painful, at least from my vantage point.

Some of the shells are smooth, some are rough. Death came like that for my loved ones. For some it was sudden, for others it stalled for months and it was a brutal road.

One day, just like I took the picture of the beautiful shells, I took inventory of the memories of my loved ones. Was there a big difference between the shells and my loved ones? I realized that the hardest thing to accept about death of a loved one is the absence of a physical “shell.” I only have my memories to rely on for preservation of the inner beauty of my loved ones, and this intangible act is difficult, especially when the territory is foreign.

I have always loved shells for what they looked like on the outside, never for the creatures that were alive within. I never really bothered to know or enjoy the inner being of most of these creatures. But it was that inner being that caused such beauty to last.

Revisiting the photograph caused me to think about death in a whole new perspective. That is the beautiful thing about grief. I realized that I get through it by seeing little glimpses of life, mostly in the obscure; and this revelation about dead seashells definitely is obscure… or at first seemed obscure. But I am being reminded to make the intangible remnants of my loved ones’ lives matter. Intently, I place such memories in my heart and mind, often.

I recall my mother’s words saying, “Honey, you always do a great job…” and my father taking the toothpick out of his mouth, tilting his head my way, waiting for a kiss on the cheek when I greeted him; my brother reminding me to defrag my computer; and my friend chatting with me over the phone about each of her four young children. I capture remnants of my loved ones’ characters, accomplishments, dreams, and spirituality, often. Those things are what I picture deep inside.

They have become my beautiful shells, arranged nicely, each showing their distinctive wonder.

And each morning, as the sun rises, I can walk along the water’s edge, and have trust that God is with me in my grief. It is He that helps me to rearrange the picture of my new life, and to heal. It is His spirit that enables me to live through the death of loved ones, through grief, as an act of faith and II Corinthians 5:7 reminds me of this: “For we live by faith, not by sight.”

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We should always feel the assurance of knowing that if we don’t see our friends and loved ones again, whatever the circumstance, we surely may see them on heaven’s shore. In the meantime the lives we lead, and leave some day, will be seen by others as beautiful testimonies of who we were, what we did… and who we served. Like shells on that beautiful shore.

Click: If We Never Meet Again

4-9-12

Happy new year! That’s one way to feel about the first day after Easter. “He is risen!” “He is risen indeed!” is how Christians of the first centuries would exchange greetings. All things are made new, after the Resurrection. But then, every day should bring the realization of a new life in Christ!

I have been thinking of the first times I heard about Jesus. Too early to remember an exact day, because I was fortunate to be born into a family of believers. “Church-goers.” As a child I had a standard faith – I use the term because it was only in my twenties that I came to an intense, personal knowledge of biblical truth and relationship with Jesus: born again. Yet, early on, seeds were planted; Bible stories were told; verses were memorized; prayers were said; hymns were sung.

Seeds. A good metaphor at Springtime. Not many committed Christians in our culture can say that they only heard about Jesus for the first time in the their twenties or forties. (Hearing the “hard truth” of the Bible, in this culture, is another matter… for another discussion). But almost every new believer will say he or she “returned” to the faith. Seeds, when planted, sometimes lay dormant, but can always sprout.

A “standard” church-going kid, I went through my wise-guy period of rebellion against God in my high-school years. Never an atheist, I veered toward agnosticism, and yapped a lot of skepticism in classes and to friends.

In the cafeteria, there was a kid who was kind of a loner. Not the newspaper-headline kind of loner, just a guy who always pretty much kept to himself. He was a pudgy kid, I don’t think an object of bullying or anything, just kind of private. One day he called me over to where he was eating, alone. I never really had talked to John Frost (what were his parents thinking?) before then.

I remember being impressed, a really nice kid, good conversations, a clever guy. Before I knew it, as natural as anything, he was talking to me about Jesus. He shared a little, but no grilling of me, no “decision” challenge. Every once in a while, thereafter, we would share lunch – I’ll admit that he did more of the inviting than I did – I would share dessert, and he would share Jesus.

I will tell you that Johnny’s quiet witness, as we can call it, had a greater impact than the substance of what he said… or so it seemed to me. The fact that a stranger would do this, non-confrontationally, randomly, bravely, and – what else? – in the purest form of Christian love, impressed me. Later on, it inspired me. How to be gently bold.

Seeds. Can you remember who first told you about Jesus? Most likely it was a parent or grandparent (am I wrong to want to suggest “mother or grandmother”)? Was it a random song on the radio or Christian cartoon on TV? Was it a Sunday School teacher? Almost all of the “yes” answers would still have to trace back to parents who placed us in situations where we could see or hear… where seeds could be planted. Parents, take note.

I certainly can remember the first “hymn” I learned. It is still one of my favorites, not only because of its profound though simple message, but because it always transports me back. “Jesus Loves Me” puts me in the place where God first said Hello to me, where I had an inkling of a loving Savior, where I could believe that I belonged to Him, and where a book called the Bible could hold answers to my questions. Yes, Jesus loves me!

Is that song one of the “seeds” of your faith? Can you remember who first shared Jesus with you? And early, middle, or late in life, did someone else come alongside you to nourish those seeds? In my case, it was a guy named Johnny – a real Spring Frost; maybe an angel – who chatted comfortably about the greatest truths of history, and the neediest needs of my needy heart, in the corner of a high-school cafeteria.

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Click: Jesus Loves Me, This I Know