Monday Morning Music Ministry

9-16-24

Daylight Savings Time is about to end, and I never have been able to figure out whether to be grateful or regretful – you know, “gaining” or losing an hour of sleep. Just go to sleep, like my mother used to say. It’s like the “glass half-empty vs half-full” discussions. Just drink it, or re-fill it, and be quiet. Well, there are many things I don’t understand.

I do know that Autumn, that imminent change of season, traditionally has been regarded in poetry and art as the gloomiest of the four seasons. It seems odd, but among the testimonies of not regarding cold, dead Winter as gloomy (a host of happy outdoor activities and holidays have already sprung to your mind) is the long narrative poem by John Greenleaf Whittier, Snowbound. A 19th-century family is stuck in the house after a tremendous blizzard, and possible feelings of dread or fear are replaced by bonding, reminiscences, humor. Outside, all is frozen and every living thing looks dead, but warmth and life glow in the family circle. Winter = not so bad.

Autumn is the only season, at least in the English language, that has more than one name. Among its traditional names was Harvest – before urban living made that concept somewhat abstract. Then there is the familiar Fall whose origin philologists have not been able to trace, but there is the obvious association with “fallen leaves.”

As I say, and despite the warm associations we might have with colorful leaves and familiar smells in the air, in literature and art Fall is often the basis of melancholia. Some psychologists say that Fall outpaces Winter as the season of peoples’ dark depression. Perhaps, after sunny and bright summertime, the palpable signs of death surround us. Dying and falling leaves. Bare trees. Wilted flower-beds. Field animals looking for shelter. Earlier dusk and darkness descends. Colder air drives us indoors.

The adagio from Antonio Vivaldi’s “Autumn” in his iconic concerti grossi The Four Seasons is beautiful – but covers us in a sad, melancholy cloak.

If we might feel overshadowed by vague signs of dying and death, however, don’t blame it all on nature. In a larger sense, humankind – the post-Christian West especially – is at a point where we choose Death at almost every opportunity. In many way we live in a Culture of Death.

Yes, there have always been wars and rumors of wars… but today they are deadlier than ever, a fact that encourages rather than deters the war parties running governments. A Culture of Death.

We have developed new scientific means to extend life and confront diseases… but today, Science also aggressively pursues ways to end lives. A vast majority of birth “defects” are “terminated” – that is to say, babies are killed. A majority of unwed mothers arrange for their babies to be killed – something that politicians call “health care.” A Culture of Death.

The various surgical and “psychological” imperatives toward lower birth rates, “transgender” advocacy, homosexual relationships, genital mutilation – even denying parental notifications and obligating taxpayers to support – resist procreation and the furtherance of life. A Culture of Death.

The most obvious contemporary versions of human sacrifice and infanticide – the American spin on practices we condemn in ancient societies and pagan tribes – are “mercy killings” and, of course, abortion. Now I myself once was quite inured to the concept and practice; I viewed abortion as a calendar-skewed version of birth control. I now feel like I have blood on my hands. So you can jump on my “conversion,” but don’t jump ugly; many of us have seen the light. Along my personal Road to Damascus, I scored one of the rare interviews with the lady who was “Roe” of Roe vs Wade… and who became bitterly regretful about her role. Beyond that, I cannot understand those who endlessly bemoan the accounts Jews deemed “inconvenient” by Nazis, yet are quite comfortable with 63.5-million “inconvenient” babies killed since Roe. A Culture of Death.

And people feel depressed by Signs of Death that accompany the return of Autumn? What an insult, if I may say, to Mother Nature and (properly) Father God. Maybe that “glass half-empty or half-full” metaphor has resonance after all. Maybe Harvest-Autumn-Fall is entirely different than many people are wont to perceive.

Rejoice! Leaves die, but before they happily flutter among us, they clothe themselves with brilliant reds and yellows and orange colors that painters can hardly capture. The aromas of Autumn are unique, almost romantic. (I hope your neighborhoods still allow the burning of raked leaves.) Yes… harvests! Vegetables and fruits that were nurtured through the Summer can now be enjoyed – different colors and flavors associated only with Fall. Crisp air? Invigorating; time to huddle and cuddle; and to experience a new aspect of nature… not a dying one.

And if trees go bare, and crops are harvested, and things superficially look bleak… we cannot forget that many things go dormant, but do not die. Seeds will sprout, even through cracks in cement. Flowers will bloom in deserts and other unexpected places. Woodland animals are born, blink, and open their eyes.

Landscapes are resplendent with color. “Dead” wildflowers and Indian corn grace our homes. Seashells and periwinkles, so unique and colorful, are, after all, virtual external skeletons and husks of dead life; but beautiful. The sun, they tell us, is dying… but it gives life and warmth. My go-to source of wise comments (after the Bible), many of you know, is Theodore Roosevelt. On these subjects he once wrote, “Both life and death are part of the Great Adventure,” and it surely is so.

Finally let us remember, always remember, the One who tasted death… yet overcame it. Jesus died, so that our souls escape eternity in hell where there is no life. We, like our Savior, can overcome sin, death, and the grave, and know eternal life.

A Culture of Life!
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Click: I’ll Have A New Life

1-22-24

Quick: Word-Association. I say “Life,” you think – what? An old magazine? A prison sentence? A breakfast cereal?

This week the annual March For Life occurred in Washington. Somewhat ironically it was held during a brutal, raging snowstorm – thousands and thousands of people figuratively shaking their fists at Cold Death, and affirming Life.

Half a century ago Roe vs Wade became the law of the land – or, more properly, it swept away many laws of this land. It was consequential, and the Supreme Court ruling can be seen as defining an “era.” Then, recently, another ruling reversed much of Roe’s finding, and now we live in a Post-Roe Age.

Rather than outlawing abortion, the recent Dobbs Decision essentially lets the individual states decide policies regarding abortion – matters of sanctions, “pain thresholds,” gestational life and viability, coercion of medical staffs, etc. It was inevitable that fifty, or more, bitter debates would emerge from Dobbs. As people dispute the beginning and the end of life, the debates about abortion will not end.

It was recently calculated that the Dobbs decision likely has resulted in more than 50,000 births that otherwise would have been ended. In the political numbers games, that will be compared to millions of babies murdered (excuse me, “terminated”) under Roe. Having just employed both euphemisms and incendiary words, I am aware of the emotionalism that inevitably attends this discussion. Like many people, from President Trump to neighbors and relatives, I once was pro-abortion, or indifferent to its horrors; and have repented. Some of those neighbors and relatives gave birth instead of aborting. Some, in fact, are people whose mothers decided against aborting them at the last moments.

“Life.”

It is more – we need to remind ourselves above the din and clamor of political debates – than magazine titles or breakfast cereals; and surely more than merely escaping the abortionist’s tools. But when we cheapen Life amid arguments about scientific data, and “hardships on pregnant woman,” and a mother’s right to privacy vs a baby’s right to life, etc, we also cheapen the value of Life-beyond-birth. It is no coincidence that during the Roe era there was a precipitous rise in child abuse; neglect and abandonment; the dissolution of the nuclear family; and, at the other end of the line, growing acceptance of elder abuse and neglect, and (call in more euphemisms!) “mercy killings.”

Twenty years ago I interviewed Norma McCorvey, the woman who was the “Roe” of Roe vs Wade. The simple and shy women seldom granted interviews, so I was fortunate to glean first-hand impressions of her crises, the manipulation she endured, and her transformation to anti-abortion advocacy.

My late wife Nancy became an expert on Life, so to speak – having received, at death’s door, a transplanted heart. She also received a kidney transplant, and endured diabetes, strokes, cancer, celiac disease, amputations, and other challenges. She wrote about her encounters with Life:

I was diagnosed with heart disease when my three children were 15, 14, and 11. After three heart attacks in 10 months the doctors told me that I would not survive a fourth. This news came on my 42nd birthday. Within the month I was transferred from our local hospital to Temple University Hospital in Philadelphia and put on the transplant list for a heart; and for my failing kidney as well.

Events moved quickly, and I really didn’t have much time to think about what was ahead. As a diabetic, I had assumed that at some time I might need a kidney transplant – I had never thought about needing a new heart! I also assumed that the whole process was like changing a battery: take out the old and put in the new.

Not quite. Because my doctors could not guarantee my survival at home for longer than two weeks, I had to stay in the hospital, with heart monitors attached to my chest, and an IV tube continuously feeding me medicines that kept my heart working at its maximum possible efficiency.

In the beginning of this process, I think most patients in my “group” of potential organ recipients were, like me, a bit naive. We didn’t know about some of the complications associated with the surgery. Strokes, blood clots causing the loss of limbs, and blindness were just some of the potential problems. Our group of approximately 16 patients was relatively healthy or at least stable, but every now and then reality would strike.

Without warning, people “coded” (heart stopping); sometimes they could not be revived. Other times those who had received transplanted organs would return to the hospital with rejection (the body fighting the new organ).

We all know there are no guarantees in life, but no matter how young or old, we tend to take some things for granted. However, when hospitalized in a heart-failure unit, never knowing what the next minutes might bring, I developed a deeper sense of what was important to me.

I prayed for more time – time to be a mother to my children, for us to be together as a family. I cried out to God, “How much longer?” He answered in the words of I Peter 5:6,7: Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time, casting all your care upon Him; for He cares for you.

And I learned to trust Him. Just as He was taking care of me, He would take care of my family. And each time I asked “How much longer?” He would remind me of a promise I made to Him that I would stay for as long as He wanted me to. And God gave me His total peace.

In all ways my hospital stay – eight weeks before organs became available; then three weeks after the operation, until I could go home – was a good experience. I came to know God in a more intimate way, to learn to trust Him and His ways, and to appreciate all that He has given me. I began praying for the other patients on the floor; first for those on their way to the ER, then weekly Bible studies, then prayer-support groups. We started a family ministry that lasted more than seven years.

I have seen all three of my children grow up. Heather became a youth minister; Ted is a television news producer [now in Washington DC] and Emily moved to Ireland after doing missions work [and has started her own business of American-style foods]. And I have four beautiful grandchildren. I am very proud of them all.

At one time I did not have real hope, leaning on my own view of life. But as Psalm 119:50 says:

My comfort in my suffering was this: “Your promise preserves my life!”

Nancy lived 16 years after her new heart and new life. There’s life and there’s Life. There’s Life, and there is Living. There is extended life… and there is Eternal Life. Go ahead and embrace the euphemisms! God lives in them and we can too.

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Click: I’ll Have a New Life