Still, this passage seems rather convenient.  First Jesus teaches “with authority,” and then he is presented with a convenient opportunity to show that authority in action – to walk the talk.  He even gives orders to impure spirits and they obey him. (NIV).

            I suspect, and the gospels bear this out to some extent, this sort of coincidental event after teaching happened all the time in Jesus’ ministry.  Don’t put anything past God.  And let us not forget that Jesus talked mostly to ignorant, essentially calloused and disinterested people who were convinced they pretty much heard it all and knew it all already.  You know, people like us.

            So Jesus taught and then had an opportunity to give legs to his words.  Sometimes it happened the other way around – where he did something and then explained it.  That would be like a divine show and tell, but I believe with Jesus it was more often tell and then show.

            First, in this case, he taught with authority.  Think about how such teaching might be received today and you can imagine what he faced.  Some likely got turned off.  Some likely got angry.  Some might have been tempted to shout out, “Who the Hell does he think he is?”  But then he showed who he was.

            I have no doubt God sent the afflicted man into the synagogue at that point so first, he could be healed; but second, just to shut up the know-it-alls.  So he spoke with authority?  Yes, and his was God given authority such that even the unclean spirits obeyed him.

            Curious that the people did not obey him.  They were amazed, yes.  They were quick to gossip the story, yes.  Word went out all over Galilee about him, but who followed after him?  Who came to him?  Well, at first it was the lame, the blind and the sick who came to be healed, and plenty of demon possessed people wanting to be set free.  They kind of missed the point.

            The work of Christ simply proves his authority, that he has God given authority.  That means his words ought to be worth listening to and applying to life and we ought to do what he says, don’t you think?.  Anyone who does works like that should be worth listening to, but did they even hear him?  Did they listen and want to hear more?  Or were they so overwhelmed with the casting out of the impure spirit the words got lost in the shuffle?

            Do we even hear him to this day?  Do we honestly listen and take his words to heart, or are we simply looking for some miracle to manifest in our lives?  Do we do what he says?  To this day, I don’t know.  Miracles show wonderfully that God loves us, but God’s love is a given for any who understand the gospel at all.  Mostly they show us that Jesus has the authority so we can trust what he says; except we have to listen to what he says.

            We follow him, but is it really so he can show us where to plant our foot, how to walk the walk, how to grow in grace and be ever closer to God, no matter our condition?  Or do we follow believing that we have heard it all and know it all already and are only waiting for the next convenient opportunity for God to amaze us so we can gossip the latest miracle news all around town?

            Me?  I am not concerned about that self-contradictory external thinking.  Instead, I see an undercurrent that concerns me much more.

            Beneath all of the externals, I feel we are turning into people who want to be frozen in time.  It is like Peter Pan thinking that has taken over the culture.  We have deified youth.  We all want to stay young forever.  Age is seen not as a repository of wisdom and love, but as a flaw, a failing to be ignored and avoided at all costs.

            But common sense will tell you that life is a course, a journey, not a frozen moment of time.  How we walk our journey is what matters, not how we look.

            Worse is the internal dynamic of this “Peter Panism.”  It is found in the attitude that so many people hold: that I am perfect just as I am.  It is the culture of self-esteem run amok.  It is kids on American Idol who cannot sing a note and are surprised the judges don’t love them because everyone else in their life tells them they sing wonderfully well. 

            Among the Peter Pans, there are those who are fooled into believing these inflated egos are really just an attractive form of self-confidence.  Soon enough the boss learns these people are not at all good on the job, they just think they are.  Soon enough, women fooled by this false self-confidence recognize the truth, that it is no more than self-centeredness.  Then husbands get referred to as “Mister Wonderful” in voices filled with sarcasm and a roll of the eyes. 

            Peter Pans, men and women, never see themselves as wrong, ever.  They never say they are sorry, never admit a mistake, and when something doesn’t go their way it is always someone else’s fault.  They never admit to having problems or troubles or being unhappy in any way.  Happiness may well be found on the inside, but it will never even be glimpsed by those caught up in this kind of “I am perfect just as I am,” Peter Pan thinking.

            The truth is life is a journey and we are all forever changing and hopefully growing and learning along the way. 

            The truth is tomorrow will never be a repeat of some glory day.  Tomorrow will be different, and we will be different, and not just physically aged, but different on the inside.  We are never the same person twice and all efforts to freeze ourselves, our lives, personality, ego and all we feel in the perfect state will ultimately fail.

            The truth is the elderly deserve our admiration and affection, not our disdain.  The young need guidance, not simply a free range and the word that they are already wonderful and perfect in every way.  And grown-ups in this culture need to be more honest with themselves.  None of us is perfect just as we are.  There is always a next step.

            The truth is life must be lived in tension.  It is good to be comfortable in one’s skin and content with who we are today.  But at the same time we must always remember that the journey isn’t over.  There is always more to learn and grow and we can always be better people – closer to the best self we can be, perhaps the self we were meant to be.  We can always take a step closer to God as long as we don’t try to freeze ourselves in time.

            Tonight, instead of praying for tomorrow to be a better day, try praying that tomorrow I might be a better person.

            You probably know some Peter Pans, unless you have been completely taken in by the thinking.  You might know a lot of Peter Pans.  Allow me to encourage you. We should pray for them, even as we look in the mirror.

            The river was just deep enough, even in August to meander down in a canoe.  The wildlife came up to the banks unconcerned in the early morning and late afternoon.  With even the slightest breeze there were no bugs at all.  In fact, the most bugs the trout ever got came from those inclined to stand in chest-high waders and try their hand at a cast or two.

            Some members – and there were only 40 altogether – would arrive in their private planes which they landed at a grassy strip some distance from the cabins.  They generally buzzed the main lake once or twice before landing to alert the caretaker and chef that they had arrived.  Otherwise, life was a very calm and quiet affair at the club.  The lake allowed no motorboats and the cars could not do better than ten or fifteen miles per hour on the dirt and natural two-rut roads that snaked around the property

            Glen’s Grandpa had a log-cabin he built himself.  There were back bedrooms on the ground floor, but the kids usually slept up in the loft which overlooked the living area with the cathedral ceiling.  That living room had a dining area at the far end from the front door.  From the table, one could look out the picture window on the dock and that picturesque lake.  Mother would often sit there or on the screened porch just off the dining area and read where she could keep an eye on the swimming area beside the dock. 

            Only one other member built his own place, and that was next door to Grandpa’s beautiful, rustic cabin.  Fortunately, there was a row of evergreen shrubs that blocked the view of that house.  The man, a bank owner from the city, built a bungalow more appropriate to the everglades than the northern woods.  There is no accounting for taste.

            Just up the path from the Banker’s eyesore, and it was uphill, at the highest point along the lake, there was the Big House where most members stayed when they came for a visit.  The two wings of the two story building faced the lake and had a dozen rooms up and down in each wing.  In the center, there was a common living area like in a fine hotel, with one side lined with lake view windows and the other filled with a fireplace big enough for Glen, brother Tom and sister Carol to all stand in when they were young.  The club had been designed originally as a hunting club, and there were signs of that everywhere, including pictures on the wall with men hovering over deer and showing off the bear they killed.  By the time Glen arrived, the club had morphed into more of a summer spot for fishing, swimming, gentle boating and just plain relaxing.  Most of the members, after all, were Grandpa’s age by then or older.

            A little bit down from the Big House was the Cabin.  That was all it was called – the Cabin.  Like the Big House, it was built in whole log style and stained ruddy and dark, the color of morning coffee.  The Cabin could sleep eight, or up to twelve if there were children.  It often had to be reserved in advance.

            At the bottom of the other side of the hill, there was the dining hall with the two new “apartments” that shared a connecting wall.  By new, I mean they were added in the 1960s or the late 1950s.  The dining hall served breakfast, lunch and dinner and asked only for reservations to know how much to cook.  There were always a couple of college age young women hired for the summer to wait the tables and act as maid service for the apartments, the Cabin and the Big House.  It was quite a tranquil life.

            Across the dirt parking lot where several Douglas firs were left standing to make it appear like less of a lot, there was the old farmhouse where the caretaker and his family lived.  Next to them was the old barn where a few boats and jeeps were kept dry and under tarps to await their owners.  Once, there were horses there and in the stables that jutted out from the barn, but by the time Glen arrived, the horses were long gone.

            That was all of the buildings on that ten thousand acres.  Everything else was left to nature, except as I said for the dirt and two-rut roads that snaked around the place, and the grass covered air field.  When the family drove in the gate, there was always a contest to see who could spot the lake first.  It was harder than you might think since the lake was so blue, it was hard to tell what was lake and what was sky.

            The car would mostly stay parked after arrival, but for the occasional twenty mile trip to the nearest little town for supplies and the once or twice per visit trip to the other lakes.  The middle sized lake was stocked with lake trout.  The little lake had pike, some up to six feet long and with sharp teeth besides.  The car also came out around sundown.  Everyone would pile in the station wagon for a slow and quiet drive through one section or another of the property, and they would count the deer out to feed at sundown.  There was an old farm field cleared of trees and a ridge that looked down on the field.  Sometimes the herd grazing was a hundred or more deer.    Once, while riding in an open jeep, Grandpa stopped short and Glen, who was riding in the front wondered why.  A brown bear stood up just inches from the front bumper.

            Grandpa got out.  To be sure, the bear looked more startled than aggressive, but Grandpa showed some courage.  He said. “Shoo!  Skat!”  and the bear went back to all fours and loped down the ridge-side to the open field below.  Glen never knew how his Grandpa felt about that, whether he was scared or what, but when Grandpa got back into the driver’s seat he found a bee resting on the steering wheel.  He squished it with his unprotected thumb, brushed it out of the jeep and drove on.  The man had seriously calloused thumbs.  And he looked at Glen and laughed about it.

            Glen’s grandma died when Glen was still fairly young.  The world had not yet mastered diabetes.  Glen was old enough to remember her well, but at the same time, his grandpa lived alone for years.  Grandpa went up to the club in the early spring and returned to the city in late fall.  Grandpa lived for the club, especially in his last years.  In fact, he died there in a room he had in the Big House.  He died in the night, content to be in the wilderness he loved so well.  When Glen was growing up, needless to say, Grandpa looked forward to their arrival as much as the family looked forward to getting there.

            Then Glen had someone else there who also looked forward to his arrival, at least when he was young, like between the ages of eight and thirteen.

My son is a Traveler.  He has called himself a Christian Traveler at times to distinguish himself from the bums and thieves, homeless people and throw-away kids that populate a sub-culture which for the most part remains out-of-sight in America.  He lives like one who is homeless but that does not matter to him.  He knows more people and has more places to stay across the country than anyone I ever heard of.

The summer he turned eighteen he went on a church mission trip to NYC, and instead of returning home, he visited my sister on Long Island.  He spent one night, left in the morning and walked – did not drive or ride or hitch-hike, but walked to Los Angeles.  It took him five and a half months and his mother and I had no idea where he was that whole time, or even if he was alive or dead.

He often has a Bible or carries some great work of classic literature stuffed in a backpack under a sleeping bag.  He often carries a sketch pad to satisfy his artistic bent, and a guitar to strum.  He has played with a number of bands, some underground, some surprisingly not so underground.  And recently he has taken to carrying a banjo.

I know he has found any number of underage kids and in a sense rescued them, finding them places to stay, work to do and food to eat.  I know he has worked in soup kitchens and shelters across the country.  Understand, if someone gives him money, by the end of the day he has found a way to spend it to feed others.  If someone give him something like a pair of shoes or some such thing, by the end of the day he has found someone else to give it to that needs it more.  He travels light.

From Maine to Chicago to Minnesota to Seattle and Portland Oregon.  From Florida to Charlotte, Lynchburg VA to Saint Louis.  From New Orleans to Kansas City to Denver, he travels.  He knows people everywhere.  His Facebook friends number in the thousands.  And his dad?  I worry and pray for him and feel helpless.

Most recently he was occupying Oakland, but has little to say about the protest part.  His stories all talk about breaking down walls and building bridges between the many diverse and previously distrustful communities in the city.  He talks about people learning to communicate across neighborhood boundaries and many, for the first time in their lives, learning to take responsibility for themselves and share and care for their neighbors.  He talks about the people in this poor and working-class city taking back control of their own city from the owners and career politicians. 

When the Oakland police came with tear gas, he went to the press conference and stood right next to the interim Chief of Police.  The Mayor screwed up on that one.  The Deputy Mayor camped with the occupiers for a while and at least one prominent city attorney quit the city to help defend some of the occupiers.  He cannot speak for the movement elsewhere, but in Oakland it was far from the way it was reported or understood on the left or the right, and it was much closer to a poverty version of the Tea Party than most want to believe.  It was about making peace between people, taking personal responsibility, and building the kind of community a city ought to be, which is a system that serves the people rather than what it has become all across the country where the people are only there to serve the system.

Of course, he had little to do with the protests themselves, not being a native.  Instead, he spent his time helping to set up and run the kitchens, collecting donations and cooking to feed the hundreds and sometimes thousands.  He helped organize the medical tent, and encouraged the community of ministers in their own tent who came to meet the spiritual needs of so many.  He could not speak for elsewhere, but in Oakland, many of the small business in town got on board.  And frankly, they did not care if the food came from the Black Panthers, the Muslim community or Chinatown, it all went to feed the poor and hungry.  Even some police, before they were threatened from above, came around for coffee and whatever my son was cooking up.  The security people hired by the city did not have the same restrictions.  They enjoyed the coffee, and Thanksgiving as well.

On Thanksgiving, my son and the many with him cooked as many turkeys as they received, and all the fixings they could find.  They set up all the tables and chairs they had and even got red and white checked tablecloths and candles for each table.  Because sanitation was a big complaint against the occupiers, they collected some money and had the port-a-potty people make a drop so those who came for the community Thanksgiving feast could have somewhere to go.  The city sent the police and the police said nothing about the tables.  The fire department said nothing about the open candles.  They took the port-a-potty away because the occupiers had not paid the government for the right permits or some such thing.  My son’s comment was, childish.  He later amended that to infantile, and was grateful the pizza place across the street made their bathrooms available.

My son came home for a visit.  Where he will go from here, I cannot say.  I wonder what the father of Simon and Andrew felt and thought when his sons abandoned the nets.  What did Father Zebedee think when his sons left behind the business and all of the normal expectations and responsibilities of what is called a normal life?  I am sure there was anger at first, and probably words.  Jesus’ own mother, brothers and sisters came once to Capernaum to collect him and no doubt, “bring him back to reality.”

I believe in the end, though, all the fathers could do was worry, and feel helpless and pray for their sons.  Where were they headed?  What was this strange call and drive that had taken hold of them?   Why couldn’t they settle down like normal people, to live and love and marry and have children of their own?  How will it all end up?  I think in truth after a certain point, prayer might be the only thing a father can do – it might be the only thing they are left with.  Luckily, it may be the best thing.  I know it is just about all I have.

            “Yes, you said that.  Why should you be surprised it was me on the other end of your rope?”

            “Well, it’s like this,”  Sir Duncan paused to cut two big chunks of roast, mushrooms and greens from the thinner end and left the thicker end on the fire to cook a little longer.  He handed one chunk to Glen who was utterly grateful and ate greedily, though it burned his fingers and his mouth.  “I have run into the same woman four times,” Sir Duncan admitted.  “That is nigh unto impossible given the infinite vastness of this place.  These Second Heavens, this middle space or dividing line between God’s throne and the earth is without end in terms of time and space and its inhabitants are mostly strange, in-between creatures.  I have my own name for this place”

            “Oh?”

            Sir Duncan chewed and stared at Glen once more.  Something was ticking in the man’s head, and at last he came out with it.  “I call this place, Forever.”

            Glen nodded.  It was a fair name.  “Still, I would bet most humans don’t stick around long.  I would guess most end up in one of these houses and get sent off somewhere out of reach pretty quickly.”

            “There is that,” Sir Duncan admitted.  “But in a thousand years I have not run into more than a half-dozen people twice and here in a short time I have met you three times.”

            Glen understood that was unusual, but his mind was elsewhere.  “So if you meet that woman again, maybe you two should travel together.”  He could see from Sir Duncan’s face that the man had thought about it, often.  “What?”

            Sir Duncan shook his head.  “She is Japanese from the days of the Shogun.  We are so very different, the first time I met her I was not even sure she was human.”

            “Well, you certainly have my encouragement.  I just spent a long time in isolation, and believe me, there is no reason anyone should be alone.”

            Sir Duncan nodded but said no more about it.  He also had another question.  “So, are you really a servant of the Lord in disguise?”

            Glen laughed,  Sir Duncan laughed.  When they stopped laughing, Glen spoke in answer.  “I was just going to ask you that.”

            “Odd as I am, I fit in around here.  There is still something very odd about you.”

            “Because I am not dead yet,” Glen suggested.  “But I was going to say I am ordained, or get ordained some day, or whatever.  If you two ever, you know, want to be together and I happen to be around.”

            Sir Duncan turned very red and set another log on the fire.  He said nothing more and opted to sleep.  The sun was about set by then so it was not an entirely strange thing to do.  Glen was also exhausted.  He lay down on the grass beneath the trees, beside the fire and wondered.

            He thought perhaps the two souls of Sir Duncan and the Japanese woman were destined to be together but in their lifetimes they were born impossibly far apart.  Now that they had come to the middle place, to Forever and neither appeared ready to finish the journey, they might meet and be joined together as they were always meant to be.

            A month ago, Glen would have said that any two people meant for each other would certainly find themselves on earth.  Now he was not so sure.  Mistakes might be made, or rather, not mistakes but things that might appear that way.  Glen simply did not have all of the information to understand.  It was like God might be speaking to him day and night, but it meant nothing if God neglected to give him the ears to hear.

            Glen slept on the open grass, on the rocky ground, without blanket or pillow and only the stars above him to watch over him.  It was the best sleep he had in over a month.

            When the morning came, Glen woke afraid that it was all a dream and he was really back in his holding cell.  He opened his eyes slowly and saw the green and sighed.  Then he noticed Sir Duncan was packing his blanket and ready to leave.

            “I thought you might sleep for a while,” he said.  “I tried not to disturb you.”

            “No, that’s fine.”

            “There is a bit of roast still which you might enjoy to break your fast.”

            “Thank you, but I was thinking.  That is twice now you pulled me out of a pit of one kind or another.”

            “Knightly duty,” Sir Duncan shrugged it off.

            “Perhaps, but I have duties, too.  I said I was ordained one day.  I want you to have this.”  He picked up his Bible and gave it to the man.

            Sir Duncan looked at it long before he shook his head.  “I don’t read well.”

            “Good for practice,” Glen said.  “Besides, I have a feeling I won’t be needing it where I am going.  Please.  I would give you the shirt off my back but I already did that once.”

            Sir Duncan Laughed and accepted the gift.  “So now, must I call you Father Glen?”

            “You better not,” Glen responded.  “If you do I may have to hit you even if I break my knuckles on your armor.”

            Sir Duncan laughed again and mounted.  “Don’t misunderstand me.  When I say you sometimes sound like a woman I mean you are the most well rounded person I have ever met.  You seem to be able to see both sides at the same time and I count that as a great virtue.  Most men haven’t got a clue, and to be fair, most women don’t either.”

            “What about you?” Glen asked.

            “I am learning, Madam.  I am learning.”  Sir Duncan rode off, away from the house.

            Glen sat and ate first.  Then he made sure the fire was out.  Then he began to feel uncomfortable being so near the house.  He hustled his feet and was not surprised that he quickly stepped out of the woods in Memorial Field, a public park in the village not terribly far from his home.    

This ends A moment of idle speculation.  Be sure and be with us next week when we ask:  Did Jesus pick up Philip in Galilee or did he make him walk with him from Bethsaida in order to have company for the road?

###

The call of the disciples is always fun and instructive since we have likewise been called to be disciples.  Here, two are called, Philip and Nathanael, and in the course of the story there are several things worth thinking about.

John makes a point of recording that Philip was from the same town as Andrew and Peter.  The implication is that they knew each other.  Philip may have heard something about Jesus.  What he thought is anyone’s guess, but like a pump he may have been primed and ready for the call.  All of that is implication: sensible and reasonable speculation that does not distract from the point.

The point: All Philip needed to hear was Jesus speaking directly to him, “Follow me.”  And he did.    

Some need to hear directly from the Lord.  For some, it is all that they need (though not a reasonable or acceptable excuse for not following).  It may not be in so many words.  It may be a word to the mind or a touch in the heart or a feeling in the gut, but it must be something that can only be understood as a call from God.  Often that is all it takes.  Of course, those called to discipleship then need years to be made into true disciples – ones able to stand on their own two feet.  Generally, people need to walk it to get it, and Jesus spent the next several years with Philip walking the walk.  But initially, Philip’s call came directly from God.  It was the simple words, “Follow me.”

Nathanael exposes the more detailed call that we only speculated about in thinking about Andrew and Peter.  Nathanael and Philip were clearly friends, and in his excitement, Philip could not help but share with Nathanael.  Nathanael’s call began when his friend said “Come and see.”  Those are powerful words. 

Note:  Philip did not talk about Heaven or Hell.  He did not quote scripture (which he possibly knew little).  He did not try in any way to convert his friend (as we often mistakenly do).  He simply said, “Come and see,” as in see for yourself.

Nathanael’s sarcastic response is so typical of the type of responses we might expect to get, especially in the U. S..  People in the U. S. grew up with churches on every street corner.  They might not have been to church since the eighth grade, but the feeling is, “I already know all about that “stuff” and I am not interested.”  Often, all that family or friends can do is say, “Come and see for yourself.  Don’t worry.  I can’t make you believe something you don’t want to believe, but just come with me and keep me company and see if you don’t find something worthwhile in the process.”  With many, that is about the limit on how far we can go.  “Come and see.”

Nathanael comes begrudgingly, we may assume.  What he discovers in not that he already knows all about God and thinks he isn’t interested.  Instead, he realizes that God knows all about him, has always known all about him, and is interested.  Such a God he will follow.  Again, Nathanael, like Philip is ultimately converted, not by family or friends, but directly by Jesus.

We can bring people to the Lord, but the Lord converts.  We may have to be persistent to get people to come and see, but make no mistake, it is God who converts whom he will, and in his own good time.

In my life, I have known a number of alcoholics.  At times, I have likened that trouble to all of us “sinners,” in a several significant ways.  Follow:

First, an alcoholic will confess to being an alcoholic even if they have not had a drink in 20 years.  Likewise, as long as we inhabit this life, sin does not go away.  Being a Christian for 20 years does not mean we have ceased to be sinners.

Second, the “cure” (if you will) is cold turkey – one simply does not take another drink.  But to be effective, one needs community, one needs fellow alcoholics to be there to help, encourage, support and keep the alcoholic from “falling off the wagon.”  Likewise, this is the second most important reason, I believe, God wants us in community.  And it is a great failing of the church in the last 50-100 years.  When faced with a problem, a temptation to sin, or whatever trouble in our daily lives, we need to be able to call and depend on our fellow Christians for encouragement, support and help in “staying on the wagon.”  Instead, these days, our fellow church members are the last ones we will call for fear of the gossip and the thought that we will be diminished in their eyes, and so we go on about our sin-filled lives until we become calloused against the whole idea of sin.  Sin increases because we are not there for each other, Monday through Saturday in the way God intends for us to be… but that may be another message.

(The first reason God wants us in community is, of course, to make disciples.  We are to take those converted by God and spend several years – just like Jesus – “making” them into disciples who can stand on their own two feet.  In my view, this is another, and the most serious failing of the church in the last 50-100 years; that we fail to do this.  But as I said, that may be another message). 

Third, and this is key to our purposes here in this passage, it is understood that we cannot force an alcoholic to stop drinking.  The alcoholic must decide for themselves.  They must be touched by that “higher power” and come to their own conclusion if there is to be any hope of change.  Likewise, sinners must come to recognize things for themselves.  We can call, like Andrew and Peter perhaps, or like Philip.  Indeed, we should call and say, “Come and see.”  But people must decide for themselves.  We cannot force them to believe something they don’t want to believe.  They must be touched by that “higher power” and come to their own conclusion.  You see, we call, but God converts.  That is the way of it.

“No.  Baptism is baptism.  Epiphany in this context means a manifestation of God.  You see, Jesus – God the son – submitted to baptism to fulfill all righteousness.  In other words, he did what he was supposed to do.  Then God, the Holy Spirit descended on him to sanctify and empower him, and God the father declared him to be God the beloved son and the Father was pleased.

There was a pause.

“So aren’t you going to tell me about the Holy Spirit?  I want to be empowered and I want to know that God loves me, too.”

I looked at my son.  “Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework right now?”

I have found that people want to hear that God loves them.  Then also, people would not mind a little empowerment to keep doing what they are doing, and they would like to hear that their lives, lifestyles, life choices and all are sanctified. 

It doesn’t work that way.

Inevitably, people need to stop doing what they are doing and instead do what God the Father wants them to do.  No, God’s love is not dependant on what we do, but it is safe to say God is pleased by our faithfulness. 

The thing is, if we really want to be empowered, sanctified and maybe even hear from God, we need to be about God’s work.  We need to be like Jesus, willing to submit our whole life to the will and work of God.  Abraham did what God asked him to do.  He believed God and it was counted to him as righteousness.

The problem with most is like my son.  They want the As without having to bother doing that homework stuff.

            Glen moved to the back corner of his cot, as far away from the window and outside wall as he could get.  He pulled his blanket up to cover him, and placed his excuse for a pillow between him and the outside.  He held tight to his bible and as he feared, the window and a huge section of concrete around the window came plummeting to the floor.  Glen barely had time to pull his blanket over his head and turn his face to the corner when the massive section of wall shattered his toilet.  Ceramic splinters and concrete pebbles sprayed the room.  The blanket and pillow caught most of it.  Glen only got a couple of small cuts and bruises that would heal soon enough.

            When Glen pulled down the blanket to look again, he saw something he never expected.  His shirt came in the gaping hole and fluttered to the floor.  All Glen could do was stare in disbelief for a good five or ten minutes.  He might have continued to stare if he did not hear a familiar voice.

            “Hello?”

            Glen had not spoken with someone in such a long time, it took him a second to remember he was supposed to answer.

            “Hello?”  He got off the cot and stood as close to beneath the hole as the fallen concrete and broken toilet would let him.  He got his shirt and clutched it while he continue to clutch the Bible in his other hand.

            “Hold on there.  Let me tie this off and we will get you out.”

            Again Glen stood in dumb silence for a moment before he thought to say, “Thank you.”  It was a few minutes before a rope was lowered down to him. 

            “Grab hold and I’ll pull you up.”

            “Just a minute,” Glen shouted back as he quickly tied his Bible into his shirt and tied the sleeves so he could wear it around his shoulder like a pack and keep his hands free.  He grabbed the rope and began to climb without another thought, and when he got to the opening, a strong pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him out.

            Glen could see nothing but light.  The outside sun was blinding his eyes which were no longer used to the brightness.  He felt it best to keep his eyes closed for a time to give himself a chance to adjust.  He did not let that interfere with his words, however.

            “Thank you.  Thank God.  Oh, thank the Lord.  Thank you.”

            “Yes, yes.  But we better get you away from this place as quickly as we can.” The man said.  It was a man, and he picked Glen up and set him on the back of a horse.  Glen held on as well as he could.  He tried not to jiggle too much and tried not to fall off as the man walked the horse for a considerable distance.

            By the time they stopped, they were in the shade of some trees, and Glen’s eyes were adjusting to the light, slowly.  He managed to get down from the horse by himself and without falling.  He paused to pat the horse on the neck before he looked around.  There was a little camp set up, with a fire and meat roasting with some roots and greens stuffed inside the roast.  Of course, Glen recognized the man right away.

            “1192!”

            “Yes,”  Sir Duncan said.  “But this is a bit of strange for me.”

            “Why?”  Glen asked.  “But first let me thank you for getting me out of that endless holding cell.”

            “Yes,” Sir Duncan intoned the word and spent a minute tending his roast.  “The truth is I did not get you out.  I did not even know you were there.”  Glen looked curious and Sir Duncan sat and invited Glen to sit as well before he explained.

            “I arrived here and stopped where I could keep out of reach of the House of the Lord.”

            “The House of the Lord?”

            “That is what the middle ones call it.  No telling how many of them there are, but if you stay here for any length of time you will come across one now and again.”

            “So why do you keep out of reach?”  Glen had some thoughts on the subject but he wanted to hear what Sir Duncan had to say.

            Sir Duncan stared at Glen for a bit.  “Your feminine side must be acting up,” he said.  “You must be starved, but you are not staring at the roast.  You are asking me personal questions instead.”

            “Sorry,” Glen said before he added, “so out of reach?”

            Sir Duncan laughed.  “All I can say is I have seen people go into those places and they never come out again.”

            Glen nodded.  “They feast you and then take you to a place they call the Hall of Grace and Justice.  Actually it is a judgment hall where they pass judgment on where and how you will spend eternity.”

            Sir Duncan looked up and nodded slowly.  “I figured it was something like that.”  He looked at Glen again.  “And you were supposed to spend eternity in that little dirty cell?”

            Glen shook his head.  “They had not decided my case yet.  That was a holding place.  I was there a month and still no action.”  Sir Duncan looked but said nothing.  Glen finished his thought.  “Apparently they could not locate my guardian angel, or as I told them, I haven’t got one.  I never had one.”

            “Not possible,” Sir Duncan said.  “Even I have one, lout that I am.  His name is Ariel, though I haven’t seen him but twice in these thousand years.”

            Glen shook his head.  “If I have got one, I have no idea who it might be, and the angels, er, middle ones in the house have no idea either.”  Glen pointed toward the buildings.

            “Another strange thing about you.”

            “Also, I’m not dead yet.  That kind of messed with their heads, if you know what I mean.”

            Sir Duncan nodded, turned his roast and told his tale.  “I saw a giant walking across the open field there, headed toward the building but not toward the front gate.  If he had been carrying an ax or big war hammer I would not have given it a second look, but he was carrying a shirt and carefully I might add.”

            “A giant?”  Glen figured who it was.  He still had a few aches and sore spots from his beating more than a month ago.

            “Had to be over eight feet tall.”  Sir Duncan raised his hand as if to indicate the height.  Glen imagined the man was not that tall, but near enough.

            “A giant.”  Glen settled that description in his mind.

            “And he walked right up to the house there where all the basement windows are barred against intruders.  He appeared to sniff.  He sniffed the shirt and sniffed the air until he came to one window.  Then he pounded on that window and tugged at it and pounded some more until it finally caved in and left a big gaping hole.  Last, he dropped the shirt in the hole and went away with a very satisfied look on his face.  I’ll tell you, even in this place that was an odd sight.”

            “It was my shirt,” Glen said and he took it off his shoulder and unwrapped it.  He put it on and left the Bible on the ground.  The shirt still fit, though Glen realized he had lost some weight over time.

            “I figured it was someone’s, so as soon as he was gone, I rode up and yelled down the hole.  I was not surprised to get an answer.  I looked down and saw the cell.  It was smaller than a monk’s cell and I bet there was not a cloisters to walk around in or chapel to go to services in.”

            “No way out but a grate in the ceiling,” Glen confirmed.

            Sir Duncan turned the roast again.  “Well, I figured it was my duty to help whoever was trapped down there, so down went the rope and up you came.  I must say, though, I was a bit surprised when I saw it was you.”

            “Why?”

One great mistake in many a presentation of Christianity is the portrayal of its origins in a kind of social and religious vacuum.  There was Christ and his disciples.  There were Jews, and there were Romans who were only to be seen as rulers and soldier.  The society and religion of the Romans (various religions) are never mentioned – a big unknown in the mind of most church goers.  What was it about the Samaritan culture and religion that caused them to be so despised by the Jews.  And what was prevalent outside Judea (and no doubt within as well).  I just imagine a typical church goer thinking the whole world was out there beyond Jerusalem with nothing to hold on to and eager for the message of Christ.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Magi were Medes, and for the most part priests of the ancient Persian religion of Zoroastrianism which (in the days of the Persian Empire) was for a time the largest religion in the world.  That did not change significantly when Alexander the Great overran that Empire.  Indeed, it appears Alexander in his last days adopted many of the tenants of faith in Ahura Mazda.

In 224 AD, the Sassanids took the “Eastern territories” of the old Persian/Alexander Empire and ruled an empire that stretched from Uzbekistan and the Indus to the western reaches of Mesopotamia, butting up against Syria and Palestine.  It was an enormously powerful empire that was able to give the Romans a run for their money.  And its chief religion was Zoroastrianism, and the Magi… Indeed, the Sassanids used that faith as a bulwark against the spread of Christianity in the east.  (And I bet you wondered why Christian missionaries spread into Europe and North Africa where they were inclined to be persecuted and thrown to the lions)…

The thing is, these Magi were not just ordinary men, but men with the kind of status and power to stand before Kings like Herod.  Herod was likely quick to see them.  It was politically expedient to see them.  Though under Rome’s protection, it would have been stupid to turn them away.

Now, these were practitioners of a truly dualistic religion.  They believed in one uncreated creator, but one who – through human agents – struggled against the forces of “unceation” which was seen in decay, lies and everything evil.  To be sure, the Sassanids (and Parthians before them) were militaristic, but the religion itself was one of peace that promoted a good heart and good works.  That is probably why they were eventually overrun by Islam…

But in those days, their ideas and culture was dominant over a large portion of the population and crept into all sorts of things.  Jesus was fighting a terrible headwind his whole life, in case you never knew.

One thing about these three Magi showing up (and the Magi knew all about the stars – astronomy, not just astrology), it shows that even at his birth, Christ was seen by the “Whole World” (Oikumene in the Greek) as being an advent of light, not darkness, and one worthy of worship.  He was seen as intimately connected to the Creator God, to the good, the light, the righteousness of the world and in no way to be associated with the decay and darkness or evil of “unccreation.”  And this was seen by outsiders!  Curious that all Herod saw was a rival…

It also shows that God’s intention was to bring the whole world into Christ. 

It also shows that Jesus had his work cut out for him…

            Glen laid out on the bed.  The pillow was rough and the blanket rougher, but what could he do?

            “Hello?”  Someone called through the grate.  Glen was sure it was one of the angels.

            “Hello?”  Glen called back.  “What am I doing here?”

            “Just a temporary holding tank until your guardian angel can be found and a proper determination can be made.”

            “But I haven’t got one,” Glen said and quickly added, “and I am not dead yet so you better feed me.  If I die of starvation, you will be the one cast into the lake of fire.”  It was the most dreaded thing Glen could think of, and apparently the angel above thought something as well.  The grate slammed shut faster than Glen could blink.  The sound of that clang echoed throughout the little concrete cell.

            When the sun was setting, as Glen judged through the little window way up by the ceiling, the grate opened again.  Someone lowered a tray which held a wooden bowl of oatmeal with a wooden spoon, a small chunk of bread and a wooden cup of water.  Glen shouted up again, but whoever it was did not answer.

            Glen ate his meal hungrily and in silence as the darkness came.  When his only light was the dim light that filtered down through the grate in the ceiling, a light little better than a night light, the angel returned and lowered the tray again.  Glen kept the cup.  He could get water from the sink, and he thought to shout a request, assuming whoever was up top would not answer.

            “Send down a Bible,” he shouted.  At least he might have some reading material.  Whoever it was above sent that down with the sunrise, morning meal of oatmeal, bread and water in a new cup.  Glen said, “Thank you,” and knew that at least he would not go crazy from boredom.  Most of the time, and in the night when the limited light excluded reading, he spent in prayer though he hardly knew what to pray for.  He hoped it would not take too long to make a determination in his case, but after he had prayed through a whole month, he gave up hope for a speedy resolution. 

            Glen began to shout at the ceiling when his meals came morning and night, “How much longer?”  He never received a reply.

            It may have been thirty days.  It felt like thirty years.  The isolation was intense and the feeling that he was abandoned by God and man would not go away.  He felt unwelcomed and unwanted indeed.  He felt like it was somehow his fault, like he was some kind of universal mistake destined to always be at the wrong place in the wrong time and with the most negative, unhelpful and wrong people. 

            The reading of his life given by his examining angel was absurdly and completely wrong, but on examining his actual life, Glen realized there was not much good in it.  The words that escaped his mouth were always the wrong ones, no matter the good intention.  The things he did were good in and of themselves, but always so poorly timed they failed over and over.  And the people he most sought to help were invariably hurt by him even as he was hurt by the ones he trusted to help him.  As the man said, every time he prayed for someone to be healed it was a guarantee the person would die.

            On the other hand, these feelings were utterly familiar to Glen.  They felt like home.  They were the only feelings he ever knew.  He was an unwanted mistake, abandoned by all, and everything he ever tried to say and do turned out wrong and proved to be stupid.  Foolish?  Nothing ever went the way Glen hoped and planned and he failed over and over, not only in his life and actions or even just in his mind.  He failed in his heart and concluded there must be no good in him.

            On the third hand, for those who have such a hand, Glen understood that this imprisonment went beyond reason.  It was over the line.  The idea that he might be some bureaucratic mistake on a universal scale was absurd.  He felt strongly that if the Lord accepted him just as he was he ought to be in Heaven.  If not, he ought to be damned and done.  Being on hold neither here nor there was absurd.  It was not fair.  It was plain wrong, and while Glen would never accuse God of being wrong or unfair, he did accuse God of being silent.  God might well be speaking to him all day, every day, but that meant nothing if God did not give him the ears to hear.

            Glen understood it this way.  There is reason in me and it cannot have arisen by chance or accident.  It can only exist in me because reason exists in the universe, and only an irrational person would believe otherwise.  The thing about not understanding the reason for something is it is no excuse for believing in chance or accident or universal mistakes.  All that means is I cannot see everything, know everything and all the ramifications, nor can I know the end from the beginning.  Or to put it more plainly, I am not God.  God knows what is reasonable and fair.  Ultimately, neither I nor any other human being can know for certain. 

            We may debate how it happened, but that this universe is broken goes without saying.  I see the brokenness in myself and in everyone and everything around me.  But I happen to believe that God is still creating.  Everything that happens is by divine providence making me become the person I am meant to be.  Of course, I would not mind if God would explain to me the reason for some things, like the current difficulty.  That he does not I am sure is part of it.  Not that I blame God for his silence.  I figure it is my receptors that are malfunctioning.  He often said it: Let him who has ears, hear, and eyes see too, I suppose.