MOMENTO MORI

The Valley of Vision

momentomorimortality — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 18:02:59 +0000

Facebook’s “Like” Button Explained

momentomorimortality — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 16:51:10 +0000

Christmas in a Nutshell

momentomorimortality — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 16:28:10 +0000

This is a Tragedy

momentomorimortality — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 23:44:24 +0000

Contentment: That Slippery Thing

momentomorimortality — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 02:44:03 +0000

From Amy’s Humble Musings:

Yesterday I watched my son ride his bike through the front pasture. He was chasing a cow. At times like these, I’m not sure why I gave him siblings or a dog. We don’t have sidewalks here or else I’m positive he would’ve chosen to ride on that.

I’m glad he didn’t run over the cow. Puzzle, the nice milk cow, is about the only animal on this place who earns her keep. We get almost three gallons of milk from Puzzle on once-a-day (everyday, of course) milking. Even for greedy guts like us, that’s a lot of milkshakes and alfredo sauce. So last night, I called up the dairy across the street to see if they had any bottle calves for sale. They did.

I hung up the phone and yelled for the masses. My kids found a dog collar and leash (actually, they stole one off the calf born last week) and came back home twenty minutes later with a little Jersey bull calf. He’s one week old. Sure, I can’t get a latte where I live, but I can always scrounge up a bottle calf or a moonshiner lickity split. Bonus points if either can stand up.

While my oldest kid peddled after a cow and my younger son took turns walking the new baby calf on a dog leash, Greg and I sat on the porch, and I talked about the sporty convertible I planned to drive one day. Greg swatted a fly.

The car will have leather seats. When I reach for the seat belt buckle, there won’t be any gum wrappers hidden underneath it. There won’t be dog pee on the front right tire. When I open the car door, a bucket of baseballs won’t spill out and I won’t get a ticket for littering for simply wanting to get into my car on a windy day. The tape deck will work.

By then, my kids will have learned not to eat, drink, throw up, or breathe in the car I have to drive. In this universe, my hair won’t be frizzy anymore, and the bank teller won’t be snotty with me. It’ll all be great. I can see it now.

This morning, I had someone tell me that my life was perfect. I appreciated her letting me know. (She hadn’t heard about the goats yet, and for decorum purposes, I decided against sharing any labor and delivery stories.) I’ve got six kids, a farm, and I make my own butter. So obviously.

I know what it feels like to find out everyone else is having a good time while you’re just paying bills and trying to get the kids to brush their teeth and show some respect around here. I know that everyone else is happy because last year I signed up for Facebook and now I have friends.

We’re all reaching, trying to tweak that thing that if we could “just get right” will magically make our lives perfect, or at least….happy. When it’s late and quiet and dark, sometimes we are just thinking about how to hold our marriage together. I think about the perfect formula for happiness all the time, though I’m too theologically snooty to call it that. If I could just lose weight, if I could just control my temper, if I could just remember what I wore yesterday but forget about that thing someone said last month, if I could just be open and vulnerable to the people I love — then everything would be okay. Wouldn’t it?

For tonight, I sit on my porch and stop talking. I watch. It is summer, God’s favorite season, and incidentally, mine as well. There are cows frolicking in my pasture. And little boys too.

Going Down Singing

momentomorimortality — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 20:49:46 +0000

Carolyn Arends explains why we should all remember that we will die:

The day before he died, my father wore what his doctors called the “Star Wars mask”—a high-tech oxygen system that covered most of his face. Pneumonia made his breathing extremely labored, but that didn’t keep him from chatting.

“Pardon?” my mom would ask patiently, trying to decipher his muffled sounds. Exasperated, he’d yank off the mask, bringing himself to the brink of respiratory arrest to ask about hockey trades or complain about the hospital food.

After several hours, he gave up on conversation. He started singing.

“What are you humming?” my mom asked. My dad repeatedly tried to answer through the mask before yanking it off again. “With Christ in the Vessel, I Can Smile at the Storm,” he gasped. “Wow,” murmured my mom, before singing it with him.

My dad learned “With Christ in the Vessel” at Camp Imadene in 1949, the summer he asked Jesus into his 8-year-old heart. Six decades later, hours before his death, that silly old camp song was still embedded in his soul and mind, and he was singing it at the top of his nearly-worn-out lungs.

I have never liked thinking about my own death. But I’ve considered it enough to know I hope I go down singing, or at least speaking or thinking, something about Jesus.

I suppose that is why I found myself sobbing on an airplane while reading Margaret Guenther’s The Practice of Prayer. In one section, Guenther discusses the Eastern Christian discipline of continuously repeating the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” She reports her own efforts to incorporate the practice into her daily life, even sizing up the logs she chops for firewood by the number of Jesus Prayers she’ll likely get through before they are cut.

I love the idea of having such truth-giving words ingrained into my routine. But here’s Guenther’s line that really got to me: “I hope that by imprinting [the Jesus Prayer] on my subconscious, it will be with me for the rest of my life, especially at the end, when other words will perhaps be lost to me.”

Guenther, a former professor at General Theological Seminary in New York, is an accomplished and educated woman. Yet she is humble and practical enough to do what she can to prepare for her own death—and for the possibility that even before her death, her mind might fade into dementia. In a culture consumed with denying mortality, here is a woman who plans for it, in a way that affects the minutiae of her life now.

Many early Christian communities encouraged believers to engage in the spiritual discipline of considering their own deaths—not in order to create morbid fear, but to put this life in the proper perspective. Memento mori, medieval monks would say to each other in the hallways. “Remember your mortality,” or, more literally, “Remember you will die.”

Death unaddressed is the bogeyman in the basement; it keeps us looking over our shoulders and holds us back from entering joyously into the days we are given. But death dragged out from the shadows and held up to the light of the gospel not only loses its sting, it becomes an essential reminder to wisely use the life we have.

When we remember the mortality of those around us, they become more valuable to us. Madeleine L’Engle once noted that when people die, it is the sins of omission, rather than the sins of commission, that haunt us. “If only I had called more,” we lament. Remembering a loved one’s death before it happens can spur us into the sort of action we won’t regret later.

And remembering our own mortality helps reorder our priorities; a race toward a finish line has a different sense of purpose and urgency than a jog around the block. When a believer acknowledges that he is headed toward death (tomorrow or in 50 years), he can stop expending the tremendous energy it takes to deny his mortality and start living into his eternal destiny, here and now. And he can be intentional about investing himself in the things he wants to be with him at the end, much the way Guenther seeks to make the Jesus Prayer a permanent part of her psyche.

I don’t want to romanticize death. My friend Bernie calls it “the Great Gash,” and I must confess that on the six-month anniversary of my father’s passing, the hole left by him is still gaping.

But though death hurts, it is not the end. Though we mourn, we do not mourn as those who have no hope. And so I offer my dread of death to the Author of Life, asking him to help me to number my days rightly. I don’t know how many I’ve got, but I want to use every one of them to get the truth about who Jesus is—and who I am in him—more deeply ingrained.

That’s why I’m teaching my kids “With Christ in the Vessel.” We sing it at the top of our lungs.

God’s Been Hunting Me Down

momentomorimortality — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 14:35:13 +0000

David Murray claims that: “God’s been hunting me down for months.”

That was my immediate and instinctive understanding of why the Lord recently sent multiple blood clots into my leg and lungs. Three weeks and two complications later, I’m more convinced than ever that God’s been tracking me for months, with loving arrow after loving arrow, until at last He’s brought me down to the dust. Let me explain.

Up until the last year I’ve lived a more or less healthy and vigorous life. I’m 6′ 3″ and 184 lbs. Although work has pushed out regular daily exercise for a few years now, I still ski, fish, and compete at Tae Kwon Do from time to time. But over the course of the last nine months my medical file has bulged considerably (as my finances have gone the other way). Since September, I’ve had two ongoing health issues, one of which culminated in a major (and very painful) operation in November. Did that all stop me?

Not for very long.

Then came the blood clots. Top that all off with the discovery of a genetic blood clotting problem and I’m beginning to stagger to the ground (reluctantly). So just to be sure, God sent two further medical complications over recent days (I’ll spare you the gory details), one of which will be with me as long as I’m on this earth.

This is the finger of God.

STOP!

I’ve stopped.

And I know that’s the main message God has been sending me through these afflictions. STOP!

My life and ministry had been getting faster and faster and faster for years. And since coming to the USA, I’ve added a turbo gear. It’s all good stuff: delivering lectures, preaching sermons, speaking at conferences, writing books, producing DVD’s, etc. But it’s been at the expense of daily intimacy with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Good things replaced the best thing.

I’m not talking so much about neglect of private prayer, Bible reading, family worship, church attendance, etc; all these things have been steady and routine – although definitely too routine. No, my problem has been more about what has not been happening in these regular spiritual disciplines and throughout the working day.

Ministry without spirituality
Let me summarize where I believe I erred: ministry without spirituality. Perfunctory and spiritual disciplines and going from one ministry activity to another to another to another, with hardly a moment to feel dependence upon God, cry for help, and seek the Lord’s blessing before, during, or after. Cramming every waking moment with “productive” activity. And certainly not a second in the day to “be still and know that I am God.”

But now, in the enforced stillness, I hear a loving and concerned God say, “My son, give me your heart.” Not your sermons, not your lectures, not your blogs, not your books, not your meetings, etc. But your heart. YOU!

In the back of my mind I knew that my spirituality was not where it should have been, but I said to myself that I would push through jam-packed March and April and then get back into a good spiritual frame. That was my plan.

At the end of April, I finished the last in that long series of speaking engagements, and settled down into my chair the next day to begin my planned soul-revival. And thirty minutes later I was in hospital. The Planner swept my plan off the table.

But why should I blog all this? Why not just learn the lessons privately? My indecision over this explains why this article has been sitting in my “draft” folder for two weeks. Then last week I read Michael Oh’s excellent warning to leaders about Fruitfulness without purity. Although that was not the pit I fell into, I thought I might be able to warn others about the snare that got me for a time: the large and well-populated pit of “Ministry without spirituality.”

And I don’t just want to warn; I want to share some helps that I believe will help others avoid it or get out of it.

1. Sleep more: I’ve neglected my body for too long and it’s started disintegrating as a result. It is the temple of the Holy Spirit as much as my soul. In other words, it’s God’s house and I need to care much better for it (1 Cor. 6:19-20). For many years I’ve slept only 5-6 hours a night, worked intensely through the day, and traveled an inordinate amount as well. Through sheer will-power, I’ve pushed my body beyond its limits I’m now paying a heavy price (in more ways than one).

2. Slow down: I’m deliberately slowing down my walking, driving, and working speed. I cannot have communion with God at Mach 3. I cannot worship God and productivity. I cannot condemn all the “-holisms” apart from the one beginning with “work-” however personally enjoyable (and beneficial to others) it may be.

3. Stay at home (more): Due to ongoing blood clotting issues, I’ve had to cancel all speaking commitments outside of Grand Rapids for the rest of the year. Moving forward, I’m setting up a small accountability group to help me pick 2-3 speaking engagements/conferences each year, probably focused in the USA and Canada. I’m going to have to steward my physical resources more wisely if I’m to have any hope of extended usefulness.

4. Serve the local church: With all my traveling over the past years, I’m afraid that I lost my focus on serving the local church God has placed me in. I’m looking forward to more time in the pew, more fellowship with the believers in my own church, and more availability to serve the Grand Rapids churches.

5. Socialize more
What’s the point in preaching around the globe picking up compliments from strangers, when I don’t have time to speak with my neighbors, keep in touch with distant family, lunch with colleagues, or just build relationships with God’s dear children in my own congregation! God’s put people right under my nose. God knows that I need them; and some of them need me.

6. Switch off: Compared to many, I believe I am very disciplined in my use of technology. However, I still believe it’s had too large a place in my life. I’m in a routine now when I check email twice a day, and blogs and Twitter once a day for a limited period of time. I’ve turned off notifications on my phone. And I’ve found that the more I’ve disconnected from technology the more I’ve connected with the Lord. Which brings me on to…

7. Seek the Lord: I’ve been taking time – 5 minutes here, 15 minutes there – to simply think about the Lord and talk with Him throughout the day. To prevent further clotting, I have to walk every hour or two which forces me to leave my desk and work behind. I’m trying to meditate then on a Bible verse, or on one of the persons of the Trinity, or one of Christ’s miracles, or a Psalm, or something I read. Whatever will build my relationship with the Lord – just like I did when I was converted 20 years ago. To put it bluntly, I’m trying to relate to the Lord much more directly rather than through ministry, and more privately rather than through public service.

A very happy birthday
Thus far, the Lord has given me a submissive spirit to His providence. I celebrated my 45th birthday on Saturday and it meant more to me than any other birthday I’ve had. It’s good to be alive. But it’s also been good to be afflicted, for I have learned so much about God and His grace through it (Ps. 119:71).

I still have shooting pain from time to time in my chest, I get tired after 5-6 hours of work, especially if it involves intense interaction with people, and medication has not yet stabilized my clotting at a safe level. However, I know more of the love of God in Christ than I’ve ever known before, and perhaps especially in the well-directed sting of a loving Father’s wise chastisement.

This is one buck that’s very thankful for the life-giving accuracy of the heavenly archer.

A Sickbed Often Teaches More Than A Sermon

momentomorimortality — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 16:06:10 +0000

Luther said that he could never rightly understand some of the Psalms, till he was in affliction. Affliction teaches what sin is. In the word preached, we hear what a dreadful thing sin is, that it is both defiling and damning, but we fear it no more than a painted lion; therefore God lets loose affliction, and then we feel sin bitter in the fruit of it. A sick-bed often teaches more than a sermon. We can best see the ugly visage of sin in the glass of affliction. Affliction teaches us to know ourselves. In prosperity we are for the most part strangers to ourselves. God makes us know affliction, that we may better know ourselves. We see that corruption in our hearts in the time of affliction, which we would not believe was there. Water in the glass looks clear, but set it on the fire, and the scum boils up. In prosperity, a man seems to be humble and thankful, the water looks clear; but set this man a little on the fire of affliction, and the scum boils up — much impatience and unbelief appear. “Oh,” says a Christian, “I never thought I had such a bad heart, as now I see I have; I never thought my corruptions had been so strong, and my graces so weak.

-Thomas Watson, A Divine Cordial

HT: Blogging Theologically

Making a Mockery of Christ

momentomorimortality — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 00:48:51 +0000

“To pretend to trust Christ to save you from sin while you are still determined to continue in it is making a mockery of Christ.”

- C.H. Spurgeon (1834-1892)

HT: Defending. Contending.

Sickness Can Open Our Eyes

momentomorimortality — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 16:44:33 +0000

Be laid aside in bed for a week.

You will soon know whether you are a Christian or not.

—D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones