When 'the show must go on'

 

If Freddie Mercury and Queen's "The Show Must Go On" describes your life:

"The Show must go on!
The Show must go on!
Inside my heart is breaking,
My make-up may be flaking,
But my smile, still, stays on!

Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance.
Another heartache - another failed romance.
On and on!
Does anybody know what we are living for?"

 

then keep reading and maybe we can figure what this life's about and how to go on. (This blog won't take long!)

Freddie leaves us empty - he leaves us still questioning life and he doesn't give us an answer. He leaves it to chance and he's adamant that if anything else, "the show must go on". But how? By looking to him and his life? Now I know the music genre is drastically different but let's look at Carrie Underwood's latest "Something in the Water" to get a different look at life. Carrie sings:

 



"Couldn’t fight back the tears so I fell on my knees,
Saying,“God, if you’re there come and rescue me.”
Felt love pouring down from above,
Got washed in the water, washed in the blood and now I’m changed
And now I’m stronger.”

 

Unlike Freddie, Carrie doesn't look within herself to find strength and hope. Upon the invitation of a "preacher man", Carrie is lead to faith, is baptized, finds a source of strength, and trusts in "someone bigger than (her)". She sings that it "must have been something in the water". And she's "stronger".

That "something in the water" is grace - it's not magic. It's grace that is a gift of Jesus that doesn't require repayment. It's a grace that allows us to keep going in life. It allows us to continue...to continue with all of life's 'acts' and life's 'shows'. Grace carries us from Act 1 (our new life in Jesus on earth) to the final Act (our eternal life with Jesus in Heaven).

Jesus invites us to cast our life's struggles on him and he will carry them. You can look it up here - Matthew 11:28. He doesn't promise life to be easy or to be free of trials, but he does promise us that he'll carry us when times are tough and life seems hopeless.

If you're looking for hope; if you're looking for purpose, look up - not within - as Freddie tried. You won't find it there. Look up toward Golgatha on Good Friday and see the cross where Jesus died, look inside the empty tomb on Easter and...live.

When you feel lost; when your forget life's 'lines'; let Jesus take the lead role and the show will go on.

Believing is seeing

A friend of mine from Calvin College usually summarized any decision he made like this: "It's real simple." And then he'd proceed to give a lengthy explanation. So here's my attempts at using his template!

It's real simple. I don't want to 'write' to the choir anymore. I don't want to write 'eloquent' stories or commentaries and have hopes that people I know might 'like' them. I don't want to check how many people have read my blog, forwarded it, or shared it. For me - it has been too time consuming and I don't want my focus to be on the numbers - though web analysts will tell me different - and I've 'said' that I don't care about those things...but if truth be told...I do. And, if I was actually selling something, then it might be justified.

If I write, I want to touch someone's life in a meaningful way - not anecdotally. I want to be an extension of God's grace. Writing quietly in the background of life if that's where he puts me. Because if I try to manipulate life to my advantage, frustration always, and I mean ALWAYS ensues.

So if you have some time, I'll try to explain.

Would you ever search for something if you didn't believe it existed? After all, if it doesn't exist, then why bother? Why would this guy that I photographed on Myrtle Beach go through the expense of a metal detector (approx. $400) and a sand scoop (approx. $120), not to mention his opportunity cost (some ECON101 jargon for you), if he didn't believe he was going to find something of value?

For several days this past week I observed this guy (I'll call him Craig from now on) methodically combing the sand strip for buried treasure - maybe for a lost penny, quarter, diamond ring or an ancient coin washed ashore from the latest tide. Whatever he was looking for he was deadly serious about his search. The rubber boots, the long sleeves, a baseball cap, gloves, a small bag around his waist to store his treasures all gave Craig the appearance that he was on a mission and didn't want to be interrupted or delayed. By the looks of him, this was his job...not a week-end warrior in search of 'The Holy Grail'.

Had I another minute on the beach to summon courage I would have tried to ask Craig some questions - like what he considered his greatest find to be. I would also have asked him how he started his life as a 'treasure hunter'. Maybe Craig would have told me there was a long history of treasure hunters in his family. Or, he might have said it was because of someone he observed when he was aimlessly walking a beach in search of life's meaning one day. Whatever his story, I left wishing I could have asked him about it. And... I would have thanked him for the lesson he taught me. The lesson that believing is seeing.

You know that story in the Bible when the man said to Jesus, "I do believe, help my unbelief" (Mark 9:24)? That's the point! Hebrews 11:6 says: "anyone who comes to (God) must believe that he exists, and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him." I think we spend far too much time trying to prove to others that God exists - thinking that we need to win them to Christ through our arguments and lengthy treatises - that we fail to show Christ in our own actions. Skeptics of Christianity have to believe that they are seeing a difference in our lives. And, if curiosity grows by what they see, then they might want to search for "the difference maker" themselves. In effect, they believe something to exist and now they need something more evident to remove their unbelief.

It's like a business handshake, a personal testimony or a spouse's wedding vow. I don't have empirical evidence to accept it as true, but I believe its credibility based on reasons that have earned my trust. If contemporary science tells us that God is not real because the naturalists say there is no hard factual evidence, then we (Christians) need to be the evidence that offers hope to the skeptic.

Of course, we can't rely solely on our arguments or abilities. Ultimately, it depends upon him and our love for Christ.  Joe Boot writes in Beyond Opinion, "Without love for Christ first and foremost - no matter how strong our efforts - we will be only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal (1Cor. 13.1). May God deliver us from our pride and use us graciously in his mercy".

Thanks for reading...'til we meet again. It may be sooner than you think!

In the meantime, I'll be praying for a new approach to my blog...and for that one person who might say, "Hey, tell me more about this Jesus guy...he sounds interesting".

One more thing before I go... Thanks Craig. You have no idea!

Who was that mystery traveller on the Chicago 'L' train?

On August 25, 1989, after an evening out with friends to say farewell to a memorable summer, a young man stepped out of a car into a rainy, windy Chicago night. The streets were unusually quiet save for a dog's bark and a racing cab probably late for a fare. Walking down the stairs to the platform he looked up at the transit board to see when the next train to Evanston would arrive. Instantly, a wave of uncertainty spread from head to toe as a realization set in. Wrong train stop. Wrong station. Wrong side of town.

Racing back up to street level he frantically searched his pockets hoping to find a quarter to call a cab. Finally, in his last pocket to check he found a quarter - it was the only coin he had. There was a phone booth across the street - his only chance he thought. So, aided by the dim light from a sorry excuse for street lamp above he dialed a taxi's number. “Sorry sir”, came the dispatcher's voice from the other end. “You’ll need to give us a physical address. We can’t pick you up from a phone booth. Have a good night. Good-bye.”

No quarters. No change. No cell phone. Just a prepaid train stub. He'd been advised many times that this wasn’t the time of day to be navigating the streets alone. Boarding an unfamiliar train in the dead of night was his only way home. With a heavy reluctance he walked back to the station...down the stairs and waited.

A train’s lone headlight broke through the fog and rain. No choice but to get aboard. The doors slid open and after glancing around he saw that vacant stares were the only occupants of the late night train. Finding a seat he took stock of those around. The usual late night riders he surmised. Don’t stare. Don’t look out of place. Don’t panic.

“Division is our next stop. Division.” The conductor said. A few moments later: “Chicago is our next stop. Chicago”. Those stops sounded familiar but, there was a problem. He was on the ‘Blue’ line – and should have been on the ‘Red’.

Each time the doors opened, he jumped up to survey his surroundings since the windows were wet with condensation and the rain reflected thousands of tiny lights. Maybe he would recognize something significant. No. Just another wet platform. Just another person looking for a half smoked cigarette.

“Where’re you headed?” came a voice from a seat behind him. “I’ve noticed you getting up each time the doors open”, she said. An elderly lady riding the late night Chicago train was the last person he thought would - or even should - be commuting by herself.

“Yeah. Trying to get back north to Evanston. Got on the wrong train.” His voice quivered.

Looking at him with a strange sort of familiar tenderness, she replied, “That’s where I’m going. I just came from the airport and I’m going up to visit my daughter. You can travel with me…but could you help carry my suitcase?”

“Sure. No problem. Thank you.” Relief washed over him.

Not much was said for the duration of the ride. A transfer at Union Station was required to get on the ‘Red’ line to Howard. About thirty minutes later the voice on the speaker broke the quietness of the ride, “Dempster is the next stop. Dempster.” “That’s my stop”, she said. “Mine, too”, he replied.

The doors opened and they exited the train. Across the platform and down the stairs they went. He handed the lady her suitcase. She turned left and the man turned right. No sooner had they gone their separate ways when he turned to say ‘Thank you’ once again to the lady who accompanied him safely home.

But she was gone. Not a footstep. Not a breeze. Not a trace. Nothing.

I didn’t see her again.

Was it fate? Did mere circumstance cause our paths to meet? Or, was an angel of God riding the Chicago “L” train that late night? Whoever that person was that appeared so unexpectedly, and then disappeared so suddenly, I believe God was watching over me that night. We tend to think that God only acted and appeared to people in the Bible. But he’s as present and active now as he was then. God is here with us. He promised never to leave.

URGENT: Rescuers needed



As far as I know, the rotation of the earth is affected by tidal forces caused by the moon...and losing my wallet. I don't know about you, but when I lose - let me rephrase that...misplace - my wallet, I'm pretty sure my neighbors know. If it isn't 'found' in less than 10 seconds, my entire family plus the family pet is conscripted to search. A chain of command is set up, a 'fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants' grid search ensues...with lots of unnecessary, yet customary, weeping and gnashing of teeth...until the worn out, butt-pressed, forlorn, and forsaken piece of tri-folded, wannabe animal hide gives up its not so hidden hiding place a.k.a. the kitchen counter. Once found, peace is restored, the sun shines brighter, and the earth returns to its daily rotational speed of 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4 seconds.

I wonder if that's today's equivalent to the lost coin or the lost sheep in Jesus' parables in Luke 15. Or, more probably, it might be like losing a set (the only set) of keys which can't be duplicated, or losing an irreplaceable family heirloom, or maybe even losing flight MH370 somewhere in the Indian Ocean. In whichever modern day scenario you can think of, searchers from near and far volunteer to look for the precious lost item and only when it's found will celebration and any 'whooting' take place.

When Jesus talks about looking for the lost and calling back those who have walked away, I get the feeling that he was talking about all-out, no holds barred search and rescue operations. SAR ops like the ones mobilized on mountain sides after an avalanche occurs or a media frenzy covering the SAR of miners trapped in an underground cave. It seems to me that the situations Jesus describes are monumental and potentially life altering scenes. It's life and death...spiritual life and death. But truthfully, that thought has me feeling sad...and guilty (well not so much sad as guilty, unfortunately). When I think of the spiritually lost; sure - it concerns me, but more often than not I lack the sense of immediacy and urgency that Jesus frames for us.

I don't think I'm unique to feeling this way. Generally speaking - and understand I'm not saying it's true of all Christians - our concern gets ramped up a little for direct family members where we might go out on a limb to gently nudge them back to Christ and say to them, with sincerity, "I'm praying for you". However, to those unknown, or even those an arms length away, we hardly give their eternal destination a second thought. (Maybe, it's the idea of predestination that holds 'TULIP' slanted folks like me back where we sit back too casually and we 'give permission' to the Holy Spirit to do his work.).

And, isn't it true that our focus and spiritual intensity on the 'ninety-nine' who worship beside us is far greater than it should be? We're often too busy keeping peace among the choir members and preaching to those already 'found' that we forget about those who haven't darkened the doorways of a church in eons or those who haven't got a clue who Jesus Christ is...although sadly enough his name comes up often in their conversations in a form of a curse.

Today, in our church's sanctuary, I looked at a painting entitled "To the Sinner A Promise of Heaven" by Ovide Joseph Bighetty, a Cree artist whose series of 17 paintings, “Kisemanito Pakitinasuwin -- The Creator’s Sacrifice”, depict Christ's road to suffering, his death, and ultimately his resurrection. In the tradition and style of artwork belonging to North American indigenous people, Bighetty shows Jesus hanging on a birch pole and appears to be talking to one of the convicted criminals hanging beside him. And from the gospel account in Luke 23, we know Jesus welcomed this criminal into Paradise - into Heaven - just moments before his own death. Even up until his last gasps for air, Jesus continued his mission on earth of searching and saving the lost. It was a truly remarkable moment of displaying God's mercy.

So, as long as we're breathing and able, we don't have the option to give up or 'allow' someone else to do it for us. Jesus is the Command officer and we're going live - into a rescue operation not a salvage operation.

It's imperative! Get that search party organized, the media deployed, missing persons signs printed and a parade route planned! Let's find them...and bring them home alive...alive in Christ.

Fifty Shades of Grey and John McCrae

On Libya's beaches the blood flowed red,

From twenty-one martyrs their bodies dead.

Who heard their silenced screams for aid?

The West? With ransoms to be paid?

From comfort our heads in unison shake,

For not our lives we willingly stake.

Awful! Horrible!

What a horrific tragedy!

And in muted silence thank God it's them - not me.

Put down your Fifty Shades of Grey

and retake the torch from fallen poet John McCrae.

For we have broken faith with those who died

On Libya's beaches -

A crimson tide.

 

Henry Vanderlaan; February 22, 2015

 

Dear Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae;

I'm sorry to have waken you from your near hundred year slumber. You see, we once quarreled with the foe. We once held the torch high. We once kept the faith so you may sleep in Flanders fields under the blowing poppies.

Every year, on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, we faithfully read the poem you so eloquently crafted in May 1915 under the larks above and amid the guns below. Bathed in the poetic prose of your seemingly timeless poem, we praise the sacrifices made on our behalf.Veterans, whose numbers dwindle yearly, adorned with metals and poppies brave the elements and march in silence in remembrance of those fallen in wars past and wars current. We hold high the valor and courage of men and women who have served our nation with little regard for self yet with high regard for neighbor.

And now, on the beaches of Libya, innocent blood was shed because the murdered were "followers of the cross" - Christians. But, Mr. McCrae, can you tell us what torch we're supposed to carry? You didn't make that clear. What quarrel should we take up? Quarrels of faith? Of military might? Of economic power? Of gender equality? What? Mr. McCrae...WHAT??

Maybe...what you meant was quarrel only when convenient...when my rights are being violated. And then I'll shake my fist at the nightly news, turn out the lights, and go to bed. It'll be a new day tomorrow. It makes sense now.

You can go back to sleep, Mr. McCrae. Sorry for bothering you. I got this.

Now what page was I on in Fifty Shades of Grey?

Sincerely,

A beneficiary of your sacrifice and 100 million others.

Faithfulness looks a lot like this...

"MOM! Can you help me?"

"MOM! I need you."

"MOM!"

Racing up 13 stairs.
Turning left towards her bedroom.
There she is. On her knees. Praying.

"Just give me a few minutes. I'll be there."

That's all she needed to say and I knew things were going to be alright.

It didn't happen often - a handful of times, maybe - but often enough to forge a memory of my Mom that will stay with me forever. The several times I found my Mom kneeling beside her bed praying to her God was a moment of indescribable comfort. Words fail me. I'm glad my memory hasn't. Yet.

Thinking back to moments of my childhood when I saw the evidence of faith in my parents brings a certain joy and peace that seems reserved for only such memories. As I watch our children become teenagers and get closer to adult life these memories scratch the surface more frequently and they seem to be taking on greater meaning. My parents owned a faithfulness that was tangible. Their faithfulness was demonstrated in part by having daily devotions and praying before and after meals, to church attendance (as a teenager - regretfully, I'd argue it was akin to forcing a horse to drink), to tithing even when money was scarce, and to Christian day schools. I still hear my Mom asking one of us to get the 'black envelope from the hall closet' where she kept the money that was set aside for the weekly church offering.

Which brings me to this thought: faithfulness seems to fall off the radar when talking about the nine fruit of the Holy Spirit. I wonder if it's because faithfulness is an act that exhibits its fruitfulness most often within oneself. With the exception of 'joy', the other seven fruit - love, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control - can be displayed in our actions demonstrated toward others. Faithfulness manifests itself in daily, personal prayer; in weekly worship with God's family; in sacrificial giving; and in teaching our children "when (we) sit at home and when (we) walk along the road, when (we) lie down and when (we) get up". Deuteronomy 11:19.

It's this persistent and gentle faithfulness that glows in Mom's face. For whenever I visit her, she seems to have just laid down her Bible and (or) it appears she had been spending time in prayer in the presence of her Saviour, Jesus.

Mom's speech has been impaired greatly since suffering a stroke in 1996. And, for a reason I don't fully understand, when she sings her speech is clear. It's as if God said, "My child, because of a lifetime of faithfulness you always be able to sing praises to me. I won't take that joy away."

And, if you listen very carefully, somewhere in the distance, you can hear Mom sing a song she often sang when I was growing up - I Love to Tell the Story (Listen to Alan Jackson's version.).

I love to tell the story of unseen things above,
of Jesus and his glory,  of Jesus and his love. 
I love to tell the story,  because I know 'tis true;
it satisfies my longings  as nothing else can do.

Refrain:
I love to tell the story, 'twill be my theme in glory,
to tell the old, old story of Jesus and his love.
(Author: A. Catherine Hankey)

Sing it again, Mom. I want to hear it again.
 

.

Marked for Life, Made to Live

Picture this: there were two deer, each with 10 point racks, standing on their hind legs in a forest clearing. One of the deer has what appears to be a bullseye on its chest. And, the other deer looks at the first and says, "Bummer of a birthmark, Hal!"

A picture, a few words - 5 to be exact - and the stage is set! I'm sure Hal lived to be a very paranoid deer; always conscious that he was helping any would-be hunter get a better shot! Gary Larson, creator of "The Far Side" comic strip, had a great way of giving human qualities and personalities to wild life. His comics were often a single frame coupled with a one-lined zinger. But, that's all he had to say..."Bummer of a birthmark, Hal"...and in no time we can envision Hal living a very shortened life.

Funny, right? But, the odd thing about this cartoon is that I can identify with Hal. No, I don't have antlers or go by the name 'Buck', nor do I expect to live an abbreviated life because of a ill-placed bullseye, but I know first hand what it means to be the owner of a birthmark that's very prominent. It's not on my face as some people have. I was born with a dark, strawberry coloured birthmark that extends from the heel of my left foot, up the calf and to the back of my knee.

I don't remember when I became self-conscious of the mark, but I do remember one of the first times that I made an effort to hide it. I was 7 years old and I decided to wear long pants to my grade school's annual track and field day and I was determined not to be subjected to the questions from curious kids and less-than-tactful adults. When asked why I wasn't wearing shorts I recall making up the excuse that I forgot it was field day...(something a little unbelievable given the excitement and anticipation kids have for field days before they realize running and jumping are not at the top of their skill ladders.) While fumbling for excuses I remember one of my classmates, Marlene G, showing me a moment of undeserved grace and offering some elastic bands to help keep my pant legs rolled up.

Playing soccer wasn't a big deal because you could wear long socks and it would cover up my birthmark. But when I was 17 or so, going to Gulliver's Beach and wearing black jeans on a hot, summer day was a regrettable decision! I think that was the final straw. It was after baking at that beach and getting an even darker farmer's tan that I decided, if you don't like what's on my leg,...DON'T LOOK AND DON'T ASK! Now, I'm gentler and a little more accepting of peoples' curiosity, which is all it really is, isn't it?

A physical mark, a permanent spot on my skin, had partially defined me at such a young age. Starting from a very young age, we let all sorts of outside influences define who we are as individuals. We allow things like a birthmark, the presence or the absence of hair, the size of our house, our height, the make of our car(s), the types of vacations we take, how much money we earn, our job, the size of bank account, our ethnicity, athletic ability, the brand of clothing we wear, sexual identity, our friendships, how many views we get on Instagram, likes on Facebook, +'s on Google, favourites on Twitter (I'll pause here and let you fill in some more because the list is endless ______) to shape our identities. I've heard it said before that we allow our net worth to define our self worth. And, it's sad. Sad.

Look around. We're bombarded with ads that tell us we'll be happier with a drink in our hands, a diamond on her finger, a boat in the driveway, an in-home theatre, better smelling armpits, fresher breath, tighter abs and skinny jeans. Really? Maybe, for a few hours, or days, tops.

I'm not immune to it - I still fight the temptation to compare myself to others. But, here's what I try remember (and I'm not always successful): I was fearfully and wonderfully made by God (Psalm 139:14) and I'm storing my treasures in Heaven! (Matthew 6:20). That's all I need. I just can't use it as collateral on a bank loan!

Come to think of it, when asked by my epidermal inquisitors I should have replied, "Oh...that red spot...those are God's fingerprints he left behind when he made me."

Ah, story of my life...always a day late and a dollar short!

And, after all these years, a word to my 2nd grade classmate Marlene G. - "Thanks for your kindness! I'll never forget."