The culture has finally gone bust.

How do I know?

For one, Andy Warhol’s prediction from the ’60s has come to pass and is now boiling over. Everybody’s fifteen minutes of fame has been extended and gone the way of urban sprawl. Think Balloon Boy and the uninvited guests at November’s White House state dinner. Decorum is out; brazen is in. If this fodder is primetime news, then we’re a nation overfed and undernourished.

And the stars are falling.

When baseball’s Roger Clemens disappointed fans by taking steroids, we were heartbroken. Barry Bonds unnerved us, too, when he got a mention in the Mitchell Commission report. Last month Andre Agassi confessed in his book, Open, to taking crystal meth and secretly hating tennis while the crowd was busy cheering — now we’re mad. Then Tiger Woods broke out of his glass cage last week no longer wearing stripes. Apparently, he’s got spots. Meantime, come 2011, Oprah is calling it quits after 25 years of sitting pretty as the nation’s compass rose, faulty needle notwithstanding. And as bipartisan tears dropped on Ted Kennedy’s casket this past August, the last nail on Camelot’s coffin was finally hammered. It’s lights out for Bernie Madoff, too. May God help Michael Phelps.

What’s left to feed the aspirations of our youngest Americans? Times Square?

Foibles. Indiscretion. Depravity. Death. Sin. It all comes from the same place, and God in His graciousness has already given answer to the madness. But it’s clear not everyone has heard. When a culture is in decline, it no longer benefits society. Instead, it degrades it. In How Then Shall We Live?, Francis Schaeffer taught that worldview matters — it shapes a people, for better or for worse. And here we are, while America laughs as Late Night takes potshots at the President or the latest It girl’s crash and burn. Cynicism rules the day and contempt is bred in our nation’s psyche. Society is failing, especially our children, the true gems who are hiding indoors like Holocaust survivors until the disaster has passed.

I love culture —fine arts, people, music, beauty, baseball and apple pie — the things that shape a country and a people. Culture is not the enemy; it’s a gift. Without it, given the technological age whizzing past, we’d be colorless automatons by now. But we’re dangerously close. We’ve denied the Giver and our collective soul bleeds media ooze. Do we realize we’re being exposed? Seems nobody can find untarnished trophies of silver and gold anymore.

But I’ve not given up hope. I’d like to believe they’ll appear again in the next generation.

My nine-year old doesn’t know who Andy Warhol was, but I don’t think it matters. Instead, he’s having a blast listening to Handel’s Messiah.

A boy hungry for greatness.

____________________________________________________________

FIVE Areas that shape every Culture and Nation:
• Pulpits, Churches, & Family
• Education & Academia
• Media & Entertainment
• Business & Economy
• Judiciary & Government

Good neighbors are hard to come by.

Some are known only by their politician’s wave, never really close enough to get under the skin. Others will be there “if you need them,” but best to not need them is the message they send. Tidy enough. And then there are those who form you, make you see the world aright while they’re oblivious to the fact.

Herman Stelljes was always old, but that had nothing to do with the fact that he was an institution. Fortunately for us, he was our neighbor who happened to own the general store, aptly named Herm’s, which sat close to the two-lane highway near our house. He lived there, too — alone — in the back room. Except for a dog named Spike, it was all he had. An unassuming gold mine, nonetheless. Twenty years living a hundred yards away gave me a schooling that would rival the halls of any brick and mortar, including seminary.

Herm’s was filthy. Built of cement block painted white with dark green trim, its only decoration and signal for being open was the glowing sign in the window that read: Budweiser. For Herm’s to ever be closed was only temporary inconvenience. His monthly trip to town to make a bank deposit seemed reasonable and forgivable. Knowing he’d be back soon endeared me to the familiar smell of smoke, dirt and money I’d be hit with when he reopened, which was the extent of any reward. Friendly banter was out of the question. Only weather, baseball and horse tracks were up for discussion. All else met with a grunt.

But this was where I first managed to get on in the world. At five, it’s where I learned to count, shop and negotiate. When I wanted to buy a piece of bubble gum and a fireball, he’d let me slide when short a penny or two. By 10, my desires turned to Cracker Jacks, Clark’s teaberry gum, ice cream sandwiches and five-flavor Life Savers. Herm’s was a land where my palate blossomed this side of sweet. Occasionally, I’d be sent on a small mission to get either the Daily News, a box of Brillo pads or a can of tomato soup — or some other dry good covered in dust with no expiration date. Trust was policy back then. Since he wore a hearing aid, I’d yell, “CHARGE IT, HERM!” and make a beeline for the door. It always felt like I was leaving him in the lurch, but along with the rest of the neighborhood my parents kept a running account. The ’70s were odd in a charming sort of way.

Looking back, any people skills I possess I owe in part to Herm. His monstrous height, flyaway hair, ashen skin, dirty T-shirt and Frankenstein pants spawned fresh courage in me every time I assumed position as customer. But his glass eye is what scared me most. I knew enough to be considerate and to not ask questions, secretly relieved to know he only saw half of me from across the counter.

Candy aside, living near Herm was a privilege. He was a constant. Gave us a sense of security. Whatever we needed — juice, milk, bread—Herm supplied. The store was open even on Christmas. I respected him, too, insofar as my understanding of respect had something to do with not walking on the grass. Especially his. Herm wasn’t afraid to yell. The unconventional way of adopting proper etiquette.

But what I remember most is the year my parents invited him to our house for Thanksgiving dinner. I can’t recall the origin of that event or any details surrounding it. All I remember is his slick combed hair and that he wore a white shirt. Herm was shy, but seemed grateful to be our guest. My customer.

I was amazed he came.

]]> http://findingthemotherlode.wordpress.com/2009/11/22/paying-tribute/feed/ 0 findingthemotherlode pennies1-1024x768 http://findingthemotherlode.wordpress.com/2009/11/14/undone/ http://findingthemotherlode.wordpress.com/2009/11/14/undone/#comments Sat, 14 Nov 2009 15:41:47 +0000 findingthemotherlode http://findingthemotherlode.wordpress.com/?p=1424 ]]>

Isaiah 6:1-5

To talk about the holiness of God isn’t easy. Most adults squirm, switch topics, or worse yet—quietly leave the room. Children (mine) are different. How they respond can be astonishing. Their still-forming identities aren’t jaded by sin; their white souls easily engage. Just when I think I’ve lost them, one of them will come out with something postmarked direct from the storehouse of heaven.

When I decided to teach my sons about the holiness of God, I knew a visual would help; Isaiah 6 made good sense for such an abstract. We defined the term holy as something “set apart.” We learned why angels cry holy, holy, holy three times: for emphasis. I felt it was my duty to explain, “He’s not just holy,”…”He’s holy, holy, holy“—my nine-year old’s eyes grew wide while I was experiencing a loss for words. We discussed how the flaming angels, known as seraphim, each cover their faces and feet with two wings and fly with the other two. That’s six wings total. I next prepped for a zinger. I asked what ”using all six wings” might symbolize for the believer. What gold rolled off my fourteen-year old’s tongue floored me. “Um, give your all in worship,” he said, without a hint of question.

Teacher became student. In that moment, all I could say was, “Wow.”

Isaiah’s commission came on the heels of a powerful vision of God’s majestic holiness. The prophet’s response shows what a glimpse of heaven will do to a person.

Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts.

Isaiah 6:5

Another idea I threw out to them was how God is “Other Other.” The younger one sat, quiet as a bird, looking up and away with a lone fist holding up his chin. I knew better not to rush him. He likes to take everything in, give himself time to think.

I waited.

I asked again what he thought about the idea of seeing God as “Other Other.” He squinted. With a single nod, he looked me in the eye and said under his breath, “Yes.”

I was undone.

The problem of reconciling human suffering with the existence of a God who loves, is only insoluble so long as we attach a trivial meaning to the word ‘love’, and look on things as if man were the center of them.

-C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

♦  ♦  ♦

Job and suffering may well be synonymous the world over, but God defines things differently. His language is of a higher ascent—sometimes allowing the true meaning of things to develop over time. That’s why it’s important to read carefully all forty-two chapters of the book of Job. Its length is perhaps God’s cue to take a closer look at the rendering of a man who knew how to suffer well. 

Since antiquity many have found a measure of comfort when encouraged to compare their heartache to Job’s. A cursory glance at the ordeals he endured uncannily snaps one back into reality and works an ephemeral cure should self-pity ever begin to drip its goo. But the book of Job was intended to say much more than this—God is never long-winded.  

Both feet firmly planted on the ground, Job is well aware early on that his great contest with the devil is not some freakish wind that will soon blow over. But the persistence and severity of the testing takes its toll and drags him, in all his humanity, to the gutter where cursing the day he was born and the swollen mire of bitter complaint wins him nothing but a sympathy parade of friends. His wife probably let them in.  

Skin-scabbed but still amazingly eloquent, Job is finally addressed by God in chapter thirty-eight and told to be quiet and to brace himself like a man. Job beats his breast in earnest, barely able to whisper a prayer. Once put in his place, he is again told in chapter forty to brace himself like a man. God has a way of getting His point across.

Job’s medal of honor shines in that he never once shook his fist at God. His integrity won the day and defined the man. The latter end of Job’s life is a glorious monument to the fact that God takes pleasure in a man who understands something of Divine prerogative, even when Divine prerogative means taking forty-two chapters to say so.

For criminologists to nab a serial suspect, they study his modus operandi—the pattern or method of procedure used as evidenced by their string of crimes. Ultimately, their behavior is what gives them away. Not a pretty subject, but instructive, nonetheless, for understanding people, including ourselves. 

The thing about modi operandi is that everyone has one, criminal or not. Simply put, it is that thing which makes one tick. Most people are oblivious to what makes them tick. They just tick and keep on ticking until they tick no more. Like Esau. His M.O. was all about what was in front of him, literally. He never bothered to concern himself with matters such as blessing or birthright. His god was his stomach. He was all about the food. And that’s what he got. Soup.

But there are those who live for grander, holier purposes. Their entire reason for being courses through everything they do, no matter how mundane. Yes, even diapers. Especially diapers.

By far, the grandest and most holy purpose, or M.O., is to live for the glory of God. The two Moravian missionaries had it right. This was their M.O. from the outset. They had nothing to lose. This world was not their home, let alone the comfort of sitting down to a bowl of lentils. 

Dreams and goosebumps do not a theology make.

So many people want to know God, but often their methodology is whacked. To know God on our own terms is to not know Him at all, but to seek Him according to His Word is to find Him. When we acknowledge Him in all His glory and seek His face in prayer, there then exists a possibility for making a good pot of theological stew. 

Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed, rightly handling the word of truth.

 2 Timothy 2:15

Every Christian is given a mandate to pound out a theology that brings glory and honor to God. What’s curious about the passage above is that it’s surrounded on all sides by admonitions to avoid godless talk and aberrant beliefs. Not a word about buying the latest commentary or theological tome. Only a call to holy living and various exhortations to guard against falsehood.  Aren’t these the ingredients called for when preparing a sound Biblical theology?

Theology—honest, good theology—opens up a plethora of knowledge about God, but study alone will not bring anyone closer to God. Put another way, hours of zoological study will not necessarily make a good zookeeper. A good zookeeper must love animals to ensure proper care. Same principle applies to knowing God. For theology to truly “go somewhere,” faith must be fleshed out in obedience to what He says. Otherwise, those coveted soup bones will remain on the counter and left to rot for lack of a sizeable pot. Nobody eats.

Hopefully, my taste for theology is maturing, but the way I go about things can be noisy. I’m the one usually found banging the side of the pot trying to separate truth from lie. Let me at the good stuff. I’m craving a sample of something lean and on fire. Something that tastes better the more I chew. I need food that sticks to my ribs and can sustain me through the bleakest of winters.

So I’m blowing dust off the lids of some old hymns, reading Psalms and Proverbs and downloading sermons from heavyweights like Whitefield, Edwards, Tozer and Spurgeon. And, yes, I’m grateful for the array of commentaries and reference tools. But one thing I’ve done that has made all the difference: I quit reading the Bible like it’s a daily horoscope. Instead, I regularly take all sixty-six books and imagine them lined up in front of me and I pick one. With yellow highlighter in hand, I begin by trying to learn something of the writer, understand its historical context, and proceed to read carefully—in large chunks at a time. I chew slowly and take a few breaks here and there. Good theological stew takes time to digest.

Then guess what happens? I get up from the table and life smacks me with an ideology that doesn’t match with mine. Or some other conundrum presents itself unsolicited. Where’s my slotted spoon when I need it? I wait to give my systematic theology a chance to kick in. Sometimes I wait days or weeks at a clip. When it comes to getting clarity, timing can be iffy.

Meantime, I pray and ask God to show me what it all means. Without fail, He answers. Makes me feel like a hunter; I feast for weeks and there’s enough for everybody all around. My cooking secret isn’t sensational, but it is deeply satisfying:

A theology that truly glorifies and honors God is best left to simmer a long, long time. Expect it to take years.

I believe that God wants us to long for Him with the longing that will become lovesickness, that will become a wound to our spirits,
to keep us always moving toward Him,
always finding and always seeking, always having and always desiring.

-A.W. Tozer

 So that explains where I’ve been the last six months. I took the long way around summer and spent most days walking along the country road near where I live, pained by the strike in my soul – looking at everything through brimming eyes. Empty-handed, I was in search of the One I love.

I had little urge to say anything. The thought of writing was abhorrent to me - all my blurry thoughts seemed unworthy of the One I was longing for. More interested in hearing something instead, I was resigned to let desperation lead on as it had the better of me anyway. I kept walking.

So what did all those sunlit and stone-kicking hours turn up?  Hopefully a higher Vitamin D count. Definitely a renewed sense of vigor. And a profound enlargement.  Something about pulling back from the electronic din in search of quietude that affords the soul  huge rewards. 

But He is what I went searching for and that is what took me so long in coming back. I had found the motherlode. My hands are now full.

Growing up, my parents’ friends were to me more like figures from a wax museum. Somewhere in my psyche, I thought they would never age, let alone die.  I studied their peculiar laughs and lifestyles from the darkened chamber of my bedroom while they carried on unawares in the adult world of all their empty vices.  As it turned out, most of them did end up making it to my wedding—their social accomplishment and my free token pass into adulthood. What mattered back then. But now, decades later and several states removed, either their outlines have faded  into the shadows or I’ll hear of their death months after they’ve been buried underground. Their biblical significance is fulfilled in the Scriptures:

“All men are like grass…”

But since then, I’ve learned there are some people who jut out from the grass like erected metal sculpture, huge pieces of undeniable art—signs and symbols from the Lord—chosen ones who perform God’s alien task.  They renovate entire landscapes and renew every square inch of fertile ground stepped on just by breathing. This is the hidden place where God makes a reservation to work His wonders, causing men to stop and ponder the deep things of God.

A number of years ago at a church meeting, I happened to meet a burly, middle-aged man—he would’ve passed for a stereotypical corporate raider if he had dollar signs in his eyes, but I saw none. Instead, they rejoiced a buoyant blue, and he walked around as though on parade, quietly celebrating an entirely different success. His wife and children seemed genuinely happy to be following in his train, like eager attendants willing to pick up leftover confetti after a long war. Held together by an unspoken victory, they beamed like proud recipients of a great reward, wearing only gratefulness for their sash.

What I remember most, though, is how thrilled this man was to be in his own skin. When he held out his hand to shake mine, he introduced himself by saying, “Hi, I’m Broken.” Like a dog, my ears immediately perked up and my nose twitched—on the prowl for more of that good stuff I smelled. I didn’t talk with him long, just long enough to note a certain zeal and sweetness about him, the kind that no matter how deep goes the knife, all that comes up is honey. I asked him where he got such an unusual name. He said, “When God broke me.”

Without a single trace of human effort, God seized that day a massive amount of spiritual real estate in the souls of men, namely mine.

We are signs and symbols in Israel from the LORD Almighty,
who dwells on Mount Zion.

Isaiah 8:18

 Matthew 25:1-13

 Store up! Store up!

Store up for yourselves treasures that cannot be destroyed.
The days that are coming upon the earth are unprecedented -
days of trouble and turmoil – tremors and horrors -

But My people will shine -
They will have no fear, nor will they have any lack of water or bread.
They will arise through thick clouds of darkness
and sing a song of battle set to the tune of the Bridegoom.
Then a war cry will be heard in the land and many will see and fear
and put their trust in the Lord.

Store up!
Store up!

Store up for yourselves righteousness,
store up for yourselves the oil of My anointing -
for days are coming upon the earth that are unprecedented.

Behold, I am coming soon!

 I received this word on August 16, 2005 while sweeping my kitchen floor, less than two weeks before Hurricane Katrina hit land.  

 

 

  Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.

Psalm 17:8

 ♦   ♦   ♦

Some mornings I wake up feeling more revved than others—with all systems go before Darjeeling, albeit it is rare. Today was one of those days. I appreciate the strength; it harnesses me in a way nothing else does, especially with two growing boys to feed and neighbors to love. Now, I need it in a whole new way as I ride this rollercoaster of current events along with the rest of the country.

I admit things have been more itch than scratch lately. Similar to nursing a low-grade fever that keeps me sufficiently weak. I am so narrowly focused; few things concern me anymore. I’m becoming like the elderly who circle talk about the weather, the bad breakfast, and where they may have put their glasses—the three majors that leave little room for minors. Oh, I might stick my head outside to check for rain before going on a walk, but I keep it buried between my knees otherwise. I sip tea at different intervals throughout the day, too.      

I might be alarmed if I thought this was a self-contained experience, but I know it’s not. What defaults to being a bad taste in my mouth is more widespread than that. Red sky, faith and headline news tell me we’re a nation under siege. This time, God is judging with the broad end of the broom.  

No longer code spoken underground among a few, this national sweep has hit the airwaves, getting picked up by brainwaves everywhere. A subclinical post-prosperity anxiety is pervading like Wal-Mart. How do I know? I’m reading the signs. One late night TV mouthpiece recently said, ”Everything is amazing right now, and nobody’s happy.” He got applause for that. I’m glad someone noticed, but who said it’s supposed to be about happy? Isn’t that a bit on the level of Romper Room?  Granted, we may not gaze upon a billion stars at night to actually count them, but I’m afraid we’ve forgotten the One Who has named them. God is patient, but He disowns those who disown Him. Nations included. Time is overdue we pay attention.  

Yes, America is ablaze morally and spiritually—God sets fire to things He wants burned up. Look how we’re being hit with such precision economically. Our pockets are on fire; we smell smoke. Deep down, we’re desperate for answers. We already know it’s going to take more than a massive federal bailout to turn things around. This nation is being brought low, poised for a hard land on her knees. 

Our worst mistake would be to find renewal of our strength. Adam’s error was written in ink, encoded into our DNA. We keep devising a plan to save ourselves. But if we would do our homework, history would show that every fig leaf eventually falls.

And as this one does, only the humble and repentant will have the strength to come out of hiding to stand naked before God. It will be a nation separate and free from shame, clothed in contrition, a mighty and trembling army blessed and sent out to echo Isaiah’s cry:

      You were wearied by all your ways,
       but you would not say, ‘It is hopeless.’
       You found renewal of your strength,
       and so you did not faint.

      ”Whom have you so dreaded and feared
       that you have been false to me,
       and have neither remembered me
       nor pondered this in your hearts?
       Is it not because I have long been silent
       that you do not fear me?

       I will expose your righteousness and your works,
       and they will not benefit you.

      When you cry out for help,
       let your collection of idols save you!
       The wind will carry all of them off,
       a mere breath will blow them away.
       But the man who makes me his refuge
       will inherit the land
       and possess my holy mountain.”

Isaiah 57:10-13

There’s No Pill-Wall Street Journal- March 13, 2009