Why don’t you go with me?” I had asked my daughter to accompany me to the Abby of Gethsemani. She was home with us for a few days during the Christmas holidays, visiting from New York City. Mary had been to Gethsemani with me before.
“Sure, I’d love to,” was her ready response.
It had been a long December, and in the middle of it, I wasn’t sure this year would be better than the last. Trying to hold life’s inevitable tensions in balance---the pull of decisions that had to be made, the push of the consequences that would come from them, the internal wrestling match that thrashes across the mind, sometime after 2 a.m. ---had worn me down till I cried for a time out.
What “might be,” was obscured by the fogginess of “what is.”
I knew it was time to head to Gethsemani Abby. In the solitude of the monastery I would pray, I would ponder, I would percolate: God’s Spirit would infuse me with a supernatural oxygen rush that inevitably refreshes, rejuvenates, revitalizes.
But this time was different.
Or so it seemed.
The cacophony of this world overwhelmed the quietude of that world.
My escape to Gethsemani appeared futile; I had carried the baggage of my responsibilities into the lobby of this holy place. Gethsemani seemed too familiar that day, too close to the anxieties of the outside. The cares and concerns of the world had invaded the walls protecting the quiet and calm of Gethsemani.
And it was my doing.
Mary and I joined the monks from the gallery and prayed as they prayed, chanting their prayers with them, singing the Psalms at the None prayer time. I waited for relief from my strain but found only heaviness; I couldn’t seem to shake the angst of the world, even in this place of tranquility and repose.
Walking around the back of the cathedral after prayers, Mary and I quietly chatted in subdued undertones. Staring at the naked trees across the valley, letting the December wind tickle our faces, we stood in silence, the whine of the wind whirling in our ears.
And then, quite to my surprise, my daughter prayed for me a prayer of comfort, peace, and renewal.
Somewhat humbled by a daughter’s prayer, my mind swooshed back to May 30, 1990, so many years ago, but only “just yesterday,” when Mary, age two and a half, prayed for me in her own way for the first time: “I love you, Daddy,” she told me after bedtime prayers. I took that in itself as a child’s form of prayer. And a few days later, after praying for her at night, she proclaimed from her bed, “I wanna follow Jesus, too.” Then a few months later, in response to my question before bedtime prayers, “What should we thank God for?” she smiled and answered, “Let’s thank him for Jesus.”
Prayers continued through the passing years.
Straight to that day in the middle of a long December.
And so in the dead of December, waiting for Christmas to come and go and remind us of life in Christ Jesus, I should not have been surprised.
Sometimes God speaks to us through the holiness of monks, sometimes through the beauty of nature, sometimes through the revelation of his Word, and sometimes through the prayer of a child grown to adulthood.
Elijah the prophet stood before the windstorm, but God was not in the wind. Then Elijah withstood the earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. Elijah endured the fire, but God was not in the fire. Then, there was a gentle whisper. And Elijah heard God’s voice.
Having heard God’s voice in the whispered prayer of my child, I was ready to leave. And having left my momentary spiritual retreat, I knew the world still waited with the same stresses and strains, trials and troubles.
But all was different from within, for I---having let the still, small Voice hold me in balance within the eternal present moment, even as it passes and yet remains forever--- was ready to embrace the long December, and seize the eternal, today.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
It's all in the numbers
“Why can’t you do something like that?” My friend jokingly posed that question to me while we were waiting for a church deacons meeting to begin.
Several of us had been talking about Denver Broncos QB Tim Tebow throwing for exactly 316 yards in the Broncos’ overtime playoff win over the Pittsburg Steelers. Not only was it a career high for Tebow, it apparently stupefied many because of the apparent correlation of the number 316 to John 3:16, the biblical reference Tebow used to etch on his “eye black,” to avoid sun glare, during his days as QB for the Florida Gators.
The Bible verse, Tebow’s favorite, says, “For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” Tebow, easily America’s most popular Christian athlete, has had a close public association with that verse.
The 316 total passing yards was not the only 3:16 connection. He also threw for 31.6 yards per completion. And there’s more: during the final quarter of the game, the TV rating was 31.6. And one final association with the John reference: Tebow works for two men, both of whom have the first name, John.
Can you hear the background music from the Twilight Zone?
Then again, for more rational thinkers--- maybe not.
In answer to the question, “Why can’t you do something like that?” I rejoined, “Tim Tebow only had to look at the Pittsburg Steelers’ defense, not a bunch of ornery Baptist deacons.” (They really can be ornery, but I didn’t say that.)
In all seriousness---since some people do take these numbers seriously, maintaining that the statistics point to John 3:16 as a divine affirmation of Tebow’s witness--- what do we make of this?
I’ve long believed God uses a variety of ways to draw attention to his Good News. And if the statistics can be used as an opportunity for that discussion, then believers can use it in a positive way.
But they should also be extremely cautious when it comes to reading messages from God into football statistics. As Josh Tinley (Kneeling in the End Zone: Spiritual Lessons From the World of Sports) observed in his blog, two of the numbers cited in that playoff game were 31.6, not 3.16.
Why not look for a book in the Bible that has a 31:6, like II Chronicles 31:6, which says in part, “The people…brought in (their) tithes.” And, besides, many Bible passages other than John have a 3:16. How do we know that those statistics don’t refer to one of them?
Then there is the matter of other football players, who like Tebow, are Christians. For example, Colt McCoy, QB for the Cleveland Browns, is active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Why not see if any of his statistics connect with a Bible passage he has publicly quoted at some time? What would that reveal?
Or, what if an athlete was of another faith, say Islam? Would evangelicals be disturbed if some of his statistics connected with a passage from the Koran?
The point is, we can substantiate all kinds of beliefs---some true, some erroneous---when we gaze long enough in the tea leaves. Michael Shermer, a religious skeptic, uses this truth to challenge the very essence of religion. In his book, The Believing Brain, he maintains that the brain is “a belief engine,” which looks for and finds confirmation for beliefs in patterns; we naturally find meaning in connecting the dots, infusing those patterns with meaning, which only serves to reinforce the beliefs with which we began.
So, perhaps believers would do better to practice “tebowing” (so named after the way Tebow kneels in prayer on the sidelines) and remember the words he often speaks, “First and foremost, I just want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’s done so much in my life.”
Having done that, leave the statistics to the people in the press box. After all, those stats are only numbers.
And, so much of athletic success---and, yes, even some so-called miracles---is all in the numbers.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D, is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Several of us had been talking about Denver Broncos QB Tim Tebow throwing for exactly 316 yards in the Broncos’ overtime playoff win over the Pittsburg Steelers. Not only was it a career high for Tebow, it apparently stupefied many because of the apparent correlation of the number 316 to John 3:16, the biblical reference Tebow used to etch on his “eye black,” to avoid sun glare, during his days as QB for the Florida Gators.
The Bible verse, Tebow’s favorite, says, “For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” Tebow, easily America’s most popular Christian athlete, has had a close public association with that verse.
The 316 total passing yards was not the only 3:16 connection. He also threw for 31.6 yards per completion. And there’s more: during the final quarter of the game, the TV rating was 31.6. And one final association with the John reference: Tebow works for two men, both of whom have the first name, John.
Can you hear the background music from the Twilight Zone?
Then again, for more rational thinkers--- maybe not.
In answer to the question, “Why can’t you do something like that?” I rejoined, “Tim Tebow only had to look at the Pittsburg Steelers’ defense, not a bunch of ornery Baptist deacons.” (They really can be ornery, but I didn’t say that.)
In all seriousness---since some people do take these numbers seriously, maintaining that the statistics point to John 3:16 as a divine affirmation of Tebow’s witness--- what do we make of this?
I’ve long believed God uses a variety of ways to draw attention to his Good News. And if the statistics can be used as an opportunity for that discussion, then believers can use it in a positive way.
But they should also be extremely cautious when it comes to reading messages from God into football statistics. As Josh Tinley (Kneeling in the End Zone: Spiritual Lessons From the World of Sports) observed in his blog, two of the numbers cited in that playoff game were 31.6, not 3.16.
Why not look for a book in the Bible that has a 31:6, like II Chronicles 31:6, which says in part, “The people…brought in (their) tithes.” And, besides, many Bible passages other than John have a 3:16. How do we know that those statistics don’t refer to one of them?
Then there is the matter of other football players, who like Tebow, are Christians. For example, Colt McCoy, QB for the Cleveland Browns, is active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Why not see if any of his statistics connect with a Bible passage he has publicly quoted at some time? What would that reveal?
Or, what if an athlete was of another faith, say Islam? Would evangelicals be disturbed if some of his statistics connected with a passage from the Koran?
The point is, we can substantiate all kinds of beliefs---some true, some erroneous---when we gaze long enough in the tea leaves. Michael Shermer, a religious skeptic, uses this truth to challenge the very essence of religion. In his book, The Believing Brain, he maintains that the brain is “a belief engine,” which looks for and finds confirmation for beliefs in patterns; we naturally find meaning in connecting the dots, infusing those patterns with meaning, which only serves to reinforce the beliefs with which we began.
So, perhaps believers would do better to practice “tebowing” (so named after the way Tebow kneels in prayer on the sidelines) and remember the words he often speaks, “First and foremost, I just want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’s done so much in my life.”
Having done that, leave the statistics to the people in the press box. After all, those stats are only numbers.
And, so much of athletic success---and, yes, even some so-called miracles---is all in the numbers.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D, is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Friday, January 13, 2012
Only pictures on a calendar?
The New Year already has flown, leaving its newborn status lying flat in the nest.
And I’m left with all these extra calendars---two from local businesses, two from churches which somehow think I will be interested in adding their agenda to my schedule, and another complimentary calendar from a company wanting me to buy calendars to give people next year, assuming, I suppose, that I somehow believe others will be interested in my agenda next year.
But I like the pictures on these calendars, anyway.
Most appealing to me are calendars with pictures of nature coinciding with each season, which is nice, especially if you live in a place where you don’t have distinct seasons. In Oklahoma, where I grew up, we could have a brutal winter followed by a miserably hot summer---both of which seemed to endure forever. But fall was a weekend fling, and spring was a whiff in the air. So I loved gazing into those calendar pictures of a New England fall foliage or a radiant springtime in Kentucky. Ahh---how relaxing they seemed, especially to a high strung high school kid.
Why do so many calendars have pictures of animals---dogs, cats, horses? I suppose if petting a dog or having a cat curl up in your lap can steady your emotions on a roller coaster day, maybe the next best thing would be a picture of a likeable creature. And that’s nice, especially when so many of the human species aren’t.
Calendars with mountain or ocean scenes can bring relief from the harsh realities of life, too. Just imagine you are there, and that can smooth wrinkled emotions.
But, of all the calendars I enjoy, one calendar stands above all the rest.
That’s happens to be the custom calendar my wife created online. Each month is filled with pictorial memories of my family. I turn to January and there is Mary and me, having a cup of Community Coffee in the kitchen; in April Lori is baking a birthday pie for Madi; I look to July and there’s Dave and Madi splashing in the pool with our two Schnauzers; a glance at August and Mary and Madi are cooking an Italian dish for grandparents; and finally, I’m in December smiling at Harrison opening presents.
Relax, release, rejuvenate.
Calendar pictures of family soothe me amidst the stress and strain of life, reminding me, as I close my eyes with those pictures in my mind’s eye, of life’s priorities. Unlike the old flip books, which created an illusion of motion as you thumbed through them, glancing through the calendar’s family photos does quite the opposite: It halts the movement into a single photo shot, a sort of mental composite, leaving us with an image of what’s really important: family.
I’ve never known anyone in their dying moment wish for more time at the office. But I have seen, time and again, person after person, finding comfort as they lay dying in the presence of their family.
Death brings the living together---at least for a dying moment.
On this calendar day, I’m standing with a young couple at the graveside service for their stillborn child. Grieving the memories of memories that never happened---their baby’s first cry, the giggles, the words “Dada,” and “Mama,” the baby’s first steps---the parents seem mesmerized by the tiny box containing the body of their baby.
Having closed the service, the harsh January wind whips across our faces as I ask: “Would you like a little time here just to yourselves, apart from the rest of your family?”
“No,” the father whispers, “we can only make it as a unit.”
A unit--- a family unit.
I doubt that cemetery scene will be on a calendar picture next year or ever, but I hope the words will echo for that family through the months of each year: “We can only make it as a unit.”
Death is a part of living, and though it’s usually an uninvited and unwelcomed guest, it still intrudes onto our calendars without our invitation or embrace, reminding us that it has an appointment with each of us on a number somewhere between one and thirty-one. But the family pictures, those memories of life---or even the desire for it---breathe significance into what is past and cast hope for the future: We can make it as a unit, a family unit.
And that’s the truth---no matter what pictures are on your calendar.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, or visit his web site, davidbwhitlock.com
And I’m left with all these extra calendars---two from local businesses, two from churches which somehow think I will be interested in adding their agenda to my schedule, and another complimentary calendar from a company wanting me to buy calendars to give people next year, assuming, I suppose, that I somehow believe others will be interested in my agenda next year.
But I like the pictures on these calendars, anyway.
Most appealing to me are calendars with pictures of nature coinciding with each season, which is nice, especially if you live in a place where you don’t have distinct seasons. In Oklahoma, where I grew up, we could have a brutal winter followed by a miserably hot summer---both of which seemed to endure forever. But fall was a weekend fling, and spring was a whiff in the air. So I loved gazing into those calendar pictures of a New England fall foliage or a radiant springtime in Kentucky. Ahh---how relaxing they seemed, especially to a high strung high school kid.
Why do so many calendars have pictures of animals---dogs, cats, horses? I suppose if petting a dog or having a cat curl up in your lap can steady your emotions on a roller coaster day, maybe the next best thing would be a picture of a likeable creature. And that’s nice, especially when so many of the human species aren’t.
Calendars with mountain or ocean scenes can bring relief from the harsh realities of life, too. Just imagine you are there, and that can smooth wrinkled emotions.
But, of all the calendars I enjoy, one calendar stands above all the rest.
That’s happens to be the custom calendar my wife created online. Each month is filled with pictorial memories of my family. I turn to January and there is Mary and me, having a cup of Community Coffee in the kitchen; in April Lori is baking a birthday pie for Madi; I look to July and there’s Dave and Madi splashing in the pool with our two Schnauzers; a glance at August and Mary and Madi are cooking an Italian dish for grandparents; and finally, I’m in December smiling at Harrison opening presents.
Relax, release, rejuvenate.
Calendar pictures of family soothe me amidst the stress and strain of life, reminding me, as I close my eyes with those pictures in my mind’s eye, of life’s priorities. Unlike the old flip books, which created an illusion of motion as you thumbed through them, glancing through the calendar’s family photos does quite the opposite: It halts the movement into a single photo shot, a sort of mental composite, leaving us with an image of what’s really important: family.
I’ve never known anyone in their dying moment wish for more time at the office. But I have seen, time and again, person after person, finding comfort as they lay dying in the presence of their family.
Death brings the living together---at least for a dying moment.
On this calendar day, I’m standing with a young couple at the graveside service for their stillborn child. Grieving the memories of memories that never happened---their baby’s first cry, the giggles, the words “Dada,” and “Mama,” the baby’s first steps---the parents seem mesmerized by the tiny box containing the body of their baby.
Having closed the service, the harsh January wind whips across our faces as I ask: “Would you like a little time here just to yourselves, apart from the rest of your family?”
“No,” the father whispers, “we can only make it as a unit.”
A unit--- a family unit.
I doubt that cemetery scene will be on a calendar picture next year or ever, but I hope the words will echo for that family through the months of each year: “We can only make it as a unit.”
Death is a part of living, and though it’s usually an uninvited and unwelcomed guest, it still intrudes onto our calendars without our invitation or embrace, reminding us that it has an appointment with each of us on a number somewhere between one and thirty-one. But the family pictures, those memories of life---or even the desire for it---breathe significance into what is past and cast hope for the future: We can make it as a unit, a family unit.
And that’s the truth---no matter what pictures are on your calendar.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, or visit his web site, davidbwhitlock.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
