chappelltemple

It haunted me for decades.  For even years after leaving home to strike out on my own, I knew that it was still there just waiting for me to deal with one day.  The last time I had looked in it I was almost overwhelmed, in fact.  Three feet high and almost two feet wide, it weighed approximately 520 pounds, including 110 pounds just for the wooden staves and metal bands that bravely held it all together.

Inside, it was crammed to the breaking point with all of my dad’s old stuff… books, Navy items from World War II, clothing, letters and notes, pictures of people I did not know, checkbook registers and calendars, souvenirs from all around, or in short, the precious memories of a lifetime.

All of which promised to make it a daunting emotional and physical task indeed when after Dad’s death and Mom’s move to a retirement community, it came time to sell the house in which they had lived for almost fifty years and to empty out all of its contents, including that barrel in the closet in the garage.

What a surprise thus when I finally mustered up the nerve to deal with it, pried open the lid and discovered that it was completely empty.  For sometime before he died, my dad apparently tackled that task himself, disposing of everything in it as he wished.  Which meant that quite literally for years I had worried about something which was never going to be a real problem at all.

I wonder, however, how many of us do that in other areas of life.  For it’s easy indeed to fixate on a future that will never actually come to pass.  Maybe that’s why Jesus once told us “not to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself” (Matthew 6.34).  He even pointed to the birds and observed that in spite of not storing away things in barns (or barrels) our heavenly Father still takes care of them.  And just in case we didn’t get the idea, he posed a question of faith to all those who were listening to Him that day: “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

It’s no doubt important to be prudent in times like these, taking whatever precautions seem appropriate in a season of sickness and separation.  But taking care ought never to be confused with indulging in catastrophic predictions of what might be, but probably never will.  For sometimes when you finally confront the barrel in your life, you find out it’s been empty all along.

And if you listen closely, you may even hear a faint voice from somewhere beyond saying, “I told you I had this.”

I’m beginning to feel a little like Ted.  Not Cruz mind you, or even Nugent, but like a young reporter who was thrust into an assignment he hadn’t planned on when a national crisis erupted four decades ago.  For the capture of 52 Americans by Iran in November of 1979 (long before 24 hour cable news) stunned the nation and left it anxious to hear its resolution.

And so began what was first called “The Iran Crisis:  America Held Hostage” which started with a late-night countdown airing after the evening news of how many days the crisis had gone on (“Day 15”… “Day 50”… “Day 150”…etc.)  And when Ted Koppel became its face, the show soon found a new name as well, Nightline.  What no one expected, however, was just how long the crisis or the program would actually last.  For the Americans in Iran were held hostage for 444 days, leaving Ted to come up with something new to say every night, whether there was any real news to report or not.

Even after the hostages returned, however, Ted Koppel went on to host the program for another twenty-five years.  And a few weeks ago, on the fortieth anniversary of Nightline, in fact, Koppel, now 80 years old, made a guest appearance to discuss how he and his wife had been coping with the coronavirus pandemic, particularly in the light of her chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.

So why am I telling you all of this?  It’s simply to remind us that sometimes the events of our lives outlast our expectations of them.  For living in an instant society, we’ve come to demand quick resolutions of whatever problems we may have.  But as I mentioned in my sermon on Sunday, “God doesn’t settle all of His accounts in October.”  Rather, He moves according to His own timeline but always in a way that He knows is best for us. For even though the virus was not sent by the Lord, what do those familiar old words of Romans 8.28 remind us?  “we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”

And so, here we are and it looks like we’ve still got a way to go until some semblance of the familiar returns to all of our lives.  Though I hadn’t really planned on doing it quite this long, thus, I’ll keep on writing if you want to keep on reading.  Keep praying, as well.  And washing your hands.  And following the guidelines, even if you do feel a little like a hostage yourself.  And together, we’ll make another week… and then see. 

After all, if Ted could do it.. to say nothing of those 52 American hostages and their families, along with countless others whose lives have been upended by war, conflict, famine, and other disasters over the years… why can’t we?

(Today’s guest writer is Dr. John A. (Jack) Beck, our favorite Bible geographer and professor/guide for our Israel trips.  An adjunct faculty member of Jerusalem University College, Jack lives with his wife Marmy in Wisconsin.  You can find out more about Jack, including his many publications, on his website, johnabeckauthor.com.)

“How much longer!? How much longer before things get back to normal? I awakened with that question drumming on the door of a new day. I tossed back and forth in bed frustrated by the strictures imposed by another weekend of pandemic lock down. Then it dawned on me. I was asking the wrong question.

When Israel spent decades in the wilderness, their days were filled with the challenge of living in a natural world setting that threatened to kill them on a daily basis. Dehydration, starvation, terrain, and predators took their turns disrupting the normal rhythms of life. They were constantly living on defense and it was exhausting. They too asked. How much longer?

In reply, Moses did not give them a time frame but a new set of questions to ask. The Lord was using their time in this ecosystem to humble them, to test their faith, and to teach them he was sufficient to meet their needs (Deut 8:2-3). It would take as long as it would take to accomplish those goals.

That gives me a new set of questions to ask as I navigate this season of wilderness. Is this pandemic defeating the hubris that gives me a false sense of control over my life? Am I allowing this pandemic to reveal the level of trust I have in the Lord? Am I learning to see God is capable of meeting all my needs even when the shelves are empty?

These are better questions, in part, because they address matters over which I have some control. I do not control how long the virus will disrupt society. And no one can tell me just how long the pandemic will last. But I do control the changes that are occurring within me. If I ask questions about such things, I stand to come out a better person at the end of this period of waiting in the wilderness–no matter how long the wait may be.

It’s making the rounds on social media but in case you haven’t seen it, the video is worth a look on YouTube.  For when a Massachusetts nursing home closed its doors to all visitors, one octogenarian nonetheless found a way to see his wife of 61 years who lived on the third floor.

In some ways, it wasn’t all that surprising.  For since his wife Marion moved into the nursing center a year ago, Nick Avtges had visited every single day, hardly leaving her side.  When the coronavirus closed off that opportunity to him, thus, it was pretty obvious to all of the family that the 88 year-old was deeply missing his bride.

And so their son Chris came up with a novel idea, and after reaching out on Facebook, an old friend agreed to help.  With the approval of the nursing home, the friend arranged for a bucket-lift truck which arrived last Wednesday afternoon.  After scrubbing it down with disinfectant, they then strapped Nick—wearing a New England Patriots facemask and gloves– into the bucket and lifted him thirty feet into the air to hover just outside his wife’s room.

For the next twenty minutes, the couple visited through the screened window and to everyone watching below, it was obvious that Nick was in heaven, or at least the lower altitudes of it.  Indeed, as he told a local reporter, “they could have lifted me ten stories and it would not have bothered me as long as I got to see her.”

I have a feeling that Jesus felt much the same way about you and me when He made that journey in reverse, coming down to earth and emptying Himself “of all but love” as Charles Wesley paraphrased Philippians 2, so that we might one day be raised with Him back to heaven.  And no matter what else may be “up in the air” in our lives right now during this crazy season around the world, that’s a down-to-earth truth worth holding onto.

Just before finishing his visit and being lowered back down, Nick held up a sign which read, “I Love You, Sweetheart.”  And Marion responded by saying, “I love you too, more than you know.”

I have a feeling Jesus might say the same to you and me.

I hadn’t seen one for many months, so it was exciting this week when I caught a glimpse of not just one deer, but three beautiful does in a wooded area near our home.  For the development of our neighborhood has increasingly decreased natural habitat spaces for wildlife and I had feared that the deer had been driven away for good.

What amused me, however, was simply where those deer were grazing—just yards away from a nicely made “No Trespassing – Private Property” sign.  For obviously, the deer either were oblivious to the sign or simply chose to ignore it, perhaps rightfully claiming prior residence in all this land before any of us ever arrived here.

But the truth, of course, is that when it comes to nature, there are things which we patently can’t control.  Hurricanes happen when and where they want to, and floods arise whether we have insurance or not.  Tornadoes strike at random and with little warning.  Hot weather comes and, at least in South Texas, stays for an uncomfortably long time.  Diseases like the coronavirus similarly follow their own patterns, irrespective of whatever schedules we may try to set for them.  And deer, for all of their other winsome qualities—their keen senses of vision, smell and hearing, for instance– can’t read.

In the midst of all these uncertainties, however, we have a God who exists above and beyond nature for, in fact, He is the Creator of all things.  His thoughts are not our thoughts and our ways are not His ways.  For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His ways higher than ours. (Isaiah 55.8-9).  When our lives are clearly out of our control thus, it’s reassuring to remember that “this is my Father’s world… the Lord is King, let the heavens sing, God reigns, let the earth be glad.”

All of which means that we can trust Him with however this rather odd season continues to unfold. For as another hymnist long ago put it, “the wind and waves still know His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.”  And so do both diseases and deer.

Even if they can’t read any of our signs.

(Today’s contemplation once again comes from across the Pond, this one written by the Reverend Steve Harvey, who serves as a vicar at Emmanuel Church in Loughborough, England.  In addition to being a wonderful pastor, Steve also happens to be a great husband to our daughter Angie and a terrific dad to our three British grandchildren. We’re also rather fond of him.)

The warning encouraging passengers to take care when moving between the train and the platform is ubiquitous on the London Underground system (though not much needed at the moment, so few people are using the Tube).  We tend to think of the gap (not the clothing brand) as something dangerous.  Something inconvenient.  Something that needs to be either filled or bridged.  The physical (at least 2m) gap between me and the next person.  The gap between our income and our expenditure, for instance—an increasingly pressing concern for many in this time of economic uncertainty.  The gap between what is now and what might or will be in the future.  The gap between our hopes and expectations and the reality we see on the ground.  “It’s-not-like-it-was-in-the-brochure” syndrome, as we call it in our family.

When the lockdown began, I remember feeling an odd sense of excitement about it, like a kid who’s just left school for the summer.  I was excited because I dared to imagine that the physical closure of our church building would herald a period of enforced calm from what has become a rather frenetic life of programs, meetings and general activity.  I thought these weeks would be like a kind of spiritual retreat.  How naïve I was!  Instead, the ‘ordinary’ busyness has been replaced by the extraordinary busyness of trying to transfer the work of the church online—Zoom meetings, online services, video reflections to go out daily on social media, and so on.  What happened was that I merely traded one form of busyness for another, though in many ways the latter seemed even more tiring for its newness and uncertainty.

The more I reflect on it, however, the more I feel drawn to the awkwardness of Holy Saturday—that day between Good Friday and Easter– as a metaphor for the current time.  It’s a day when nothing happens.  Not to our eyes, at least.  But we don’t get from Good Friday to Easter by pretending that Holy Saturday doesn’t exist.  No.  We have to wait.  We have to rest from our ordinary fixation of ‘making things happen’ and ‘being in control of our lives’ to simply being—to know what we can’t do and can’t control.

Perhaps we don’t need to try and replicate online everything that we would normally do in person.  Perhaps our busyness recreating life via Zoom says more about us and our need to be needed or ‘useful’ than it does anything else.  Perhaps the gaps in our lives at the moment aren’t potholes that need filling, but springs from which living water would burst forth.

During the last few weeks, our oldest two children have both learned to ride a bike confidently without training wheels. However, as parents who have lived that phase of life before will know, there is a gap between letting go of the child’s seat and watching to see if they’ll ride or fall.  If we don’t let go, we’ll never know.  Perhaps this is a time to trust that the habits of prayerful attentiveness to God we’ve sought to model and teach take hold—to loosen our grip of the seat and see what happens.

It’s too early to say what God might be teaching His Church through this time, and I’m sure there will be many lessons—God is unfailingly resourceful like that, turning the worst of circumstances into the greatest opportunity for good (isn’t that the Easter story all over?!).  However, perhaps this time in the gap is a God-given opportunity for us to re-evaluate where we are—with ourselves, with others, with life, and with God.  Perhaps this long Holy Saturday we’re in right now is God’s gift to us.  Perhaps what we will discover is that we don’t need God to plug the gaps in our lives, because He’s already in them.

We may indeed find out, as Jacob did, that God is in this place, even though we weren’t aware of it (Genesis 28:16).

For decades after it was built it was known as “The Bridge to Nowhere.”  But by the 1970s for those of us who lived in the small burg of Brazoria, west of the river, it was actually our lifeline to the other side, where Lake Jackson offered downright cosmopolitan attractions, including the closest McDonald’s to our little town.   What’s more, driving over it was almost like going through a time tunnel.  For built in 1939, the bridge had seen little changes since the Brazos River itself was a far more mighty waterway.

Imagine our concern, thus, when they began to repaint that old truss bridge and for months, traffic was restricted to one lane only, alternating between going east and west.  Then one lovely spring day, the job was done, and the old bridge proudly wore a beautiful new grey coat of paint.  Like the rest of our neighbors, thus, we were excited indeed that our traffic patterns were ready to return to normal.

Until, that is, we discovered that the beautiful grey paint was only the primer coat.  Which meant that our waiting was not yet done and the inconvenience of changing our commutes was still not over.

And in a like manner, I have a feeling that many of us have been anxiously waiting for word of a change in our daily routines right now, too, hoping that somehow our time of separation is about to be completed.  The bad news is, however, that at least in our area where the infection rate continues to rise, we still have several more weeks to go.

But the good news, of course, is that just as that bridge eventually got its final coat of paint and our lives got back to normal, this rather strange season too will eventually come to a close and we’ll find our way back to our familiar routines once more as well.

In the meantime, the words of Ecclesiastes 7.8 may be helpful here: “The end of a matter is better than its beginning, and patience is better than pride.”  For indeed, after seventy years of service, the highway department finally built a new bridge in 2010, making the iron truss structure still standing beside it truly “The Bridge to Nowhere,” though it did make it onto the National Registry of Historic Places.

Whenever the end of this pandemic comes, I have a feeling we’ll all be more than ready.  Until then, we’ll continue to follow the guidelines even as we practice the words of St. Paul in Galatians 6.9: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

For just in case you’re wondering, that old bridge really did look great with a new coat of shining green paint.

(As we started the week with a guest blog from our daughter Angie, we’ll finish it out that way as well.  To even things out, however, next week we’ll share some thoughts from the vicar in that family, our son-in-law Steve, who serves as an Anglican pastor in the Midlands town of Loughborough.)

“I can’t see friends. I miss going out. I want to go on playgrounds.

And I’m really too sad to sleep. I’m getting bored at home.

And I’m getting tired of the same games.

And I miss going to church because I like Easter services.

I just like it being Easter at church.”

Our seven-year old son Jed was up late again on Sunday night so I climbed into his bed with my laptop so we could write out some of his worries. This was how his list began, and there were plenty of other things he missed, too, like going to the sweet shop in town, and going out for family walks in the countryside. We had just enjoyed a nice Easter day as a family and had tried to fill the day with a real sense of joy so our three kids could see that even in this time we can still truly celebrate Jesus being alive. But Jed, our most liturgically-oriented child who is drawn into the beauty of church tradition, felt the loss of “it being Easter at church.”

We missed it, too, as did so many believers around the world. We are now finishing our fourth week of sheltering in place here in the UK, and our three kids (ages 7, 5, and 2) are getting more restless (aren’t we all?). The UK guidelines are such that we are only to leave our homes sparingly for food shopping, or for medical attention, or for one form of exercise once a day. Almost everything is closed besides grocery stores and pharmacies. Our kids are missing even just being in the car and are now begging to go to our local Aldi (which they can’t do). It is hard not to be envious of our Texas family being able to drive through Chick-fil-a!

The coronavirus crisis here across the pond has made that pond feel more like the ocean it is, as it’s odd not to know when we can get on a plane to see our family (and go to Chick-fil-a) again. It’s strange, as well, to be experiencing the same crisis in different ways. The drive of the UK government’s campaign is to “Stay at Home, Protect the NHS, Save Lives.” Our National Health Service (NHS) is something the country can rally behind, to be sure.  Still, the coronavirus crisis has made the UK feel smaller and more connected, almost like a taste of wartime Britain, when everyone kept calm and carried on.

But keeping calm is not the same as having calm in your heart, and it’s that kind of heart-restlessness that keeps us (and our children) up at night. On Sunday night after we had typed out Jed’s worries, we then listed things that were good at the moment, things that we could be thankful for, and things that we were looking forward to. It can take a lot of prodding to see the good and to practice hope.

And it struck me that this season of Eastertide is just what we need right now. For our present season is all about the crazy practice of hope in the resurrected Jesus. We still believe that Jesus is alive and with us now, and we hope in what He can and will do. But the thing about the resurrected Jesus is that we never know where He is going to turn up for He is always up to far more than anyone can figure out. Jesus has a bigger mission that we realize.

Maybe our task at hand now is just to keep on seeking the risen Lord— to find out what He is up to in all of this, in our countries, in our families, in our hearts. The Lord is working, and He might just surprise us with where we see Him next.

I met him one night in Jerusalem several years ago and immediately I was impressed by his heart.  For it was clear even then that Seth Johnson wanted to be used by God to serve those whom others may overlook.  I wasn’t surprised at all thus when a few months later he found his calling, moving from the gentle hills of Virginia to one of the toughest places on earth, the Kawangware slum in Nairobi, Kenya.

The second largest such settlement in the city, Kawangware is a huge sprawling urban village of makeshift homes of cardboard boxes or aluminum sheeting, often 100 square feet, housing hundreds of thousands of residents who struggle to survive on less than one dollar a day.  Safe drinking water is often unavailable or otherwise expensive, and combined with a poor sewage system, residents frequently suffer from a host of both waterborne and airborne diseases.

It’s estimated that 65% of those who live there are children and youth.  The lucky ones have families and some are even in the little Methodist school I once visited there.  But all too many are simply street boys or girls, abandoned by parents unable to care for them.  And it was those most vulnerable children of God that my young friend Seth decided to serve, moving there to begin a ministry pretty much on his own except, of course, for God who led him.

What he has done is rather remarkable, thus.  But as you might imagine, the global pandemic has made things even tougher for those whose lives were fragile in the first place.  Like a modern day Joseph marshalling the resources of Egypt, Seth has accordingly been stockpiling supplies in order to keep on feeding roughly 150 people a day out of his modest ministry.  And he’s continued to use the relationships he has built up with local chieftains and other power brokers to retain his access to those he is helping, even with the social distancing guidelines in place there as they are here.

All of which is a reminder that whatever uncomfortable circumstances the coronavirus has produced for us, it’s exponentially harder for some in other places.  And yet, Seth’s street boys are not simply “his kids” or children of God, they are the children of all of God’s people as well.  Just as the villagers of Bulike in Uganda where our friend, Dr. Ronnie Kaluya, is at work.  And the people of Olivier, Haiti, and Reynosa, Mexico where our teams have served.  For just as the name Kawangware is thought to mean “the place of the guinea bird,” a symbol in Africa of glory or fulfillment, our continuing charge is to help others find their glory and fulfillment in God as well, no matter what their circumstances.

To be sure, our facility on Austin Parkway may be closed temporarily.  But my prayer is that our hearts towards those with less in this world will never be shut.

(Seth’s ministry, by the way, is called simply IAM Mercy, and you can find out more about him, as well as see a short video on what is happening right now in Kawangware, at http://www.iamercy.org. His tag line is that “mercy begins with you.” And I have a feeling he is right.)

Shakespeare got it wrong, I think:  it’s not the 15^th of March you should beware these days but the Ides of April.  For even though the filing deadline has shifted to July this year because of the current pandemic, Tax Day still brings a reflexive shudder to many of us, to say nothing of sheer exhaustion to accountants everywhere.

We sometimes forget, of course, that the idea of an individual income tax was intended to be a temporary measure lasting just a few years.  For the purpose of the Revenue Act of 1862 was simply to help fund the Civil War.  The tax rate was all of 3% on income over $800 which exempted most wage-earners, with ultimately only ten percent of Union households ending up paying anything at all.

What’s more, when a similar system was instituted in 1894 the Supreme Court fairly quickly declared it unconstitutional.   Eventually, thus, it took the Sixteenth Amendment proposed in 1909 and ratified four years later to allow a new income tax to be imposed. Delightfully enough, however, no actual taxes were collected at all in the first year as instead taxpayers simply completed the form to practice getting it right, with the IRS checking for accuracy. (They quickly had to double their staff.)

But then we’re hardly the first folks to have to deal with taxes, for even in Jesus’ day, most folks felt the burden of enforced revenue collections and grumbled against them.  What Jesus told His followers though was simply this: “give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.”  (Matthew 22.21) And it strikes me that those words apply not simply to paying our taxes but to offering our respect to those who govern, whether we think they deserve it or not.  For how we follow our leaders is almost like how taxes worked the first year after ratification:  a practice run for how we follow the Lord.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have no interest in giving the government more than I owe them.  For I’d much rather shift those resources to support faith-based groups doing incredible work around the world.  But that whole “give to Caesar” notion compels me to offer to the government not only my fair share of the resources God has given me, but to respect the authority of those who lead us and follow their guidelines in the current crisis.

I know, I know.  These restrictions, like taxes, are tough.  I miss live church services, too.  I’m even starting to miss some committee meetings.  And I’d really like to come and see you in person and literally “break bread together,” to say nothing of being able to hug my grandkids again.  But until someone gives the “all-clear” we’ll simply keep on what we’re doing with regard to the live-streaming, zoom calls, and socially-distant pastoral care.  For I can’t help but believe that’s what it means to love God and to love our neighbors right now.

Even on the Ides of April.*

(* Yes, I know that technically the Ides of April is April 13, the other day of the month on which the “ides” can fall.  But go with it for this blog anyway, okay?)