I Call You Mother; I Call HIM Lord

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“You are going to do what?”

The exclamation was harsh. María knew from her mother’s tone of voice that her decision was not going to be well received.

“Mother, I’m going to be baptized.”

“You’ve already been baptized.”

“Yes, I know, and I’m grateful to you for caring enough about my soul to have me baptized.”

“So why are you doing this then?”

María chose her words carefully.

“Mom, I didn’t understand then. I was only a baby. Now, as a adult, I do understand, and I want to make a public commitment to follow the Saviour for the rest of my life.”

Isabel glared at her daughter.

“So, this is what you think of all my efforts to bring you and your brother up correctly? You throw all we believe back in my face as if it were nothing? You reject everything you were taught?”

“I’m not rejecting anything, Mother. I am confirming what I have come to believe for myself. I told you, and I meant it; I’m grateful that God gave me a mother who cared enough about us to teach us about God. I’ll love you for that for the rest of my life.”

María had thought long and hard about this decision. Her mother had never had any problem with her going to Bible Study with her friends. In fact, Isabel had gone with her and had participated in the studies, often contributing some excellent insights. She was not an ignorant woman when it came to knowledge of the Scriptures.

When María announced her decision to accept Christ, her mother had taken it to be a deeper commitment to spiritual things—that couldn’t hurt anything. But, baptism? That was throwing away part of who she was. Her religious upbringing was as strongly cultural as it was spiritual. Isabel considered being baptized twice, a direct, and brutal, slap in the face. Since she was not one to guard her words, she didn’t hesitate to speak them now.

“You’ve been brainwashed. I should have found some way to discourage you from associating with these people. You are no daughter of mine if you do this.”

The relationship between mother and daughter had always been a strong one. They were friends as much as they were relations. María feared the consequences of her actions. She knew that behind the sweet, generous nature that most people saw in her mother, lay a vengeful streak. Isabel hadn’t spoken to her only sister for many years—the result of some disagreement in the distant past.

“What about Raúl? And the children—what are they going to say about all this nonsense?”

“I’m sure Raúl will support me in this just as he has always supported my decisions. I don’t know what the children will say, but it doesn’t matter. I have to do this.”

It had taken María years to come to faith for herself. She was by nature. someone who weighed her decisions carefully. The issue of baptism was one she prayed about for several more years after her conversion. Her concern wasn’t what the Scriptures said, but with the commitment she was making. María knew that if she publicly confessed Christ, she could not go back on that commitment. Now she was sure. She wanted to follow Christ for the rest of her life. There were no more doubts, no more questions in her mind.

“Well, I won’t have anything to do with it. You have shamed me, your family, your culture, and I won’t forget.”

And Isabel didn’t forget. Whether through stubborn silences or angry words, she heaped his disgust on her daughter’s head, bringing her to tears on many occasions. On the day of María’s baptism, her mother did not attend. The daughter’s tears that day were bittersweet: bitter because of her mother’s rejection, sweet because María was walking in obedience to her Lord. That obedience had come at a high price.

A year passed. To their faces, Isabel was polite to the members of the Bible Study group and the church, but she refused to return to either activities. Behind closed doors, she threw her true feelings about them in María’s face.

By the end of the year, María’s constant expressions of love for her mother, her faithfulness to her Lord, and the prayers of her family of faith, brought at least a partial reward. Isabel returned to the Bible Study group. We continue to pray that she will turn to the Lord just as María had.

Sweet Song of Crow

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It was as though I were able to read their thoughts—though they were not thinking about the sudden appearance of this shadow. A sea of transparent faces with clear eyes like tunnels leading back into crystal minds, looked beyond me as if I were not there.

Some were winged creatures, awesome in their physical presence, yet unaware of that very grandeur. Others, whose features would have inspired fear in another world, were now marvelously benign. However, they had no time for me. They too looked beyond me, fully focused, eyes bright, and faces glowing. A multitude, those who seemed like me, but weren’t, glowed in white robes, which might have outshone the sun in their whiteness—if there had been a sun. They too, looked beyond me, adoration written indelibly on their faces.

Every eye centered on the Throne.

My Guide took my arm and led me closer. If you pressed me, I’d say He took me to the front, but in fact there was no front. The presence of the Enthroned One was everywhere. Every space, no matter how seemingly far away, was as though it were only a step from the dais.

To describe what I saw would be like catching the wind in a bottle: it ceases to be what it is as soon as it is touched by human craft. The One who occupied the Throne glowed as though every jewel in the universe had shed its brilliance as an offering in an ultimate act of worship.

I was suddenly aware of the sound. The air vibrated. Music, of which a pale imitation had been my only experience until this moment, soared around me. It was not brash. It did not fill my head with itself; rather it carried me directly into the glow of its Object. My friends would tell you, for they are here somewhere in this audience, that my voice resembles that of a crow. Nevertheless, in this place, my fully sanctified mouth, with a most melodious caw, echoed the words of the hymn being sung.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come.”

“You are worthy, our Lord and God to receive glory and honor and power, for you created all things, and by your will they were created and have their being.”

A hand reached out from the midst of the brightness of the Throne. It held a scroll, tightly closed. Surrounded by such open, transparent purity, it seemed an aberration. What would dare to be closed against Majesty? I wept. One of the humankind leaned toward me and smiled:

“Don’t weep. There is no need. The Worthy One will open the scroll.”

My faltering human vision cleared and I saw the Lamb. He took the scroll and I knew Him. With those around me, I sang the song of redeeming blood and redeemed men.

“Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!”

Encouraged by knowing that He had taken the name of one of theirs, to exalt His own, I heard the creatures from whom I had borrowed my own voice, add their cry to the song. From the earth, the skies, the seas, their worship resonated through the heavens.

“ … praise … honor … glory … power, for ever and ever!” The voice, which the serpent had lost in long-ago Eden, returned one more to Creation.

I needed no pen to record the sights and sounds. What was not permanently engraved on my soul would defy even the best-honed descriptive skills of a more accomplished writer than I am. My Guide stayed close, perhaps knowing that I would have stayed forever if I had been able. Soon, very soon, my turn would come and I would bask again in the glory of the Enthroned One, in the presence of the Lamb, with the Guide at my elbow.

The sun is less bright as it sets behind the now-tarnished beauty of my island prison. Until I can sing again with perfect pitch in the chorus of heaven before the Throne of the Majesty on High, I will caw as best I can:

“Praise and glory and wisdom and thanks and honor and power and strength be to our God for ever and ever. Amen!”

No human ear will hear the discordant notes, but God will know their intent, and be pleased.

Revelation 4:8, 11; 5:12, 13; 7:12

Thirteen Steps to Disaster

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I was only trying to help. Mastering thirteen stairs from the door to the street to the door that opened into our apartment didn’t seem that difficult. After all, I was a “big” little kid. I could handle it, couldn’t I?

During the ‘50s, the man in the white suit with the neat little black bowtie came once a week to the street door, which was always unlocked. (The ads in the magazine always pictured him dressed this way though I can’t honestly say I remember our own deliveryman dressing to that height of haute couture.) Mom left the glass bottles just inside the door. There were big ones for the stuff I was most interested in and, sometimes, short stubby ones or short skinny ones, for other things that ended up in some delicious concoction on the kitchen table at mealtimes.

The deliveryman drove a funny looking stub-nosed truck. At least that’s what I remember, though I could be thinking of those magazine ads again. I could see him from the living room window, which looked out over the street.

That’s where this story begins.

I saw him drive up, step down from his truck, reach back for his little wire basket. It had six divisions and each division held a full glass bottle. I knew the ones mom had left just inside the door were empty. I waited in eager anticipation for the exchange.

The outside back door creaked open on squeaky hinges. The inside back door stuck a bit and the deliveryman had to give it a push to get it open. I heard the clank of the bottles as he put his basket down on the bottom step; then the rattle as he lifted the full ones out and exchanged them for the two empties that mom had left.

The outer door squeaked and I saw him get back into his cute truck with four full bottles in his basket and mom’s two empty ones. He headed off to the next house on his route.

Now it was my turn.

I can’t remember what mom was doing. She had to have been at home. After all, I was only a little kid and she never neglected us. Sometimes she left me with Myrtle, the landlady, who lived in the bottom part of the house. Anyway, at this moment, I was on my own and determined to help.

Getting down those thirteen stairs was easy. The objects of my quest were sitting quietly just inside the back door. When I reached them, I lifted one, and then the other. They were heavier than I expected. But, with all the confidence of a true child helper, I started up the stairs.

The first few steps were easy. No one has ever accused me of being a math whiz, but I swear to this day that those thirteen steps multiplied themselves into thirty-three. By the time I got near the top, I was breathing hard, and those two bottles seemed to weigh as much as the animal that had produced their contents.

I reached the second-to-last step. Then the unthinkable happened. Both bottles, wet from the beads of moisture that had formed on their outsides because of the heat of my hands, began to slip from my grasp. There was absolutely nothing I could do.

Glass doesn’t bounce.

By the time all the crashing, smashing, and splashing, was done, all thirteen stairs were covered in glass and dotted with globs of white. Less impressive, but just as present, were the beads of moisture running down my cheeks to drop, and mix, with the mess on the steps. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough of them to wash away the evidence of my frustrated endeavors at being mother’s little helper.

During that eternal minute of time, from wherever she had been, mother appeared. If I had been a spectator, her wrath would have been an impressive sight to behold. As it was, I not only beheld it; I felt it.

Not every effort we make to help is going to be appreciated. Sometimes our best attempts are dismal failures and we are tempted to despair and to quit. Those are the moments when we need to remember that we are no longer under mother’s wrath, but under God’s grace. He tells us to never get tired of doing good, and to never give up.* It’s the doing of good that counts, even when the results make a mess on the stairs.

*Galatians 6:9, 10

And He Shall Be Called Servant

“Here is my servant whom I have chosen, the one I love, in whom I delight; I will put my Spirit on him, and he will proclaim justice to the nations.” — Matthew 12:18 NIV

THINK ABOUT IT

What’s your opinion about servants?

_____I wouldn’t want to be one
_____no ambition
_____low pay, no respect
_____easy job, no great skill needed
_____low class
_____great for people lacking in brains or education
_____other __________________________________________________________________

Our prejudices blind us to the many educated, intelligent and conscientious people who make a good living, and take pride in, being servants. But in Jesus’ day, being a servant was close kin to being a slave, and we’d like to think that slavery was abolished long ago.

The fuel the world runs on is not found in anyone’s oil well. The world runs on the premise that I am my own “man”, that no one owns me, and that no one can tell me what to do. We work very hard at trying to be islands where there is no ocean. We like to think that it is actually possible to be independent when every gimmick, gadget and advertisement screams the opposite. If we really were “free” we wouldn’t need the internet, deodorant or traffic lights — just to name a few. Paul told us two thousand years ago that we were slaves to whoever we obey (Romans 6:16).

Who do you obey?

We all obey something or someone. So it is not a question of whether or not; the issue is who, or what, we will serve.

For the Lord Jesus to be called, or to call Himself, a servant was a simple acknowledgment of a fact. And the Bible is full of instructions on servanthood.

Check out the following scriptures on being a servant. Beside the phrase write the number of the verse which corresponds to it.

1. Deuteronomy 10:12

2. Joshua 24:15

3. Matthew 4:10

4. Matthew 20:26

5. Matthew 20:28

6. Matthew 25:21

7. Luke 16:13

8. Luke 17:10

9. Romans 12:11

10. Ephesians 4:12

11. Ephesians 6:7

12. Philippians 2:7

13. Colossians 3:22-24

_____we serve whatever we are most devoted to
_____good service brings divine commendation
_____serve the Lord by serving men
_____no matter how much we do, it isn’t enough
_____who we serve is a choice we make
_____saved to serve
_____serving is a spiritual exercise
_____ the ultimate service is to God
_____Christ chose to be a servant
_____greatness comes with servanthood
_____serve because of your relationship with Christ
_____the only service is to God
_____Jesus was the ultimate example of servanthood

Read John 13:1-17. (Remember that Judas was still present with the other disciples and that Jesus washed his feet too, knowing that Judas was about to betray Him). Translate this incident in the life of Christ into your life. What is the most personally humbling service that you can render to someone who isn’t your friend?


How would you go about carrying out this act of service?


PRAY ABOUT IT
Ask the Lord for a servant’s heart, for humility and for a gracious spirit that will allow you to follow the example of Christ, and to serve wholeheartedly in His name. Invite Him to show you areas in which you have refused to ‘dirty your hands’. Ask forgiveness for denying yourself the opportunity to follow Him in these areas. Commit yourself to being a better servant of His, so that you can better serve others.

ACT ON IT
Christ’s servant spirit took Him to the cross. He gave all so that He could offer salvation to all. Paul put aside his rights so that he could minister to all in order that some might be saved (I Corinthians 9:19-23). We are called to follow Christ’s example. To do otherwise is to name Him a fool for allowing Himself to be taken advantage of. To do otherwise is to consider ourselves better than He was. To the one who is secure in his identity as a child of the King, focused on his divinely appointed purpose in life, and sure of his special place in the kingdom, washing feet becomes a great privilege, not because of the nature of the act, but because we are serving Him, by serving others.

How’s your foot washing going? What service can you render in the name of Jesus, and for His glory? Where is this act of service noted on your calendar or in your daybook?

Leaving the Family

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“You know, you don’t have to do this. You could just walk away, disappear.”

Tom, surprised that he was being offered an “out,” hesitated for only for a second.

“No, I’ll go. If I don’t, the rest of the family will wonder why I didn’t show up and that could lead to complications.”

“Fine. It’s your funeral if things go wrong.”

“I know.”

The meeting with the family was a regularly scheduled event. Not only was it scheduled; attendance was required. He straightened his tie and jacket, exchanged one last glance with his concerned companion, and left the building by a back door.

A half an hour later, Tom pulled up in front of a wrought iron gate supported by a ten-foot high stone wall. The video camera hanging from the gatepost swung in his direction as he reached out and pushed the button on the intercom that connected to the house. The gate slowly opened. Whoever was on duty on the other end of the camera had confirmed Tom’s identity and his right to admission.

Moments later he entered the house. There was no need to be told where to go—he was, after all, related. He greeted the others as he always did when these meetings were called. The words sounded normal, the gestures from cousins, uncles and from those who had “married” into the family, concealed no malice that he could identify. Nevertheless, Tom could feel the electric tension in the air, like the oppressive stillness before a storm.

Do they know? Does someone suspect that I betrayed the code, that I broke ranks?

He thought the word betrayal because the world would judge his actions as such, but he knew in his heart that a much greater betrayal had marked the life that had been, until recently, his only world.

His uncle sat enthroned at the head of an enormous teak conference table. The light coming in from the French doors behind him created an aura that wrapped itself around the old man. The position was deliberate, planned and posed. His face was like granite, his thoughts unknowable and inviolate. As was his privilege, Tom took his place to the right of the current family patriarch.

At precisely the hour assigned for it, the meeting began. As expected, the head of the family took the lead.

“Report.”

Everyone present knew to what the old man was referring.

“Two houses were raided this week…”

“…As was the warehouse…”

“Someone’s been nosing around the offshore accounts.”

The news was grim from every point of the table’s compass. Over the past several weeks, the noose around the family’s neck had inexplicably and inexorably been tightening.

They don’t know, or they wouldn’t be talking so freely…

The muffled beeping of a cell phone interrupted Tom’s thoughts and brought a startled silence to the table. For anyone to dare to call when the inner circle of the family was meeting could only mean more bad news. Without a word, the old man pulled the phone from his pocket, listened, then broke the connection. Slowly he turned toward Tom. If there were feelings behind that stony, expressionless face, the business at hand took precedence over them. All eyes followed those of their don. Something tangible, but as yet unidentifiable, had taken possession of the room. Instinctively, the others waited for the capo, the head of the family, to personally deal with the specter that had suddenly raised its ugly head at his table.

No one saw the gun. From that close, the bullet couldn’t miss even though the silencer slowed its progress. It missed the wire of the tiny microphone taped to Tom’s chest, and plowed through several vital body parts.

Jesus, I tried to put it all right. I wish I had known you sooner …

As the life drained from his body, Tom’s second-to-last thoughts focused on the conversation with the FBI agent who had offered him an escape from this very possibility.

…It’s your funeral if things go wrong.

Was this right or wrong? The recording of the discussion around the table would help to convict those present. There would be no time for the gun, or his uncle’s fingerprints, to disappear before federal agents came charging through those French doors. Humanly speaking, things had gone wrong for Tom, but whatever happened from this moment on would help to make things right.

Tom’s last thoughts were of his new family, now gathered and waiting to meet him.

He smiled.

Walking Trees

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“The patient has arrived, Sir.”

“Thank you, Gabe. Let’s get started.”

The operating room was silent except for the quiet breathing of the Surgeon and his assistant. The patient was not physically present; this surgeon’s technique did not require her to be.

“I see it right there,” said Gabe, pointing to a tiny blotch nestled in the cerebrum.

The Surgeon nodded his approval.

“Well done. That nodule was discovered just the other day. It’s a good thing the patient came to me immediately before it got a chance to extend itself farther. As it was, it almost went from thought to action.”

“What caused this one, Sir?”

“It was nothing really. A friend neglected to call. There was no slight intended, just a busy schedule that got in the way.”

“It doesn’t sound like enough to do any harm.”

“Small and insignificant as it looks now, it would have led to a much bigger problem if she had allowed it to fester.”

Gabe scratched his head.

“One thought would lead to another?”

“And eventually to an action that everyone would regret.”

He reached out and touched the spot that his assistant had indicated. Instantly, the cancer-like cell was exorcised, dissolved without leaving a trace. The Surgeon paused, searching the nooks and crannies of his patient’s mind. When he found what he was looking for, he continued.

“See that over there, Gabe, the dark shadow covering that whole area to the right? There’s one that hasn’t been turned over.”

Under the Surgeon’s light, it wasn’t hard to see the ominous mass. Its tentacles, slight, seemingly anorexic, reached out into the cerebellum. Though their tips seemed innocuous, it was clear that their roots had grown thick and fat, bulging with menace.

“That’s the result of an old wound, a fifteen year old memory that our friend here has not released to me yet.”

The Surgeon’s assistant thought for a moment, his face growing more perplexed as the seconds passed.

“Why don’t you just touch it and take it away like you did this last one?”

As soon as he said it, the little assistant blushed with shame. He knew the reason. Hadn’t it already been mentioned several times in this single conversation? The Surgeon smiled, aware of what had caused the sudden flush.

“You know I won’t touch it until she lets it go. She has chosen to harbor an old wrong, and she can justify her reasons for holding on to the memory of it. She nurtures that original memory with every additional imagined offense. The scab gets ripped off; the wound reopens and grows.”

Gabe peered through time and eternity at the patient whose thoughts lay open before them.

“Why does she hang on to something so dangerous? Fifteen years is a long time.”

“Our friend thought that such a little black spot of painful memory was harmless, that she had it under control, that she could handle it. She didn’t understand that one unhealed memory would poison every other thought, every other action. For fifteen years, the relationship between the offender and the offended has been diseased, not enough to kill it, but enough to cripple it. It has chained the two of them, kept them from enjoying grace, from reveling in the warmth of close friendship, and from living out their conjoined mission as I would like to see it lived out in them. This memory, and the offense that made it, will take a while to heal completely.”

Time was no obstacle to the Great Physician and, even though Gabe had been hanging around humans for so long that he had come to share their appreciation of instant solutions to immediate needs, he knew that some things took time.

“Trees walking?”*

The Surgeon laughed.

“Ahhh, you remember that event, do you, Gabriel? Yes, for her the healing of this cancer will not be instant. The roots of the disease have had time, and her permission, to go all through the body. Pockets of resistance will pop up. If she is wise, she will bring those moribund memories to me immediately and not allow them to affect her joy, her peace, and her passion. Slowly but inevitably, the memories will be healed—if she wants them to be.”

Gabe was silent as he watched the spread of the cancerous mass of unhealed memory contaminating everything in its path.

Better let this one go soon, or you’ll be walking in the trees for a long, long time.


*Mark 8:22-26

A Bridge Is...

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A tiny cry
Lustier now
One large finger reaches
Five tiny ones grasp
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is born.

A solid thump
Dignity hurt
Tears fall, wailing starts
Some comfort sought
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is strengthened.

Oh lonely walk
School begun
Strangers at each turn
Seek kindred souls
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is started.

Cross my heart
And hope to die
The pledge is given
Friendship forever sealed
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is cemented.

This sweet love
The first to be
With every intention
Of lasting past forever
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is expanded.

Long black robes
And sweaty palms
Fine speeches made as
Superior becomes equal
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is spanned.

Nine to five
Joyous terror struck
Until new minion is
Equal to old master
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is possible.

A coffee shop
Pumpkin pie
Double sugar, double cream
Eyes meet, hearts unite
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is completed.

Some angry words
Senseless battle
Second thoughts, wisdom prevails
One face turns to another
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is repaired.

Two, then one
Alone again
House empty, heart full
One thing forever sure
Hand reaches out for hand
A bridge is gone.

In stillness now
The bonds released
Peace fully and forever known
A nail-scarred welcome
Hand reaches out for hand.
A bridge is crossed.