Excellent Sermons

We heard two excellent and extremely convicting sermons yesterday.

The morning sermon, "Whose Kingdom Are You Building," from Matthew 16:24-28 focused on the three exhortations of Christ to "deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow Me."

Rev. Paul Murphy pointed out that denying oneself had nothing to do with giving up a pleasure or any kind of emotional or physical deprivation, but was all about denying YOUR SELF. It is giving up your selfish goals and desires, exchanging your agenda for God's. It is the type of selfless life exemplified by Christ. And it is only in giving your life over to Christ that you will find eternal life.

He also pointed out that taking up your cross does not mean that we can add anything to the work of Christ on the cross, neither does it refer to burdens or misfortune. It is a call to daily death. We ought to identify with Christ and be willing to suffer for His sake. And we ought to count it as joy to be considered worthy of such suffering.

Unless we deny ourselves and take up our cross, we cannot follow Christ. The first two are prerequisites for the third. "Christ will not tolerate half-heared devotion." Christ will come again. What will He say to you? "Well done" or "Away from me; I never knew you"?

The evening sermon was on "Greater Works Than Christ" from John 14:12-21. Rev. Murphy spoke about the PROMISE the Lord supplies, the PEOPLE to whom that promise is given, the PROBLEM with why we don't see the promise fulfilled, and the PRESCRIPTIONS the Lord provides.

He stated upfront that the "greater works" referred to in the text were more conversions and a greater advance of the gospel, and he supported that interpretation from Acts.

The promise reaches down through the corridors of time and comes to all who believe in Christ. It is not a command, but a promise. It is both a privilege and a blessing to tell others about Christ and see them come to a believing faith.

The problem is a lack of concern for the lost in our own communities. We are concerned about the prospect of someone's physical death, but we are not concerned about the prospect of someone's eternal death. We need the heart of Christ for the lost.

The prescriptions are: first, experiencing a personal, intimate, and continual relationship with Christ; second, praying for a heart like Christ and praying specifically by name for the lost among our acquaintances; third, being a faithful witness with our lives and lips; and fourth, having the boldness that comes from being "filled with the Holy Spirit."

I felt very convicted by the morning sermon, but even more so by the evening sermon. The words are burning coals in my mind as I consider how to reach out to the lost while trying to serve God with my talents.

Thanksgiving extra innings

We're going into extra innings for Thanksgiving. Last evening three of our four children were home to enjoy a Thanksgiving-style meal with us. We had pineapple-garnished ham, sweet potato puff, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and traditional sage stuffing. We also had a roaring fire in the fireplace, which was very relaxing and cozy.

Today we're celebrating with the paternal side of the family. As usual, I'll be bringing pumpkin pies and scalloped corn.

Thursday our oldest son with his wife and two sons will be in town. We'll all go out to eat with my parents and sister, and then we'll spend some time together at our home.

Saturday is Kirk's birtday and we will probably do something with him.

So it's seems as if Thanksgiving is being stretched out over an entire week this year.

Brag Book-1

Pulling grandmother rank again, I've decided to post a recent picture of me with my grandsons. Gabe is wearing a Park Ranger hat we bought for him at the gift shop in Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. He's also wearing a band-aid over four stitches in his chin (something to do with rocking on the kitchen chair after being repeatedly warned not to). Those stitches have since been taken out, leaving behind only a red smudge.

We had a wonderful time at Gabe's 4th birthday party last week. Seth and I put out a bunch of fires at Chuck E Cheeses, my mom put Logan to sleep on her lap, Dave and Logan "drove" a car, and Gabe played just about every game with just about everyone. At Seth's home later, Logan kept smiling at me from across the room. Gabe voluntarily went around the room, giving everyone stickers from a pack he had just received. And after he finished opening his gifts, he went politley around the room thanking everyone. The only thing that marred the evening was that I forgot my camera--some grandma! On the way home my mom and dad (aka Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa) kept talking about "those nice little boys."

Winter

When I tottered into my office at 5:10 this morning, the full moon was shining on the blinds of my west window, so I opened them to view the beauty of the season's first snow palely gleaming in the moonlight.

Then I went into the kitchen to heat water for my morning tea, and I looked twice at our indoor-outdoor thermometer before I marveled aloud that it read 10.2 degrees. By the time the microwave beeped, it had dropped to 9.5 degrees (and--for all you Canadians readers--I'm talking Fahrenheit, not Celsius). I thought yesterday's stiff wind was bitter when the temperatrue dropped to 18 after sunset. But what a shock to see single digits in the middle of November! Especially so soon after many days of temperatures in the 70s or even lower 80s.

That’s Iowa, no real spring or fall, just jumping from one extreme to the other, often within the space of a few days and sometimes even in the same day.

First Snow

The first snow of the season is falling, and it's beginning to stick. The forecast is for one to three inches by morning. The snow is beautiful on the green needles of the evergreens and the rust leaves of the oaks in the woods surrounding our home.

I love snow, if neither I nor my loved ones are out driving in it and I am watching it fall outside the window of my snug home, kept warm by a blazing fire in the wood stove.

Wood heat is warmer than LP or electric heat; it's a far more comfortable heat. There must be some kind of scientific explanation, but I don't really care about an explanation. I just know that wood heat feels cozier than any other kind of heat. It's like the difference between regular sheets and flannel sheets. You can't understand the concept of more cozy until you experience it for yourself.

Anne Rice

Yesterday I learned that Anne Rice, author of the infamous Vampire Chronicles and Mayfair Witches series, now plans to write only "for the Lord." Her first "for the Lord" effort is Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, which is narrated by a seven-year-old Christ.

I know that God's arm is not short and He can soften the hardest heart and change the most fanatical anti-Christian zealot (i.e. Saul) into the most effective Christian witness (i.e. Paul), and I don't want to doubt God's power or the genuineness of anyone's Christian faith, but I'm fairly confident that making Christ the narrator of a novel is not the best way to communicate the truths of the Christian truth. I'm uncomfortable with any biblical fiction, and this seems to take biblical fiction to a new and unwise extreme.

I find the idea of a seven-year-old Christ narrating a novel about himself more horrifying than all Rice's previous books about vampires and witches.

Gabriel David

Today is my grandson's fourth birthday. In honor of the occasion, I intend to indulge my grandmother tendencies and devote this blog entry to talking about Gabe.

When we babysit for him, I enjoy the distinct privilege of reading to him. He plays hard with Grandpa most of the time, but we finish the evening with me reading original Thomas the Train stories from a volume we gave him last Christmas, followed by a Bible story.

Last time we babysat, Grandpa was helping Gabe make puzzles and would clap for him whenever he finished one. Gabe would smile his face-splitting smile and bow emphatically from side to side, saying, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

When Gabe's dad called last Sunday, Gabe asked to speak to us.

"Hey, hey, guys!" He said in his breathless telephone voice, "Are you coming for my birthday party?"

We assured that we fully intended to do so and told him that we would also be bringing along his great-grandparents.

"Do you think so? Do you really think so?" he asked excitedly.

So tonight it's pizza and games at Chuck-E-Cheese, followed by presents and cake at Gabe's house. Chuck-E-Cheese is an experience in sensory overload, but surprisingly enough, I'm looking forward to the evening.

Scarlet Pimpernel

We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in heaven?--Is he in hell?

That demmed, elusive Pimpernel.

Everyone but his wife admires the Sir Percy Blakeney's witticism. "All done in the tying of a cravat," the foppish aristocrat declares.

I plan to return the book to the library today and, I must say, it was a fast-paced fun read in spite of unbelievable characters. I find it difficult to admire a heroine who first betrays a man and his entire family to their deaths with her careless words (simply because he had once had her brother beaten), and then unwittingly betrays her own husband (although she is repeatedly described as "the cleverest woman in Europe"), and then thinks it's up to her to rush off to France to warn him (although he had repeatedly gotten himself out of the most incredible situations), and then becomes yet another helpless victim he must rescue. And the hero is such a perfect superman that he carries his poor wife, weak from stress and a long walk, for a long distance over rough ground in spite of having just been beaten nearly to death by two burly soldiers wielding their belt buckles on him and in spite of having a perfectly fresh, healthy young male friend beside him who offers to carry her. Not entirely realistic, but extremely popular and lucrative for Baroness Orczy (which I learned from the book's forword is pronounced "Ort-zee").

I have the feeling, however, that the Baroness herself would be the first to agree with me. She was an intelligent woman and an accomplished painter, but never considered herself an artist. She began writing novels only because, after hearing some of the efforts of her friends, believed that she could do just as well. Her popular success was a complete surprise to her, but provided her and her artist husband with an extensive estate in Kent, a London home, and a villa at Monte Carlo (another fact I learned from the informative foreword).

I much prefer to learn this kind of practical stuff from foreword to being harangued by a high-brow critical analysist. I like to learn what constitutes great literature, but I can make up my own mind about what I like in a book and why I like it.

In addition to the informative foreword, the volume I borrowed from our local library had many photos of the author. I especially enjoyed the one of her at thirteen, with her moody eyes and serious mouth. But I grew a little weary of the Baroness Orczy at Villa Bijou, Baroness Orczy and Her Husband, Baroness Orczy at Work, and The Author in Her Garden ones, which were all obviously set up shots taken on the same day.

When I return The Scarlet Pimpernel to the library today, I hope to look for another classic that I've never read. Our local library does not seem to carry an abundance of classic literature. The easiest way to find one is to slide my eyes along the shelves until I see a thick old book with the title handwritten in white ink on a black taped binding.

That will invariably be one of great literature's classic novels.

Discipline

Discipline may be the chief ingredient in writing.

Creativity and skill are important, but I believe discipline is even more crucial. A person can be skilled and creative, but the well-formed sentences and creative ideas will never be read if he doesn't have the discipline to wrestle them onto the mat.

A few days ago I purchased a copy of Anthony Trollope's Doctor Thorne and learned more about this remarkable author in an introduction by Elizabeth Bowen. I had always thought of Trollope's full-time work with the post office as filling out mind-numbing forms in some stuffy office. But apparently Trollope spent many years of postal employment riding about the English countryside, determining rural routes by measuring the 14-mile distance a rural letter carrier was expected to walk each day. He frequently began his day with fox-hunting and often stopped to call on local gentry in his red hunting apparel.

Now I understand how fresh air, exercise, and exposure to a wide variety of people and scenes fueled his active imagination. But one still must admit that his example of discipline is unassailable.

Part of Doctor Thorne was written during a difficult Mediterranean crossing, during which Trollope periodically left his manuscript on the dining table while he dashed off to be sick in his stateroom. He managed, however, to complete his prescribed number of pages each day.

I'm trying to decide whether I think he was obessessive or if he's my hero.

Masterpiece

What is a masterpiece?

I admire realistic paintings, preferring them to abstracts that I don't understand or appreciate. I love paintings from the Hudson River Valley school. I see God's majesty reflected in Albert Bierstadt's towering cloud banks and rugged peaks, dwarfing the tiny deer grazing beside still pools. I like Frederick Remington's dusty landscapes, bursting with the vitality and humanity of cowboys, soldiers, and American Indians. And I like the exaggerated features of Norman Rockwell's genuine people, displaying a remarkable range of human nature.

I was mildly surprised to hear my daughter call Rockwell an "illustrator" after her first year of college art classes. I hadn't thought about the difference between an painter and an illustrator. And I didn't truly understand the difference until I recently considered it in writing terms.

Accurately recording a factual scene from memory differs acutely from truthfully crafting a fictional scene from imagination. It's the difference between being a chronicler and a storyteller.

Whether one is describing a masterpiece of painting or writing, the definition is subjective. Certain guidelines govern what constitutes superb art or excellent writing, but people don't always agree on the criteria and the same piece affects people differently.

Just as I believe that I don't need to be considered an artist, as long as I consider myself a writer; I believe that it may not be as important to produce a masterpiece as to produce the Master's pieces.

Walking

I walked with my friend, Barb, yesterday. Even though it was windy, it was another gorgeous fall day with a clear blue sky and temperatures in the 60s. We stopped near the dam to watch the pelicans. Realizing how soon the weather will become November dismal, we try to take advantage of these nice days. We agree that walking outdoors with a friend is much more enjoyable than forcing oneself onto a treadmill.

When I walk, however, I tend to focus primarily on the path in front of me. I may glance at my friend or the vivid colors of the sky and leaves, but most of the time I’m looking down at the tarred cracks in the asphalt path.

That reflects the way I walk through my life. I spend too much time looking down and focusing on my drab path instead of raising my eyes to focus on relationships and the many evidences of God’s beauty and love in my life. I spend too much time praying for solutions to my problems instead of setting my mind on things above.

Help me walk with upraised eyes, O Lord!