Wounds
Stories
Contents
“Wounds” by Keith Hewitt
“Potholes In the Journey” by C. David McKirachan
“First-Time Parent” by C. David McKirachan
Wounds
by Keith Hewitt
Mark 3:20-35
Jesus sat on the bench with care, perhaps more aware of the wobble than most people would have been; whether it was because of the floor being slightly uneven or one leg of the bench being slightly shorter than the others, he did not know — he just knew that it wobbled when one shifted carelessly on the plank seat. And as he pondered the possible causes, he was certain of one thing:
His father would have never tolerated it.
The man who had married his mother may have had his faults — a child was always more than capable of enumerating them when the occasion called for it — but sloppy workmanship was not one of them. If his father had built the bench, it would have sat solidly on all four legs and there would be none of this nonsense of finding the right way to sit to avoid shifting when he moved. If he had even been present, now, he would have found a way to shave just the right amount of wood off from the other legs to make it sit level, if it had taken him all night with a dull blade.
Jesus shook his head slightly as he sat back and let his shoulders press on the wall, let his head rest against it. Technically, he no longer needed sleep — he no longer needed anything physical — and yet there was still something blissfully restful about resting, closing his eyes in the presence of his disciples. Nearby, he could hear the distinctive rasp of Peter sawing his way through another night of sleep; and there, in the corner, Andrew mumbled beneath his breath, never quite loud enough to hear.
The sounds, the smells…the feeling of home…Jesus smiled, and imagined this must be what it was like for a sheep, sleeping safely in a sheepfold with his flock. The day would come when he would not be able to do this…he knew that; but for now, he could, so he would take advantage.
He felt, more than heard, the presence of someone next to him. Stifling his smile, he opened one eye and looked up, then opened both eyes and sat up. “Thomas?” he asked, recognizing the man who had interrupted his moment.
“Master,” Thomas responded, with a slight bob of his head, gestured toward a spot on the bench next to Jesus. Jesus nodded and Thomas sat down diffidently. They both sat in silence for a moment or two, then Thomas ventured, “So…how are you feeling?” His voice went up higher than need be at the end of the sentence, and his expression hinted that he had somehow been forced to ask the question.
Jesus smiled, to put him at ease. “How am I feeling?” he asked quietly, paused for a beat, then answered. “Alive.”
Pause. “Yeah…I’m still trying to wrap my head around that,” Thomas responded with a bashful smile. “I still can’t — ” He stopped, shrugged.
Jesus nodded. “I know. Truth be told, I’m finding it a little odd, myself. And yet — here I am.” He patted Thomas on the knee. “I know, it’s a lot to take in. But it’s good news — news you and the others are going to share with the rest of the world.”
“Sure, sure — good news,” Thomas agreed, almost too hastily. He looked down for a moment at his own hands — cast a sideways look at Jesus’ before he said, “Look — Master — I’m sorry about the whole hands and feet and side thing. About saying I would need to feel your wounds, see them myself. It was rude.”
Jesus furrowed his forehead, shook his head, “Not at all, Thomas. It was a perfectly natural reaction. Anybody might have said it under the circumstances — it just happened to be you.”
Thomas shook is head. “No, no — to see these wounds…to see how awful they are…that’s nothing I should want to see. Because to see them is to say I needed to see evidence that you had suffered. Died,” he finished awkwardly.
Jesus took a deep breath, sighed softly. “Thomas, it says no such thing. It says that you wanted to see evidence that I was who I said I was…and this — ” he held up his hand so the hole in his wrist was clearly visible to both of them, “ — this was the evidence there was.” He paused, then, and looked at his own wrist for a few moments, studying it in the indifferent lamp light. “As painful as they were — and I hope you never experience such a thing — as painful as they were, they will heal. The pain does fade, the memory becomes…insubstantial. It’s already happening.”
There was a long silence, then, as Jesus thought about the next thing that came to mind — examined it, turned it over in his thoughts like an interesting specimen he wanted to study, but something he wasn’t sure he should share. When he spoke again, he licked his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, and lowered his voice even more. “The truth be told, Thomas — I was injured far more gravely, wounded much deeper, before any Roman soldier ever pressed a nail to my flesh.”
Thomas shivered. “The scourging?” he guessed, well aware of how a Roman flagellum could flay a body.
Jesus shook his head, but wasn’t looking at him now…his eyes were fixed on a memory. “Worse than that, Thomas. Much worse.” He glanced at his disciple for a moment before his focus changed again. “Do you remember that one day — we were back home, in Nazareth. This was years ago. Right after I chose you, in fact — chose all of you as my disciples. I’d been teaching, casting out demons, healing…do you remember?”
Thomas nodded slowly. “Maybe?”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I — I don’t think so,” Thomas confessed.
Jesus shrugged slightly. “No reason you should. But I was teaching — teaching this huge crowd, and challenging the priests who had come to discredit me. And then…” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “And then someone interrupted to tell me that my family had come — my mother, my brothers and sisters.” He looked at Thomas again. “Do you remember now?”
Thomas nodded hesitantly.
“At first, I was happy. And then I found out my family — the dearest people in my life — my very own mothers, brothers, and sisters…had come to take me away from the crowd. To collect me, and shut me away like some halfwit child, or a shameful relative who’d lost his mind. Do you remember?”
“I do,” Thomas murmured.
“The people who should have been the first to accept me for who I was — they turned away from me instead, embarrassed that I was drawing attention…talking ‘nonsense’ and shaming them in front of their neighbors.” Jesus straightened up, then, took a deep breath. “So I did the only thing I could. I turned my back on them. I claimed a new family — a family of belief and faith. Of trust.” He looked at Thomas, smiled wanly. “I chose you as my brothers and sisters.”
Thomas hesitated, then reached out and put his hand on Jesus’ shoulder. “I remember, Master. But why — ”
Jesus reached up with his hand, patted Thomas’ hand on his shoulder. “Because I tell you this, my friend…my brother…the pain of that moment was worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. It was a deeper cut, a more painful wound, than could be caused by any Roman nail or blade. And it was the moment when I realized just what it was I would be giving up to fulfill my duty. It was a wound you’d never see.”
Thomas looked at his teacher — his master — and had no idea what to say, finally settled on a mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
Jesus nodded. “So was I — it was the only time I ever wondered.”
“Wondered what?” Thomas asked automatically, knowing the answer even as he spoke.
“Wondered if it would be worth it,” Jesus said, fixing his eyes once again on that unseen point in time. “Don’t get me wrong — I know. I knew. You can’t balance the pain of a broken heart against the salvation of mankind. But there was a moment, there, when the price seemed unreasonably high. There surely was,” Jesus said softly.
And Thomas stood silent, for what was there to say?
* * *
Potholes In the Journey
by C. David McKirachan
1 Samuel 8:4-11 (12-15) 16-20 (11:14-15)
When I was teaching communications at the university, I took the class through a fast-food version of logic. The discipline of logic is something that none, and I mean none of them had ever been exposed to. Creating a valid argument is as out of style as using a rotary phone. Aristotle would consider us barbarians. (Actually, I concluded that my students were mostly a mix of Visigoths and Picts, with some Celts thrown in.)
If we were going to study logic, we had to deal with fallacies. I called them potholes in the journey of rhetoric. If you tried to ignore them, and drove through them with your argument, your argument would end up with a flat tire or a broken axel. (They were from the New Jersey/New York area. They understood potholes.) And an argument with a flat tire or a broken axel wouldn’t drive. “Avoid them, because if you insist on ignoring them in this class, you will get a bad grade.” (That always got their attention.)
One of the hardest fallacies for them to swallow was “appeal to popularity”. Just because everybody else is doing it, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. It kind of throws a bucket of cold water on herd instinct. It’s hard for kids to hear that, because most of their behavior is determined by popularity. It’s hard for a young person to hear that the best way to go may not be what their acquaintances have determined to be the most fun, coolest, most in style, most out of style, or whatever else describes the best way to go, according to the people around them. The whole idea of making choices without considering what others think is anathema. The loneliness of disagreeing with your community is hard to take.
Adults teach them to be conformists by being that way themselves. It’s exacerbated by messages in the media. What’s the best product? The one that’s the best seller. Which is the best movie? The one that sells the most tickets. The whole idea of being a star rests on popularity.
But the popularity of the product or the entertainment or the star for that matter is no assurance they are the best to follow or purchase or to quote or support. And if you are popular, you may be wrong. You may be right, but your popularity is not what makes you that way. I reminded my students of the line that all of them had used on their parents, “But Mom/Dad, everybody is getting one/going there/staying out ‘till then/wearing them.” The appropriate answer to that is, “That is no assurance it is the best thing to have/go there/stay up that late/wearing that.”
The people of Israel were called to be a people holy, set aside, apart. That’s what the law was for, to make them different. Unless they could create a community ruled by something other than the herd, they would be as others, fitting in, unwilling to make the hard choices of growing beyond animals to become ‘those who wrestle with God.’ It’s imbedded in their very name, Israel.
Now, they came complaining to the representative of God, the prophet Samuel and wanted to be like ‘other nations.’ Samuel gave them all kinds of good reasons to avoid this way, practical reasons to avoid this mistake others had made. But the basic mistake was not in these reasonable warnings about what would happen. The basic mistake was imbedded in their desire to fit in. To have what others had. To be like them. They were driving into the pothole of appealing to popularity. (Their grade would have suffered in my class.)
A friend of mine told me that the best thing that could happen to the church would be to lose members, to stop being part of the mainstream culture; to become an outlier, a scandal, even persecuted for standing with the Christ. I told him that was going to be a hard one to sell. He agreed with me, and then asked me if that made it wrong?
We are very invested in our churches, our desire to fill the pews, to be powerful voices in our culture. But our power does not come from our culture, it comes from the Holy Spirit that stands among us and offers us gifts so that we can resemble the crucified and risen Christ. That has never been the popular way to go. But isn’t that the right way to go?
* * *
First-Time Parent
by C. David McKirachan
Genesis 3:8-15
It’s obvious that God was a first-time parent. Put the kid in paradise, tell them what the rules are, and they’ll be fine. Freud blamed our neuroses on our parents. It’s understandable. There’s no job description, no one else there to give advice that makes any sense, and this guy who enjoys tempting. Not cool.
I remember two things about the beginning of my experience as a parent, exhaustion and terror. I’d read all the books and still didn’t know anything. The second time around wasn’t as bad. I knew I was over my head to begin with.
In both cases I had all kinds of knowledge. Information that you’d think would allow me to make choices for the good. You’d think.
Our culture believes in knowledge. Information is power. But it didn’t seem to do Eve and Adam much good, and it doesn’t seem to help us all that much. We’ve got all kinds of knowledge; we push our teachers to cram our children’s heads with inordinate amounts of information and analytical tools. Education is the major gift we want to give our kids, and we assume it will open the gates of life to them. But it doesn’t seem to do much except confuse everything.
There were two trees in the garden, the tree of knowledge and the tree of life. These children ate of the former, the tree of knowledge. Knowledge is always the primary temptation of innocence. Innocence lives in the moment. Now is its universe. Then has no content or consequence. We can see the veracity of this by simply looking at the attitudes of our teenagers when it comes to risk. They drive like maniacs, they assume their infatuations are forever, and during the pandemic they refused to social distance or wear masks. And their courageous approach to confronting issues of the day drags us cautious elders to grudgingly follow. They have no perspective of failure or pain or loss. Their passions are terrifyingly magnificent and hard to live through and with. Senior citizens are found to be the most content of all the age groups. They’ve learned how to fail. It’s called wisdom. Native Americans revere their elders because they have this perspective of wisdom. In our rush to accomplish, we worship youth. No wonder we need Prozac.
An experienced parent will be able to tell something’s up with the kids if they’re too quiet. God knew something was up because his children were covering up. He knew they were guilty, and in their self-blame, they were placing a barrier between themselves and their loving Creator. They remind me of pre-teens. Mommy and Daddy are no longer seen as heroes. And thus begin the wars of adolescence.
I don’t know about you, but I remember vividly the moments when I confronted my parents, had better things to do than spend time with them, and let them know their advice was a fossilized bit of history from another age. And I remember those moments with pain. I remember them with the perspective of years. I remember them knowing that despite my aggressive foolishness, they loved me.
These memories are part of the perspective I bring to faith. How many times have I hurt my loving parent, God? How many times have I been part of the squad that drove the nails into my Lord? And how many times have I turned away from the Holy Spirit’s incentive to be God’s hands of healing or words of mercy because I was in a hurry or had more important things to do? In my arrogance and confusion, I had turned away from my Father in Heaven. Thus, the psalmist wrote, “Out of the depths I cry to thee, Listen compassionately to my pleading…” Adam and Eve did not have perspective, but they knew they were in trouble. Their relationship with the maker had been sundered by their childish behavior. Now they were guilty. Something they wished they could cover up but knew they couldn’t.
My parents did their best to let me know I was loved, despite my behavior. And in their later years we shared some of our memories, with the perspective of love. God has done God’s best to let us know we are loved with the presence and the death of our Lord. His resurrection affirms that even our ugliness cannot overcome God’s constant abiding love.
I guess God’s done pretty well as a parent. It’s us kids that just won’t grow up.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 6, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
“Wounds” by Keith Hewitt
“Potholes In the Journey” by C. David McKirachan
“First-Time Parent” by C. David McKirachan
Wounds
by Keith Hewitt
Mark 3:20-35
Jesus sat on the bench with care, perhaps more aware of the wobble than most people would have been; whether it was because of the floor being slightly uneven or one leg of the bench being slightly shorter than the others, he did not know — he just knew that it wobbled when one shifted carelessly on the plank seat. And as he pondered the possible causes, he was certain of one thing:
His father would have never tolerated it.
The man who had married his mother may have had his faults — a child was always more than capable of enumerating them when the occasion called for it — but sloppy workmanship was not one of them. If his father had built the bench, it would have sat solidly on all four legs and there would be none of this nonsense of finding the right way to sit to avoid shifting when he moved. If he had even been present, now, he would have found a way to shave just the right amount of wood off from the other legs to make it sit level, if it had taken him all night with a dull blade.
Jesus shook his head slightly as he sat back and let his shoulders press on the wall, let his head rest against it. Technically, he no longer needed sleep — he no longer needed anything physical — and yet there was still something blissfully restful about resting, closing his eyes in the presence of his disciples. Nearby, he could hear the distinctive rasp of Peter sawing his way through another night of sleep; and there, in the corner, Andrew mumbled beneath his breath, never quite loud enough to hear.
The sounds, the smells…the feeling of home…Jesus smiled, and imagined this must be what it was like for a sheep, sleeping safely in a sheepfold with his flock. The day would come when he would not be able to do this…he knew that; but for now, he could, so he would take advantage.
He felt, more than heard, the presence of someone next to him. Stifling his smile, he opened one eye and looked up, then opened both eyes and sat up. “Thomas?” he asked, recognizing the man who had interrupted his moment.
“Master,” Thomas responded, with a slight bob of his head, gestured toward a spot on the bench next to Jesus. Jesus nodded and Thomas sat down diffidently. They both sat in silence for a moment or two, then Thomas ventured, “So…how are you feeling?” His voice went up higher than need be at the end of the sentence, and his expression hinted that he had somehow been forced to ask the question.
Jesus smiled, to put him at ease. “How am I feeling?” he asked quietly, paused for a beat, then answered. “Alive.”
Pause. “Yeah…I’m still trying to wrap my head around that,” Thomas responded with a bashful smile. “I still can’t — ” He stopped, shrugged.
Jesus nodded. “I know. Truth be told, I’m finding it a little odd, myself. And yet — here I am.” He patted Thomas on the knee. “I know, it’s a lot to take in. But it’s good news — news you and the others are going to share with the rest of the world.”
“Sure, sure — good news,” Thomas agreed, almost too hastily. He looked down for a moment at his own hands — cast a sideways look at Jesus’ before he said, “Look — Master — I’m sorry about the whole hands and feet and side thing. About saying I would need to feel your wounds, see them myself. It was rude.”
Jesus furrowed his forehead, shook his head, “Not at all, Thomas. It was a perfectly natural reaction. Anybody might have said it under the circumstances — it just happened to be you.”
Thomas shook is head. “No, no — to see these wounds…to see how awful they are…that’s nothing I should want to see. Because to see them is to say I needed to see evidence that you had suffered. Died,” he finished awkwardly.
Jesus took a deep breath, sighed softly. “Thomas, it says no such thing. It says that you wanted to see evidence that I was who I said I was…and this — ” he held up his hand so the hole in his wrist was clearly visible to both of them, “ — this was the evidence there was.” He paused, then, and looked at his own wrist for a few moments, studying it in the indifferent lamp light. “As painful as they were — and I hope you never experience such a thing — as painful as they were, they will heal. The pain does fade, the memory becomes…insubstantial. It’s already happening.”
There was a long silence, then, as Jesus thought about the next thing that came to mind — examined it, turned it over in his thoughts like an interesting specimen he wanted to study, but something he wasn’t sure he should share. When he spoke again, he licked his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, and lowered his voice even more. “The truth be told, Thomas — I was injured far more gravely, wounded much deeper, before any Roman soldier ever pressed a nail to my flesh.”
Thomas shivered. “The scourging?” he guessed, well aware of how a Roman flagellum could flay a body.
Jesus shook his head, but wasn’t looking at him now…his eyes were fixed on a memory. “Worse than that, Thomas. Much worse.” He glanced at his disciple for a moment before his focus changed again. “Do you remember that one day — we were back home, in Nazareth. This was years ago. Right after I chose you, in fact — chose all of you as my disciples. I’d been teaching, casting out demons, healing…do you remember?”
Thomas nodded slowly. “Maybe?”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“I — I don’t think so,” Thomas confessed.
Jesus shrugged slightly. “No reason you should. But I was teaching — teaching this huge crowd, and challenging the priests who had come to discredit me. And then…” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “And then someone interrupted to tell me that my family had come — my mother, my brothers and sisters.” He looked at Thomas again. “Do you remember now?”
Thomas nodded hesitantly.
“At first, I was happy. And then I found out my family — the dearest people in my life — my very own mothers, brothers, and sisters…had come to take me away from the crowd. To collect me, and shut me away like some halfwit child, or a shameful relative who’d lost his mind. Do you remember?”
“I do,” Thomas murmured.
“The people who should have been the first to accept me for who I was — they turned away from me instead, embarrassed that I was drawing attention…talking ‘nonsense’ and shaming them in front of their neighbors.” Jesus straightened up, then, took a deep breath. “So I did the only thing I could. I turned my back on them. I claimed a new family — a family of belief and faith. Of trust.” He looked at Thomas, smiled wanly. “I chose you as my brothers and sisters.”
Thomas hesitated, then reached out and put his hand on Jesus’ shoulder. “I remember, Master. But why — ”
Jesus reached up with his hand, patted Thomas’ hand on his shoulder. “Because I tell you this, my friend…my brother…the pain of that moment was worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. It was a deeper cut, a more painful wound, than could be caused by any Roman nail or blade. And it was the moment when I realized just what it was I would be giving up to fulfill my duty. It was a wound you’d never see.”
Thomas looked at his teacher — his master — and had no idea what to say, finally settled on a mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
Jesus nodded. “So was I — it was the only time I ever wondered.”
“Wondered what?” Thomas asked automatically, knowing the answer even as he spoke.
“Wondered if it would be worth it,” Jesus said, fixing his eyes once again on that unseen point in time. “Don’t get me wrong — I know. I knew. You can’t balance the pain of a broken heart against the salvation of mankind. But there was a moment, there, when the price seemed unreasonably high. There surely was,” Jesus said softly.
And Thomas stood silent, for what was there to say?
* * *
Potholes In the Journey
by C. David McKirachan
1 Samuel 8:4-11 (12-15) 16-20 (11:14-15)
When I was teaching communications at the university, I took the class through a fast-food version of logic. The discipline of logic is something that none, and I mean none of them had ever been exposed to. Creating a valid argument is as out of style as using a rotary phone. Aristotle would consider us barbarians. (Actually, I concluded that my students were mostly a mix of Visigoths and Picts, with some Celts thrown in.)
If we were going to study logic, we had to deal with fallacies. I called them potholes in the journey of rhetoric. If you tried to ignore them, and drove through them with your argument, your argument would end up with a flat tire or a broken axel. (They were from the New Jersey/New York area. They understood potholes.) And an argument with a flat tire or a broken axel wouldn’t drive. “Avoid them, because if you insist on ignoring them in this class, you will get a bad grade.” (That always got their attention.)
One of the hardest fallacies for them to swallow was “appeal to popularity”. Just because everybody else is doing it, doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. It kind of throws a bucket of cold water on herd instinct. It’s hard for kids to hear that, because most of their behavior is determined by popularity. It’s hard for a young person to hear that the best way to go may not be what their acquaintances have determined to be the most fun, coolest, most in style, most out of style, or whatever else describes the best way to go, according to the people around them. The whole idea of making choices without considering what others think is anathema. The loneliness of disagreeing with your community is hard to take.
Adults teach them to be conformists by being that way themselves. It’s exacerbated by messages in the media. What’s the best product? The one that’s the best seller. Which is the best movie? The one that sells the most tickets. The whole idea of being a star rests on popularity.
But the popularity of the product or the entertainment or the star for that matter is no assurance they are the best to follow or purchase or to quote or support. And if you are popular, you may be wrong. You may be right, but your popularity is not what makes you that way. I reminded my students of the line that all of them had used on their parents, “But Mom/Dad, everybody is getting one/going there/staying out ‘till then/wearing them.” The appropriate answer to that is, “That is no assurance it is the best thing to have/go there/stay up that late/wearing that.”
The people of Israel were called to be a people holy, set aside, apart. That’s what the law was for, to make them different. Unless they could create a community ruled by something other than the herd, they would be as others, fitting in, unwilling to make the hard choices of growing beyond animals to become ‘those who wrestle with God.’ It’s imbedded in their very name, Israel.
Now, they came complaining to the representative of God, the prophet Samuel and wanted to be like ‘other nations.’ Samuel gave them all kinds of good reasons to avoid this way, practical reasons to avoid this mistake others had made. But the basic mistake was not in these reasonable warnings about what would happen. The basic mistake was imbedded in their desire to fit in. To have what others had. To be like them. They were driving into the pothole of appealing to popularity. (Their grade would have suffered in my class.)
A friend of mine told me that the best thing that could happen to the church would be to lose members, to stop being part of the mainstream culture; to become an outlier, a scandal, even persecuted for standing with the Christ. I told him that was going to be a hard one to sell. He agreed with me, and then asked me if that made it wrong?
We are very invested in our churches, our desire to fill the pews, to be powerful voices in our culture. But our power does not come from our culture, it comes from the Holy Spirit that stands among us and offers us gifts so that we can resemble the crucified and risen Christ. That has never been the popular way to go. But isn’t that the right way to go?
* * *
First-Time Parent
by C. David McKirachan
Genesis 3:8-15
It’s obvious that God was a first-time parent. Put the kid in paradise, tell them what the rules are, and they’ll be fine. Freud blamed our neuroses on our parents. It’s understandable. There’s no job description, no one else there to give advice that makes any sense, and this guy who enjoys tempting. Not cool.
I remember two things about the beginning of my experience as a parent, exhaustion and terror. I’d read all the books and still didn’t know anything. The second time around wasn’t as bad. I knew I was over my head to begin with.
In both cases I had all kinds of knowledge. Information that you’d think would allow me to make choices for the good. You’d think.
Our culture believes in knowledge. Information is power. But it didn’t seem to do Eve and Adam much good, and it doesn’t seem to help us all that much. We’ve got all kinds of knowledge; we push our teachers to cram our children’s heads with inordinate amounts of information and analytical tools. Education is the major gift we want to give our kids, and we assume it will open the gates of life to them. But it doesn’t seem to do much except confuse everything.
There were two trees in the garden, the tree of knowledge and the tree of life. These children ate of the former, the tree of knowledge. Knowledge is always the primary temptation of innocence. Innocence lives in the moment. Now is its universe. Then has no content or consequence. We can see the veracity of this by simply looking at the attitudes of our teenagers when it comes to risk. They drive like maniacs, they assume their infatuations are forever, and during the pandemic they refused to social distance or wear masks. And their courageous approach to confronting issues of the day drags us cautious elders to grudgingly follow. They have no perspective of failure or pain or loss. Their passions are terrifyingly magnificent and hard to live through and with. Senior citizens are found to be the most content of all the age groups. They’ve learned how to fail. It’s called wisdom. Native Americans revere their elders because they have this perspective of wisdom. In our rush to accomplish, we worship youth. No wonder we need Prozac.
An experienced parent will be able to tell something’s up with the kids if they’re too quiet. God knew something was up because his children were covering up. He knew they were guilty, and in their self-blame, they were placing a barrier between themselves and their loving Creator. They remind me of pre-teens. Mommy and Daddy are no longer seen as heroes. And thus begin the wars of adolescence.
I don’t know about you, but I remember vividly the moments when I confronted my parents, had better things to do than spend time with them, and let them know their advice was a fossilized bit of history from another age. And I remember those moments with pain. I remember them with the perspective of years. I remember them knowing that despite my aggressive foolishness, they loved me.
These memories are part of the perspective I bring to faith. How many times have I hurt my loving parent, God? How many times have I been part of the squad that drove the nails into my Lord? And how many times have I turned away from the Holy Spirit’s incentive to be God’s hands of healing or words of mercy because I was in a hurry or had more important things to do? In my arrogance and confusion, I had turned away from my Father in Heaven. Thus, the psalmist wrote, “Out of the depths I cry to thee, Listen compassionately to my pleading…” Adam and Eve did not have perspective, but they knew they were in trouble. Their relationship with the maker had been sundered by their childish behavior. Now they were guilty. Something they wished they could cover up but knew they couldn’t.
My parents did their best to let me know I was loved, despite my behavior. And in their later years we shared some of our memories, with the perspective of love. God has done God’s best to let us know we are loved with the presence and the death of our Lord. His resurrection affirms that even our ugliness cannot overcome God’s constant abiding love.
I guess God’s done pretty well as a parent. It’s us kids that just won’t grow up.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 6, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
