A GLORIOUS SPLASH OF TIME-by Heidi McLaughlin

                                                                        

An unrelenting knot in my stomach signals the beginning of my Easter week. My emotions become tender and anxious because Good Friday is approaching-again. 

This tension started ten years ago on a Good Friday, when I heard the whispered, gut wrenching words, “Were you there when they nailed Him to the tree?”  In that divine, hushed moment I became that mother gazing upon her own son hanging on a cross. I tried to envision my son in that scene-Donovan, the apple of my eye, with his wistful lopsided grin and dimples. The one who makes me double over in laughter, creates gourmet recipes, shops with me, and makes my buttons burst with pride.  My whole life has been devoted to nurturing, loving and protecting him.

So I am overcome with emotion when I place myself in that moment in time, where Mary stands, looking up at her son’s bloody, nail pierced hands as He hung upon the cross. To a mother, her son is always her cherished boy. We never forget the soft, warm cuddles, or long nights watching him toss with fever. How do we fathom being a mother who raises a son knowing he is appointed to die? How do we fathom the Son, freely giving himself for the world? That is what we have to grapple with-knowing Jesus has such a radical love, it disrupts our world.

 Just before Jesus went to the cross He had an intensely intimate conversation with His Heavenly Father. He said, “I have given them the glory you gave me-the glorious unity of being one, as we are” John 17:22(TLB).  It is unmistakably clear; Jesus was leaving you and me to continue on this radical mission to wash out a dark world full of selfishness, confusion and hatred with His Glory-a reflection of His essence-Love.

 It is glaringly obvious. I have this moment in history-a Glorious splash of time-to reflect God’s glory.  Most moments in time I don’t feel one bit glorious. As I tap my fingers in traffic or look at my watch in cashier lines, I know I cannot muster up any glory.  But Glory comes from the one who died for me, the Lord, whose spirit splashes through me. If I stop myself in the moment, wherever I am, I know that Spirit lovingly spills into me.

 My knot finally dissipates on Easter Sunday. My eyes shift from the excruciating horror of the cross to the magnificent beauty of a love beyond reason. I move from emotion to mission.  I have been asked to disrupt the darkness of this world with the Glory of this radical love. I am ready.

 “And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the spirit” (2 Cor. 3:18b NIV).

 How do we reflect God’s glory?

1.         Realize that God has given us this Glorious Splash of Time to reflect His Glory.

2.         Seek to know God’s love.

3.         Keep a pure heart – forgive freely.

4.         Ask the Holy Spirit to be the Glory in us.

Heidi McLaughlin lives in the beautiful vineyards of the Okanagan Valley in Kelowna, British Columbia. She is married to Pastor Jack and they have a wonderful, eclectic blended family of 5 children and 9 grandchildren. When Heidi is not working, she loves to curl up with a great book, or golf and laugh with her husband and special friends. You can reach her at: www.heartconnection.ca

   

The Other Prodigal Son - Arends

My new Christianity Today column is about my empathy for the "older brother" ... and something he taught me only recently ... Here it is!

The Other Prodigal Son

The Prodigal's coming-home gala was for both sons.

 Growing up in Sunday school, I was very familiar with the Prodigal Son—at least as he was rendered in flannelgraph. I disapproved of his behavior with righteous indignation; as the first-born child of a Baptist household, I empathized with the older brother. How was it fair that the bad boy got a party and the good one didn't? It wasn't until I was much older that I realized the story was infinitely more about the father's love than the prodigal's misconduct.

Only recently, however, have I begun to discover that the older son in Jesus' story is every bit as lost as the younger one. In his book The Prodigal God, Timothy Keller points out that the two brothers represent the two basic ways people try to make life work. The younger son pursues "self-discovery"—he's on a quest to find and fulfill himself, even if a few people have to get hurt along the way. The older brother is committed to a more socially respectable way of being in the world—the way of "moral conformity." He's on a program of self-salvation, earning the approval of his community and the favor of his father; when he feels the terms of this deal are violated, his good attitude evaporates into resentment.

Kenneth Bailey is a theologian who spent 40 years living in the Middle East, striving to resituate Jesus' stories in their original Palestinian context. He points out that for Jesus' audience, respect for one's father is paramount; the younger son's request for his inheritance from a still-healthy patriarch constitutes an unthinkable offense. It amounts to saying, "I wish you were dead."

But the older son's conduct—refusing to join the party for his brother and arguing with his dad in front of the guests—is no less egregious. Hospitality was of supreme value in 1st-century Palestine. The entire village would likely have been invited to the party, and the oldest son would be expected to co-host the proceedings. His refusal is another round of humiliating rejection for the father. But the father actually goes out looking for this son, entreating him to come join the party, and Jesus leaves the story unfinished. Will the son abandon his own plan for making life work and accept the extravagant gift of his father's love and inclusion? Or will he stick to the terms of his deal and exclude himself from his place in the family?

I was discussing this story not long ago with a Bible study group made up mostly of "older brothers" and "older sisters." We'd played by the rules much of our lives, but we were beginning to see that our good behavior had been at least subconsciously a form of self-salvation—an attempt to earn God's approval and maybe even obligate him to do what we wanted. When we considered the fact that Jesus told this story to the Pharisees (older brothers if ever there were some!) in response to their outrage over his association with "sinners," we realized the parable is primarily about the father's relationship with the older son. "How did this story about two sons ever even get called 'The Prodigal Son'?" one of us asked. "An older brother must have named it!" was the answer.

As we pondered the implications, one of the women confessed, "Still, it doesn't seem fair that the father had never thrown a party for the older son." ?Several of us admitted that we, too, related to the son's complaint.

We moved on to another of Jesus' stories: the parable of the Great Banquet. I began to wonder if, from Jesus' perspective, having a feast thrown in one's honor is a blessing, but being invited to help the father host the banquet is a vastly greater gift. My husband and I love holding pool parties in our backyard. When things go well—when lots of people come and the food is tasty and there is laughter and music and good conversation—there is a particular satisfaction and intimacy we share as we debrief together over the cleanup.

Maybe the father in Jesus' story felt he could honor and bless his oldest boy more by inviting him into the deep relationship of mutual service than by merely giving him a party of his own. Maybe becoming a Christian is not only accepting Jesus into my life, but also accepting his incredible invitation to be a part of his life—to participate missionally in the triune God's cosmic plan of redemption.

As Jesus tells it, the Father is hosting a lavish banquet, and we're invited—not because of our own merit, but because he loves us. And there's more. He's invited us to help him throw the party—neither as servants nor as guests, but as family.

Copyright © 2012 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information.
www.carolynarends.com

Not That Kind of Writer ...? -- Peter A. Black

That mayor and council need to wake up! Their burn-and-slash program of cost-cutting, while having little effect on their personal well-being or cramping their lifestyle, will affect many people at the lower end of the socio-economic scale! These block-headed ideologues can’t see past their noses, and all their campaign promises count for nothing when their actions are akin to those of Judas who betrayed his Lord with a kiss. These characters are betraying the poor and all those depending on the programs they are about to cut.

WHOAAH! Who’s speaking? What council? What cuts? Whatever happened to this column?

It’s O.K. – Honest.

A week or so ago I read a front page article in The Toronto Star. In it the author berated the Toronto mayor and members of the council in language decidedly more graphic and scathing than I’ve employed above. I reckoned that he’s actually a skilled writer and knows how to write and grab attention, and that his style would likely generate discussion, and maybe garner reader comments – usually good for newspaper sales and keeping reader interest alive.

I said to my wife, “My goodness, what if I were to write like that? I’d probably get sued, or something.” She replied, “But you’re not that kind of writer.”

That got me thinking further. Well then, what kind of writer am I? Now please bear with me in a little navel gazing. (Granted, it takes other people to provide objective analysis of us and our efforts in any field of endeavour.)

My review took me to consider several key factors in my life and phrases that I coined and adopted that have served as guides and governors over the years.

First, I’m a believer in Jesus Christ; He is my Saviour and Lord. God is my Heavenly Father, and I have to give account to Him of how I live my life. The Holy Spirit is an ever-present influence in my life.

Second, as a Christian person I honour the Lord, and do not wish to bring disgrace to Him.

Third, I represent other people (the Christian community, my wife and family) who depend on or may be influenced for better or for worse through my judgment or actions.

Fourth, my worldview is informed and tempered through my Christian faith and understanding of the biblical scriptures. And so I write – and do a whole stack of things in life – out of that milieu.

The fifth (and I’ll make it the final) area that is part and parcel of “the kind of writer I am” is reflected in two statements.

In 1975 I adopted two words – “Recommending Christ!” – as a ministry motto. Throughout my pastoral ministry I sought to do just that. If I were working with a couple whose marriage was in trouble, or with a bereaved family, or whatever negative event barged through the door of their lives, apart from any practical steps that might be necessary to help them, I essentially recommended Christ as the ultimate solution.

In January of 2005 I adopted a writing slogan, “Raise the Gaze” – more fully expressed as, “Writing to raise the gaze from the mundane to the marvellous, from the secular to the sacred, from the material to the spiritual, and from the temporal to the eternal.”

I’m that kind of writer.

~~+~~
© Peter A. Black. Adapted from original article published in P-Pep! column in The Watford Guide-Advocate – September 22, 2011.
Black is the weekly inspirational columnist at the Guide and is the author of “Parables from the Pond” (Word Alive Press; ISBN 1897373-21-X).

Two Worlds - Mann

Have you ever had an experience that changed your direction in life, or perhaps dismissed a judgemental attitude or even created an abundance of grace? I had such an experience while serving on my church National Evangelical Team a number of years ago when I had opportunity to travel to Washington. It was here that I had the blessing of interacting with people who came regularly to the mission.

It was an experience of two worlds in many ways. While walking up the street with the drug mind-altered poor, through littered alleys and muddy weed-ridden areas with graffiti walls, one could look further down the same street and easily see the manicured lawns and the pillared columns of the rich.

I sat on a weathered-beaten windowsill late one night after worshipping with the street community, anticipating fellowship. The leader asked a woman who had been off the street one week to assist with communion and as she bend down to serve me, a small cup tipped and the red fluid spilled across her hand and mine. I wrote the following poem out of that experience:

Coming into the Light
“God, you come to me
through the dark, sad eyes of my black brother and sister,
through the homeless,
the hungry,
the rejected.

God, you touch me
through the alcoholic
the prostitute
the storekeeper,
the prisoner

God you watch me and make me feel no guilt for my wholeness, yet
you call me to share out of it.
you ask me to use my strength to take down fences and borders that limit
you show me unconditional love that reveals itself in compassion acts

God, you confront me to seek out those who have not discovered their need for you.
You challenge me to speak with others who have not found a voice to honour you and themselves
You convict me to share with others all that has been graciously shared with me.
You teach me to free those in exile and you offer the way to do this.

Your people have proven there is hope:
- to wait for a promise
- to listen for a word
- to receive a touch

Your Spirit is here in your fullness, giving birth to wholeness.”

I departed physically from that place, and yet, I will never totally leave it, for regardless of where I go, I will return in memory to touch the joy, the family, the wholeness, that was shared with me in brokenness.

Where Do You Belong? - Harris

Niche. Your place in the eco-system. A place no one else can occupy and, if you fail to fill it, something is missing from the environment. Yes, it's a biological term. But I think it applies equally well to us as writers, as Christians, as spouses, parents, in whatever role we fill in life.

It's taken me a long time to figure out where I fit in the world, what church I belong to, what kind of mother I am, and, most of all, what I am supposed to be writing. Try as I might, I couldn't fit into the evangelical church I was raised in. I tried to, really hard. But I was a square peg in a round hole.

I love liturgy. I hear Jesus in classical music. And I love taking wine and bread from the priest who bends low to provide elements to every member of the congregation: rich, poor, white, black, or First Nations. These things remind me of Jesus and his love for me - even me. I guess I was born to be an Anglican.

I had the same issues in my career. My parents thought their bright daughter should become an unmarried professional. My mother had visions of me as a missionary, no kids, no husband, no make-up. My Dad thought law or business - something that made lots of money - would be a good idea. Again, no kids, no husband, no make-up. And the generation ahead of me had decided that 'being a mum' was no longer a 'valid career' option.

But I insisted on being a 'girlie-girl' who just happened to get good marks in school. When a high school guidance counsellor, helping with my university registration, told me I should go to law school and forget about kids and a husband, I froze in fear. Not surprisingly, I never showed up at the U. of C. the following September. Instead, I took a minimum wage job and started dating a totally unsuitable young man who I must confess I really never liked that much. (He won't be offended by this statement because he now admits he never really like me either.)

By the time I was twenty, I was a housewife trying to ignore the fact that my young husband liked to hit me when he drank too much. I still loved learning, though. And I loved being a mum. So, I took my degree juggling distance studies/daycare and diapers. I still love thinking about those days I spent writing papers while dinner cooked on the stove and the kids played on the floor beside me!

But, by my thirties, the marriage was over. And I was trying to find a career.

It was clear that I had a artsy bent, but no gift for making money. And that I wanted to be a writer. But what to write? I started with business and features. Those early articles sold well, but they are devoid of passion. They cover the story, a bit coldly though.

It was only that I accepted that Christ had a plan - better than one I could think up - that I really became able to fill my niche in the world. And, in my opinion, my writing has improved immensely. It's no longer cold. It's no longer uncommitted. It's something God can use. And accepting the 'niche' God has for me has allowed me to settle into a new marriage - this time with both feet inside the door. No need for any more quick escapes. And I have time to make a pot of tea and sit down for a chat when the kids want to talk. And, believe or not, my parents say they are proud of me.