The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob

“He is not the God of the dead but of the living, because all are living to Him.” – Luke 20:38

Did you ever read something in the Bible and think, “How did that get in there?” I’ve read the Bible through many times in my life and it still happens. It happened when I read this yesterday. I had to go back to my old KJV and check to make sure it was there. It is. I also went to Wuest’s translation which sounds like Yoda might have said it:

“Now God He is, not of dead people but of those who are alive, for all live with respect to Him.”

MacDonald says it like this in What’s Mine is Mine:

The brothers believed most devoutly that the God who is present at the death-bed of the sparrow does not forget the sparrow when he is dead; for they had been taught that he is an unchanging God; "and," argued Ian, "what God remembers, he thinks of, and what he thinks of, IS."

I suppose the quickening of that particular verse is related to my father’s passing. This is the Holy Spirit coming along with a subtle sprinkle of reassurance and comfort.

Even a heathen like Robert Heinlein believed something similar. If you read Farnham’s Freehold -- not an RAH novel I recommend – he expresses the idea that those who have died are alive as they were in the past.

Jesus goes beyond that, assuring us that those we think of as dead are fully alive to God in the present. God knows no past or future, except as He relates to us. He dwells in the eternal unchanging now, and so shall we. The passing joys of this life will be translated into perfected, eternal joy while the sorrows and suffering will fall away like the husk on the grain, or perhaps will become as a salt or spice to enhance the joy further.

When I was a kid and had nothing better to do, I would take my rifle and go for a walk. An old two-rut excuse for a road led off a hillside and along a branch that was always dry unless it was raining. There wasn’t much space between the steep wooded hillsides, just enough for the branch and the road, so we never bothered to clean it out. It was a tree-lined tunnel, a tube of shade from May until October. After a few hundred yards, the bottom began to widen out. I would go over a little rise and come out from under the trees facing east into the morning sun above and the dew-jeweled grass below. No matter what else was going on in my life, I always felt an overwhelming peace viewing that scene. I feel it now as I see it again.

Somehow I connect that with heaven and eternity. Death is no more than passing through a shady holler with light and life waiting at the end. I’ll walk that road someday and it will be just as I remember, except when I top that little rise, Jesus will meet me there. We’ll talk for a while about one thing and another. I may shed a tear or two, but He will wipe them away. Then He’ll say, “Let’s go on down to the Old Spring. Some folks are waiting there to see you.”

A Bed, A Table, A Chair and A Lamp

Your heart must not be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in Me. In My Father’s house are many dwelling places. If not, I would have told you. I am going to away to prepare a place for you. If I go away and prepare a place for you, I will come back and receive you to Myself, so that where I am you may be also. – John 14:1-3

This is a famously misunderstood verse from the KJV “in My Father’s house are many mansions”. Though it has spawned countless references in hymns and gospel songs, the correct concept is not of some English manor or a home in Beverly Hills. Rather Jesus is talking about a resting place of travelers. It is related to the idea of ‘abiding’ or ‘dwelling’ so prominent in John’s Gospel.

Also, the meaning is not predominantly about death or heaven. Becoming a child of God, a son of the Father gives us admittance to the Father’s “house” – e.g., the house of David, meaning someone in the family.

When I am done with this world, or when God is done with me in this world, I will leave this physical body behind. In 2 Corinthians 5, Paul compares the body to a tent, subject to destruction. He reassures us that should it be destroyed we need not fear or worry as we have “a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” He is expanding the metaphor of the tent or tabernacle – recalling the move of the Ark of the Covenant from a tent to a temple.

Not only is there no reason for my heart to be troubled, it is imperative that I not allow the things that happen in this world to trouble me. Reading through the Proverbs, I see that diligence, integrity, and prudence are commended, but not unending toil and struggle. “The Lord’s blessing enriches, and struggle adds nothing to it” (Proverbs 10:22). To fret and fear, to be troubled in heart are indications that I do not fully trust God. “Believe in God,” Jesus says, “Believe also in Me.” Knowing Jesus, I can believe and enter into a place of rest and peace.

It is good, I think, to be reminded that we are strangers in a strange land.

This world is not my home,
I’m just a’passin’ through.
My treasures are laid up
Somewhere beyond the blue.

We are in this world but not of it.

My mistake is often to put that rest and reward ahead – in the sweet by-and-by. Jesus, though, promised it in the present. Sure, heaven will be a place where the “wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest”, but it is not the traveler’s rest of which the Lord spoke in John 14.

One day Elisha went to Shunem. A prominent woman who lived there persuaded him to eat some food. So whenever he passed by, he stopped there to eat. Then she said to her husband, "I know that the one who often passes by here is a holy man of God, so let's make a little room upstairs and put a bed, a table, a chair and a lamp there for him. Whenever he comes, he can stay there." 2 Kings 4:8-10

It's not a vast mansion, just a place to stop and rest, to be refreshed. It is a place where I am welcomed and loved. I find it a refuge of contentment and security along the way.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Mushroom Messiah

You laugh. Well, they laughed at the Three Stooges, too.

It's true, fish-belly white is the new green. Mushrooms can save the world. Yes, we can.

If you're actually interested Cool Tools has a recommendation and more extensive review.

For everyone else you can marvel over the fact that Amazon key phrases include "cardboard spawn", "bag spawn", "stein butts", "stem butts" and "clustered woodlover", and that there is a book on identifying psilocybin mushrooms.

Mushrooms can provide a source of nutrition, break down stumps, revitalize brown fields and clean up toxic waste. Or, in the case of psilocybin, waste the toxic.

Going Straight Through the Curves

If we must construct the soul out of the elements, there is no necessity to suppose that all elements enter into its construction; one element in each pair of contraries will suffice to enable it to know both that element itself and its contrary. By means of the straight line we know both itself and the curved – the carpenter’s rule enables us to test both – but what is curved does not enable us to distinguish either itself or the straight. – Aristotle “Psychology” – Book I

Man, looking at nature, sees very few straight lines. The straight line is an abstraction, the perfected among approximations. The line exists; everything strives toward it.

What should we say then? Is the law sin? Absolutely not! On the contrary, I would not have known sin if it were not for the law. For example, I would not have known what it is to covet if the law had not said, You shall not covet. ... So then the law is holy, and the commandment is holy and just and good. -- Romans 7:7,12 (emphasis in original).

Sometimes I see very little good in the world. I see lies and evil flourishing, deception as the order of the day, and selfishness exalted.

Yet, just as tree seeks to grow straight and emulate an ideal line, so the heart of man seeks after moral perfection – the abstraction of the law, the ideal of truth.

The tree grows to seek maximum sunlight and so, because of the circumstances, it will get a little bent. Down in the wooded gully here, there is a little oak that is fighting its way up among the other trees. You can see over the twenty or so years that it has existed how the environment has changed. First it grew away from one larger tree, then, as it grew taller, it was forced to grow away from a more massive tree on the other side, resulting in an S-curve over about a third of its height.

I can see that because I know there is such a thing as a straight line. My eye imposes that straight line over the tree and I see what has happened. The tree “knows” about the straight line as well and it gets back to it whenever it can. But its life comes from the sun and it must obey a higher law in order to survive.

Those who would call Christ a great moral teacher or the Bible a collection of great moral thoughts must beware of this point. Those things are true and morality is necessary; the human soul seeks to attain it. Nevertheless, it is not the source of life.

What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, with my mind I myself am a slave to the law of God, but with my flesh, to the law of sin.

Therefore, no condemnation now exists for those in Christ Jesus, because the Spirit’s law of life in Christ Jesus has set you free from the law of sin and of death. -- Romans 7:24,25;8:1 (emphasis added)

The moral law is not suspended. It still governs the flesh, just as the ideal line still governs the tree’s growth pattern. Life remains a struggle with the old nature, with circumstances, environment, even the demonic.

The good news is that there is a higher law that gives life. I may get a little bent along the way, but, as long as I am seeking the Son, I’ll be straight in the end.

Above that S-curve in the oak’s trunk, it found the opening it was seeking. From there it shoots straight up, triumphant, in the full light of the sun.

That will be me someday.

Liberal Music Rant

As whiny-ass liberals go, I like Orson Scott Card. I have his “Uncle Orson Reviews Everything” site on my sidebar, and I recommend it. We would have some disagreements if we met in person. Mr. Card supports sensible gun control. I think gun control means being able to shoot like Josey Wales and Rooster Cogburn. I think an armed society is a polite society and if I am sometimes not wearing my handgun it’s because I don’t have to worry about my khukri running out of ammo. Mr. Card, though a Democrat, fully understands and supports our mission in Iraq and the overall war on terror – God bless him. I’d cut him a great deal of slack on that alone.

I have a copy of Ender’s Game, and I think Mr. Card is a very fine writer.

But now he has done something to irritate me, having gone too far in his devotion to Janis Ian (see his review of Ian's autobiography here). OSC and I are about the same age. We both heard Janis Ian sing “At Seventeen” on the radio in the top-40 rotation. He went out and bought the album. To be honest, as a teenager, I battled depression and self-loathing. Nevertheless, on my darkest, most self-hating day I would not have actually paid money to have a Janis Ian record, not even the buck for a 45 (note to younger readers – a “45” does not in this case refer to the caliber of my Colt nor Billy Dee Williams’ brand of malt liquor – it was an analog recording of a single song on each side pressed onto vinyl played at 45 rpm’s rather than 33 and 1/3).

Now I am quite sure, as Mr. Card claims, that Janis Ian is a very nice, even likeable person. The two of them have become friends. I am glad for them. I will even go so far as to suspect that somewhere in Ms. Ian’s repertoire there might be a song I like. OSC mentioned a song of hers called “Boots Like Emmylou’s”. (This gives me the cherished opportunity to say, “Emmylou, I love you.”) Still, there are those hurdles to listening to Janis Ian that I simply cannot overcome – “At Seventeen” and “Society’s Child”.

This was called folk music – I think – because no one really wanted to take responsibility for it – it was just “folk”. Ms. Ian’s songs were humorless, self-absorbed, self-important and self-pitying. Her perspective was that of an ugly, unpopular seventeen year old girl who is not going to get asked to go to the prom with the quarterback. In response she points out that the homecoming queens and cheerleaders will get old. Mr. Card finds this insightful and powerful. For some reason, the phrase “sour grapes” came to mind when I heard the same song. And it was so damned whiny! About 30 seconds into a Janis Ian song and I was ready to stick a white hot poker in my ear to sear the eardrum.

You just knew that if this little drama-queen wannabe were somehow suddenly transformed into a slender, acne-free teen angel she would immediately dump the soulful, angst-y worldview into the koi pond and be at the mall shopping for a prom dress with matching shoes and bag.

All that said, at least songs like “At Seventeen” are so depressing and unmusical that they never become earworms like the worst song ever recorded: “Seasons in the Sun”. If that guy is still alive, he should be dressed up for a San Francisco gay pride parade and air-dropped over Taliban headquarters.

Janis Ian music is liberal music, and, I suspect that Ms. Ian is a leftist. Liberals pine for the fjords – I mean, for equality. They do not want equality of opportunity. They want equality of outcome. Now the truth is the protagonist of “At Seventeen” was not in some communist labor camp. She was an intelligent, artistic person living in freedom in the greatest country on earth. She had the opportunity to be happy, as much as the little blonde, brain-dead cheerleader she so envied and hated. Instead, she chose to be miserable, to wallow in self-pity and make her world far darker than it really was.

She whined about “the valentines that never came.” Hey, did you ever try sending one to somebody? Don’t tell me there weren’t any geek boys in the chess club you could have dated? How about making the best of your life like the rest of us have to do? How about getting over yourself? Having once been a boy, I can say that your existential angst and perpetual whining is a real turn-off.

OK, perhaps I am much shallower than Orson Scott Card. I will concede that. But with all the darkness and evil in the world, is it too much to ask that music be, like, not so dark? And it’s not that I am opposed to sad music. One of the traditional themes of bluegrass music is something like: boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy kills girl and goes to prison. It is not, however, self-pitying. No where in any song on my MP3 player is there expressed an idea as narcissistic as “I learned the truth at seventeen that love was meant for beauty queens.” No, it’s just wrong. It is not a universal truth. It is just that you didn’t think you could get a date with the point guard on the basketball team or the centerfielder.

Honestly, the most popular girl in my class had a face that belonged on the cover of MAD magazine. We liked her because she had a sense of humor and did not take herself SO seriously.

The leftists sometimes refer to those who are “winners in life’s lottery”. Like Janis Ian they think that beauty, or intelligence, talent, initiative, drive, etc. means that you have rolled a seven and that ugly people rolled snake eyes. Actually, I think I dated the girl that rolled snake eyes, but that’s another story. The protagonist of Ian’s song said that since she couldn’t be “popular” by her narrow definition then the “truth” was that people with blemishes and imperfections were not meant to be loved. Get real. Leftists, of all people, should know better than this. You could have a rear-end by Clydesdale and legs by Steinway and Bill Clinton would hit on you.

If we let other people define us by our appearance, abilities, whatever, then we will be miserable. If, instead, we accept our lives as gifts from God and opportunities to embrace the grace, we will be happy. And, while I’m at it, God bless Bill Monroe.

Hear in the Real World

The Lord God has given Me the tongue of those who are instructed to know how to sustain the weary with a word. He awakens Me each morning; He awakens My ear to listen like those who are being instructed -- Isaiah 50:4

This verse is part of a long Messianic passage culminating in Isaiah 53. If you really want to know what the Crucifixion was like, read Isaiah 53 and Psalm 22.

The prophet is talking about the Lord’s Servant, describing both national Israel and the coming Messiah. When the Old Testament talks about the ultimate restoration and exaltation of Israel, it is talking about Christ who now embodies all of God promises made under both the Old and New Covenants. For every one of God’s promises is “Yes” in Him. Therefore the “Amen” is also through Him for God’s glory through us. (2 Corinthians 1:20)

The phase “those who are instructed” can be and is in some translations rendered as “disciple”. Jesus was given “the tongue of a disciple”. When He went into the synagogue, He was given the scroll and found it opened to a different passage in Isaiah – The Spirit of the Lord is on Me, because the Lord has anointed Me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captive and freedom to the prisoner, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of our God’s vengeance; to comfort all who mourn (Isa. 61:1,2).

In Acts, Peter talked about, “How God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power, and how He went about doing good and curing all who were under the tyranny of the Devil because God was with Him.”

And now He has us to get the job done.

I suppose walking on water and turning water into wine is good work if you can get it. Who knows? It could be that one of us will get the call to keep a party going by giving them a nice merlot from the kitchen tap. Usually I find myself with less glamorous jobs. I sometimes have to give an encouraging word with the buffalo aren’t roaming, or listen to the woeful tales of the brokenhearted while the cell phones are. None of it is too hard, really, but you have to start off right.

Though the prophet tells us first that the Servant is given the tongue of those who are instructed, it is the ear that is awakened first. Like faith, your mission comes by hearing. I’ve found that I can do some good just by doing the right thing – do justly, love mercy, walk humbly with God. But for fulfilling Isaiah 61, I need to hear from God.

I remember lying face down on a motel bed in Red Oak, Texas, of all places, and getting a commission from God that completely changed the direction of my life. I lived the next decade as a raven. A raven is a big ugly bird of questionable habits, unclean and despised. Some ravens carried food to the prophet Elijah as he sat by a brook during a drought and famine. I have that on my resume.

A lot of people talk about “the Anointing” and how one is “so anointed” and all that. I look at the anointing a little differently. To me it is kind of like a position I step into or assume. I take my place. I do my job. I fulfill my purpose – even if it is just for today, or maybe just for an hour, when I make the call or send the email to a friend that is on my mind. In that moment I am anointed to do good and break the devil’s grip on somebody’s life. It’s not me – it’s the office.

It all begins with hearing, with being awakened by the Spirit of God. As Ricky Raccoon says, “Listening Now.” Sometimes it is a literal awakening – often at 3:00AM – the fourth watch of the night. Sometimes it is like a fingerless tap on the shoulder, or that still, small voice calling my name.

I’ve never opened any blind physical eyes, but I have helped open some spiritual eyes. I once helped set a prisoner free because I wrote a stupid little note of encouragement. I didn’t know what I was doing. I just heard and obeyed. There is a little boy walking around alive and well because I sent somebody an email about forgiveness. I had no idea what was going on. I just heard and obeyed.

He awakens your ear to listen like a disciple.

Many Thanks, and a tribute

I want to express my sincere appreciation for your thoughts and prayers last week. It really made a difference.


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It was the late 1920’s and he was a young man, still a teenager. Yet he had seen quite a bit and been around a little. Missouri had gotten too hot for him as a result of too much moonshine and a few too many fights in the wrong places with the wrong people. He still wasn’t considered a criminal -- unless one counted his personal crusade against Prohibition – but it seemed best for him to get away for awhile until things cooled. The train had carried him west to Wyoming. His older sister and her husband worked on a vast sheep ranch. He would have an opportunity to spend some time alone up in the high country with sheep, a couple of dogs and some rattlesnakes.

Somewhere along the way, his brother-in-law, Fred, had acquired a fine little mare they called Peggy. She was a good working horse, quick, sure-footed, tough, and more than a little fiery. In fact, a rider did not need spurs. More than that, Peggy would not tolerate a rider with spurs.

Fred, Martha, and the rest of the bunch headed for town, leaving the wiry teenager alone on the ranch. Fred suggested that his brother-in-law could ride Peggy if he needed to check on things. “Just remember to take off your spurs,” he said, “before you get on her.”

The young man took care of the chores and, as the day wore on, found himself in the barn looking at that mare. He went over and saddled her, then, very deliberately, he buckled on his spurs.

Now at this point, a question might occur to some people. I won’t say that it never occurred to me any of the dozen or so times I heard the man who put on those spurs tell the story. I will say that I never asked because I already knew the answer. I’m not sure I can put it into words any more than he could have if someone had asked him, “Why did you want to ride the horse with spurs when you didn’t need them?”

Probably he would not have actually answered. He would have begun to smirk, then to smile. He would have chuckled softly and, with eyes still full of mischievous laughter and a slight shake of his head, he would have continued the story.

He led the mare to the open barn door. The ground sloped away ahead of them, gently but down through scattered trees. He would have pulled the front brim of his hat down just a little tighter, put the toe of his left boot into the stirrup, then mounted with a swift, sure motion.

He gigged her.

The mare leaped.

Peggy knew how to buck. She did no fancy sunfishing. She didn’t need to. She landed hard on her front feet, head tucked, hind legs pointing very close to one o’clock. Her back hooves barely touched earth before she clawed up and forward to strike the ground again, kicking and twisting, trying to shake that man from her back.

Yet he still raked her with those spurs.

She headed back down, using the slope and all the forces of gravity to unseat her tormentor. His fedora lifted, despite the extra tug, and sailed away, but he remained. The mare fought on against the man with the spurs. They were through the trees and the ground became a little more level. Peggy was heaving, and she was beginning to lather. She paused, though still trembling, threatening to rocket again. She felt the jab of the rowel and took a couple of tentative steps.

Satisfied after a few minutes, the rider dismounted. He walked back up the slope, leading the now calm mare. He passed by the great furrows plowed in the sod by the horse’s hooves. Retrieving his hat, and having given Peggy a chance to recover, he swung again into the saddle. He felt her back kink a little when the spurs touched her, but she straightened out and went forward at her customary trot. The young man went on with the work of the day.

When Fred arrived he spoke with his brother-in-law about one thing and another. In the course of the conversation, the young man said, “Next time you ride Ol’ Peggy, you can leave your spurs on.”