Global Warming
Is it over?????
A report of an interview in The Australian seems to indicate that temperature increases have plateaued. So, is GW over? Is the hoo ha over greenhouse gases going to be relegated to the dust bin of history? Is the catastrophe over? You can read the entire article at www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,23411799-7583,00.html
Here is a sample:
Question:"Is the Earth still warming?"
Answer: "No, actually, there has been cooling, if you take 1998 as your point of reference. If you take 2002 as your point of reference, then temperatures have plateaued. This is certainly not what you'd expect if carbon dioxide is driving temperature because carbon dioxide levels have been increasing but temperatures have actually been coming down over the last 10 years."
The interviewee, Jennifer Marohasy, a biologist and senior fellow at the think tank Institute of Public Affairs in Melbourne, AUS, claims that the head of the Intergovernmental Panel of Climate Change also believes GW is history. The data gathered by NASA’s Aqua satellite has had a lot to do with these new revelations. Climate Scientist Roy Spencer’s interpretation of the data has, according to Marohasy, “people still in shock at this point.”
What is very odd is that there have been no reports in the American Press about this. The Aussie article was on 22 March, yet when you Google “Aqua Satellite Global Warming” three is no American press report. Spencer’s book Climate Confusion, released recently will soon be putting the issue back in the public light…hopefully. Then, the GW fanatics, who want all government as well as private policy decisions to be bathed in man made global warming, will have to explain the Aqua Satellite findings they were all so anxious to obtain. Stay tuned, the GW debate is not over yet.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Postmodernism
No Change
In his book In the Ruins of the Church, R.R. Reno posits that change is anathema to postmodern sensibilities. Recently I posted that the emerging/emergent folks who have adopted those sensibilities want church to be about affirmation and acceptance not change and conversion. Reno helps us to see why.
According to Reno, the humanism of modernity and Christianity shared an interest in transformative change. The freedom of Ralph Waldo Emerson and the empiricism of John Locke both attempt to change minds. It is true that Christianity changes hearts and minds through the power of the cross, but change is still in play for both modern humanism and Christianity. Not so with the humanism of postmodernism. While individual freedom is still embraced, it is has been placed by multiculturalism in the [Reno’s words] “the quicksand of race, class and gender.” In other words, individuality must be mediated by the holy trinity of postmodernism for it to be permitted.
Reno goes on to say that while the humanism of modernity saw a confident hope for the highest good, not so with postmodern humanism. Humanity is still first in postmodernism, but it is without confidence. It is humanity clouded with fear. Postmodern humanism has two evident features according to Reno:
…fear of authority and flight from truth. Both are integral to the strange way in which postmodern culture seeks to serve humanity by saving it from any and all power, by protecting us from the ambitions and demands that lead to change.
Change is a casualty of postmodernism.
This explanation gives us a window on seeing why the postmodern culture cannot be embraced to produce authentic Christianity. And, why authentic Christianity…its dogma, tradition and transformative power…must be avoided. It is the authority most to be feared. Real Christianity is an oppressor because it claims exclusive truth and authority over life. The two bogeymen features Reno says postmodern humanism most fears.
This separates postmodernism from modern humanism as well as reasoned Christianity. As Reno says:
These efforts to shield ourselves from authoritative demands make us fear any proposition, some insight to a conclusion or a syllogism that may lead to control over our intellect or soul. Sharing now smothers debate. God for bid that anyone should formulate a reasoned argument; it might contradict or “marginalize” the experience of others… Everyone must be affirmed; the views must all be validated.
Here we have it. No argument is possible. All ideas are equally valid. Everyone must be affirmed. This is the postmodern agenda! Why would anyone who is a Christian swallow that?
Only one proposition is permitted…that all truth is relative. Thereby, no one can be authoritative over another by espousing their view as superior to any other. Reno claims that this is the dogma of the young people he teaches at Creighton University. Not, mind you, a theory but an issue of faith. Reno puts it this way:
Relativism is not a philosophical theory. It is a spiritual truth, a protective dogma designed to fend off any power that might claim our loyalty. It is a habit of mind that insulates postmodern life from the sober potency of arguments and the force of evidence, for the rightful claims of reason and the wisdom of the past…Here our contemporary horror of obedience joins hands with solipsism in order to protect the soul form all the demands, rational or otherwise. Here we are face to face with the spirit of the age.
Relativism is deadly. It is the enemy of reason and faith. Those who embrace it are safe from any claim to a loyalty or authority other than the self. It is the ground of a postmodernism that allows for no change. That is antithetical to Christianity which is all about change and any church that substitutes affirmation/acceptance for change and conversion through Christ is propounding “another gospel”.
No Change
In his book In the Ruins of the Church, R.R. Reno posits that change is anathema to postmodern sensibilities. Recently I posted that the emerging/emergent folks who have adopted those sensibilities want church to be about affirmation and acceptance not change and conversion. Reno helps us to see why.
According to Reno, the humanism of modernity and Christianity shared an interest in transformative change. The freedom of Ralph Waldo Emerson and the empiricism of John Locke both attempt to change minds. It is true that Christianity changes hearts and minds through the power of the cross, but change is still in play for both modern humanism and Christianity. Not so with the humanism of postmodernism. While individual freedom is still embraced, it is has been placed by multiculturalism in the [Reno’s words] “the quicksand of race, class and gender.” In other words, individuality must be mediated by the holy trinity of postmodernism for it to be permitted.
Reno goes on to say that while the humanism of modernity saw a confident hope for the highest good, not so with postmodern humanism. Humanity is still first in postmodernism, but it is without confidence. It is humanity clouded with fear. Postmodern humanism has two evident features according to Reno:
…fear of authority and flight from truth. Both are integral to the strange way in which postmodern culture seeks to serve humanity by saving it from any and all power, by protecting us from the ambitions and demands that lead to change.
Change is a casualty of postmodernism.
This explanation gives us a window on seeing why the postmodern culture cannot be embraced to produce authentic Christianity. And, why authentic Christianity…its dogma, tradition and transformative power…must be avoided. It is the authority most to be feared. Real Christianity is an oppressor because it claims exclusive truth and authority over life. The two bogeymen features Reno says postmodern humanism most fears.
This separates postmodernism from modern humanism as well as reasoned Christianity. As Reno says:
These efforts to shield ourselves from authoritative demands make us fear any proposition, some insight to a conclusion or a syllogism that may lead to control over our intellect or soul. Sharing now smothers debate. God for bid that anyone should formulate a reasoned argument; it might contradict or “marginalize” the experience of others… Everyone must be affirmed; the views must all be validated.
Here we have it. No argument is possible. All ideas are equally valid. Everyone must be affirmed. This is the postmodern agenda! Why would anyone who is a Christian swallow that?
Only one proposition is permitted…that all truth is relative. Thereby, no one can be authoritative over another by espousing their view as superior to any other. Reno claims that this is the dogma of the young people he teaches at Creighton University. Not, mind you, a theory but an issue of faith. Reno puts it this way:
Relativism is not a philosophical theory. It is a spiritual truth, a protective dogma designed to fend off any power that might claim our loyalty. It is a habit of mind that insulates postmodern life from the sober potency of arguments and the force of evidence, for the rightful claims of reason and the wisdom of the past…Here our contemporary horror of obedience joins hands with solipsism in order to protect the soul form all the demands, rational or otherwise. Here we are face to face with the spirit of the age.
Relativism is deadly. It is the enemy of reason and faith. Those who embrace it are safe from any claim to a loyalty or authority other than the self. It is the ground of a postmodernism that allows for no change. That is antithetical to Christianity which is all about change and any church that substitutes affirmation/acceptance for change and conversion through Christ is propounding “another gospel”.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Easter 2008
Bobby Foster: The Adoption of a Gravedigger
The two men finished their spade work. The sun was nearing the horizon and a chill was beginning to be felt. It was April 19, the last day of winter. After finishing, two men stood at the edge of the hole and looked in. One was in his late fifties with a weather beaten look and a wiry build. The other was younger, in his twenties, taller and heavier. “Well BF, that does it,” rasped the older man. He reached into his mouth with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, pulled out a wad of chewing tobacco and threw it in the hole. That was a ritual every time a grave was finished at the Union Cemetery.
“Do you want to ride the backhoe to the shed?” “Naw, I think I’ll walk back.” As the older man walked to the machine, the younger tarried at the grave. “Are you o.k. son?” the older man asked looking over his shoulder. “I hate these types,” the young man responded. “I’ve dug hundreds of graves and the ones for kids do seem harder,” the old man said sympathetically. “When I took over this job from Oren when he retired, he told me, ‘Newt, this is not just a job, it’s a trust. You will bury a lot of folks and this will be their last stop on earth. Their families will be hurting. Do the job right, the dead and their families are depending on you.’ But you know Bobby, it does take its toll on you. Especially when its folks you know and the younguns. But, old Oren was right, we have to do the job right, that’s our contribution. Luckily we don’t have to explain why it has to be done.”
“I just don’t get it. The kid was only 11. What sense is it for an 11 year old to die?” The older worker lifted his green John Deere hat off his head and ran his caloused hand through a chock of grey hair, but had no response. Both stood staring into the empty grave. “Who is the parson officiating?” “Pastor VanDeever of the Presby Church in town. He has always impressed me as good man.” The young man thought out loud, “Maybe I should ask him why the boy had to die.” “Meebe you should.” Newt again walked to the backhoe, fired it up and drove off the hill to the equipment shed.
Bobby Foster lifted the two spades, one on each shoulder, and began walking after the backhoe. He thought about when he was 11. He was a Junior Olympic wrestling champion. Wrestling was his passion, nothing else was even close. In high school he earned two Pennsylvania Regional Wresting Championships but never finished higher than 8th at the two state tournaments in which he wrestled. The size, confusion and pressure of the event overwhelmed him. He did earn a partial wrestling scholarship to Pitt Johnstown, but only made it through one semester. Again, it was a situation in which he could not be comfortable.
He reached the shed, cleaned the spades and hung them on the wall. He had been working at the Union Cemetery for almost 5 years. He looked over at Newton Alston, superintendent at Union for 23 years and wondered if he would be here that long. Newt was wiping down and replacing tools used earlier in the day to repair on of the chain mowers. With Spring tomorrow, the busy season would soon begin. “Can I help, Newt?” “Nope, I’ll be done in a minute. Tomorrow we got to order grass seed and some new saplings. The Association wants a better catch of grass across from the parking lot and a row of trees planted. We’ll want to do that before the cutting and trimming gets into full swing.” “What time tomorrow?” Bobby asked. “Funerals at 10:30, so they should be here by 11:15, so we need to be here to set up at 9:00. See you then.” “See you at 9:00, Newt.”
Bobby picked up his lunch cooler and headed out the door. “You alright boy?” “Yep”, Bobby responded, “see you tomorrow.” He walked to the back of the building, entered his Silverado pickup and headed out Cemetery Road for home. It is only a 15 minute drive to the small 5 room ranch house he rents from Mrs. Schindley. She was in an assisted living facility. This little house was the dream house of the Schindleys, but Henry developed Alzheimer’s within a year of building the house. He is now in a home for Alzheimer’s patients. Actually, that whole deal is another thing he can’t understand.
A nice little old retired couple and in a couple of months their whole world is turned upside down and wrecked.
Bobby Foster pulled up to his mail box. Nothing but bills and flyers from WalMart and Penneys. He went in the side door, removed his Red Wing work boots and peeled off his dirty Woolrich and Carhartt work clothes. After popping open a Budweiser, he jumped into the shower for a long, warm drenching. Try as he could to think of other things, he kept coming back to Ricky Myers, the 11 year he would lower into the grave tomorrow.
About twenty minutes later, he checked his answering machine and saw the light blinking. He retrieved one message from his sister Marie. She was trying to be calm, but he knew better. His mother was back in the hospital…not serious…but he needed to come and see her as soon as possible. Laverne Foster had been battling sever diabetes for the past four years. The docs were having trouble regulating it and she already had the toes on her left foot amputated. She seemed to be subject to infections. He pulled on clean clothes and headed to Memorial Hospital.
At the hospital he rode the elevator to the 4th floor. As the doors opened, Bessie Lerner, one of his mother’s church friends was waiting to go down. “Bobby, honey” she seemed to shout. “Your mom will be so glad to see you.” “Hello, Mrs. Lerner. How is she doing.” “She is in a lot of pain in her bad leg. Dr. Meechem says it doesn’t look good for that leg. But, you know your mom…she is always smiling and loving others. You are blessed to have a mom like yours.” Bobby and Bessie Lerner parted company and he looked for and found Room 415.
As he crossed the threshold, his mother looked at him, smiled and said, “Bobby, honey, how are you? It is so good to see you. You aren’t working too hard are you? Are you taking care of your self? Do you….” He interrupted her, “Mom, I’m fine, what about you?” “Come and give me a hug son”, as she sat up further in her hospital bed. He complied and gave her a hug and she kissed his unshaved cheek. “It’s good to see you,” she repeated. “Now, mom, why are you back here?” Bobby emphatically inquired. “Oh, honey, I’m having some discomfort and Dr. Meechem wanted me to be here so they could monitor what’s going on. It’s not a big deal, though. Have you met Dr. Meechem, he’s a nice man. I taught him and his sister a church camp.”
“Mom, it is a big deal if you are in here! Mrs. Lerner said you are having a lot of pain in your leg.” “Oh, Bessie worries so much about everything. I think I’ll be fine.” Before Bobby could ask anything else, three people popped in the door. “Rev.Skillman, Peggy and Becky, so nice of you to come. You know my Bobby don’t you?” After introductions, an exchange of niceties and a brief explanation of Laverne Foster’s medical issues, the next 30 minutes were spent discussing the church and the problems of other parishioners. Bobby thought to himself, that is just like mom, concerned with others more that herself. He patiently listened.
When Pastor Skillman, his wife and Becky Larson took their leave, he asked Bobby. “Are you still working at the Union Cemetery?” “Sure am.” “I grew up with Newt Alston. He came from a tough background. Dad in and out of jail; his mom died when he was 15.” “I didn’t know that.” “And, to top it off, his first wife deserted him when he was in the Army. But, he still seems to have it together. Thanks be to God for His grace.” Bobby said nothing more but thought, how about grace for Ricky Myers, his mom and the Schindleys.
“Haven’t seen you in church lately.” “No, I don’t get there very often with my schedule and other things.” “You know you are always welcome. It would please you mother greatly if you came with your dad, mom, Marie and her kids.” Again, Bobby was silent. What could he say except he didn’t see much reason for church. And, it didn’t seem to make much difference for those that went anyway. No use starting an argument in mom’s hospital room. “It was nice to see you again, Bobby,” the pastor said as he shook his hand and walked away.
It was 8:55 and a nurse came around to say visiting hours were over in 5 minutes. “I have such nice friends, Bobby.” “Yeah, mom they seem very nice. How is dad taking this?” “Well, he insisted I come in here. I really didn’t want to, but you know dad, he is very protective of me. So, he brought me in about noon when I couldn’t put weight on my leg.” “How long had it been like that, mom?” “A couple days, honey. I thought it would get better. But, now I am here so they can find out the problem.” The lights flashed and over the intercom a nurse’s voice boomed, “Visiting hours are over.”
“Mom, I am going to go, but I’ll be back tomorrow evening.” “You take care of yourself and be careful, Bobby. I love you.” “I love you too, mom.” He hugged her again and she again kissed his bristly cheek. “Are you growing a beard again, honey?” “No, I just didn’t shave today. You never liked my beard.” She smiled, “It’s not that I didn’t like your beard, it hide your dimples.” Bobby smiled and said goodbye.
On his way home, he decided to stop at the Old Cabin Inn. He pulled into an almost empty parking lot. Good, he thought, I don’t want to talk to anyone. He took a stool at the bar. “Bobby,” Jack Hudson the week day bar tender said, “How are you?” “Good, Jack. Give me a Yeungling Lager.” “Glass?” “No, just the bottle.” As he lifted the bottle to his lips, the door sprung open and a penetrating voice exclaimed, “It’s Digger O’Dell.” Bobby knew exactly who it was, Reggie Neumann. Bobby turned on his stool and saw Neumann and his sidekick Stu Phillips. They were high school classmates and not his favorite people.
One plopped down on each side of Bobby. “Jack, bring us two Black Jacks on the rocks.” Neumann turned to Bobby, “How’s the cemetery business? People dying to get in?” He burst into laughter, as did Phillips. Bobby wondered why he stopped. “Me and Stu are still working for Minter Construction. Great job. We are off all winter and go back to work next week.” “Yeah,” Phillips added, “We went to the Super Bowl and took the Clymer twins to St. Croix for a month. Beats dealing with this winter weather, eh Bobby?”
Jack asked, ”Who has the new ride?” “That’s my 2003 ‘Vette. Tomorrow being the first day of spring, I Got it off the blocks and put on the tires for cruising until next winter,” explained Neumann. “Still have your Ram pickup?” “Yeah, that and the PT Cruiser. Never can have too many wheels I say,” said Neumann chuckling. “I’ve got a Prowler ordered,” chimed in Phillips chimed in, “should be in by April 15. Cherry red with black leather buckets.” Even amid the bragging the Jack Daniels was gone. “Two more, Jack. How ‘bout we buy you a beer Digger?” Bobby responded, “No thanks, I have to work tomorrow.” “Too bad,” Neumann said without meaning it.
“See you Jack”, Bobby said as he left, and he added for Neumann and Phillips, “take care guys.” When he got outside he breathed deeply of the cool night air. He was glad to get out of that stifling environment. Those guys do nothing but talk about themselves and what they have and have done. He walked by Reggie’s Corvette with more that a little bit of envy in his heart and swung up into his 1999 pickup. He tuned in MegaRock and headed down the road not knowing that his life would be soon changed forever.
Just about two miles from the Log Cabin Inn, he spied a figure on the side of the road. As he came closer, Bobby saw it was a massive man wearing a black Nike warm up and a Pittsburgh Steeler ball cap. He was hitchhiking. Nowadays, you do not see many hitchhikers. He recalled dad saying never, never pick up a hitchhiker. But, there was within Bobby an overwhelming urge to stop. He tried to overcome it but he stopped next to the guy and lowered the passenger window. “How about a ride?” the stranger asked. Bobby hesitated in his mind but his voice said, “Sure, climb in.” The man lifted himself in and filled the passenger side of the cab. He had to be 6’6” and 275 pounds. Bobby was 6’2” and 200 pounds and this man dwarfed him. “Thank you for your kindness”, the man said reaching over with a massive hand that totally enveloped Bobby’s.
Bobby was feeling a little intimidated, so he quickly said, “You a Steeler fan?” The big man replied, “Not really, never saw a game, but I wear this in recognition of my brother.” “He plays for the Steelers?” “Yes. He is called Thunder Dan Kreider.” Bobby loosened up, “Wow. Dan Kreider what a great player he is and you’re his brother. This is an honor. Are you heading home?” “No, I am just passing through.” Bobby inquired, “What’s your name?” “John Allen”, he replied. “I thought you were Kreider’s brother? How come you have different last names?” “We have the same older brother and Father” John responded.
Bobby began thinking there is something strange about this guy. He looked at him but found he could not look long in his face. He had wavy brown hair cascading out from the hat and his face was smooth and almost featureless. “You seem troubled, Bobby,” John stated in a melodic way. Bobby freaked out, he knows my name, he thought almost audibly. “Well…uh…you just don’t see many hitchhikers today.” John ignored his comment and said, “Ricky Myers is my brother, too.” Bobby’s flesh became cool and sweaty at the same time. Who is this guy and what is he talking about? John showed no emotion although Bobby knew he could feel Bobby’s apprehension.
“Bobby, life is certainly hard to figure. And, we do not always understand why things happen. When you dug that grave today, it was not for Brother Ricky. It is only his body that will be placed in that grave tomorrow. Ricky the person has gone to his Father and my Father. And some day his brothers and sisters will see him again.” Bobby listened in a way he seldom did. But, it didn’t make sense; Ricky Myers was an only child.
“Bobby, there is more to this world than you see. This is not the home of those who have the same elder brother and Father. Ricky was just passing through. I was just passing through. Danny Kreider is just passing through. All those bodies you and Newt bury, old Oren was not quite right…that is not there final resting place. We all have a destiny beyond this world. The only question is where it will be. And what happens to you here does not determine your destiny. Your destiny is dependant on whether you belong to the family with our elder brother and the Father.”
When he finished, John peered out the windshield and said, “That’s my next stop…that house with the picket fence and separate garage.” Bobby bewildered by the last 10 minutes, looked and said, “The Recker place. You know them too.” “John Recker is my uncle. I’ll get out here.” Bobby stopped the truck. John turned to him and Bobby could not avoid looking into his face. Later he thought it was like looking into the very depths of all the world’s seas. “Bobby, remember, do not make this world your home. Seek first the Father’s home and you will not have to worry about the things of this world. Turn your back on the things of this world and believe and trust in all the things my elder brother says. If you do, I’ll see you again. Repent and believe, Bobby.”
The big man slipped out of the truck, waved, turned and headed up the path from the road to the house. Bobby watched as he mounted the porch steps and them pulled back onto the highway. He was about a mile down the road when he noticed a book on the passenger side bucket seat. John left it he thought. He turned around and headed back to the Recker place. He pulled into the driveway this time. The house was dark. It was now almost 11:00. Come to think of it there were no lights on when he dropped off John. Not wanted to disturb the Reckers, he decided to come back tomorrow to deliver the lost book.
The alarm sounded at 6:45. Bobby Foster had not slept much. He laid awake thinking about what John Allen said. He didn’t get it all but he seemed at peace about the funeral today. Since he had to stop at the Reckers before work he decided to arise, shower, put on his work clothes for the day and get going. As he was going out the door, he passed up his usual NASCAR hats and grabbed his Steeler cap even though it wasn’t football season. He arrived at Thatcher’s Restaurant at 7:30 for breakfast. Linda Timmons, who was a single mom, also from his class at school, waited on him. He had the usual, fried eggs, home fries, and home made toast with OJ and hot coffee. “Bobby, you look different today,” said Linda. “I guess that’s a compliment,” he laughed. There is something going on, he thought.
He arrived at the Reckers around 8:15. John and Alice Recker were in their late sixties. John retired from the railroad. They both enjoyed gardening, flowers and vegetables. He picked up the book and realized for the first time that it was a Bible. Must be John Allen’s he thought. Bible in hand, he walked up the steps and knocked on the door. Alice came to the door and smiled when she saw Bobby. “Bobby Foster, come on in. I haven’t seen you in a long while. I hear by the church prayer chain that your mother is in the hospital. How is she doing?” “Good morning, Mrs. Recker. I am sorry to bother you this early.” “That’s fine Bobby, we are early risers. I’m making some sticky buns. Would you like to join John and me. The first batch is ready to come out of the oven.” “Thank you, but I’ve got to get to work. I just wanted to return this Bible to your nephew, John Allen. I gave him a ride over here late last night and he left it in my vehicle.”
Mrs. Recker turned ashen. Weakly, she called for her husband, “John, Bobby Foster is here and he says….” Her voice tailed off as she choked back tears. Bobby was surprised. “Are you o.k. Mrs. Recker?” She excused herself and turned and ran into her husband coming to the door. “What’s wrong Alice?” She sobbed as he held her, “Bobby says he brought Johnny to our house last night.” John Recker shot a fierce stare at Bobby, “What is the meaning of this? My nephew John has been dead for 3 years. He died on a mission trip to Cambodia and his body was never recovered. Is this some kind of hoax.” Whatever good feelings Bobby had now escaped like air out of a balloon.
For several minutes he recounted last night and showed them the Bible. It was on of John’s Bibles from the name on the inside. He received it at confirmation class at his Methodist Church in Columbus, Ohio, his hometown. The Reckers recounted that John was last at there home on the way to New York to fly to Cambodia. He was part of a mission group to take the Gospel to the jungles of Cambodia. John had become a Presbyterian and believed it was necessary to go everywhere to bring those for whom Christ died into the Family of God.
Bobby apologized for the problem he caused. The Reckers were gracious and wanted him to keep John’s Bible. He returned to the truck. He was having that feeling he did at the state wrestling tournament and in college. He was uncomfortable. It was confusing and he felt like he wanted to be somewhere else. But where would he go? He turned the key in the ignition and started for the Union Cemetery. He was restless and anxious. He pulled in behind the shed rubbed his eyes. It was almost 9:00 but Newt wasn’t there yet, which was unusual. He picked up the Bible and opened it again. Some of the pages were book marked with some of the text underlined.
He began to read those passages. In Eph. 1:4-8 he read that God had chosen people to be His children by redemption through the blood of Jesus Christ. In Rom. 3:22-26, he read that justification, remission of sin and righteousness is available only through the death of Christ. In Gal. 4:4-7, he read that the redeemed receive full rights as the sons of God. And finally, he read in Rom. 8:12-17 and 28-35 that as sons of God we can suffer, but nothing, not even death, can separate God’s children from Him. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. Suddenly he understood what John was saying. He understood his mother. He understood why the death of a child of God was not a tragedy, no matter their age. Right there in the Silverado, he repented and believed and to him the righteousness of Christ was credited.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was another spring. Snow was flying, mixed with rain. A blue sedan pulled up beside the shed at the Union Cemetery. Alighting from the car was a man dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and blue striped tie. He opened the door and saw Newt Alston and two young boys working on chain mowers. Newt looked up and gladly greeted the visitor, “BF, good to see you. How long has it been?” Bobby moved forward to shake the older man’s hand, “About 5 years. I finished working here the summer after Ricky Myers died. Went back to college that fall, got my degree last spring and have been working in Pittsburgh since.” “Sorry to hear about your mom, Bobby.” “That’s why I’m here Newt, I want to help with the grave.” Newt paused and then said, “Well…if you want to son I don’t see no harm. Be here at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”
“I’ve got an appointment with the Pastor at 2:00 so I need to move on. I’ll see you tomorrow, Newt.” “I’ll walk you to your car.” The two went through the door to Bobby’s car. Newt said, “You used to hate digging graves of kids and people you knew, Bobby. I know you said you became a ‘born again Christian’ but what happened?” Bobby smiled and said, “If you have some time get in we’ll take a ride and I’ll tell you about my Father.” Newt hesitated, climbed in the passenger seat and the car drove off in the snow and rain with two puzzled boys looking on from the shed door.
Bobby Foster: The Adoption of a Gravedigger
The two men finished their spade work. The sun was nearing the horizon and a chill was beginning to be felt. It was April 19, the last day of winter. After finishing, two men stood at the edge of the hole and looked in. One was in his late fifties with a weather beaten look and a wiry build. The other was younger, in his twenties, taller and heavier. “Well BF, that does it,” rasped the older man. He reached into his mouth with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, pulled out a wad of chewing tobacco and threw it in the hole. That was a ritual every time a grave was finished at the Union Cemetery.
“Do you want to ride the backhoe to the shed?” “Naw, I think I’ll walk back.” As the older man walked to the machine, the younger tarried at the grave. “Are you o.k. son?” the older man asked looking over his shoulder. “I hate these types,” the young man responded. “I’ve dug hundreds of graves and the ones for kids do seem harder,” the old man said sympathetically. “When I took over this job from Oren when he retired, he told me, ‘Newt, this is not just a job, it’s a trust. You will bury a lot of folks and this will be their last stop on earth. Their families will be hurting. Do the job right, the dead and their families are depending on you.’ But you know Bobby, it does take its toll on you. Especially when its folks you know and the younguns. But, old Oren was right, we have to do the job right, that’s our contribution. Luckily we don’t have to explain why it has to be done.”
“I just don’t get it. The kid was only 11. What sense is it for an 11 year old to die?” The older worker lifted his green John Deere hat off his head and ran his caloused hand through a chock of grey hair, but had no response. Both stood staring into the empty grave. “Who is the parson officiating?” “Pastor VanDeever of the Presby Church in town. He has always impressed me as good man.” The young man thought out loud, “Maybe I should ask him why the boy had to die.” “Meebe you should.” Newt again walked to the backhoe, fired it up and drove off the hill to the equipment shed.
Bobby Foster lifted the two spades, one on each shoulder, and began walking after the backhoe. He thought about when he was 11. He was a Junior Olympic wrestling champion. Wrestling was his passion, nothing else was even close. In high school he earned two Pennsylvania Regional Wresting Championships but never finished higher than 8th at the two state tournaments in which he wrestled. The size, confusion and pressure of the event overwhelmed him. He did earn a partial wrestling scholarship to Pitt Johnstown, but only made it through one semester. Again, it was a situation in which he could not be comfortable.
He reached the shed, cleaned the spades and hung them on the wall. He had been working at the Union Cemetery for almost 5 years. He looked over at Newton Alston, superintendent at Union for 23 years and wondered if he would be here that long. Newt was wiping down and replacing tools used earlier in the day to repair on of the chain mowers. With Spring tomorrow, the busy season would soon begin. “Can I help, Newt?” “Nope, I’ll be done in a minute. Tomorrow we got to order grass seed and some new saplings. The Association wants a better catch of grass across from the parking lot and a row of trees planted. We’ll want to do that before the cutting and trimming gets into full swing.” “What time tomorrow?” Bobby asked. “Funerals at 10:30, so they should be here by 11:15, so we need to be here to set up at 9:00. See you then.” “See you at 9:00, Newt.”
Bobby picked up his lunch cooler and headed out the door. “You alright boy?” “Yep”, Bobby responded, “see you tomorrow.” He walked to the back of the building, entered his Silverado pickup and headed out Cemetery Road for home. It is only a 15 minute drive to the small 5 room ranch house he rents from Mrs. Schindley. She was in an assisted living facility. This little house was the dream house of the Schindleys, but Henry developed Alzheimer’s within a year of building the house. He is now in a home for Alzheimer’s patients. Actually, that whole deal is another thing he can’t understand.
A nice little old retired couple and in a couple of months their whole world is turned upside down and wrecked.
Bobby Foster pulled up to his mail box. Nothing but bills and flyers from WalMart and Penneys. He went in the side door, removed his Red Wing work boots and peeled off his dirty Woolrich and Carhartt work clothes. After popping open a Budweiser, he jumped into the shower for a long, warm drenching. Try as he could to think of other things, he kept coming back to Ricky Myers, the 11 year he would lower into the grave tomorrow.
About twenty minutes later, he checked his answering machine and saw the light blinking. He retrieved one message from his sister Marie. She was trying to be calm, but he knew better. His mother was back in the hospital…not serious…but he needed to come and see her as soon as possible. Laverne Foster had been battling sever diabetes for the past four years. The docs were having trouble regulating it and she already had the toes on her left foot amputated. She seemed to be subject to infections. He pulled on clean clothes and headed to Memorial Hospital.
At the hospital he rode the elevator to the 4th floor. As the doors opened, Bessie Lerner, one of his mother’s church friends was waiting to go down. “Bobby, honey” she seemed to shout. “Your mom will be so glad to see you.” “Hello, Mrs. Lerner. How is she doing.” “She is in a lot of pain in her bad leg. Dr. Meechem says it doesn’t look good for that leg. But, you know your mom…she is always smiling and loving others. You are blessed to have a mom like yours.” Bobby and Bessie Lerner parted company and he looked for and found Room 415.
As he crossed the threshold, his mother looked at him, smiled and said, “Bobby, honey, how are you? It is so good to see you. You aren’t working too hard are you? Are you taking care of your self? Do you….” He interrupted her, “Mom, I’m fine, what about you?” “Come and give me a hug son”, as she sat up further in her hospital bed. He complied and gave her a hug and she kissed his unshaved cheek. “It’s good to see you,” she repeated. “Now, mom, why are you back here?” Bobby emphatically inquired. “Oh, honey, I’m having some discomfort and Dr. Meechem wanted me to be here so they could monitor what’s going on. It’s not a big deal, though. Have you met Dr. Meechem, he’s a nice man. I taught him and his sister a church camp.”
“Mom, it is a big deal if you are in here! Mrs. Lerner said you are having a lot of pain in your leg.” “Oh, Bessie worries so much about everything. I think I’ll be fine.” Before Bobby could ask anything else, three people popped in the door. “Rev.Skillman, Peggy and Becky, so nice of you to come. You know my Bobby don’t you?” After introductions, an exchange of niceties and a brief explanation of Laverne Foster’s medical issues, the next 30 minutes were spent discussing the church and the problems of other parishioners. Bobby thought to himself, that is just like mom, concerned with others more that herself. He patiently listened.
When Pastor Skillman, his wife and Becky Larson took their leave, he asked Bobby. “Are you still working at the Union Cemetery?” “Sure am.” “I grew up with Newt Alston. He came from a tough background. Dad in and out of jail; his mom died when he was 15.” “I didn’t know that.” “And, to top it off, his first wife deserted him when he was in the Army. But, he still seems to have it together. Thanks be to God for His grace.” Bobby said nothing more but thought, how about grace for Ricky Myers, his mom and the Schindleys.
“Haven’t seen you in church lately.” “No, I don’t get there very often with my schedule and other things.” “You know you are always welcome. It would please you mother greatly if you came with your dad, mom, Marie and her kids.” Again, Bobby was silent. What could he say except he didn’t see much reason for church. And, it didn’t seem to make much difference for those that went anyway. No use starting an argument in mom’s hospital room. “It was nice to see you again, Bobby,” the pastor said as he shook his hand and walked away.
It was 8:55 and a nurse came around to say visiting hours were over in 5 minutes. “I have such nice friends, Bobby.” “Yeah, mom they seem very nice. How is dad taking this?” “Well, he insisted I come in here. I really didn’t want to, but you know dad, he is very protective of me. So, he brought me in about noon when I couldn’t put weight on my leg.” “How long had it been like that, mom?” “A couple days, honey. I thought it would get better. But, now I am here so they can find out the problem.” The lights flashed and over the intercom a nurse’s voice boomed, “Visiting hours are over.”
“Mom, I am going to go, but I’ll be back tomorrow evening.” “You take care of yourself and be careful, Bobby. I love you.” “I love you too, mom.” He hugged her again and she again kissed his bristly cheek. “Are you growing a beard again, honey?” “No, I just didn’t shave today. You never liked my beard.” She smiled, “It’s not that I didn’t like your beard, it hide your dimples.” Bobby smiled and said goodbye.
On his way home, he decided to stop at the Old Cabin Inn. He pulled into an almost empty parking lot. Good, he thought, I don’t want to talk to anyone. He took a stool at the bar. “Bobby,” Jack Hudson the week day bar tender said, “How are you?” “Good, Jack. Give me a Yeungling Lager.” “Glass?” “No, just the bottle.” As he lifted the bottle to his lips, the door sprung open and a penetrating voice exclaimed, “It’s Digger O’Dell.” Bobby knew exactly who it was, Reggie Neumann. Bobby turned on his stool and saw Neumann and his sidekick Stu Phillips. They were high school classmates and not his favorite people.
One plopped down on each side of Bobby. “Jack, bring us two Black Jacks on the rocks.” Neumann turned to Bobby, “How’s the cemetery business? People dying to get in?” He burst into laughter, as did Phillips. Bobby wondered why he stopped. “Me and Stu are still working for Minter Construction. Great job. We are off all winter and go back to work next week.” “Yeah,” Phillips added, “We went to the Super Bowl and took the Clymer twins to St. Croix for a month. Beats dealing with this winter weather, eh Bobby?”
Jack asked, ”Who has the new ride?” “That’s my 2003 ‘Vette. Tomorrow being the first day of spring, I Got it off the blocks and put on the tires for cruising until next winter,” explained Neumann. “Still have your Ram pickup?” “Yeah, that and the PT Cruiser. Never can have too many wheels I say,” said Neumann chuckling. “I’ve got a Prowler ordered,” chimed in Phillips chimed in, “should be in by April 15. Cherry red with black leather buckets.” Even amid the bragging the Jack Daniels was gone. “Two more, Jack. How ‘bout we buy you a beer Digger?” Bobby responded, “No thanks, I have to work tomorrow.” “Too bad,” Neumann said without meaning it.
“See you Jack”, Bobby said as he left, and he added for Neumann and Phillips, “take care guys.” When he got outside he breathed deeply of the cool night air. He was glad to get out of that stifling environment. Those guys do nothing but talk about themselves and what they have and have done. He walked by Reggie’s Corvette with more that a little bit of envy in his heart and swung up into his 1999 pickup. He tuned in MegaRock and headed down the road not knowing that his life would be soon changed forever.
Just about two miles from the Log Cabin Inn, he spied a figure on the side of the road. As he came closer, Bobby saw it was a massive man wearing a black Nike warm up and a Pittsburgh Steeler ball cap. He was hitchhiking. Nowadays, you do not see many hitchhikers. He recalled dad saying never, never pick up a hitchhiker. But, there was within Bobby an overwhelming urge to stop. He tried to overcome it but he stopped next to the guy and lowered the passenger window. “How about a ride?” the stranger asked. Bobby hesitated in his mind but his voice said, “Sure, climb in.” The man lifted himself in and filled the passenger side of the cab. He had to be 6’6” and 275 pounds. Bobby was 6’2” and 200 pounds and this man dwarfed him. “Thank you for your kindness”, the man said reaching over with a massive hand that totally enveloped Bobby’s.
Bobby was feeling a little intimidated, so he quickly said, “You a Steeler fan?” The big man replied, “Not really, never saw a game, but I wear this in recognition of my brother.” “He plays for the Steelers?” “Yes. He is called Thunder Dan Kreider.” Bobby loosened up, “Wow. Dan Kreider what a great player he is and you’re his brother. This is an honor. Are you heading home?” “No, I am just passing through.” Bobby inquired, “What’s your name?” “John Allen”, he replied. “I thought you were Kreider’s brother? How come you have different last names?” “We have the same older brother and Father” John responded.
Bobby began thinking there is something strange about this guy. He looked at him but found he could not look long in his face. He had wavy brown hair cascading out from the hat and his face was smooth and almost featureless. “You seem troubled, Bobby,” John stated in a melodic way. Bobby freaked out, he knows my name, he thought almost audibly. “Well…uh…you just don’t see many hitchhikers today.” John ignored his comment and said, “Ricky Myers is my brother, too.” Bobby’s flesh became cool and sweaty at the same time. Who is this guy and what is he talking about? John showed no emotion although Bobby knew he could feel Bobby’s apprehension.
“Bobby, life is certainly hard to figure. And, we do not always understand why things happen. When you dug that grave today, it was not for Brother Ricky. It is only his body that will be placed in that grave tomorrow. Ricky the person has gone to his Father and my Father. And some day his brothers and sisters will see him again.” Bobby listened in a way he seldom did. But, it didn’t make sense; Ricky Myers was an only child.
“Bobby, there is more to this world than you see. This is not the home of those who have the same elder brother and Father. Ricky was just passing through. I was just passing through. Danny Kreider is just passing through. All those bodies you and Newt bury, old Oren was not quite right…that is not there final resting place. We all have a destiny beyond this world. The only question is where it will be. And what happens to you here does not determine your destiny. Your destiny is dependant on whether you belong to the family with our elder brother and the Father.”
When he finished, John peered out the windshield and said, “That’s my next stop…that house with the picket fence and separate garage.” Bobby bewildered by the last 10 minutes, looked and said, “The Recker place. You know them too.” “John Recker is my uncle. I’ll get out here.” Bobby stopped the truck. John turned to him and Bobby could not avoid looking into his face. Later he thought it was like looking into the very depths of all the world’s seas. “Bobby, remember, do not make this world your home. Seek first the Father’s home and you will not have to worry about the things of this world. Turn your back on the things of this world and believe and trust in all the things my elder brother says. If you do, I’ll see you again. Repent and believe, Bobby.”
The big man slipped out of the truck, waved, turned and headed up the path from the road to the house. Bobby watched as he mounted the porch steps and them pulled back onto the highway. He was about a mile down the road when he noticed a book on the passenger side bucket seat. John left it he thought. He turned around and headed back to the Recker place. He pulled into the driveway this time. The house was dark. It was now almost 11:00. Come to think of it there were no lights on when he dropped off John. Not wanted to disturb the Reckers, he decided to come back tomorrow to deliver the lost book.
The alarm sounded at 6:45. Bobby Foster had not slept much. He laid awake thinking about what John Allen said. He didn’t get it all but he seemed at peace about the funeral today. Since he had to stop at the Reckers before work he decided to arise, shower, put on his work clothes for the day and get going. As he was going out the door, he passed up his usual NASCAR hats and grabbed his Steeler cap even though it wasn’t football season. He arrived at Thatcher’s Restaurant at 7:30 for breakfast. Linda Timmons, who was a single mom, also from his class at school, waited on him. He had the usual, fried eggs, home fries, and home made toast with OJ and hot coffee. “Bobby, you look different today,” said Linda. “I guess that’s a compliment,” he laughed. There is something going on, he thought.
He arrived at the Reckers around 8:15. John and Alice Recker were in their late sixties. John retired from the railroad. They both enjoyed gardening, flowers and vegetables. He picked up the book and realized for the first time that it was a Bible. Must be John Allen’s he thought. Bible in hand, he walked up the steps and knocked on the door. Alice came to the door and smiled when she saw Bobby. “Bobby Foster, come on in. I haven’t seen you in a long while. I hear by the church prayer chain that your mother is in the hospital. How is she doing?” “Good morning, Mrs. Recker. I am sorry to bother you this early.” “That’s fine Bobby, we are early risers. I’m making some sticky buns. Would you like to join John and me. The first batch is ready to come out of the oven.” “Thank you, but I’ve got to get to work. I just wanted to return this Bible to your nephew, John Allen. I gave him a ride over here late last night and he left it in my vehicle.”
Mrs. Recker turned ashen. Weakly, she called for her husband, “John, Bobby Foster is here and he says….” Her voice tailed off as she choked back tears. Bobby was surprised. “Are you o.k. Mrs. Recker?” She excused herself and turned and ran into her husband coming to the door. “What’s wrong Alice?” She sobbed as he held her, “Bobby says he brought Johnny to our house last night.” John Recker shot a fierce stare at Bobby, “What is the meaning of this? My nephew John has been dead for 3 years. He died on a mission trip to Cambodia and his body was never recovered. Is this some kind of hoax.” Whatever good feelings Bobby had now escaped like air out of a balloon.
For several minutes he recounted last night and showed them the Bible. It was on of John’s Bibles from the name on the inside. He received it at confirmation class at his Methodist Church in Columbus, Ohio, his hometown. The Reckers recounted that John was last at there home on the way to New York to fly to Cambodia. He was part of a mission group to take the Gospel to the jungles of Cambodia. John had become a Presbyterian and believed it was necessary to go everywhere to bring those for whom Christ died into the Family of God.
Bobby apologized for the problem he caused. The Reckers were gracious and wanted him to keep John’s Bible. He returned to the truck. He was having that feeling he did at the state wrestling tournament and in college. He was uncomfortable. It was confusing and he felt like he wanted to be somewhere else. But where would he go? He turned the key in the ignition and started for the Union Cemetery. He was restless and anxious. He pulled in behind the shed rubbed his eyes. It was almost 9:00 but Newt wasn’t there yet, which was unusual. He picked up the Bible and opened it again. Some of the pages were book marked with some of the text underlined.
He began to read those passages. In Eph. 1:4-8 he read that God had chosen people to be His children by redemption through the blood of Jesus Christ. In Rom. 3:22-26, he read that justification, remission of sin and righteousness is available only through the death of Christ. In Gal. 4:4-7, he read that the redeemed receive full rights as the sons of God. And finally, he read in Rom. 8:12-17 and 28-35 that as sons of God we can suffer, but nothing, not even death, can separate God’s children from Him. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. Suddenly he understood what John was saying. He understood his mother. He understood why the death of a child of God was not a tragedy, no matter their age. Right there in the Silverado, he repented and believed and to him the righteousness of Christ was credited.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was another spring. Snow was flying, mixed with rain. A blue sedan pulled up beside the shed at the Union Cemetery. Alighting from the car was a man dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and blue striped tie. He opened the door and saw Newt Alston and two young boys working on chain mowers. Newt looked up and gladly greeted the visitor, “BF, good to see you. How long has it been?” Bobby moved forward to shake the older man’s hand, “About 5 years. I finished working here the summer after Ricky Myers died. Went back to college that fall, got my degree last spring and have been working in Pittsburgh since.” “Sorry to hear about your mom, Bobby.” “That’s why I’m here Newt, I want to help with the grave.” Newt paused and then said, “Well…if you want to son I don’t see no harm. Be here at 7:30 tomorrow morning.”
“I’ve got an appointment with the Pastor at 2:00 so I need to move on. I’ll see you tomorrow, Newt.” “I’ll walk you to your car.” The two went through the door to Bobby’s car. Newt said, “You used to hate digging graves of kids and people you knew, Bobby. I know you said you became a ‘born again Christian’ but what happened?” Bobby smiled and said, “If you have some time get in we’ll take a ride and I’ll tell you about my Father.” Newt hesitated, climbed in the passenger seat and the car drove off in the snow and rain with two puzzled boys looking on from the shed door.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Easter 2008
Good Friday
Today is the Friday Christians call Good. It is the day when He Who was without sin became sin; He became a curse for us [II Cor. 5:21; Gal 3:13]. Today He drank the cup of God’s wrath to the dregs. He was placarded on the Cross for all to see. But, as brother Musser is fond of saying, “Fridays here but Sunday’s coming.” On the third day, as He said, He was raised from the dead. The stone was rolled away, not for Him to escape the tomb, after all, we are told He could walk through walls in His glorified body. It was for the whole world to see that He was not there. His glorious resurrection conquered sin, death and Satan and this was the verification and certification of His sacrifice for the sin of the world. What He accomplished in His perfect life, death and resurrection is as misunderstood now as then.
We have been assaulted with the Black Liberation Theology [BLT] of Jeremiah Wright during the last week. It is not a new phenomenon. It is a cousin of the Ché Guevara theology of South America. And, it is no different than the health, welfare and prosperity gospel of white, middle class America. None of them are the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. These are what Paul calls “another gospel”. But, why are we surprised? We live in a time where religious pluralism [“there are many paths to God”]; cultural relativism [“what is true for you is dictated by your cultural context”]; therapy [“you need to learn how to cope with your situation”] and the death of reason [“it is how you feel and what you experience that counts”] reign.
So, why not a BLT for those who think they are the poor, oppressed and downtrodden? Those who are subjugated to the white dominated society? After all the Emancipation Proclamation, Civil War, Reconstruction, the flight to cities and the Civil Rights Act of 1964 did not eliminate racism in this country. So, why not Jesus as the Liberator from second class citizenship? Why not Jesus as a political force? Well…because that is not Who He is.
He is the suffering servant Who gave His live for His Church. He was not into politics. He was not a liberator in the human sense. Many of His erstwhile 1st century colleagues did not understand Who He was either. They wanted to be liberated from an earlier oppressor…the Romans. But, that was not His mission. His closest associates did not understand His plain teaching that He would die and be raised on the third day. That is why all but John disappeared on that Friday we call Good. He was the ultimate Liberator and Deliverer. He liberated His own from sin, death and Satan. His was not a policy, program or social reform. He came to make dead people live…to change individual lives.
I attended a Heroin Task Force meeting yesterday with Pastor Charles. I was amazed at the discussion. It was about programs, grants and drug treatments. Everyone wants to stop the heroin plague in the City of DuBois, but they are incapable of changing lives. Only God through Christ can do that. And, it is the same with racism, both black and white. It is an inside job. It will never be eliminated by politics, programs or policies. Last week in corporate worship our New Testament reading was Romans 6: 1-14. I had the congregation read twice verse 14: For sin will have no dominion over you, for you are not under law but grace. If you are united to Jesus Christ in His death and resurrection, you are a new creation under grace and He will through the Holy Spirit mortify the sin in you…including racism. That is how lives, families, communities, states, nations and the world will change…one life at a time.
As you contemplate this Friday we call Good, do not allow Jesus to be co-opted by some social or political agenda. That is not the “good news”. The Gospel is the life, death, resurrection and ascension of our Lord and Savior so that salvation by grace through faith on account of His atoning sacrifice can be applied to those who believe. Read how Clearfield County’s greatest hymn writer, Philip Bliss, described Who He was and what He did:
Man of Sorrows, what a name for the Son of God who came
Ruined sinners to reclaim:. Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Bearing shame and scoffing rude, in my place condemned He stood
Sealed my pardon with His blood: Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Guilty, vile, and helpless w; spotless Lamb of God was He;
Full atonement! Can it be? Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Lifted up was He to die, “It is finished!” was His cry;
Now in heav’n exalted high: Hallelujah! What a Savior!
When He comes, our glorious King, all His ransomed home to bring,
Then anew this song we’ll sing: Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Soli deo Gloria!
Good Friday
Today is the Friday Christians call Good. It is the day when He Who was without sin became sin; He became a curse for us [II Cor. 5:21; Gal 3:13]. Today He drank the cup of God’s wrath to the dregs. He was placarded on the Cross for all to see. But, as brother Musser is fond of saying, “Fridays here but Sunday’s coming.” On the third day, as He said, He was raised from the dead. The stone was rolled away, not for Him to escape the tomb, after all, we are told He could walk through walls in His glorified body. It was for the whole world to see that He was not there. His glorious resurrection conquered sin, death and Satan and this was the verification and certification of His sacrifice for the sin of the world. What He accomplished in His perfect life, death and resurrection is as misunderstood now as then.
We have been assaulted with the Black Liberation Theology [BLT] of Jeremiah Wright during the last week. It is not a new phenomenon. It is a cousin of the Ché Guevara theology of South America. And, it is no different than the health, welfare and prosperity gospel of white, middle class America. None of them are the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. These are what Paul calls “another gospel”. But, why are we surprised? We live in a time where religious pluralism [“there are many paths to God”]; cultural relativism [“what is true for you is dictated by your cultural context”]; therapy [“you need to learn how to cope with your situation”] and the death of reason [“it is how you feel and what you experience that counts”] reign.
So, why not a BLT for those who think they are the poor, oppressed and downtrodden? Those who are subjugated to the white dominated society? After all the Emancipation Proclamation, Civil War, Reconstruction, the flight to cities and the Civil Rights Act of 1964 did not eliminate racism in this country. So, why not Jesus as the Liberator from second class citizenship? Why not Jesus as a political force? Well…because that is not Who He is.
He is the suffering servant Who gave His live for His Church. He was not into politics. He was not a liberator in the human sense. Many of His erstwhile 1st century colleagues did not understand Who He was either. They wanted to be liberated from an earlier oppressor…the Romans. But, that was not His mission. His closest associates did not understand His plain teaching that He would die and be raised on the third day. That is why all but John disappeared on that Friday we call Good. He was the ultimate Liberator and Deliverer. He liberated His own from sin, death and Satan. His was not a policy, program or social reform. He came to make dead people live…to change individual lives.
I attended a Heroin Task Force meeting yesterday with Pastor Charles. I was amazed at the discussion. It was about programs, grants and drug treatments. Everyone wants to stop the heroin plague in the City of DuBois, but they are incapable of changing lives. Only God through Christ can do that. And, it is the same with racism, both black and white. It is an inside job. It will never be eliminated by politics, programs or policies. Last week in corporate worship our New Testament reading was Romans 6: 1-14. I had the congregation read twice verse 14: For sin will have no dominion over you, for you are not under law but grace. If you are united to Jesus Christ in His death and resurrection, you are a new creation under grace and He will through the Holy Spirit mortify the sin in you…including racism. That is how lives, families, communities, states, nations and the world will change…one life at a time.
As you contemplate this Friday we call Good, do not allow Jesus to be co-opted by some social or political agenda. That is not the “good news”. The Gospel is the life, death, resurrection and ascension of our Lord and Savior so that salvation by grace through faith on account of His atoning sacrifice can be applied to those who believe. Read how Clearfield County’s greatest hymn writer, Philip Bliss, described Who He was and what He did:
Man of Sorrows, what a name for the Son of God who came
Ruined sinners to reclaim:. Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Bearing shame and scoffing rude, in my place condemned He stood
Sealed my pardon with His blood: Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Guilty, vile, and helpless w; spotless Lamb of God was He;
Full atonement! Can it be? Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Lifted up was He to die, “It is finished!” was His cry;
Now in heav’n exalted high: Hallelujah! What a Savior!
When He comes, our glorious King, all His ransomed home to bring,
Then anew this song we’ll sing: Hallelujah! What a Savior!
Soli deo Gloria!
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Election 2008
Who should change?
Big day in the world of news yesterday: Arguments on 2nd Amendment in SCOTUS; BO gave a big speech on his take on his former pastor’s black liberation theology; and the FED cut the prime rate 75 basis points making it a whole point cut since last Friday. A few weeks ago I posted on the “change” aspect of the current Presidential campaign. My former pastor Slash 8 [a/k/a Earl Brooks] sent along a piece on change I am reproducing below.
There is an increasing angst among the “regular” electorate about what is going on in this loooooong primary season. It may be “voter fatigue” or it may be symptomatic of a deeper unrest behind the hedgerows and along the byways of the country. I believe that is what comes through this piece by Monte Tucker. A late friend of mine used to say of the government, let them deliver the mail and protect the borders…neither of which they do very well today. Most folks are not looking to the government to take care of their every need or change how the country functions. It seems like groups with special agendas...those who believe in the trinity of race, gender and class…have center stage and are greasing the skids of change. This is the frustration of Monte Tucker in his conclusion on who should change. What do you think?
"What's Under My Hat" by Monte Tucker
Howdy friends and neighbors. Come on first Tuesday in November! I have already had about all of the Presidential election I can stand. Surely, somewhere out there in this great nation is a "good ol' boy or gal," that is worth voting for. You know, someone that has actually done something, not just talked about what they think they have done. It's only the first quarter in the game between the R's and the D's. Both sides keep talking about time for change. Just what are they going to change? They obviously haven't changed the game of politics. Billary and Bama Lama Ding Dong boost the word "change" every time I see the media put their face on my boob tube.
The first place they could start changing things would be on the Senate floor that they're already on. Just go and look at their voting records for the last several months and you will find they aren't showing up to vote. You know, the job they campaigned so hard to get by promising "change," but they just don't have the time. McCain isn't immune from this either.
Let's talk "change." What in the world do these hot air compressors think they are going to change and why? Again, I'm just a professional bovine relocation specialist (it's the 21st century, we used to call them cowboys). But the way I see it from Sunny Point , Oklahoma , how are they going to change the greatest nation in the world? All of the candidates are demanding we must change! OK. I wake up a free man every morning and I'm free to do anything that is morally right or I can do nothing. If I choose to do something productive that day, well I can whistle at my dog, start up my ol' tan feed truck that I bought with the help of a free enterprising banking system I chose to use. Plus, there's the fact that other free Americans assembled this truck, and the companies that bought, sold and hauled parts and supplies to make that pickup possible. As I turn the key, ol' tans fires up on diesel fuel that a mean, nasty, big oil company conveniently made very accessible and affordable to me. I turn out of my land that I can freely own, onto a county maintained road that leads to any point in North America I would choose to go to that day. Also, in this country, I am free to own livestock and free to care for them so that the livestock will return a profit so I can repay my bank, buy my feed and fuel, and provide for my family. On Sunday Morning (or any other day that ends in "Y") my family is free to drive from our house on a ribbon of roads that lead to the Church of our choice and worship the real owner of all things we know, God. We can give praise to Him for all and especially for Jesus.
Why can't these hopefuls for the highest-ranking governmental seat see that it is just that simple? Provide me infrastructure and protect me from these knot-headed whack's that think they can take away our freedom. Billary, Bama Mama or McNobrain aren't going to change anything. The foundations of this great country can't be changed by one person, no matter how much they think they can. As Americans, we have the right to succeed or fail and try again as we please. As a free man, I'm getting good at failing but I get smarter when I try again.
When presidential candidates tout change, the only thing I see in this country that needs changing is them. Life in America is good and for those that don't think so, you're free to leave at any time, go to another country of your choice and try to change it.I'm Monte Tucker, and that is what's under my professional bovine relocation specialist hat. Wait, I'm not changing, that is what's under my COWBOY hat!
Who should change?
Big day in the world of news yesterday: Arguments on 2nd Amendment in SCOTUS; BO gave a big speech on his take on his former pastor’s black liberation theology; and the FED cut the prime rate 75 basis points making it a whole point cut since last Friday. A few weeks ago I posted on the “change” aspect of the current Presidential campaign. My former pastor Slash 8 [a/k/a Earl Brooks] sent along a piece on change I am reproducing below.
There is an increasing angst among the “regular” electorate about what is going on in this loooooong primary season. It may be “voter fatigue” or it may be symptomatic of a deeper unrest behind the hedgerows and along the byways of the country. I believe that is what comes through this piece by Monte Tucker. A late friend of mine used to say of the government, let them deliver the mail and protect the borders…neither of which they do very well today. Most folks are not looking to the government to take care of their every need or change how the country functions. It seems like groups with special agendas...those who believe in the trinity of race, gender and class…have center stage and are greasing the skids of change. This is the frustration of Monte Tucker in his conclusion on who should change. What do you think?
"What's Under My Hat" by Monte Tucker
Howdy friends and neighbors. Come on first Tuesday in November! I have already had about all of the Presidential election I can stand. Surely, somewhere out there in this great nation is a "good ol' boy or gal," that is worth voting for. You know, someone that has actually done something, not just talked about what they think they have done. It's only the first quarter in the game between the R's and the D's. Both sides keep talking about time for change. Just what are they going to change? They obviously haven't changed the game of politics. Billary and Bama Lama Ding Dong boost the word "change" every time I see the media put their face on my boob tube.
The first place they could start changing things would be on the Senate floor that they're already on. Just go and look at their voting records for the last several months and you will find they aren't showing up to vote. You know, the job they campaigned so hard to get by promising "change," but they just don't have the time. McCain isn't immune from this either.
Let's talk "change." What in the world do these hot air compressors think they are going to change and why? Again, I'm just a professional bovine relocation specialist (it's the 21st century, we used to call them cowboys). But the way I see it from Sunny Point , Oklahoma , how are they going to change the greatest nation in the world? All of the candidates are demanding we must change! OK. I wake up a free man every morning and I'm free to do anything that is morally right or I can do nothing. If I choose to do something productive that day, well I can whistle at my dog, start up my ol' tan feed truck that I bought with the help of a free enterprising banking system I chose to use. Plus, there's the fact that other free Americans assembled this truck, and the companies that bought, sold and hauled parts and supplies to make that pickup possible. As I turn the key, ol' tans fires up on diesel fuel that a mean, nasty, big oil company conveniently made very accessible and affordable to me. I turn out of my land that I can freely own, onto a county maintained road that leads to any point in North America I would choose to go to that day. Also, in this country, I am free to own livestock and free to care for them so that the livestock will return a profit so I can repay my bank, buy my feed and fuel, and provide for my family. On Sunday Morning (or any other day that ends in "Y") my family is free to drive from our house on a ribbon of roads that lead to the Church of our choice and worship the real owner of all things we know, God. We can give praise to Him for all and especially for Jesus.
Why can't these hopefuls for the highest-ranking governmental seat see that it is just that simple? Provide me infrastructure and protect me from these knot-headed whack's that think they can take away our freedom. Billary, Bama Mama or McNobrain aren't going to change anything. The foundations of this great country can't be changed by one person, no matter how much they think they can. As Americans, we have the right to succeed or fail and try again as we please. As a free man, I'm getting good at failing but I get smarter when I try again.
When presidential candidates tout change, the only thing I see in this country that needs changing is them. Life in America is good and for those that don't think so, you're free to leave at any time, go to another country of your choice and try to change it.I'm Monte Tucker, and that is what's under my professional bovine relocation specialist hat. Wait, I'm not changing, that is what's under my COWBOY hat!
Friday, March 7, 2008
The Church
Gospel…+ and –
Pastor Aaron Garber, whom Susan and I like to refer to as our son in the faith, has some interesting references to the Gospel on his site http://afterdarknesslight.com/blog/blogs He points us to the positive aspect of the Gospel in Packer’s introduction to the John Own classic The Death of Death in the Death of Christ. [The introduction is worth the price of the book!] He points us to the negative aspect through Piper’s comments on why the health, wealth and prosperity gospel in no gospel at all, but is rank idolatry. When we recognize the true gospel, we recognize the counterfeits, of which there are many. Check it out.
Gospel…+ and –
Pastor Aaron Garber, whom Susan and I like to refer to as our son in the faith, has some interesting references to the Gospel on his site http://afterdarknesslight.com/blog/blogs He points us to the positive aspect of the Gospel in Packer’s introduction to the John Own classic The Death of Death in the Death of Christ. [The introduction is worth the price of the book!] He points us to the negative aspect through Piper’s comments on why the health, wealth and prosperity gospel in no gospel at all, but is rank idolatry. When we recognize the true gospel, we recognize the counterfeits, of which there are many. Check it out.
Living in the World
Buddy Dial
Gilbert Leroy “Buddy” Dial died. Now he did not claim the attention in death that Myron Cope did. But, he was a big part of Steeler football history. He was a hero of mine as a child. He played for the Pittsburgh Steelers from 1959 to 1963. This was a time when the Stillers showed promise. They came within a game of of playing for the NFL championship in 1963. And, during his tenure in PGH, they had 3 of 5 winning seasons, unheard of for the Black & Gold, those loveable losers. Dial still is in the record books of Pittsburgh even though he played long before the AFL opened up NFL football. In 1961, he caught 12 touchdown passes, a record that still stands but tied by Louis Lipps and Hines Ward. His 235 yards receiving against Cleveland, also in 1961, is the second best in Steeler history.
Buddy Dial
Gilbert Leroy “Buddy” Dial died. Now he did not claim the attention in death that Myron Cope did. But, he was a big part of Steeler football history. He was a hero of mine as a child. He played for the Pittsburgh Steelers from 1959 to 1963. This was a time when the Stillers showed promise. They came within a game of of playing for the NFL championship in 1963. And, during his tenure in PGH, they had 3 of 5 winning seasons, unheard of for the Black & Gold, those loveable losers. Dial still is in the record books of Pittsburgh even though he played long before the AFL opened up NFL football. In 1961, he caught 12 touchdown passes, a record that still stands but tied by Louis Lipps and Hines Ward. His 235 yards receiving against Cleveland, also in 1961, is the second best in Steeler history.
Despite his records he is hardly mentioned with all time greats like Swann, Stallworth, Lipps and now Ward. He was an All-American at Rice Universtiy, not exactly a football hotbed today. But, in the 1950s, as part of the South West Conference, the football was in the top escelon of the college game. He was drafted by the NY Giants in the second round and traded to PGH. His excellence as a player is shown by his being induced into both the College and High School Football Halls of Fame. He was selected All Pro in 1961 and 1963, playing in the Pro-Bowl both those years. Cathching passes from the incomporable Bobby Layne, he lead the league in yards per game receiving in 1960 and again in 1963 as Ed Brown’s deep threat. Astonishingly, his 20.8 yards per catch average over his entire career is still second in NFL history!!
He had a difficult life after football suffering greatly from injuries he sustained. He knew the tragedy of real life. He had five back orperations and was addicted to pain killers that destoryed his kidneys. He was declared permanently diabled in 1993, but was involved in lagal wranglings with his former wife over disability payments through 1999. Additionally, in 1999, his son Kevin Dial was on of nine prople shot to death by a gunman at an Atlanta office building. Despite all his problems, he did return to Rice Stadium this past season for a reunion with the 1997 Rice team that lost in the 1958 Cotton Bowl to Navy.
The Steelers never won a playoff game until 9 years after Dial was traded to the Cowboys. Buddy Dial was the first 1,000 yard receiver for Pittsburgh. He and others like John Henry Johnson, Dick Hoak, Lou Michaels, John Baker and Dick Haley gave young boys like me a glimmer of hope. The Stillers could be winners…or at least be respected for effort. The Black & Gold would go on to be one of the great sports franchises in the history of professional sports. It was a success born out of long years of frustration, waiting ‘til next year, and disappointment. Just like life, you keep working hard, plugging away and competing. Maybe you don’t get the big enchilada, but you lay the groundwork for those who do. Such was a Buddy Dial.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Election 2008
Who are the conservatives?
There is much hand wringing and name calling in the ranks of the Grand Old Party. Seems as if John McCain, the nominee in waiting, is not “conservative” enough. Bill Buckley died the other day, the same day as Myron Cope [if you do not know who he is you are not a Stillers fan]. Buckley was considered the modern re-maker of conservatism in this country. And, he did stand against the liberalism that corroded American virtues and aided the development of the “meism” of today. Alas, Buckley’s heirs are the neo-conservatives who are peopled by those who want to export democracy to make the world secure for global trade.
Before Buckley, Russell Kirk was considered the individual who brought back conservatism from the dead. Now, a new book by Gerald Russello entitled The Postmodern Imagination of Russell Kirk, questions whether Kirk was the first postmodern thinker. In fact, Kirk early on used the term post-modern to describe the failed liberal confidence in rationality. But, he was not one who wanted to give up on permanent things. And he spent his literary life defending tradition, community, faith and permanent things against its destruction by modernity.
Russello claims that Kirk was anti-ideology and saw true conservatism as being maintained and strengthened by “redeemed imagination” [thus, the title]. Kirk saw ideologies, such as liberalism, as destructive to all that has been believed as good, true and beautiful. All falls prey to the drive for individual liberty and the exercise thereof without the constraint of tradition, institutions or authority. Kirk announced the death of liberalism as non-imaginative in 1955, in “The Dissolution of Liberalism”:
The liberal system attained popularity because it promised progress without the onerous duties exacted by tradition and religion. It is now in the process of dissolution because, founded upon an imperfect and distorted myth, it has been unable to fulfill its promise, and because it no longer appeals in degree to the higher imagination. It has been undone by social disillusion.
These are not the words of a man who embraces the postmodern sense of no truth and no authority except me.
Now, that is not to say Kirk is faultless. The late Sam Francis believed that the still vital classical conservatism Kirk argued for, using Edmund Burke as his example, was long gone. Francis saw the problem not as conserving a now decadent order, but rather, how to change it. So, in reality, liberals and conservatives alike were in the changing business. And, that brings us around to Election 2008.
John McCain may not be a “traditional” conservative, but neither is any other potential nominee, nor their predecessor. Kirk was right about a redeemed imagination and that those of the liberal stripe have none. Where is the imagination in just turning everything into a government program? Every time we look to “power” instead of “imagination” to solve problems we give up liberty, what liberals are supposedly all about. The real conservative is one who looks to imagination, innovation, and ideas to solve problems without relying on the power of the federal government.
As Kirk has said about conservatives:
[they] must stand firm against centralization, legislation that offers to substitute a passing “security” for prescriptive liberty, and the conversion of republican government into plebiscitary democracy.
So, as the election continues to heat up, think about this whole idea of who the conservative is. Is it the person interested in power and exercising it…no matter his/her party affiliation? Or, is it the person of vision who wants to find solutions to problems by unleashing the imagination, innovation and ideas of the private sector? It’s not the conserving where and what we are now…it is reclaiming permanent things with “redeemed imagination.”
Who are the conservatives?
There is much hand wringing and name calling in the ranks of the Grand Old Party. Seems as if John McCain, the nominee in waiting, is not “conservative” enough. Bill Buckley died the other day, the same day as Myron Cope [if you do not know who he is you are not a Stillers fan]. Buckley was considered the modern re-maker of conservatism in this country. And, he did stand against the liberalism that corroded American virtues and aided the development of the “meism” of today. Alas, Buckley’s heirs are the neo-conservatives who are peopled by those who want to export democracy to make the world secure for global trade.
Before Buckley, Russell Kirk was considered the individual who brought back conservatism from the dead. Now, a new book by Gerald Russello entitled The Postmodern Imagination of Russell Kirk, questions whether Kirk was the first postmodern thinker. In fact, Kirk early on used the term post-modern to describe the failed liberal confidence in rationality. But, he was not one who wanted to give up on permanent things. And he spent his literary life defending tradition, community, faith and permanent things against its destruction by modernity.
Russello claims that Kirk was anti-ideology and saw true conservatism as being maintained and strengthened by “redeemed imagination” [thus, the title]. Kirk saw ideologies, such as liberalism, as destructive to all that has been believed as good, true and beautiful. All falls prey to the drive for individual liberty and the exercise thereof without the constraint of tradition, institutions or authority. Kirk announced the death of liberalism as non-imaginative in 1955, in “The Dissolution of Liberalism”:
The liberal system attained popularity because it promised progress without the onerous duties exacted by tradition and religion. It is now in the process of dissolution because, founded upon an imperfect and distorted myth, it has been unable to fulfill its promise, and because it no longer appeals in degree to the higher imagination. It has been undone by social disillusion.
These are not the words of a man who embraces the postmodern sense of no truth and no authority except me.
Now, that is not to say Kirk is faultless. The late Sam Francis believed that the still vital classical conservatism Kirk argued for, using Edmund Burke as his example, was long gone. Francis saw the problem not as conserving a now decadent order, but rather, how to change it. So, in reality, liberals and conservatives alike were in the changing business. And, that brings us around to Election 2008.
John McCain may not be a “traditional” conservative, but neither is any other potential nominee, nor their predecessor. Kirk was right about a redeemed imagination and that those of the liberal stripe have none. Where is the imagination in just turning everything into a government program? Every time we look to “power” instead of “imagination” to solve problems we give up liberty, what liberals are supposedly all about. The real conservative is one who looks to imagination, innovation, and ideas to solve problems without relying on the power of the federal government.
As Kirk has said about conservatives:
[they] must stand firm against centralization, legislation that offers to substitute a passing “security” for prescriptive liberty, and the conversion of republican government into plebiscitary democracy.
So, as the election continues to heat up, think about this whole idea of who the conservative is. Is it the person interested in power and exercising it…no matter his/her party affiliation? Or, is it the person of vision who wants to find solutions to problems by unleashing the imagination, innovation and ideas of the private sector? It’s not the conserving where and what we are now…it is reclaiming permanent things with “redeemed imagination.”
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