Worship

"so to present Jesus Christ in the power of the Spirit, that (all) may put their trust in Him as Savior and receive Him as their Lord, in the fellowship of the Church.

To quicken the conscience by the Holiness of God,
To feed the mind with the Truth of God,
To purge the imagination by the Beauty of God,
To open the heart to the Love of God, and
To devote the will to the Purpose of God. "

- William Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury

Hypocrites in Church

"Sometimes people tell me how disappointed they are to find so many hypocrites in the church. I suppose the same things are sometimes said about synagogues and other places of worship. It is foolish to deny it; and I make no attempt to do so. But it astonishes me that people expect the church to be perfect. They forget that if the church were perfect it wouldn't let them in. I couldn't belong to a church of perfect people, because I wouldn't qualify. Would you? When we complain of the church's imperfection, we complain of the very thing that allows us to belong. There are a great many hypocrites in the church. But then, places of worship are very good places for hypocrites to be. For the message that is heard there is one of Truth and Grace. And that is just what hypocrites need."

-Dr. R. Maurice Boyd

In Debt . . .

I am still enormously in debt to Dr. Francis Schaeffer, the founder of the L'Abri movement and at one time a co-pastor in St. Louis with one of my Gordon Conwell Theological Seminary professors' - Dr. Elmer Smick.

I began reading Schaeffer in my mid-teens and discovered that there was a whole way of seeing, a world-view of which I had no idea - that the Christian faith was more than 'Are you saved, brother?' and constant reiterations of John 3:16 and various biblical stories (to be illustrated mostly in flannel graph - remember that?). I discovered there was skeleton-structure, bones, sinew and flesh to the faith - a philosophy for my life and for anyone seeking to become truly, fully 'human' - and I have been curiously pressing into the Mystery ever since.

Schaeffer and his wife Edith Schaeffer (as the British Grace Magazine puts it) were "determined to demonstrate, in the ministry of L’Abri, a true outworking of trust and dependence on God in all circumstances – a demonstration that the unseen supernatural world really exists. So, for example, they committed themselves to prayer, asking that God would send the individuals to them that would find their ministry helpful, and that God would provide all necessary resources of money, housing personnel and so on. They saw, and the work continues to see, real and powerful answers because, as he would often say, ‘God is there’.

"Francis’ book ‘True Spirituality’ (again another superbly helpful book) was born out of the desire to show what really living a Christian life looks like when we ‘moment by moment rely on the ministry of the Holy Spirit, who is given to us because of the finished work of Christ on the cross’.

I Hate it that it Hurts, however . . .

In The Problem of Pain, C. S. Lewis wrote, “You would like to know how I behave when I am experiencing pain, not writing books about it. You need not guess, for I will tell you; I am a great coward. But what is that to the purpose? When I think of pain – of anxiety that gnaws like fire and loneliness that spreads out like a desert, and the heart-breaking routine of monotonous misery, or again of dull aches that blacken our whole landscape or sudden nauseating pains that knock a man’s heart out at one blow, of pains that seem already intolerable and then are suddenly increased, of infuriating scorpion-stinging pains that startle into maniacal movement a man who seemed half dead with his previous tortures – it ‘quite o’er crows my spirit.’ If I knew any way of escape I would crawl through sewers to find it. But what is the good of telling you about my feelings? You know them already: they are the same as yours. I am not arguing that pain is not painful. Pain hurts. That is what the word means. I am only trying to show that the old Christian doctrine of being made ‘perfect through suffering’ (Heb. 2:10) is not incredible. To prove it palatable is beyond my design.”

Pay Attention

Again, Frederick Buechner: What makes me a believer is that from time to time, there have been glimpses I've had which have made me suspect the presence of something extraordinary and beyond the realm of the immediate. You encounter the Holy in various forms, which, unless you have your eyes open, you might not even notice.

Lost and Found

Recently Christian writer, Frederick Buechner, was recognized and interviewed by his peers, at the Washington Cathedral.

The following words, that he had written some years ago in his Pulitzer Prize nominated novel, 'Godric,' Beuechner noted, he wouldn't mind having inscribed on his tombstone: What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was set next to life would scarcely fill a cup.

True Self Breaking Free

Created in the image of God, we arrive in this world with an inborn hunger for the transcendent, even for heaven. Something in us is born knowing. In such a time as this, when the Western world finds itself in the horrors of a spiritual and moral freefall, many come out of this culture to our conferences trapped in the ugliest of sinful compulsions, having forgotten this inborn holy craving. And it is in the presence of the Holy One, the very coming into sacred space filled with true worship, that these dread bonds begin to break and fall away from them. The true self that yearns for the good, the beautiful, the true, and the noble then begins its heroic journey up and out the false self, with its layers and layers of sordid behavior, and breaks through into God's light with His pathway in sight.

- Leanne Payne, Pastoral Care Ministries

Snowball chance-in . . .

I love this picture by Arthur J. Eisley (as I love all paintings that tell a story, that suggest and probe); not sure why. Perhaps the early snowfall this year here has made me think of it. The kids - snowballs ready, lie in wait to pelt the old man.

The aged traveler is unaware. His dog is alert, however, standing stock-still, worried, protective, ready to defend - if not too bark and scold.

The other, smaller dog of the children seems bemused, unaware of what they intend, enjoying perhaps their muffled laugher, their eager waiting.

The naughty boy, laden for torment, hands a fully formed ball to the golden haired girl, perhaps his sister. Delighted, she reaches out for it, unaware yet of its potential, its danger, its cold welcome.

What is the old man carrying? Like a shepherd he trudges through the cold and snow, staff in hand, carrying his bundles, his burden, though clearly not a sheep.

What’s in the bag? Gifts, food, belongings? Perhaps he is Grandad bringing treasures at Christmas time, his Santa beard white with age and frost.

It is bleak mid-winter; the children, eager, play; the dogs, alert, sense and wait. The adventure, the fun (?) Is about to begin.

What difference will it make?

Robert and Harriet

Robert and Harriet Barber

Robert Barber married Harriet Oakes (nee Oakes) in Guelph, Ontario, in 1836. He helped to carve what would become the Royal City of Guelph out of the forest, working for a time for Mr. Fergusson-Blair. Gradually he would realize his dream of owning his own farm.

Robert and Harriet rented and mortgaged land (ownership going back and forth to creditors as they fought to establish farming 'footage') initially, farming just a few miles north of Eden Mills on the south-east quarter of Concession 2, Lot 4, Eramosa Township, Wellington County, Ontario - the name appearing on an old county map of 1852. The land bordered swamp and stream and seems not to have been very productive. Or maybe it just wasn’t ‘enough.’

Finally he was able to buy a 100 acre farm at Lot 12, 7th Concession. The road bordering Eramosa and Erin townships connects with today’s Regional Road 24, just east of Everton. The Barber name appears there in 1875 and in 1901; descendants live there to this day.

From the area of Fressingfield in North East Suffolk, where Barbers have lived since at least the early 15th Century, to farm in Wellington County, the journey has taken the family many miles and through many adventures.

Words . . . Actions . . .

Bulcamp

In late 1835, a riot occurred at the despised Blything Union Workhouse, a few miles to the east of Blyford, Suffolk. Following this fracas at ‘Bulcamp,’ my great-great grandfather Robert Barber was arrested.

Court testimony revealed that a man named Edwards, Jacob Pretty and Robert Barber were amidst the rioters ‘at Bulcamp House, on the 21st of December.’ Edwards and Barber had Picks or Mattocks in their hands (in order to pull it down.)

Robert was employed on the farm of Mr. Churchyard, of Cratfield (as his horse-driver), whom the authorities considered charging with 'incitement to riot' for alleged comments in the local pub, The Bell, owned by Robert’s maternal uncle, Joshua Moore.

Witnesses, some later very reluctant to testify, including Joshua Moore, overheard Churchyard to the effect that he wouldn't mind if ‘someone would go over and tear the place down - and he'd be glad to pay them for it.’

Initially, Churchyard denied he'd said any such thing, but finally admitted saying, 'If they pulled the House down he would pay them for their days work - meaning by 'them' his own labourers.' Apparently, with the heated zeal of youth, his 'labourers' (including Robert Barber) had taken him seriously.)

Preliminary trial documents indicate that at least one authority wanted to proceed with charges against Churchyard; the others, reluctant, argued that anyone could say such things in the heat and frustration of the moment, without real or criminal intent – insufficient grounds to prove guilt in ‘incitement to riot.' Time, effort and money trying to prove otherwise would be fruitlessly spent; Churchyard was never formally tried.

Robert was bound on his own recognizance and good behaviour for 6 months. His father, William, paid the14 pounds ‘surety’ bond.

This probably precipitated Robert's coming to Canada the following Spring, in the company of the Jonathan Oakes family, whose daughter he would marry that year.

Perhaps he came frustrated by the turmoil in agriculture in that time, so much changing due to new machinery inventions - and the inadequate attempts of the government to address attending realities and social evils occasioned by the new ‘Corn Laws and ‘Poor Laws, and clearly angered by attending treatment and conditions suffered by workhouse ‘inmates’ (perhaps family members). Perhaps he saw no hope of meaningful employment, of ever being able to farm his own land, or have the future he desired. Maybe, already, he was in love with Harriet Oakes and wanted to forge a life with her in this new land of opportunity.

Chance words in a pub may have spurred these actions and decisions of my fore-bearer. On such little words and relatively insignificant turn most of the larger issues of life.

Seeing . . .

The secret of seeing is, then, the pearl of great price. If I thought he could teach me to find it and keep it forever I would stagger barefoot across a hundred deserts after any lunatic at all. But although the pearl may be found, it may not be sought. The literature of illumination reveals this above all: although it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise. I return from one walk knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and the hour the laurel blooms. I return from the same walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name. Litanies hum in my ears; my tongues flaps in my mouth Ailinon, alleluia! I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam. It is possible, in deep space, to sail on solar wind. Light, be it particle or wave, has force: you rig a giant sail and go. The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.

- from Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Suddenly . . .

Away grief's gasping joyless days, dejection.
Across my foundering deck shone
A beacon, an eternal beam, Flesh fade, and mortal trash
Fall to the residuary worm; world's wildfire, leave but ash:
IN A FLASH
AT A TRUMPET CRASH,
I am all at once what Christ is,
Since He was what I am, and
This jack, joke, poor potsherd,
patch, matchwood
IMMORTAL DIAMOND,
IS immortal diamond.

 - Gerard Manley Hopkins

He Knows My Name

This display at a Fall Fair reminded me - contrary to the similarities of mass production - of the uniqueness of each one of us, fashioned by the Creator who not only knew us but loved us, uniquely - before ever we saw the light of day . . .

I have a Maker
He formed my heart
Before even time began
My life was in his hands

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
and He hears me when I call

I have a Father
He calls me His own
He'll never leave me
No matter where I go

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
and He hears me when I call

-- Words and Music by Tommy Walker

Jeremiah 1:5 "Before I formed thee in the womb, I knew you."

Starting over . . .

Hope spring fresh from the garden of new life . . .

Love, Light, Joy, Life

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that followest all my way,
I yield my flickering torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

- George Matheson, 1882

Purpose

Intricacies - all weaved - on purpose . . .

Inter-related . . .

There's no accident, no chance bumping into someone or something, no part of your life that touches - or is touched, but what it's all inter-related. Mostly beautiful, sometimes gripping, compelling - all things somehow arranged and planned - all for the best.

Tied Up . . .

Important to keep our moorings in changing times . . .

Life that Counts

All lives count and some seem to touch very many others, also, as we are reminded from this grave in the grounds of Glasgow Cathedral, Scotland. May that be true of more of us.