Hurricane

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” (Psalm 46:10)

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet, for just a moment…*

As I write this, there is a hurricane heading my direction. I’m not terrible concerned for myself, although there are those nearby who dread the approach of more rain just a week after a good bit of localized flooding around town.

In the eye of a hurricane…

In the context of the musical, the hurricane to which Alexander Hamilton refers is a crap-storm of his own making. The decision he’s about to make in this pause will create winds that will blow him even farther off course and deeper into trouble.

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet…

My hurricane is much more mundane: a day at work that was long, yet not long enough to finish the to do list, followed by an even longer list of chores at home, not to mention the lesson plans for next week that are due before I go to bed.
But:

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet, for just a moment....

I stop in the midst of my busy-ness — no, actually, I don’t. I find two errands that I can do on the way to a local church. It’s the first Thursday of the month and the doors are open to anyone who would like to walk the labyrinth set into its sanctuary floor. I’d like to leave the to do list and anxiety about the impending storm at the door but the thoughts swirling around my brain enter with me. I start to walk, seeking in vain to focus on my breathing, focus on my steps, focus on the path, focus on anything.

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet, for just a moment…

I am in the eye of the hurricane. Here in this place, this moment, there is quiet, however brief. There is space to put aside life and just be. When my thoughts begin to intrude I play the phrase from Hamilton on a loop in my head and mentally sing along. This one lyric, this one short line of melody, becomes my mantra as I seek the center and then retrace my steps back out. I stay in the eye, in the quiet, as long as I dare, soaking it in, holding back the raging storm of an unfinished to do list, just a moment longer.

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet, for just a moment…

The moment is past, and now I must get home and figure out what I can fix for supper, what my students will learn next week, what I need to get at the grocery store tomorrow if, indeed, those more scared of the storm than I have left me anything on the shelves. Yet I hope I can face it a bit better now for having taken a step out of the raging wind.

In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet, for just a moment…

In the midst of the storm, there is always a calm place somewhere, even if we have to drive to it. The hurricane always has an eye, and if that pause is made possible by a musical theater lyric, so much the better. I’ll listen for the voice of God in whatever form it takes.

*“Hurricane” from Hamilton, words and music by Lin-Manuel Miranda

Changing History

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, especially to those who belong to the family of believers. (Galatians 6:9-10)

“The Aztecs” is one of the better-known stories from the William Hartnell era of Doctor Who, partially because it is where he utters one of the First Doctor’s most famous lines: “You can’t rewrite history, not one line!” The TARDIS lands in 15th century Mexico, specifically, inside an Aztec tomb. When the Doctor and his companions are discovered, their imminent arrest turns into something altogether different when Barbara is mistaken for a reincarnation of the tomb’s occupant, the High Priest Yetaxa.

While it does allow her to make sure that her friends are not mistreated, Barbara’s newly acquired god status also requires involvement in practices that a 20th century woman just cannot stomach. The Aztecs have been in a severe drought, and a human sacrifice is planned to the rain god in hopes of reversing the situation. Now, since Yetaxa has returned to them, she gets to preside over the ceremony herself.

Once alone with the Doctor, Barbara voices her opposition to what she sees as a barbaric practice and declares her intention to stop the sacrifice, not only sparing the life of the victim but also perhaps steering the Aztecs away from the path that she, as a history teacher, knows will very soon lead them to disaster. The Doctor, however, strenuously objects (uttering the aforementioned famous quotation) and urges Barbara not to interfere with the proceedings.

She can’t do it, however. She can’t stand by and watch while another human being is murdered in what she knows to be a futile attempt to affect nature. Even though the intended victim still dies (upset at being robbed of what he considered a great honor, he throws himself off the side of the pyramid), even though the Aztecs don’t change their barbaric ways, even though the Doctor is proven right in the end, Barbara stops the ceremony and prevents the priests from performing the sacrifice..

It would have been easy to be an observer and let things play out the way she knows they will. It would have been so easy to follow the instructions of the experienced time traveler. Barbara didn’t settle for easy, though. She saw the opportunity to make a difference and she took it, even though it didn’t produce immediate, noticeable results. She did what she saw as the right thing despite the fact that nothing really changed in the end.

Barbara did the right thing despite the fact that, as far as she could tell, nothing really changed in the end. Who knows what small, subtle changes might have happened because someone saw her take action? Who knows what good she might have actually brought about? The truth is, often we don’t see immediate, noticeable results, especially for our efforts in the spiritual realms. That should never stop us from speaking out, taking a stand, and doing the right thing. Even when it seems that nothing has changed, we never know when we might just have rewritten someone’s future history.

Aaron Burr, Sir

To the angel of the church in Laodicea write:...I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm — neither hot nor cold — I am about to spit you out of my mouth. (Revelation 3:14-16)

As we have seen before, one of my longtime fandoms is musical theater. Lately, I have been geeking out about the Tony-winning Broadway sensation, Hamilton, in which a racially diverse cast raps their way through a retelling of the early history of the United States with a specific focus on Alexander Hamilton, a Founding Father who tends to be known today only as “that guy on the $10 bill” or “that guy who was killed in a duel with Vice President Aaron Burr.”

Indeed, a major focus of the show is the development of the antagonistic relationship between Hamilton and his “frenemy” Aaron Burr, the narrator and self-proclaimed “damn fool who shot him.” We don’t have to wait long to find out the reason for Hamilton’s frustration, as the the show’s second song reveals Burr’s motto: “Talk less. Smile more. Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for.”

Talk less, smile more. Well, that’s a piece of advice Hamilton, and indeed many of us, should heed more often. We spend so much time running our mouths when so many problems could be averted if we listened instead, and Biblical writers like James and the psalmists provide much evidence in support of this position. But what about the rest of Burr’s statement?

Don’t let them know what you’re against or what you’re for. Now, that’s where Hamilton begs to differ, a complaint against Burr that he makes so often that, as the musical tells it, it ends up getting him killed. From the beginning, Hamilton recognizes the danger of what Burr is doing and calls him on it, using that old adage that I remember hearing countless times in youth Bible studies as a teenager: “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what’ll you fall for?”

It’s one thing to be reticent when deciding whether or not to openly support an uprising that will get you hanged for treason if it fails, but even later on, when Burr is campaigning for public office, his motto has not changed. He seems nice enough — “like you could have a beer with him” — and he’s popular with the ladies (“tell your husbands, vote for Burr”), but we still don’t know where he falls on the critical issues of the day. When it comes to decision time, as portrayed in the show, the thing that ends up swinging the presidential vote to Jefferson is the endorsement of his bitter political opponent Hamilton, who would rather support someone with whom he has “fought on like seventy-five different fronts” than someone who won’t come out and state his position on anything.

The moral of the story, then, is to stand up for what you believe in. We should definitely talk less and smile more — it’s hard to hear the voice of God when we’re constantly running our mouths. But we should never be afraid to let the world know clearly what we stand for, either. Our words, actions, and attitudes should clearly proclaim that what we are for is our Savior, Jesus Christ.

Strange Gifts from Odd Places

On the evening of that first day of the week, when the disciples were together, with the doors locked for fear of the Jewish leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” After he said this, he showed them his hands and side. The disciples were overjoyed when they saw the Lord. Again Jesus said, “Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” And with that he breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:19-22)

For her first trip through time and space, the Doctor takes Rose Tyler five billion years into the future. They land on a space station called Platform One, where the richest beings in the universe are gathering to watch the death of planet Earth. As the dignitaries arrive, they are introduced and then they exchange gifts of peace with others. A tree-alien named Jabe gives the Doctor a cutting of her grandfather, and, in a comedic moment, the Doctor, with no gift to give in return, presents her with “the air from my lungs” and blows a gentle breath in her direction.

We’re supposed to laugh at what the Doctor comes up with when forced to think on his feet, and to wonder what is going to happen when he doesn’t get away with it. Instead of being expelled from the event for his cheekiness, however, Jabe takes the Doctor seriously, responding with gratitude and thanking him for such an intimate gift.

Jabe gets it, even when the Doctor does not. Breath is personal. To feel someone’s breath, you have to be physically located very close to that person. Jesus, too, gave a very personal gift, not to a stranger he had just met, but to his closest friends, when he breathed the Holy Spirit on them. Although he would soon leave them, he gave them the gift of himself, his life and presence to continue with them even after his human presence had gone.

To those of us who are willing to bring ourselves close enough, God will breathe the Spirit into our lives as well. “Breathe on me, breath of God, Fill me with life anew,” is what Edwin Hatch wrote in a 19th century hymn that is still familiar to many of us. If we are willing to bring ourselves close enough, that is exactly what God will do.

Breaking the Cycle

You have heard that it was said, “Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.” But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you. (Matthew 5:38-42)

The climax of the Doctor Who series 9 story “The Zygon Inversion” comes with a face-off: Human versus Zygon. Kate Stewart and Bonnie, the Zygon copy of Clara Oswald, each stand next to a box with two buttons, each with the ability to destroy one race or the other - or both.

The Doctor, of course, can’t just stand by and let them destroy themselves - he has to make them see reason. “You just want cruelty to beget cruelty,” he says. “ You're superior to people who were cruel to you. You're just a whole bunch of new, cruel people. A whole bunch of new, cruel people being cruel to some other people who'll end up being cruel to you. The only way anyone can live in peace is if they're prepared to forgive. Why don't you break the cycle?”

The first time I saw the episode, I labeled this scene as the Doctor’s “Jesus Moment,” because what he is asking Bonnie and Kate to do is the same radical thing Jesus demanded of his followers two thousand years ago. Indeed, it’s the same radical thing he still demands of us today. There are so many conflicts in the world that could be solved if people would just listen to the other side, forgive past wrongs, and move forward to solve problems together instead of engaging in the never-ending back-and-forth of seeking revenge. Everyone wants to save face when instead they should be making the bold move of turning the other cheek.

Easier said than done, I know. Evidently Jesus knew, too, because what he said next just might hold the key to breaking the cycle: I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. (Matthew 5:44)

The Vulcan Logic of Killing Hitler

If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. (1 John 1:9)

In my last post, I discussed how Spock, in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, decided that the needs of the many — the Enterprise crew — outweighed the needs of the one — himself. But what if the one to be sacrificed is not the same one making the decision? To put it in terms of a classic time travel scenario, would you murder Hitler in order to save millions of other lives?

In the Tenth Doctor’s final story, “The End of Time,” Wilfred Mott confronts the Doctor with just such a question. They have escaped to an alien spacecraft high above the earth, while the Doctor’s old enemy, the Master, wreaks havoc on the planet below, having turned the entire human population into clones of himself. Wilf does the only thing he can think of to try to spur the Doctor into world-saving action — he offers him a gun. When appeals to the Doctor’s sense of self-preservation fall short (“Kill him before he kills you,” Wilf pleads), he asks what will happen to all the people if the Master dies. Upon learning that everyone will go back to being human, Wilf becomes angry with the Doctor: “Don’t you dare, sir. Don’t you dare put him before them.” Kill the one to save the many, in other words. Their needs outweigh the Master’s.

The Doctor continues to refuse, though. He can’t bring himself to kill the Master, not even to save everyone on Earth. The Master is just one, and a pretty evil one at that, but still he is one who matters to the Doctor, someone who was a friend of his, once upon a time — and someone who might still do something good one day.

Like the Doctor, Jesus demonstrates throughout his ministry that no person is unworthy of help or beyond redemption, not even the one sentenced to hang on the next cross over. When someone finally invents time travel, maybe the first trip back will be not to kill Hitler but to influence him to do good rather than evil. Until then, let us never give up on anyone as irredeemable, no matter how reprehensible he or she may seem to be — you never know when you might be the one who causes that person to change their ways and become a force for good in the world.

The Needs of How Many?

Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.” I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. (Luke 15: 4-7)

A major theme of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan revolves around Spock’s logical Vulcan mantra that “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” Indeed, it is the driving force behind Spock’s ultimate sacrifice at the end of the movie, when he enters the radiation-filled chamber to repair the warp drive so that the Enterprise may escape the explosion that Khan sets off just before he dies. The way Spock sees it, his individual need to stay alive is not as important as the needs of the many Enterprise crew members to get away from the explosion and certain death, so he does the logical thing and takes a lethal dose of radiation to repair the ship.

On the surface, it seems like Jesus did a similar thing - he died on the cross so that every person who ever lived might have the chance to escape death. But is this actually the case? If we look deeper, we find that, in fact, Jesus didn’t die for everyone. He died for one person - you.

When Jesus told parables about seeking the lost, he spoke of the shepherd who left the rest of his flock to find the one sheep that had wandered off, and the woman who rejoiced when she found the one coin out of several that had fallen out of her purse. I’m sure Jesus thought it was wonderful when his disciples baptized thousands that first Pentecost, but not because of the overall number - because of each one that accepted him that day.

In our world of majority rule, it is easy to see the logic of Spock’s statement, yet even Spock’s friends reject it - in the next movie, subtitled “The Search for Spock,” they are laying their own lives on the line to find and rescue one person, causing Spock to comment on the illogicality of humans. It’s our nature, apparently - and since Jesus was human, it was in his nature, too. We are called to seek out the one we can help, the one who needs to hear the good news, the one we can feed, clothe, and visit. The needs of the many are irrelevant when we focus on meeting the needs of the one in front of us, because that one is the only one who matters.

Giving

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6:19-21)

On one of Clara Oswald’s first trips through time and space with the Doctor, he takes her to an alien world with a bustling marketplace that is the Doctor Who equivalent of the Mos Eisley cantina. One unique feature of this world is that there is no currency made of “bits of paper” to trade back and forth. Instead, the people of Akhaten trade in items with sentimental value. According to the Doctor, the value comes from a sort of psychic stamp that the items gain from their owners, although Clara questions why people should have to give up things that are important to them, especially when she is the one asked to give up her late mother’s ring in order to rent a space-Vespa.

I wonder what would happen if we were suddenly required to put in the offering plate things of sentimental or emotional value to us instead of bits of paper and metal. Would it change the way we view the things we are attached to? Would it change our view of God, making us resentful for having to give up things we love?

Here’s the thing, though — isn’t that what God is already asking us to do? Not necessarily giving the church a family heirloom (although I recently read about the diamond rings and gold coins the Salvation Army occasionally finds in their kettles at Christmastime), but at the very least, making sure our priorities are in order and that we are willing to give up the tangible for the intangible, should it be asked of us.

You can’t take it with you, the saying goes, no matter how great a value you have psychically attached to it. Make sure your treasure, and your heart along with it, is in the right place.

Close Encounters

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. (Luke 2:8-11, KJV)

Roy Neary is an ordinary, hard-working, blue-collar guy. He’s out in his truck in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, doing his job, trying to figure out the cause of a power outage. Suddenly, strange things start happening around him and he finds himself in some kind of blinding spotlight from above. The instruments on his dashboard are going haywire, things are flying all around the cab, and the world seems to be shaking itself apart at the seams.

After the light goes away and everything is calm once more, he finds that he has been left with not only a strange sunburn on half of his face, but also a five-note earworm that just won’t go away and a strange compulsion to sculpt cylindrical rock formations out of mashed potatoes. Then, he finds he is one of a number of people who just can’t stay away from a particular place in Wyoming.

Roy’s experience in Close Encounters of the Third Kind is currently shaping my mental image of a group of shepherds in the hills near first-century Bethlehem. They were out in the middle of the night, in the middle of the fields, doing their jobs, when suddenly they were in the spotlight. The sky was going crazy above them, with first one strange being talking to them and then many, many more singing all around them. I imagine that the angels left them dazed, and they must have jumped a mile the first time a sheep bleated in the darkness afterwards.

I imagine also that they had a glorious new earworm and the mental image of a family in a stable, and when they conferred with each other about this, clearly they could not resist the pull to go into town and check it out. They found the family, the baby in the manger, and then they told everyone they met about their close encounter.

My wish is that we may have a close encounter this Christmas. May our ears be filled with the singing of angels and our minds be fixated on the Savior, but most of all, may our feet be compelled to go look for him and may our lips not keep silent but spread the good news everywhere we go.

Running

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” (Psalm 46:10)

The very first word the Doctor says in the new series of Doctor Who is “Run,” and in the following scene we see him leading Rose Tyler down a basement hallway to escape a horde of shop-window dummies who have come to life. It is Russell T. Davies’ way of paying homage to the classic series, where “running through corridors” had become a familiar description of what various characters were often doing through many stories over the years.

In more recent seasons, the phrase “base under siege” has been resurrected to describe another Classic Who story type in which the characters find that the TARDIS has conveniently malfunctioned, leaving them stuck in one place, surrounded by an enemy of some sort and unable to escape until they’ve dealt with the problem.

Too often in my life I feel like I am doing nothing more than running through corridors, scrambling to keep up with everything that I need to do and racing to complete tasks as the deadlines loom ever nearer behind me. Other times it seems more like I am being bombarded from every side with one more assignment to complete, responsibility to take on, or situation to deal with.

I need my “to do” lists - by themselves they’re a highly useful tool, and the structure of a list helps me organize my time and efforts while preventing me from forgetting to take care of important things in a timely manner. The danger lies in letting my to do list become the end-all, be-all. I start out making a list as a plan of attack or a roadmap to a goal but all too soon checking things off becomes the all-encompassing mission and I find myself once again being chased down the corridor by a monster of my own making.

How do I remind myself to stop running, stop fighting? It’s a question I don’t have a good answer for, yet it is important, and needs to be addressed. Do I put “Be still” on my to do list? It’s there already, actually, and I check it off after I spend about five minutes with my eyes closed following my daily devotional reading each morning before I get out bed. It has become one more box to tick, one more step in my race through the day, rather defeating the purpose.

“Be still and know that I am God,” writes the Psalmist, and mostly it’s the “be still” that we have latched onto. But go back and read the whole Psalm - it’s the one that begins with another familiar and oft-quoted verse, the one that says “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” It is reminding us that yes, our base is under siege, but don’t forget that our besieged fortress is God himself and is therefore impenetrable. I pray that I will remember this when the to do list attacks. I pray that I may be able to stop running and to rest secure in the knowledge that God surrounds me whether I get everything done or not.

Home

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. (Matthew 6: 19-21)

“Home is where the heart is,” the old adage says, and since Jesus said that “where your treasure is, there your heart will be also,” it’s no wonder that so many people set such store on finding a home, being at home, going home.

Going home is a theme in The Hobbit that is particularly emphasized in Peter Jackson’s recent movies. There is a pivotal scene in the first film, just after the party's escape from the goblins, in which Bilbo Baggins finally comes to a realization about the nature of the dwarves’ quest. For most of the journey so far, he has been wishing that he had stayed home. He would like nothing better than to be back at Bag End, reading his books and smoking his pipe and eating his second breakfast. However, at the same time that the hobbit is acknowledging his longing for home, he recognizes the same longing in the dwarves, whose hearts lie in the Lonely Mountain alongside their literal treasure. Seeing this common bond between them, movie-Bilbo then pledges to help the dwarves in their quest.

Bilbo’s treasure is simplicity and comfort - a snug house, plenty of food, pathways on which to ramble and books to read by the fire. The dwarves’ treasure is gold and jewels and the strength of a mighty mountain stronghold. Where is your treasure? Is it on earth, where goblin armies can invade and dragons can make their beds out of it? Is it in a far away land where friends and neighbors can auction it off to the highest bidder because they think you will never return? Or is it in heaven, in God’s presence, in the intangibles of love and family and peace and worship that no one can ever take away? Choose wisely and you’ll always have a place to call home.

Study and Application

Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to. (Matthew 23:15)

In Susanna Clarke’s novel Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, set in an alternative version of early 19th century England where magic exists, the members of the society of magicians in the city of York are described thus:

They were gentleman-magicians, which is to say they had never harmed any one by magic — nor ever done anyone the slightest good. In fact, to own the truth, not one of these magicians had ever cast the smallest spell, nor by magic caused one leaf to tremble upon a tree, made one mote of dust to alter its course or changed a single hair upon any one’s head. But, with this one minor reservation, they enjoyed a reputation as some of the wisest and most magical gentlemen in Yorkshire.

Their sole occupation is the study of magic and the great magicians of the past, and to come together periodically to debate, or more likely argue, their various viewpoints. Although the question of why there is no more magic done in England is asked frequently by many people, these so-called magicians would never dream of actually practicing the craft — it is something that is just not done.

In contrast, the two title characters are magicians who actually do magic. Neither man is perfect, and sometimes their motives are entirely self-serving, with the aim of bringing fame and recognition to themselves. Even so, they use their powers to try to help, whether it is by bringing a young woman back to life or by manipulating the weather to give Wellington’s army the advantage over the French. They both study quite a bit, but then they put their knowledge to use.

When I first started reading the description of the “magicians” at the beginning of this book, I couldn’t help but think of the so-called “Christians” who spend much time studying the Bible and going to church but in the end only seem to use their knowledge to argue with others and lambaste those whose interpretation is different. They do not seem to actually practice Christianity by showing compassion or feeding the hungry or caring for the sick. Like the York society they have never done anyone the slightest good, and unlike those scholarly magicians, they might very well have done harm by militantly attempting to force their particular viewpoint on everyone else.

The Pharisees were the gentleman magicians of Jesus’s day, all study and no application, and these words of warning can be applied still. Woe to any of us who fall into the trap of endless study without practical application of our learning! Like Norrell and Strange, our actions will sometimes have unintended consequences and we may not always do them for the right reasons, but it is far better to make the attempt, heeding the words of James to be “doers of the word and not hearers only.”

Help!

I lift up my eyes to the hills-- where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. (Psalm 121:1-2)

Tristran Thorn is on a journey. The protagonist of Neil Gaiman’s Stardust promised anything in the world to the girl he thinks he loves, and she asked for the star that they had just seen fall from the sky, so Tristran takes off into Faerie in search of this treasure. When he reaches the place that he knows the star landed, he finds not a lump of molten rock and metal as he expected, but a beautiful girl in a sparkly dress whose leg was broken in her fall from the heavens.

He claims the star and begins to take her back to his home in the village of Wall, but she is not very pleased to be captured. When at one point she escapes, he fears he will never find her again, especially when sheer exhaustion forces him to sleep beneath a tree. When he wakes, he finds that the tree is talking to him and offering to help him, but having been warned to be wary of everything in Faerie, he is sceptical.

The tree rustled. 'Why don't you tell me your story so far,' said the tree, 'and let me be the best judge of whether or not I can be of help.’
Tristran began to protest. He could feel the star moving further and further away from him, at the speed of a cantering unicorn, and if there was one thing he did not have time for, it was the recitation of the adventures of his life to date. But then it occurred to him that any progress he had made on his quest so far he had made by accepting the help that had been offered to him. So he sat on the woodland floor and he told the copper beech everything he could think of…

I think the same could be said of everyone — we get by with a little help from our friends, to borrow a song lyric, but help is not always easy to accept. Pride gets in the way sometimes, or maybe, like Tristran, we fear the ulterior motives that might be lurking behind the seemingly kind gesture. In the end, though, we have to realize that we will never make any progress unless we accept the help that is offered to us — from family, from friends, from complete strangers, and ultimately, from God. We will never catch our fallen stars without it.

Who Am I?

But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God. (Ephesians 2:4-8)

The Phantom of the Opera, Wicked, Miss Saigon, Oklahoma!, Evita, Ragtime, Once On This Island, Sweeney Todd...these are some of the musicals whose soundtracks and sheet music grace my shelves. I enjoy these shows and so many more, but I always come back to Les Misérables as my most favorite. I have seen it on Broadway, in Atlanta, and in London. I own the soundtrack and can sing all the parts. It’s not the familiarity or the music that gets me, though. The thing I love most about “Les Mis” is its message of grace.

The main plot centers around two men, Jean Valjean, who finds that life as a parolee is not much better than prison, and Inspector Javert, who makes it his life’s mission to capture Valjean when he manages to escape from the eyes of the law. Both men experience grace and mercy in the course of the story; what fascinates me is how differently they respond upon receiving these gifts.

When Valjean is caught stealing the Bishop of Digne’s silver, the cleric insists to the police that it was a gift and gives the ex-con more valuables with which to start a new life. Valjean feels guilty when he is given this reprieve, this moment of grace. He takes what is on offer, however, determined to make good on the priest’s instruction to use it to better his life. He becomes a respected and wealthy businessman, and for a long time he is able to hide his true identity from Inspector Javert, who doggedly searches for the escaped convict. He stays out of trouble and helps the destitute Fantine by adopting and raising her daughter, Cosette. Just when Javert thinks he has found his man, Valjean steps forward and reveals himself rather than letting another man take his punishment.

Of course, he escapes again after this, and Javert continues to hunt for him. This chase becomes his singular purpose and drives every move he makes. When he finally catches up with Valjean, there is a revolt in the offing. He disguises himself as a participant in the fight at the barricade where Valjean has gone to keep an eye on Marius, the would-be lover of now-grown-up Cosette, but eventually the fighters figure out who he is. They offer Valjean the chance to kill Javert, but he refuses, offering instead the same mercy and grace that the bishop had shown him years before - he gives the detective his freedom rather than the death he probably deserves.

Where Valjean accepted the priest’s compassion and turned his life around, Javert cannot accept that not only did his quarry escape yet again, but that the hunted did not kill the hunter when the opportunity was presented to him. Instead of accepting the gift Valjean gives him and finding a new, more positive focus for his life, he sees only his failure to accomplish his goal. Ultimately, he chooses to commit suicide as an alternative to having to live with his failure, rather than seeing Valjean’s actions for what they were--a precious gift and a chance to change.

We were all given precious gifts on a cross two thousand years ago, the gifts of God’s mercy and grace, and we have the choice to accept them or not. We can be like Valjean and repent, seeking to better ourselves and others, or we can take the death that we deserve for our sins as Javert did. Which one will you be? Given the options, I have to say (or rather, sing), “Who am I? I’m Jean Valjean!”

The Big Picture

This is God’s Word on the subject: “As soon as Babylon’s seventy years are up and not a day before, I’ll show up and take care of you as I promised and bring you back home. I know what I am doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for. (Jeremiah 29:10-11, The Message)

Thirteen dwarves and one hobbit have been wandering around in Mirkwood forest, seemingly in circles. At their wits’ end, the hobbit, one Bilbo Baggins, being the smallest and lightest of the company (as well as the burglar under whose contract such tasks might fall), climbs a tree to try to get a handle on their location and the direction they should go. His head bursts through the leaves at the top of the tree into blessed sunlight and a flock of black butterflies, and as he looks around he sees…

Well, what he sees depends on whether you are watching the movie or reading the book, and out of all the changes and additions that Peter Jackson made when adapting The Hobbit for the big screen, this minor difference in the second film, The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, is one of the things that bothered me the most. In the movie, Bilbo becomes excited because he can see the Lonely Mountain in the distance. He can then tell the dwarves the correct direction to go and that they are not far from the edge of the forest. It is a moment of hope after the despair of Mirkwood.

In the book, there is no such hope for Bilbo. It turns out that the tree he climbs happens to be in a low spot and all he can see is more trees on every side, even though they are actually quite close to the edge of the forest and all is not nearly as hopeless as it seems. What Bilbo lacks is the ability to see the big picture at that moment.

While a hopeful scene of seeing the goal and the way out makes you feel better in the midst of the movie drama, I think I like the book version better because it is much closer to how things work in real life. The truth is, we don’t see the big picture when we are suffering or making our way through a difficult situation. In fact, when I wrote about the book scene several years ago during my “blog through The Hobbit,” I too was near the edge of the forest but could not see it from my vantage point. I had spent two years looking for another teaching job with another summer of searching ahead of me but few prospects in sight. The only sign of hope was the sale of my house a few months prior, allowing me to expand my job search parameters, but even with new job listings to watch I didn’t know how much longer it would be. I did not know then that later that summer, I would have an interview with a principal via Skype. I did not know that, having chalked it up as one more interview without a job offer, I would be travelling five hours for a face-to-face interview the next month. I didn’t know that less than a week after that I’d be moving to another state and starting work (barely two days before the students started themselves) and living in a hotel while I tried to get a classroom set up and find an apartment!

So I hope you’ll excuse me if I’m not impressed with the touchy-feely, “oh look, there’s hope!” scene in the movie. I have been in the same position as book-Bilbo, looking around and seeing nothing but trees rising all around me, hoping that maybe the edge of the forest was somewhere just beyond, even though I couldn’t see it. And it turns out, in hindsight, that I was exactly in book-Bilbo’s position, and the edge of the forest was quite close, but the tree I looked from was still down in the valley and not up on the ridge. It turns out that it’s never as hopeless as it seems, for Bilbo or for me. I have learned through my experience that sometimes you can’t see the end, but it doesn’t mean there’s no hope, it just means that you cannot see the whole picture. It means that you have to trust. I pray I may never have to be in the same situation again, but at least now I know that there’s always hope, even in the most hopeless-seeming situations, and I won’t give up just because I can’t see what’s out there.

Musicals

Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. (Psalm 42:11)

In addition to being a SF geek, I am also a musical theater nerd. I love to see live shows, but since that doesn’t happen very often, I do just fine with soundtracks; I can sing all the parts along with the best Broadway or West End cast, especially when I am in the car or doing some cleaning. Musical theater is traditionally seen as a happy genre - people would not be singing and dancing so much otherwise - so this article listing a number of “Surprisingly Depressing” musicals drew my attention when I came across in my Facebook news feed the other day.

First on the list, not surprisingly at all, is Rent, which is about people dying of AIDS and overdosing on heroin and living in squalid lofts. It is followed closely by Les Miserables, which, just as it says on the tin, depicts the struggles of some miserable people in 19th century Paris. Miss Saigon and its doomed love story in the middle of the Vietnam War, check. Chicago’s cast of homicidal women prisoners, yep, they’re in there too, just as you’d expect.

What I didn’t expect was to see shows like The Sound of Music or Fiddler on the Roof or Annie, all three of which appear on the list as well. While it is true, as the article reminds us, that they involve Nazis, antisemitism, and poor mistreated orphans, respectively, these are never prominent enough themes to label the musicals as blatantly depressing, unless, of course, you’re an internet writer who needs to fill in the gaps in your latest click-bait top 10 list.

It’s the music that makes it better, isn’t it? When the latest in a long line of governesses makes dresses from the drapes, covers for you instead of turning you in when you sneak in after spending time with your boyfriend in the gazebo, and teaches you and your siblings to sing while roaming around Salzburg, you know that everything will be alright even if you do have to sneak away from the Nazis in the middle of the night. When being a poor milkman in a poor Russian village is all you’ve ever known, you may sing about your wish to be a rich man but you also quite contentedly celebrate the ordinary milestones of life with your family and friends. And when you are living a hard knock life, at least you are able to sing about it as you scrub the orphanage floors with the hope that hard knocks aren’t all there is and life will get better one day.

This also holds true in the most depressing shows on the list.  The truly horrid conditions you’re living in don’t seem nearly so bad when you give your lifestyle a French name and sing about the best parts of it while dancing on a restaurant table surrounded by your friends. Likewise, the fact that you most likely won’t survive the night defending the barricade is insignificant next to the strong feelings of camaraderie and friendship between you and your compatriots as you sing with such conviction about the cause you all believe in so deeply.

It’s not a new idea, this desire to sing in order to lessen the effects of an otherwise depressing situation. In the Bible, Psalm after Psalm repeat a theme that goes something along the lines of, “I have enemies on every side and the outlook is really bad right now, but despite that I sing praises to God because I trust him and have hope that he will take care of everything.” It is a good lesson to heed, whether we take it from the Psalmist or our favorite stage actor: even when my soul is downcast and disturbed, I will yet sing, in praise my savior and God and to remind myself that life is never all bad.

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

The word of the Lord came to Jonah son of Amittai: “Go to the great city of Nineveh and preach against it, because its wickedness has come up before me.” But Jonah ran away from the Lord and headed for Tarshish. He went down to Joppa, where he found a ship bound for that port. After paying the fare, he went aboard and sailed for Tarshish to flee from the Lord. (Jonah 1:1-3)

Then the word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time: “Go to the great city of Nineveh and proclaim to it the message I give you.” Jonah obeyed the word of the Lord and went to Nineveh. (Jonah 3:1-3)

Joss Whedon’s TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer begins where the 1992 movie left off, as Buffy Summers and her mother move to the town of Sunnydale to start over after her vampire-slaying antics got her kicked out of school in Los Angeles. She starts out working to fit in at her new school, making new friends and attempting to leave her Slayer days behind her.

Buffy finds, alas, that her dream of being a normal high school student is not to be, because Sunnydale also happens to be the site of a Hellmouth, where vampires and other demonic creatures can (and frequently do) cross to the land of the living. There are also people around who know about her past as a Slayer and keep at her to return to vampire-hunting. Being a Slayer is her calling, and try as she might, Buffy cannot escape from it.

Like Buffy, Jonah tried to run from his calling. He went to great lengths to go anywhere but Nineveh, and it took spending three days inside a whale to convince him that God meant business. I guess it just goes to show, when you are called to do something, you can run but you can’t hide. You might as well embrace your calling, trusting God to equip you for the job, and face it head on.

Choices

Now fear the Lord and serve him with all faithfulness. Throw away the gods your ancestors worshipped beyond the Euphrates River and in Egypt, and serve the Lord. But if serving the Lord seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served beyond the Euphrates, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord. (Joshua 24:14-15)

As usual, the TARDIS has plopped the Doctor, Donna, and Martha down in the midst of significant events - in this case, a war between a group of humans and some aliens called the Hath. Part of the human contingent’s processing of the newcomers consists of taking a tissue sample from the Doctor. His DNA is then used to create a clone, in the form of a young woman (later dubbed “Jenny” by Donna) who is fully grown and already possesses the necessary military knowledge to join the other soldiers in the fight against the Hath.

At one point in the midst of all the running through corridors, Jenny prepares to stay behind and shoot at their pursuers in order to give the Doctor and Donna a chance to escape. The Doctor argues with her over her plan - despite the fact that she’s trying to protect them in what she sees as an “us or them” situation, he is vehemently against killing anyone. “We don’t have a choice,” Jenny tells him. “We always have a choice,” replies the Doctor.

Joshua had taken over leadership of the Israelites from Moses and had seen the people safely into the promised land and living prosperously for a number of years. He brought everyone together as his time in charge neared its end and reminded them that, in the words of the Doctor, “we always have a choice.” He laid out their story, enumerating all the things God had done for them, and declared that they should continue to worship this God that had brought them out of Egypt and through the wilderness and into such prosperity in this new land. But, he told them, they didn’t have to. They had a choice, and they needed to make a decision.

We still have a choice, and we are still asked to make a decision. So, whom will you serve this day?

Stewardship

The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; for he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters. (Psalm 24:1).

In last week’s post, I looked at Denethor as an example of a poor steward in The Return of the King, and how Gandalf brought this state of affairs to his attention. He didn’t stop there, however, continuing instead with a description of his own actions, which we recognize implicitly as the way Gandalf thinks that Denethor should have responded:

But I will say this: the rule of no realm is mine, neither of Gondor nor any other, great or small. But all worthy things that are in peril as the world now stands, those are my care. And for my part, I shall not wholly fail of my task, though Gondor should perish, if anything passes through this night that can still grow fair or bear fruit and flower again in days to come. For I also am a steward.

Gandalf demonstrates good stewardship of Middle Earth not in the way he treats the environment per se (although he does tend to be most friendly with the agrarian Hobbits and nature-loving elves and opposes the more industrial efforts of evil beings like Saruman and Sauron), but in the way he cares for the beings that inhabit it. He is friends with Hobbits, Elves, Men and Dwarves alike, and strives to help whichever race he is currently involved with make the best and wisest decisions. He protects whomever falls under his care and seeks to banish evil.

Last week I spoke of stewardship in the sense of caring for the environment. Often when stewardship is spoken of in church, it is in the context of making sure the congregation will be able to meet its budget for the upcoming year. But do we, like Gandalf, ever think of ourselves or our churches as stewards of people? I didn’t before I started working on this post. Gandalf’s example stands out to me as what the church ought to be, first and foremost.

“The earth is the Lord’s,” the Psalmist says, “and everything in it...and all who live in it.” Being good stewards means taking care of the house, including all the people who live there. It means being “fishers of men,” certainly, but also (and perhaps most importantly), it means loving our neighbors, seeking justice, showing mercy, protecting the weak and powerless, and helping the “least of these.”

I asked this question last week, and I ask it again now: We as the Church are stewards - keepers or guardians of this planet we call our home and all the people who live here. What will it take for us to really be true to that name?

Stewards or Kings?

The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die. (Genesis 2:15-17).

The third volume in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series is titled The Return of the King, referring to Aragorn’s assumption of the throne of Gondor once the ring has been destroyed and the evil of Mordor vanquished. Up to this point, Gondor has been ruled by a man named Denethor, who holds the hereditary title and position of Steward of Gondor, the one who oversees the running of the kingdom and keeps it going on behalf of the king. When Gandalf arrives on the eve of battle, it is clear that the Stewards have been in power so long - it has been many centuries since a king last sat on the throne - that their true purpose has been forgotten and they have all but become out-and-out rulers.

Gandalf calls Denethor on this: “Unless the king should come again?...Well, my lord Steward, it is your task to keep some kingdom still against that event, which few now look to see.” Gandalf deliberately uses his title, Steward, which comes from two Old English words meaning “house” or “hall” and “keeper” or “guardian” (as Tolkien well knew and most certainly had in mind). Yes, Gandalf knows something that Denethor does not: Aragorn, Isildur’s heir, the rightful King, is on his way. Still, that should not make a difference - Denethor should be doing everything in his power to preserve Gondor and protect it from the forces of evil so that there is a Gondor left to turn back over to the king, whether he shows up tomorrow or in another several centuries. Instead he is exploiting his position of power and has become a king (and not a very good one, it seems) in all but name, taking on all of the trappings and privileges and power without also taking on the responsibility of caring for the people.

Unfortunately, the example of the bad steward seems to be the one that humans have been wont to follow as long as we have walked upon this earth. Not even Adam and Eve fulfilled their duties as stewards of the beautiful garden into which they were placed. They took it upon themselves to do whatever they wanted instead of what God asked them to do, and because they thought they knew it all, they ate from the one tree he said to leave alone. We have been exploiting our home ever since, oftentimes more concerned for our own comfort and wealth than for leaving something worth having for the generations that will follow us.

We are stewards - keepers or guardians of this planet God has given us to call our home. What will it take for us to really be true to that name?