And the Word Became Flesh

Rough, calloused hands slowly smoothed the edges of a graying beard as the aged fisherman stared into the distance. Visions of the life he had lived made their way through his mind as he contemplated what needed to be written. Even now, he could feel the rocking of the boat, and the spray from the sea when, as a young man, he threw the nets over the side. Just as all those generations before him, his future and living lay beneath the blue waters of the sea of Galilee. And, with that, the man named John would have been content, for he would have known nothing else.

How vividly he remembered the day he sat in his father's boat going through the tedious motions of repairing weathered nets. A shout from the shore drew his attention from his work. What was it about the man who called that caused the fisherman to lay the torn net in the bow and draw the boat to shore? What was it in the words, "Follow me," that made him leave the only livelihood he had ever known to follow the man with the gentle smile, and compassion filled eyes"

Unsure as to whether he would be able to put into words what it was about this man that had caused him to turn from the sea and his nets, John pondered what to write as he continued to gaze at the horizon. Finally, realizing that there were no adequate words to describe the nature of the man who had called from the shore all those years before, the uneducated man of the sea began to write.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God...."

"...And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we saw his glory, glory as of the only begotten from the father, full of grace and truth."

Profoundly deep. Poetically beautiful. Utterly astonishing. All from the hand of the fisherman with no formal education who heard the words, "Follow me," and followed. As profound....and beautiful....and astonishing as John's words are, they still cannot capture the glorious magnitude of the Logos of God taking on the flesh of man. God had walked in the Garden of Eden with Adam, he had pitched a tent with the people of Israel, but now he had taken on the actual form of the most precious of his creation. God had become one of us.

"....And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us..."

People have struggled, trying to wrap human minds around the concept of these words ever since a virgin gave birth to the child who would reconcile the Creator and his creation. The shepherds wondered at the words of the angels announcing the birth of the Messiah. The magi steadfastly followed a star pointing them toward the child, and humbly knelt before him wondering about the meaning of his birth. Herod's wonder became an obsession resulting in the death of every child in Israel who was under the age of two.

"...And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us..." The words penned by John, the fisherman turned disciple, have been a challenge to every person of every generation who has heard the name. Who was that child? What was so special about the man he became?

As one of those people, in a much removed generation, I have been challenged by the wonder of the man who claimed to be God. I know that he always was....that he is....and that he always will be. I certainly don't understand it, but I know it. What I do understand, however, is who this, "Word that became flesh," has become to me and, perhaps more importantly, who he is to me at this moment.

Manna was amazing stuff. For the people of Israel, wandering through a barren wilderness, it was their sustenance. Manna would become to them whatever they needed. When they needed protein, it became protein. When they needed carbohydrates, it became carbohydrates. When they needed vitamins, it became vitamins. God's people, working their way to the promised land, saw this white wafer like substance, which became to them whatever they needed on their journey and said, "Manna," which is basically the Hebrew word for, "What in the world is it."

"...The Word became flesh and dwelt among us," and the world says, "Manna....What in the world is it." Christ would later tell his disciples that he was the true bread that comes down from heaven....that he was the true heavenly manna. And that is exactly who I have found him to be. I consider him...I look at him, and contemplate the awesomeness of the Logos of God walking, breathing and living in a body like mine and I say, "Manna....What in the world is it?" It is certainly more than anything my mind can begin to absorb or even vaguely comprehend.

But then I walk with him, I fellowship with him and I begin to get a taste of the heavenly manna the Father placed in that manger over two thousand years ago. As I wander through the wilderness, making my way toward the promised land, I find that this manna becomes exactly what I need for each step of the journey. When I need peace, it becomes peace. When I need joy, it becomes joy. When I am without hope, it gives me hope. When I lose my direction, it points me toward home. And, with each taste I find an abundance of grace... and mercy...and forgiveness. When I break myself, this manna fixes me. It is everything I need to sustain me on the journey.

Christmas is as profound...and beautiful...and as astonishing as the old fisherman put into words. But it is also as simple as a Creator coming to his creation and saying, "You're broken, and I'm going to fix you." It's what this Word that became flesh does...and he does it perfectly...he fixes broken people.

The Journey

Jacob slowly made his way toward the mountain. He was, with a certainty, a much older man than when the journey began over six decades ago. One could see it in his graying hair, his weakening body and the wrinkles beginning to show on the landscape of his face. Some were wrinkles of laughter, to be sure. Others, wrinkles of worry, as well as wrinkles of anguish and torment. There had been wonderful times sprinkled with times flowing with tears of disillusionment, but still Jacob walked toward the mountain he could not yet see. He walked more languidly than at first, but his goal was determinedly set in his heart.

Indeed, the destination was not the mountain, but what lay beyond the mountain. Jacob was not sure what was beyond the coming cliffs, but he knew that it was the destination the for which the journey was preparing him. Although he had a sense of what was on the other side, his mind could not begin to envision it. He knew that he would see the face of glory, but the shape that face would take was far beyond his comprehension. He trusted that arms of grace and mercy would carry him up the mountain just as they had guided his decades long journey, but the form of the arms could not be imagined. On the other side of the mountain, Jacob knew that he would be bathed in holiness and showered with righteousness, but he had little idea as to what holiness and righteousness truly looked like, or the feeling that would accompany the immersion.

When he crossed the majestic peaks, he knew that he would finally be home, but what being home would mean to him was shrouded in mystery which his mind could not unravel. Throughout his travels, Jacob had found resting places, and several of these places had indeed felt comfortable...he had felt contentment, and certainly had been happy.....but something within him would never allow him to mistake these places for home. Jacob knew with a certainty that waiting in that home was a Father and a Brother he had always known, but had never seen. How he knew, Jacob did not know, but he knew it none-the-less. It was, perhaps, the desire to be at home with the family he had never seen that had compelled him on the journey.

The man, Jacob, understood that he would be called by another name on the other side, and it was for the best, for he had tired of the burden of being Jacob. The name had served him well as he traveled. Jacob had carried it with pride, almost to a fault. But now he longed to hear the sound of the name that would define him in his new home. He also knew the body that had carried him all these miles would be replaced and, with each year, he understood the necessity. The strength that had flowed from him at the start was draining. The eyes were dimming and the legs less stable. The mind, once so focused, seemed cloudy and distant at times. A new body was going to be crucial.

And so Jacob walked, longing for what lay beyond the mountain, yet not looking forward to the climb. Directed by a constant inner drive, step by step, he made his way toward a yet unrealized goal. With more years behind him than ahead, Jacob realized that the colors around him were losing their brilliance, and the faces of fellow sojourners were becoming more blurred as his focus on the destination sharpened.

Jacob walked with memories as his constant companion. Memories of times when his stride had been long and powerful, as well as times when he had stumbled and fallen. He remembered the determination and purpose in the early years of the journey, but he also remembered, with regret, the distractions that had waylaid him and took his attention from the goal. He remembered the pits he had fallen into, and the struggles climbing out.

Thankfully, with the passing of years, even Jacobs regrets and disappointments became a source of joy to him as he walked, for he began to see them for what they really were...part of the journey. And so he walked with confidence, remembering the unseen pull that had become his compass and always pointed him toward the utter brilliance he was convinced lay beyond the mountain. He walked with thankfulness, remembering the magnificent strength that had carried him up the walls of the pits and valleys that had encompassed him. With each year, as he walked he became less aware of the steps, less mindful of his surroundings and more focused on his destination.

And, then he was there. After seeking and longing for it all these decades, the mountain appeared as if from nowhere, the most daunting spectacle he had ever seen. Jacob woke up earlier than normal on that morning, and began to walk. It was similar to any morning of any day of the past sixty years. The scenery was similar. The thoughts and feelings were much the same. Nothing foreboding was on the horizon. Midway through the morning things changed. Jacob felt an unfamiliar strangeness slowly overtake his body. His legs stubbornly refused to support him as he slowly crumpled to the ground. It was time, you see. Jacob had walked the steps demanded by the journey, and as he stared in awe, the massive mountain rose before him.

Jacob felt an array of emotions. Fear and anxiety gently tempered with excitement and a strange peacefulness. The magnitude of the mountain spawned the fear and anxiety, while the thought of what he was convinced awaited him beyond the peaks gave rise to the excitement and peace. Intuitively, from a place deep within, he knew that every step of the journey had merely been preparation for this moment. The memories that surrounded Jacob as he traveled were gone now, for his entire being was focused on the mountain. The blurred images of his fellow sojourners had faded into the back round, and Jacob felt strangely alone at the foot of the mountain. He could not turn to the right or to the left. There was no way of turning back. The mountain was his destiny. What lay beyond was his prize.

Even with his first step up the slope, unseen, yet strangely familiar, arms seemed to embrace him. As the body, which had been his pride, grew annoyingly weak with the climb, the force that had compelled him on the journey....the same force that had carried him out of valleys and dragged him out of pits....grew stronger within him as he made his way up the side. As Jacob's breaths came more slowly the impalpable arms held him more tightly, and the force seemed to lift him from the ground.

As Jacob neared the peak, his arms were useless, his legs seemed not to respond, and yet he was moving toward the ridge. Stubborn muscles in his chest contracted, pulling in much needed air. For the first time during the climb, Jacob looked back. The blurred faces of those closest to him through his journey came clearly into focus, tears streaming down their cheeks. Jacob looked past the faces and saw, with a mixture of joy and regret, the trail he had traveled to the foot of the mountain.

With amazement, Jacob saw the invisible arms that carried him take a visible form. Scarred hands reached back, touching the path, and the rough places became smooth, the valleys became level, mucky pits were filled and the broken road was made whole. In the same movement, the hands touched the faces of those Jacob loved, lingered on each one, and compassionately wiped away every tear.

Knowing the next breath would never come, Jacob smiled and slowly released the one that carried him to the peak. In that instant, Jacob understood the necessity of every step he had taken. The valleys and pits had given him a taste of the grace and mercy that how enveloped him. The beauty of the journey had been a mere glimpse of the never ending glory flowing from every direction in his new surroundings.

In an unfathomable way, Jacob knew that he filled a void in this new place and yet, at the same time, everything in the place filled him. There was, indeed, a moment...although moments no longer seemed to exist...where Jacob felt a little out of place. But that moment was filled with the form of a man bearing the same scarred hands that had touched the trail of his journey. The glory of the place flowed from this man....it flowed through him, and the glory of the place and the man seemed as one.

The face was truly the face of glory. Jacob was drawn immediately to the eyes, and trembled as they pierced areas of Jacob's being that he never knew existed. The trembling lasted for an instant. In the next, he saw a love that he could not comprehend, only experience, radiating from the man's eyes. From those same eyes compassion...and peace....and joy....flowed through Jacob, each of them touching him in a different way.

The man stepped toward Jacob, cupped his face with his scarred hands and, with a gentle smile on his lips, whispered into Jacob's ear. You see, it was his new name. Jacob was no longer Jacob, and he was overwhelmed with peace. Never again would he be defined by what he had been, for the new named told him who he was in his new home. For Jacob, contentment was no longer some elusive, fleeting thing to continually strive after. And, more importantly, life was no longer something he had lived...it was something he was beginning to experience.

Good Friday

One hill.  Three crosses.  Three men, caught in the Roman justice system, hanging on them.

And the Roman empire knew how to conduct a crucifixion: a lingering death, designed not only to maximize suffering, but to completely humiliate at the same time.  Once on the cross, nails through the wrists and feet would have pierced major nerves causing immediate, severe, radiating pain through the arms and legs. More than likely, the weight of the body on the arms would have caused dislocation of the shoulders or elbows.   And that's merely the beginning.

From the start, any movement would cause pain.  Fresh wounds from the scourging would rub against the rough wood of the cross causing torment with each slight shift of the body.  Through most of the ordeal, the victim's weight would be on his feet with the chest leaning forward placing maximum strain on the arms and dislocated shoulders.  As the arms began to fatigue, the cramps would begin.  Muscles would begin to knot causing relentlessly deep, throbbing pain.

But it gets worse.  Whether by design or accident, the pain of crucifixion was maximized with every breath.  As mentioned, the victim would lean forward with his weight centered on his feet.  From this position, he would be able to inhale, but he was not able to exhale.  Even to get one little breath, the victim would have to struggle to raise himself on nail pierced feet just to expel the air in his lungs.  He would then slump forward again until the body demanded oxygen.  Every breath would be an exercise in excruciating pain reverberating through the whole body.

One hill.  Three crosses.  And three men hanging on them.

The men on the end crosses were convicted thief's.  The one hanging on the middle cross was slightly more controversial.  Jewish leaders considered him a blasphemer, a threat to their religion.  Roman leaders considered him an inconvenience.  The man himself claimed to be not only the long awaited Messiah, but the very Son of God.

Just a little side note.  The same choices are before us two thousand years later, for any who will consider him.  He either was a blasphemer, a man who will threaten the religious.  Or he's merely an inconvenience, something to explain away whenever we hear his name.  Or he was the Messiah, the Son of God.

The man on the middle cross, this Jesus, pushed himself up and exhaled.  He slumped forward, drew a breath and spoke.  He spoke to his Father on behalf of the Jewish and Roman leaders who had sentenced him to hang on that cross.  He spoke on behalf of the centurion's who had pounded in the spikes, and were now gambling for his clothes.  "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."

Through a fog of pain, one of the thief's listened in amazement.  Why isn't this man screaming his innocence? 

Why isn't he demanding justice or vengeance? 

Why, of all things, does he ask that God forgive those who have done these horrendous things to him? 

The thief, more than anyone on that hill, knew the agony the man on the middle cross is enduring.  And yet he sees the peace. 

He sees the acceptance. 

He sees the determination.

The thief considers the options that have faced every person since that horrendous Friday afternoon....that day when man destroyed the most beautiful and perfect thing to ever walk this earth.  He considers the options, and turns to Jesus with one humble request.  "Please remember me." 

He doesn't ask to be delivered from pain. 

He doesn't plead to live. 

He's not after wealth or prosperity or glory. 

He asks for one thing....only to be remembered.

One simple request.  And one marvelous response.  The Messiah turns to the man and, I believe, with compassion in his eyes speaks the words, "This day you will be with me in Paradise." 

A beautiful promise of forgiveness. 

A promise of hope and peace. 

A man who, by his own admission, was thoroughly guilty. A man with no redeeming quality in him, dares to utter one humble request.  But he utters it to the one with every redeeming quality.  With his final breaths he trusted the man on the middle cross, and that made all the difference.

That is the gospel in its most gruesome and beautiful form.  A horrendous death paving the way for a life of hope and purpose for those who consider the options and, like the thief on the cross, trust the crucified redeemer.

And, as we pause to remember the brutal death of the Messiah, we remember the fact that, "It's only Friday...Sunday's coming." 

Easter Thoughts

"I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast.  And when I run I feel His pleasure."  

                                          Eric Liddell (Chariots of Fire)

That quote has stuck in my mind since I first saw the movie in 1981, particularly the last sentence, "And when I run I feel his pleasure."  To be clear, I am not built for running.  I am especially not built for running fast.  Truth be told, I am built much more like an old work horse than anything resembling a thoroughbred.  But I do like to run, and I have for most of my life.  It is true that I feel closest to God when I am out running with my dogs.  Or, short of that, when I am walking them along the Kettle River.  I can feel close to God when I'm in church to be sure.  I can feel close to him when I'm studying at my desk as well.  But truly, nothing compares to the closeness I feel when I am jogging down some dirt road, or walking in the woods.  For some reason, in those times I do feel his pleasure.

Well, I was walking my dogs, Abby and Hunter, along the river the other day.  Enjoying the beauty.  Talking to the Father.  Thinking about life.  About half way through the walk, I noticed that Abby was in the river, and she was struggling.  When I got down to where she was, I could tell that something was preventing her from getting out of the water, but I couldn't tell what it was.  As I grabbed her and tried pulling her out, she yelped and retreated to deeper water.  Since I am a tad slow mentally as well as physically, it took me a minute or two to realize that she had stepped on a beaver trap.  The weight attached to the trap wouldn't allow her to move, and since any movement caused pain, Abby was content not to move.  I did what I had to do.  I grabbed the wire attaching the trap to the shore, and began to pull the trap and Abby to me.  It hurt her, to be sure, but it was the only way to set her free.  Once I had her and the trap on the shore, I opened the jaws and pulled her out.  Fortunately, she had only caught her paw in the trap, and after running on three legs for awhile decided that there really wasn't enough damage not to run on all four.

On the walk back to the car, I reflected on Abby's little accident.  It occurred to me that way back in the Garden of Eden, a similar thing happened to Eve.  The enemy set a trap by saying, "You surely will not die!  For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."  We all know the story from Sunday School.  Eve stepped into the trap, and ate the fruit that God had forbidden them from eating.  When Eve brought the fruit to Adam, the first man could tell his wife had changed.  Adam had a choice.  He could refuse to eat the fruit, and keep the close fellowship he had with the Creator, or he could eat the fruit and become like his wife.  He looked at his wife, ate the fruit and walked into the trap.

That really is what Easter is all about.  The Creator's creation was trapped.  And the Creator came to set his creation free.  Ever since the first trap in the special garden, men and women have been stepping into traps set by the enemy, and ever since that time the Father has been working to set them free.

To be completely honest, I have stepped into a few traps myself.  Some of them I have seen, and some of them I haven't.  But regardless, just like I saw Abby's struggle, the Father sees mine.  He comes to where I'm at, draws me to himself and sets me free.  And just like with Abby, sometimes the extraction process can be painful, but the Father remains determined....and faithful.... and trustworthy.  And in the end, He sets me free.  Free to walk with him, and to fellowship with him.  And free to feel his pleasure when I run.   

The Armor

The nondescript village sat deep in the foothills of a lesser known mountain range seldom mentioned in history.  Records of the twelfth century seem to have neglected and, some would say, even ignored any contribution this little hamlet may have had on the advancement of the kingdom surrounding it.  To be sure, it was an isolated place on the banks of a beautiful river which wandered rather aimlessly from a towering neighboring mountain.  Any casual observer, strolling through this village, would have been impressed with the tidiness of the dwellings as well as the orderliness in which they were arranged.  Modest huts, some made of wood and others made of stone, neatly lined the trail that led through the center the town.  Had the observer spent any amount of time with the residents, he would have found them to be kind to one another, leery of strangers and persistent as they went about their daily activities.

A word must be said regarding the average day in this village.  There were, without a doubt, a variety of things that needed to be done every day just to provide for the survival of the community.  Of course, there were also daily rituals required to keep the area neat and orderly and the population well fed..  Over the years the villagers had become adept at quickly doing the mundane things of life so that they could concentrate on their passion.  Yes, everyone in the village shared an obsession. They would rise early to complete the required demands of they day so that they could spend any remaining time doing what they loved most.  Making armor.  And could these people make armor.  Helmets, breastplates, gauntlets and everything else necessary to clothe a knight.  They would also make shields, axes and swords as well as a variety of other forms of weaponry.

It's what these people did, don't you see.  For generation after generation, the people of this village spent their days designing and molding some truly beautiful armor and, if they would admit it, they were proud of the wonderful pieces neatly displayed outside of their tiny wooden and stone houses.  When they weren't making the armor or polishing it, for each piece would be polished daily, they spent their time discussing how the armor might be used.  They would imagine battles that would be fought, and victories that would be won with their truly splendid armor.

There was, indeed, a question that the villagers would not allow to come into focus in their minds.  While the armor did look magnificent, and while it was unquestionably beautiful and always well polished, it really had never been tested in battle.  Without a doubt, there had been opportunity, for the kingdom was constantly under attack.  But, sadly, the village was wary of allowing any of its people or armor to leave and do battle for the kingdom.  The possibility of the swords becoming dented or scratched was a concern as was the thought of the well maintained helmets and breastplates losing the sheen that can only come from decades of dedicated furbishing.  Since the village was inconsequential in kingdom warfare, the enemy never attacked and the warriors of the kingdom had little reason to pass through.  And so, the people of the village passed their time buffing their armament and discussing battle logistics.

One day, a form appeared on the horizon opposite the mountain.  A lone man slowly walking toward the isolated village.  His image was indistinct in the distance as the inhabitants of the village cautiously peered from the doorways of the small wood and stone huts.  Visitors to the area were practically nonexistent, and so the townspeople watched the approaching figure guardedly.

As the figure drew closer, it became clear that the man was a knight just recent from battle.  He approached the edge of the village with his helmet cradled in his left arm as his sword swung from his belt beneath his right.  His path took him down the trail through the middle of the town as he made his way toward the river at the foot of the mountain.  From behind closed doors, the villagers stared at the figure with the grey, grizzled hair, and several weeks worth of beard on his face.  Although weak, he carried himself with determination as he made his way between the houses.  The warrior's mind was filled with memories of substantial kingdom victories as well as remembrances of crushing defeats.  He saw the doors of the houses move ever so slightly, and knew his movements were being studied.  He saw the magnificently shining armor outside of the houses, but their beauty did not seem to move him.  So he walked toward the river, aware of staring eyes, mindful of subdued whispers, but indifferent to any of it.  The warrior was wise enough to know what was being said, but old enough not to care.

Once he had reached the river side of the town, the villagers slowly made their way outside and filled the trail behind him.  He was some distance away, but still they spoke in low tones.  They spoke despairingly of the huge gouges in his breastplate, and the dents in his helmet.  As they spoke, they could be seen pointing to the armor proudly displayed outside of their wooden and stone houses.  They compared the brightness of their armor to the dingy, soot covered and grungy armor worn by the stranger.  Smiles and snickers were common as they contrasted his beat up sword and pitted shield with the masterpieces in their yards.  And for the villagers, it was a glorious night.  They spoke late into the night about the neglected armor the stranger wore, and they laughed at his tattered weaponry.  They speculated at the battles he must of lost, and shook their heads in disdain at the defeats he must have so foolishly suffered.  At long last they slept.  They slept knowing that their armor would never be as dingy as that of the stranger who passed through that day.  And they slept reassured in their minds that they would have been victorious in the battles in which the passing warrior had suffered defeat.

The warrior slept too.  He slept next to the river with his breastplate as a pillow, and his sword at his side.  He slept dreaming of the battles to come, and victories won for the kingdom.  And the warrior slept well.         

     

“Isn't it weird that the mighty army of the children of God – shod with faith, shielded by righteousness, and armed with the Word of God – spends the vast majority of its time either polishing its armor or fighting with one another?” - Mike Warnke

Wilderness Wanderings

When the hour had come, He reclined at the table, and the apostles with Him.
And He said to them, 

"I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer;
 for I say to you, I shall never again eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God."
And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He said, 

"Take this and share it among yourselves;
for I say to you, I will not drink of the fruit of the vine from now on 

until the kingdom of God comes."
 And when He had taken some bread and given thanks, 

He broke it and gave it to them, saying,
"This is My body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of Me."
And in the same way He took the cup after they had eaten, saying, "This cup which is poured out for you is the new covenant in My blood.
Luke 22:14-20 (NASB)

God has always related to man through covenants.  It's true.  Throughout the history of mankind, any relationship any individual has had with the Creator, has been through a covenant.  For the believer, that covenant is the new covenant Christ purchased when he submitted to the plan of the Father, and allowed himself to be crucified on Golgotha.  

During his last Passover and, indeed, the final meal he would share with his disciples prior to the culmination of his earthly mission, Christ celebrated the end of one covenant while looking forward to a new one.  He paid tribute to the way God had related to his people while, at the same time, promising a sacrifice through which the Father could have not only a deeper but, ultimately, a perfect relationship with those who would become his children.  While this new covenant is spoken of throughout the whole new testament, particularly through the writings of Paul, the old testament prophet Jeremiah outlined it this way:

Behold, the days are coming, declares the LORD, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah,
not like the covenant that I made with their fathers on the day when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt, my covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, declares the LORD.

But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, declares the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. 

And I will be their God, 

and they shall be my people.

And no longer shall each one teach his neighbor and each his brother, saying, ‘Know the LORD,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, declares the LORD. For I will forgive their iniquity, 

and I will remember their sin no more.  Jeremiah 31:31-34 (ESV)

Although the disciples did not understand it at the time, Christ was saying that his blood was going to be poured out, and that he was going to die.  As a result of that death, man's relationship to God was going to change. Jesus was saying to his disciples that the new covenant predicted by Jeremiah was now being instituted.  Rather than trying to relate to the Father through the keeping of an external set of rules, this new relationship would be characterized by an inner transformation of his children.  It would no longer be a set of rules trying to make their way in, it would be a change on the inside that works its way out. 

That is marvelous, indeed, but it doesn't stop there.  Through this new covenant, God's children would not only know about him, they would know him personally.  The creature would relate to the Creator on an intimate level.  That intimacy is possible because iniquity would be forgiven, and sin no longer remembered.  I don't know about you, but that is certainly good news for me.  And, to top it off,  Yahweh guarantees the success of the new covenant.  He took the initiative to establish the covenant, and in stark contrast to the "thou shalt not," and "thou shalt" of the old covenant are the words, "I will put," "I will write," "I will forgive" of the new covenant.   It's God's work, done in God's people, for God's glory.

So, Christ sits with his disciples remembering God's deliverance of his people from Egypt.  He is remembering their deliverance from bondage and slavery and, in the middle of that remembrance, he makes them a promise.  He promises that there is another day coming.  A day when his followers will dine with him in the Kingdom of God.  For the believer, that is the promised land.  That is glory.  That is the goal and the prize.  That is what we long for above all things.

God does nothing by accident.  There are no coincidences with God.  The parallels between the journey of the people old covenant, and the journey of the people of the new covenant are there because of design, not merely chance.  It is, indeed, difficult not to compare Israel's delivery from slavery and bondage in Egypt to the believer's deliverance from slavery and bondage to sin at salvation.  It is equally as difficult not to compare the land God promised his people under the old covenant with the eternal glory he has promised his people under the new covenant.  But, for both, there was a journey in between.  For the people of Israel that journey was the wilderness.  For the people of Christ that journey is life.  And there are similarities.

For the believer to say that this wilderness wandering we call life becomes a walk in the park once we submit our lives to Christ would, at the least, be misleading.  It is actually closer to delusional or self deceiving or even out right lying.  The realities of wilderness living are continually before us.  There is sickness and disease.  There are wonderful days as well as terrible days.  There are time of marvelous victory, and there are days of devastating defeat. There are times of fantastic enthusiasm scattered among times of utter nothingness.  The list goes on and on.  Times of great vision and times of going through the motions.  Times when we take great strides in our walk, and times when the walk becomes a crawl.  Times of gain, and times of loss.

The good news is, through all of the highs and lows, the covenant still remains in place.  We are heading toward the promised land.  We do have this wilderness journey ahead of us, but glory is just on the other side of the spiritual Jordan.  And our Father does promise to guide, strengthen and preserve us through the journey. While we have not entered the Kingdom of God, he allows us to bring portions of the kingdom to our wilderness trials.  While we have not received all of the grace we will receive in eternity, he gives us enough to sustain us as we travel.  We certainly have not experienced all of the love that awaits us, but we receive enough to encourage us on the journey.  The same is true of peace, joy, wisdom and knowledge as well as any number of the kingdom's treasure.

It has been my experience, that the Father does not give sparingly.  He gives more grace than I need so that I might have some to share with fellow sojourners.  His love is more than is needed so that the overflow might strengthen those who have fallen.  The abundance of joy and peace is meant to encourage those who may have lost their way.  And wisdom and knowledge are given to light the way for those who follow. 

    And when He had taken some bread and given thanks, 

He broke it and gave it to them, saying,
"This is My body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of Me."
And in the same way He took the cup after they had eaten, saying, "This cup which is poured out for you is the new covenant in My blood.

Grace Visualized

A true story.  One day a son asks his father: "Daddy, will you run the marathon with me?" The father answers yes, and both run their first marathon together. One day, the son asks his father if he wants to run the marathon with him again and the father answers yes. They both run the marathon together again. Then one day the son asks his father, "Daddy, will you run the Ironman with me?" (the Ironman is the toughest...it requires a 4km swim, 180km biking and 42km running). The father says yes again. This all sounds easy...but check this video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qn3cDe-5A2Q

I have watched this video so many times, and each time it brings tears to my eyes.  Certainly, I am touched by the love this man has for his son, and I wish I could be that kind of a father.  I am touched by the dedication, and I am amazed at the commitment.  And, I am sure, that explains a few of the tears.

As I watched it just a moment ago, however, I realized that there is another reason for the tears.  This video captures the idea of grace completely.  There are times when I feel as if I'm running this race of life pretty well.  There are other times, when I realize that I'm not running it very well.  Either way, however, when I describe it, I describe it as me running.

When I look back at the race somewhere in eternity, I am convinced it will look more like this video than any description I give it now.  A loving father running for a son who cannot run.  That is grace, and that also brings tears.


For more on Team Hoyt check out the following link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64A_AJjj8M4&feature=related

Bono, Christ, and Grace

I listened to a wonderful John Piper sermon this week.  Actually, I listened to several of them, and I would highly recommend him to anyone who has tired of the self-help, ego-boosting sermons that make scripture more about the creature than the glorification of the Creator.  The man certainly has eternity and the exaltation of the Father stamped on his heart.  But I did not come here to praise Piper, I came here to steal a quote. 

Piper quoted Paul David Hewson, who is better known as U2's lead vocalist Bono.  The quote came from the book, Bono: In Converstation with Michka Assavas, and in it one can certainly see the classic notion of C.S. Lewis that Jesus must be either “Liar, Lunatic or Lord” (from Mere Christianity). Here the quote from page 227 of the book:

"Look, the secular response to the Christ story always goes like this: he was a great prophet, obviously a very interesting guy, had a lot to say along the lines of other great prophets, be they Elijah, Muhammad, Buddha, or Confucius.   But actually Christ doesn't allow you that. He doesn't let you off that hook. Christ says:."

 "No.  I'm not saying I'm a teacher, don't call me teacher.

I'm not saying I'm a prophet.  .I'm saying: "I'm the Messiah."

I'm saying: "I am God incarnate."   And people say: No, no, please, just be a prophet.  A prophet, we can take.  You're a bit eccentric.

We've had John the Baptist eating locusts and wild honey, we can handle that. But don't mention the "M" word!   Because, you know, we're gonna have to crucify you."

" And he goes:  No, no.  I know you're expecting me to come back with an army, and set you free from these creeps, but actually I am the Messiah. At this point, everyone starts staring at their shoes, and says:  Oh, my God, he's gonna keep saying this.  So what you're left with is: either Christ was who He said He was, the Messiah, or a complete nutcase.  I mean, we're talking nutcase on the level of Charles Manson. . . . I'm not joking here. The idea that the entire course of civilization for over half of the globe could have its fate changed and turned upside-down by a nutcase...for me, that's farfetched."

I thought that was an interesting quote from an unexpected source, and so I checked out more of the interview.  I must say that I found another quote that I found equally as interesting.  Bono tells the interviewer:

(The concept of grace) is a "mind blowing concept...that keeps me on my knees.   At the center of all religions is the idea of Karma. You know, what you put out comes back to you: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, or in physics-in physical laws....every action is met by an equal or an opposite one."

"And yet,  along comes this idea called Grace to upend all that.... I'd be in big trouble if Karma was going to finally be my judge...It doesn't excuse my mistakes....but I'm holding out for Grace.  I'm holding out that Jesus took my sins onto the Cross, because I know who I am, and I hope I don't have to depend on my own religiosity.".

"The point of the death of Christ is that Christ took on the sins of the world, so that what we put out did not come back to us, and that our sinful nature does not reap the obvious death.  It's not our own good works that get us through the gates of Heaven."

Now, I'm not here to praise Bono either...don't know much about him or U2....and I'm certainly not here to judge him.  I will say that the dude has a wonderful grasp of grace of Christ, and I thought it was worth sharing.

The Joy of Coloring

I have been mulling over a Mike Yaconelli quote for the past few days.  It's from his book, "Dangerous Wonder," and it reminded me of a letter I wrote years ago to a close friend, who later became my wife.  Thought I would rewrite parts of it and post it on here.

“Christianity is not about learning how to live within the lines; Christianity is about the joy of coloring. The grace of God is preposterous enough to accept as beautiful a coloring that anyone else would reject as ugly. The grace of God sees beyond the scribbling to the heart of the scribbler...a scribbler who is similar to two thieves who hung on crosses on either side of Jesus. One of the two asked Jesus to please accept his scribbled and sloppy life into the kingdom of God...
And He did.  Preposterous.

And very good news for the rest of us scribblers.”
Mike Yaconelli, (Dangerous Wonder)

Whether we are satisfied with it or not, we have all painted something on the landscape that is our life.  To be sure, if I could pick up a brush and repaint my canvas, there would be things that I would paint over.  There would be things I would cover with white, and repaint with rich and full colors.  I would use shades seldom seen, and combinations of texture never used.  I might use oil, or I might use watercolor, but there would be some changes on a very average work of art.

But we can't repaint, and what's been painted has been painted.  All that really remains is to finish the mural.  And so I stand, brush in hand, before the canvas.  Every color is available to me.  Every texture is right before me.  My mind is alive to the array of possibilities that can be woven in.

My fingers are poised for strokes that will not come. The colors run together in my mind, and the textures don't seem quite right.  And the possibilities.  The possibilities stagger and confuse an overwhelmed soul.  What I want to be sunrise and sunset can seemingly only be shades of yellow and orange running through the plain back round.

Voices from the past scream for shades of gray, and lines that have been drawn before.  Well meaning friends encourage me to use their colors, and designs that have seemingly worked for them. The enemy whispers that there really is no need to put color to canvas, but the urge deep within will not be quieted.  

Behind me stands the Master artist.  Years ago, ultimate control of the brush was yielded to him.  At times I have carelessly splashed the paint, and he has patiently restored it with a color only he can create.  Amazingly, he turns carelessness into beauty, and disaster into a work of grace.   To the delight of the Master, there have been times I have covered the canvas with bold, colorful strokes that slipped outside the lines of tradition.  I remember the feeling of his pleasure more than the ridicule of my fellow artists. 

The time has come to apply the finishing strokes, and I am uncertain as to what should be painted.  I grip the brush tighter as the Master patiently waits.  He sees the finished Masterpiece, for it has been his painting it all along.  He has covered the flaws.  He has directed my hand when I was certain of the stroke, and he has directed it when I was completely uncertain.  He has turned scribbles into grandeur.  He has chosen the colors and the textures.  He has allowed me to paint, for there is joy in painting, but he has made certain the Masterpiece for that is what he desires and it is what he does.

He is the Master and, ultimately, the work is his.  When the work is complete, he will hang it with his other works of art.  Like all of the pieces, it will be uniquely beautiful, it will reflect his glory, and it's value will be in the touch of the Master.  

You see, for while in kindness he allowed me to paint, his hand continually worked to perfect it for his glory.  And, in the end, I am convinced that both the scribbling student and the Master will be satisfied.    

But by His doing you are in Christ Jesus, who became to us wisdom from God, 

and righteousness and sanctification, and redemption,
 So that, just as it is written, "LET HIM WHO BOASTS, BOAST IN THE LORD." 

(1 Corinthians 1:30-31 NAS)

--

Tiger Blood and Adonis DNA

This past week I have been forced to take an honestly brutal look at myself, evaluate the available data, and confess the results of the assessment. It is certainly not my goal to disappoint or hurt anyone, but rather to merely state what I have discovered. My wife will be shocked, and my children disappointed, but it needs to be done.

Are you ready for this?

Well, the truth is, I do not have, "Tiger blood and Adonis DNA." There it is. It's out there. I knew you would be disquieted, and I can sense the aghast in the stunned silence. I was surprised at the conclusion myself. Quite frankly, now that I have said it out loud, it feels as if a load has been lifted.

Fortunately, with that truth came another. What I lack in tiger blood and Adonis DNA is more than made up for by what I do possess.

You see, Charlie may fantasize about being endowed with tiger blood, but in complete reality I have the blood of Jesus Christ to cleanse me from all unrighteousness. Charlie's tiger blood may make him fierce as he battles life, but Christ's blood claims me, and makes me righteous before a perfectly holy God. It gives me life.

Charlie may envision a world in which he can trace his lineage to the Greek god Adonis, while I know with a certainty that my lineage is traced through Christ to Adonai....Yahweh...Elohim....the only true God. The creator and ruler of all things is my Father.

I am made righteous through the blood of Christ, and the sustainer of the cosmos is my Father. I'll take that over tiger blood and Adonis DNA any day. And, in the end, I pray that Charlie comes to that realization as well.

Lessons from Jake

I have had some wonderful dogs in my life. I am rather fond of our current dogs, Abby and Hunter, and I truly enjoyed Buddy before them. However, of all the dogs I have ever been associated with, Jake was undoubtedly my favorite. Part of it was his personality, and part of it was the fact that he was my constant companion through what can only be described as the most difficult period of my life. Jake was an ugly dog, to be sure, but he was my friend, and as we traveled our wilderness trails together, he taught me a few things.

I am convinced that Jake took pride in the fact that we paid one hundred and twenty five dollars for him. In moments when he seemed a little down, I would remind him of that and I think it lifted his spirits. Of course, I never mentioned that we had paid for the things they had done to him rather than for any inherent value he may have possessed. He really didn't need to know that truth, and it wasn't lying to say that we paid one hundred and twenty five dollars for him, so who did it really hurt?

Jake and I had things in common. We were both ugly, and we both were blessed with rather strong stubborn streaks. Actually, stubbornness that bordered on rebellion. Well, in Jake's case it did. He was rebellious, and I'm strong willed. I like to think that there is a difference.

By coincidence, our names mean the same thing. It's true. Jacob and James mean the same thing. They both mean, "Supplanter" or, "One who takes he place of." Like the patriarch Jacob in the Bible, both Jake and I, on occasion, like to lead instead of follow. In all fairness to me, it was a stronger characteristic in Jake. In any case, there have been times when we both thought that our plans were better than the plans of our master.

As Jake's master, I have to tell you that there were occasions when I found this characteristic frustrating. To be sure, Jake wasn't a bad dog. In fact, he had an obedience ratio of probably close to ninety-five percent. The vast majority of the time when I called him, Jake would actually respond. There were occasions however, when he would see a rabbit or a deer, or perhaps get a whiff of some odor he wanted to explore, and he would be gone. I could call all I wanted, but he would not come back until he was good and ready to turn around.

Years ago, when we were traveling some trails in Northern Minnesota, Jake ran off on me. I called for him but, if he heard me, he ignored the command and kept running. Unfortunately, shortly after Jake left on the mission he had created in his mind, a storm came up. Thunder and lightening. Heavy rain. The whole works. It was also close to the Fourth of July, and fireworks seemed to be everywhere.

In the confusion of the storm and the noise, Jake apparently lost his way. As his master, I spent hours, even days, looking for him. I would walk and bike, calling his name, hoping he would hear my voice and come home. I wasn't mad at him, you understand. I realized that he had made a mistake in not listening to my call, and the unexpected storm had sent him in the wrong direction. My only concern was that I would find him, and have him back at my side.

Technology is, in most cases, a wonderful thing. Jake had a little thing implanted in him that, when scanned and read, told people that he belonged to me. It would tell anyone who checked that I was Jake's master. He was mine. That's how we found him. Jake ended up in an animal shelter, they checked his tag, and found out that he belonged to me.

At the time, I didn't want to embarrass Jake but, truth be told, he was a pathetic sight in that tiny kennel at the shelter. His head was between his front paws on the cold cement floor, as he stared forlornly ahead. I think he realized that, with just one moment of carelessness, he had traded open spaces to run, and a family that loved him, for a four by five cell and some strangers who were kind enough to feed him once a day. In his mind, he had lost it all just by ignoring his master's voice when I tried calling to him.

But there was that tag. That implant that told the world that he belonged to me. The thing that declared that I was his master. And it was that implant that allowed Jake to be brought safely back to me.

Many of us are a lot like Jake. At least, I know that I am. Remember, our names mean the same thing. But many of us are in the same boat. We're pretty good people. As Christians, we have a fairly high obedience ratio. Maybe even as high as ninety-five percent. However, there are those times when we get a little whiff of something. Something we would prefer to pursue rather than responding to the voice of the Master. We set our own course, and take off on our own mission without hearing, or maybe even ignoring the voice of our Master calling us back.

Most often, we eventually come to our senses, and head back to the safety of the Master's side. But occasionally, as we wander on our own course, storms come up and we lose our direction. The noise and confusion of life causes us to run the wrong way. Rather than running toward the Master, we find ourselves running away from the only truly safe place there is for us.

When these times come, it's important for us to understand that the Master isn't mad at us. That's not the nature of the God we serve. His desire is for our safety. He wants us back at His side, enjoying each others company. Whenever I've been distracted by the storms and noise of life, and have headed away from the Master, I find myself pretty much like Jake in that shelter. A forlorn, helpless creature, realizing that I've traded all kinds of freedom and joy for a moment of ignoring the Master's call.

But friends, the gospel of Christ is a beautiful thing. When we come to Christ, and accept the salvation offered through His sacrifice, we are given an implant. O.K., maybe I exaggerate when I call it an implant. But we are given a seal. We are sealed by the Holy Spirit as being one who belongs to God. We have been purchased by Him, we have been bought by Him, and He is our Master. The seal is proof of that truth.

And when we lose our direction. Or when we refuse, in our rebellion, to listen to the Master's call. When we lose our way home. In those times, He comes to us wherever we may be. He comes to us in our despair, and the self-made prisons in which we have placed ourselves. He comes to us in our loneliness and regrets. And he looks at us with eyes of love and says, "That's one of mine. His name is Jim, and he belongs to me." If anyone would have the courage to ask the Creator of the universe how He knows which ones belong to Him, He would tell them, "I know he's mine because of that seal. That seal identifies him as one that I've purchased, and I am his Master."

As Christians, we rejoice in the fact that whatever storms we may face in life, we have a seal that will always get us back home. We are marked as being one who belongs to the Master. We are one of the chosen, one of the elect, and we are marked as belonging to the Creator of all things. He always leaves the light on for us. He never stops calling for us. And when we can't find the light or hear the call, He searches the dungeons and prisons we've locked ourselves in, finds us, picks us up, cleans us off and brings us home.

.

Restoring the Wounded

It has been said that Christian's are infamous for shooting their wounded. While that may be true in the general sense, it is probably more accurate to admit that our preferred weapon would be stones. To be sure, shooting would be more humane, and restoring them to health would be more beneficial to the battle in the long run. But it's hard to beat the feel of a solid, well balanced rock being flung with justification and vigor in the cool of the morning. I understand the truth of this for I have hurled a few in my youth, and I have been pummeled by many. In our defense, it is easier and quicker to heave the stone than to put the time and energy into restoring the wounded.

I only mention this because I overheard an interview with Joni and Marcus Lamb the other day. It would not have been something that I normally would have listened to, but it happened to be on while I was painting my living room, and I was interested in the discussion. I learned that Marcus Lamb is a pastor as well as the founder of a Christian television network called Daystar. Guess I should have known who he was, but I really don't watch a whole lot of Christian television. At any rate, I also learned that Marcus had confessed to his wife Joni, as well as to the people at Daystar and his church, that he had committed adultery. Since I have some understanding of the Christian psyche when it comes to this offense, I prepared myself to hear a story of abandonment and isolation as well as a few details of other well placed spiritual stones. I was wrong, and I was blessed.

I was impressed with the way Pastor Lamb took responsibility for his sin. I was impressed with the honesty and openness with which he and his wife discussed the situation. But I was truly inspired by the leaders of his church. They didn't ignore the fact that it had happened. They didn't minimize the impact or the disappointment. But they also didn't reach for the stones. They recognized that the warrior had been wounded, and they prayerfully took action to restore him. They asked him to step down from preaching for a year, not to punish him, but to give him time to heal. There were other actions I am sure, but none of them were designed to leave him without hope. All of them were designed to return the warrior to battle. It blessed me.

I do not know all of the details of this situation and do not speak as an expert. I can tell you the picture that has been painted in my mind. In this picture, I am not naïve enough to think that stones are not being thrown, for that would not be realistic. I do, indeed, picture stones being flung from every direction. I picture a wounded man surrounded by those closest to him. The stones are landing, but not on the warrior. They land on those who surround him as they work toward his restoration, and it blesses me.

The Kingdom

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, in an age long forgotten, there was a kingdom. It was a small kingdom, but yet a great and powerful kingdom, with fortresses reaching nearly to heaven.

The strength of this kingdom was in its king. He was a strong man, known for his fairness as well as his unselfish love for the people of his kingdom. The king was a man of great stature who wore long, flowing garments of linen covered by a majestic multicolored robe. This robe was no ordinary robe. At times it appeared to be blue in color...a blue that was more clear than the sky on a bright, sun filled day. In the next instant, the robe might display a bright red, or a dark purple. Occasionally, the robe would appear as a pure white which rivaled the freshly fallen snow. There were other times that the color given off by this magnificent garment could not be described by the people who saw it, for they had nothing with which to compare its splendor.

It was truly a wonderful robe, worn by this king in this kingdom long forgotten.

With the passing years, the people of this kingdom lived securely under the rule of their king, for no enemy dared to challenge the power of this empire. The people of the kingdom held the king in highest esteem. They would bow before him as he walked among them in the cool of the evening, always wearing his multicolored robe. They worshiped him out of love and respect, rather than fear, for they knew of his great love for them. But, it was also true, that as they gazed upon this indescribable robe, they perceived that the man wearing it was worthy of their honor and praise.

Yes, they loved their king, these people of this kingdom in an age long forgotten.

As time passed, a faction arose within the kingdom claiming that the king's robe gave off only a red color. It was indeed a beautiful red they asserted, but red all the same. Actually, to be precise, their charter did allow for slight variations of the color red but stopped short of acknowledging anything close to pink.

Well, this caused quite a stir in this little kingdom, and before long another faction had banded together claiming the king's robe was blue. They had witnesses that had seen the king's robe as blue, as well as evidence from the kingdom books which described the king's robe as blue. They felt as if they had a clear mandate to rid the kingdom of the people who saw the king's robe as red.

As you can well imagine, before long the kingdom was divided into no less than fifty groups declaring their own color as the color of the king's robe. The red believer's would have banquets honoring the king, but the blue believers would not attend....nor would any of the other forty-eight groups of color worshipers. The blue believers would bow before the king as he walked about his kingdom in the cool of the evening, but only when his robe was showing the appropriate shade of blue. They would, however, find themselves bowing alone, for the red believers would never bow when the robe was blue.

Yes, they loved their king, but hated each other, these people in this kingdom in an age long forgotten.

When the enemies of this kingdom saw the division among the people of the empire, they were determined to take advantage of this weakness and prepared to attack. They hit the walls of the fortress with every weapon they possessed, and slowly the walls began to crumble. The enemy sent wave after wave of men over the tumbling walls in its attempt to conquer the little kingdom. They met no resistance. The people of the kingdom were arguing so loudly among themselves that they failed to hear the enemy upon the walls. They had their eyes fixed so steadily upon each other, and upon the king's robe...in anticipation of it showing their color....that they did not see the adversary coming through the gates.

As the kingdom was about to be destroyed and fall to the enemy, the king appeared, as if from nowhere, leading a handful of his faithful servants prepared for battle. These were the servants who had not been involved in the color controversy. They had worshiped the king regardless of the robe or its color, for they realized the power was in the king and not his robe. They pushed the enemy back over the wall and into the surrounding country. The battle raged for several days as the king and his warriors stood against the onslaught of this fierce enemy.

When, at last, the enemy was defeated, the king stood alone in the silence following the battle. He lovingly gazed at his wounded and dead soldiers. From the direction of the kingdom he heard the sound of people loudly debating. He could not make out every word, but a few were clear... "red"..."blue." Tears streamed down the king's face, and the robe gave off a color it had never displayed before as the king went to his faithful warriors.. He touched the wounded, and they were healed. He cradled the dead in his arms, and they began to breathe.

The king and his men slowly walked through the dead of the enemy in a direction opposite the fallen fortress. He had decided to build a new kingdom using these faithful men who had fought beside him as its foundation.

In the end, it was for the best.

You see, the first kingdom was so busy discussing the color of the king's robe that they didn't miss the king.

The Mountain

Several months ago, I dug out an old story written back in my Youth For Christ days. I put it in one of the little cubbyholes on my desk, and it has sat there ever since. As I've been looking it over the past few days, I realize that it describes portions of my spiritual journey fairly well. There is, it seems to me, a struggle between living a religion and living in relationship. Thought I would edit it and put it on here.

The man lay dying. Even from a distance I could see his bruised and battered face. Crimson blood freely flowed from the exposed tissue on his arms and hands as he reached out to the passing crowds. Throngs passed, and only a few glanced his way as they hastily walked by . Indeed, they barely seemed to notice.

Making my was through the crowd, I knelt beside his listless form, and held his damaged hands in mine. As I looked into the eyes of this dying stranger, a small smile appeared on his swollen lips. His mouth moved ever so slightly, but the words he spoke came forth with amazing clarity, "My father sent me to find you. You do not know my father, but he knows you and speaks of you often. His days are filled with thoughts of the time you will come to him. My desire is to see my father satisfied, and so I have come for you. Please go to him." After my friend had spoken these words, he pushed a folded paper into my palm, gazed steadily into my eyes, and drew his final breath.

Why I call this stranger my friend, I do not know. Perhaps it was the words he spoke, or the way he died. Perhaps it was the way he stared into my eyes, or the gentleness with which he held my hand. I do not understand why, but he was my friend.

With hands covered with my friend's blood, I opened the paper he had firmly pressed into my hand. A map to his father's house. I would go. What compulsion led me to this decision, I do not know. It may have been out of curiosity, or possibly a sense of obligation. After all, someone had to tell him of his son's death. In a few short moments, this stranger had become my friend. I would go.

While standing at the foot of the mountain, gazing at it's height, I felt I could go no further. Yet, the map had led me here. The father of my friend lived on this magnificent rock, with peaks reaching into the clouds. His son was dead, and he must be told. I began to climb. The ascent was steep. So very steep. The grade became even more precipitous as I climbed, and yet I found it surprisingly easy to work my way up the side of the mountain. Topping a ridge at eight thousand feet I could go no further. The beauty of what lay before me took my breath away. There was a peacefulness I could not comprehend.

A meadow with hills on two sides and a mountain towering on the third. A crystal clear lake reflecting the dark blue, cloudless sky. Ice cold streams wandering aimlessly for miles through deep mountain passes, just to drop their contents over a cliff suspended high above the lake. A continuous rainbow surrounded me as the sun reflected through the mist of the falls.

The place held me captive. I drank long and deep from one of the streams. No wine could match it's sweetness. As I lay on the lush green grass, it folded into a wonderfully soft mattress. My eyes followed two eagles high in the sky, apparently playing a friendly game of tag. And I slept.

When I awoke, I had found the father of my friend. How he had found me, I do not know. He looked at me with eyes that reminded me of his son's, smiled and said, "You have come." My eyes went to my hands as I struggled for words, "Your son has found me and sent me to you, but he has died." Tears rolled down his grizzled cheeks as he stared into the distance. "I know. I watched him die as he held your hand in his. I sent him for you and he has found you. Of them all, I knew that you would come. It is good that you are here."

A smile of understanding spread across the face of the father of my friend, as he stared at the far, blue mountains. My eyes followed his. A speck outlined on the horizon took the form of a man as it drew closer. We watched in silence as the man approached. At last I recognized him. It was my friend. His wounds were healed, but the scars remained. I had watched him die, but he stood before me very much alive. I did not understand.

My friend embraced his father with an affection I could not comprehend, yet I could feel the love in his action. He turned to me with a gentle smile on his face, tears of love streaming down his cheeks, and hugged me with the same feeling of affection as when he had touched his father. He did not speak, for it was not necessary.

We were three on the mountain. The father, my friend and me. And it was good. I did not want to leave, but was not sure I could stay. As we walked one evening, I told them of my concern, "I like it on your mountain and would prefer not to leave. What must I do to remain?" The father seemed pleased, "I have always wanted you here. You may stay as long as you wish. Just walk with us and talk with us. You will know what to do."

Was it a month? A year? Two years....or more? As we wandered through meadows and mountain passes, time was not measured. We spoke of everything. I listened and questioned while they explained and taught. I found myself becoming like my friend and his father. It was not something I tried to do, it just seemed to happen. The father became my father, and I became his son. When or how this transformation occurred, I do not know....but the relationship changed. We were happy, we three on the mountain.

As we sat on the side of the mountain, the first signs of light were appearing in the distance. Soon, the horizon was aflame with shots of red, orange, and yellow, merging to form yet another glorious sunrise. The sun climbed slowly away from it's starting point, the colors diminished, and the valley below us began to come to life.

We were six thousand feet above the basin floor, but I saw it as if we were but a few. My companions saw it as well, although they remained silent. It was a village covering the bottom of the valley. People working, people playing, people much like myself. I felt an attraction. "Who are they?" I asked. My father explained that they were people who had come to his mountain. It was a short explanation ending with, "I do not go there much anymore."

I spoke of my desire to go to the village. "If you must," was all he said.

How many years I spent in the village, I cannot recall. Several, anyway. The people were friendly, concerned for each other and, above all, shared a love for my father's mountain. We all wanted to live on it. Soon, I became a leader of this village. We were busy, and would travel thousands of miles to share our experience of living on the mountain with anyone who would listen. We would write letters describing the beauty of the mountain in an attempt to get people to come and live in the village. We wanted everyone to experience what we had found in this place.

We also taught people how to live on the mountain. Our book, "1001 Rules for Mountain Living," explained to everyone our requirement for staying on the mountain. There were meetings three times a week to go over these rules, as well as to thank the father of my friend for letting us live on his mountain. We owed him a great debt, for it was his mountain, and yet he let us stay.

People would come to the mountain. Some would stay, but many left. Couldn't seem to follow the instructions outlined in our little book. Some even had to be escorted back down the mountain.

The book had been started by the first inhabitants of the village, and every generation seemed to have a couple of guidelines to add. As a leader, I had proudly added a few of my own. They were good, solid, precepts and anyone who could not follow them had no right to live on the mountain. So they left. I worked hard at being a leader of this village. Too hard. I no longer noticed the beauty that surrounded me. In fact, I very seldom even noticed the mountains. There were meetings, appointments, obligations, books to read, new guidelines to write, and classes to teach.

As I sat in a meeting with the village leaders, my mind drifted to my first days on the mountain. The days with my friend and his father. I had to see them again. Halfway through the meeting, I walked from the building to the edge of the mountain. I began to climb. I felt so very weak, and began to stumble. And then he was there. It was my friend. With my arm around his neck he helped climb. No words were spoken, as I stared at the scarred hands, and the look of contentment on his face. At ten thousand feet, my legs completely failed me. I began to fall, but my friend picked me up and cradled me in his arms as if I were a child.

The village disappeared, and the the mountain top was in sight. He carried me higher. In an instant, my friend was placing me next to our father. We could see forever from the top of the mountain. He smiled his same old smile when he saw me, "You have come. I am glad." It was as if we had never been apart.

"Father, I have missed you. I never want to go to the village again."

He nodded, "It is good. It is a wise choice, my son."