There’s so much wisdom in Ecclesiastes. This morning I was reflecting upon Ecclesiastes 1:9. Solomon writes, “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun.”
The Hebrew term for this is hebel. Its close equivalent in English is vapor, mist, or breath. In some English translations, it is translated as “vanity.” Have you ever tried to rope the wind? That’s the image. It’s vanity to pursue such a thing.
The irony was so piercing. I had just checked the headlines in today’s news. They were what you might expect–more spectacles from Washington D.C.; more promises about the war in Iran; more violence in Detroit and Chicago; more outlandish sports bloopers. On and on they went. Another day’s headlines, another day’s drivel. Garbage in, garbage out, as the saying goes. In 30 seconds, most readers have forgotten what they read, and just drive on without giving it so much as a nod.
That’s what Solomon was teaching in Ecclesiastes. Today’s headlines are just that–temporary, fleeting, hebel.
In looking at my calendar I have two funerals already for this week. We come, we spend our days, and someone presides over us as we’re either laid in a coffin or put in an urn. Hebel. Our boots are filled by another before we’re even cold. This reality should humble the wise in order that we might invest ourselves in the immortal things–the souls of men. This is why truth matters–because it will endure when all else fades.
After a two-and-a-half week separation from CJ, I am back home. As Frank Baum wrote, there’s no place like home. When I got home, it was just what I had hoped for: CJ came down the garage stairs as I pulled in. And Ladybug, our Cavalier, stepped down, too, and sniffed me and cuddled as soon as I opened the car door. CJ’s pretty toes were painted bubble-gum pink, and her skin was her familiar soothing brown, her hair recently washed and in brown layers over her left shoulder.
She helped me lug my ruck and rolling duffel bags into the house, and I took Ladybug out to do her thing in the yard. CJ had laid out some of the books I’d ordered during my time away on the kitchen table. I touched each volume, eager to dive in–Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro, and others. There are important writers, still.
I showerd and we patronized our favorite Mexican eatery for a shared meal of chicken enchiladas and rice, then returned home. Another book had been delivered upon arriving home. “Here’s your next one,” CJ said, laughing.
“Don’t worry, love; that one’s this week’s,” I said.
Now I’m into Ishiguro’s contemporary tale about the longing for human connection. Ishiguro gets it.
I’m beyond tired now. Enervated is probably the best word. Spent might work, too. Long days and nights with fellow soldiers. Then protracted rides back home. But we did it. Little sleep. But . . . mission accomplished. Another one down, as the saying goes. And it’s back to work tomorrow.
But not before I rejoice at the kindness of providence in my absence. When I walked upstairs to throw dirty socks and boxers in the laundry basket, CJ had long before changed the linens and made the bed and vacuumed and dusted everything. The bed was taut-clean sheets, my sundry pillows stood up like ramparts upon a castle for sleep, and the comforter fluffy and clean. I was home.
How does one express the embarrassingly simple joys of coming home to one you love? My only answer: words. Just write. Maybe someone else gets it, and cares. She’s precious–this one who labors for me, in my absence, who endures so much time with my being away–good for a paycheck but deprived of my physical presence.
It’s this connection to glorious beauty of the mundane I miss–the fluffed pillows, my wife’s pretty pink toes, the nuzzle of my dog, the brush of the family cat upon my calf. Call it sentimental, but it’s home. And as Baum accurately captured, there’s no place like it.
When I was a boy, the house I grew up in had a black iron bell on the front porch. In the afternoons after school, and especially during summers, I would be outdoors most of the days if the weather was right. The other boys and I in our postage stamp of soil would be outside like little Huck Finns–building forts, making ramps on which to jump our bikes, fishing, camping, hunting, exploring the woods and the many fields, scouting for deer, trying to trap rabbits. On and on it went. A boy’s paradise in smalltown rural life. We didn’t have much money. I didn’t know that at the time. We were simple people with simple pleasures, and I was filling my boy soul with sights, sounds, and smells that shaped who I am.
Currently I’m away from home as part of my military duties, but at night I’m able to read Scripture and study. When I return to Christ Covenant Church (3cs-canton.org), I will resume teaching through Peter’s two epistles. The next text is 2 Peter 1, the opening chapter, where Peter writes about evidences of Christianity. He lists multiple qualities/characteristics of believers (2 Pt 1:5-7).
And then in verse 10, it struck me like Mom’s ringing the black iron bell on the front porch when it was time for me to come in. When she’d ring that, the sound would travel across the ponds, through the pines, across the fields. I knew it was time to get home. “Dark-thirty,” is the phrase that was used.
In verse 10, Peter writes, “Therefore, brothers, be all the more diligent to confirm your calling and election, for if you practice these qualities you will never fall.” There’s something about that calling that summons the soul, that brings me back to the clear sound of that bell I heard countless times as a boy.
“The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life, and whoever captures souls is wise” (Pr 11:30).
Intro: Jesus taught a great deal about being a fruit inspector. You hear this sometimes if you are in church circles. The reference is to Jesus’ teaching: “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will recognize them by their fruits” (Mt 7:15-16a). And “Thus you will recognize them by their fruits” (Mt 7:20).
This is the same truth as Solomon teaches in Proverbs 11:30, namely, that the godly, truth-bearing person is “a tree of life.” He/she bears godly fruit. His life bears the evidence of rooted gospel transformation (fruit) because he is rooted in the truth of being conformed to Christlikeness. The root leads ultimately to the fruit.
And the capturing of souls is a picture of attracting and winning hearts and minds by way of a godly life. How do you contradict a godly life? How do you besmirch a life that is beyond reproach? Ad hominem attacks won’t find traction against such a man, at least not to those with discernment.
A reason we are commanded to study to show ourselves approved by God as workmen who need not be ashamed (2 Tim 2:15) is because we have been assigned the high calling of being part of God’s plan to redeem men and women. God uses our skills he has given to us to persuade, to win souls, to bear godly fruit in a fallen world in desperate need of rescue.
My third time through Hawthorne’s The House of the Seven Gables and it was as cryptic, phantasmagoric, and spectral as ever. Ghosts of judges past, fair Phoebe, lonesome artists, and lingering sins of the past possibly made right in the end, but not before heart-wrenching tortures of soul.
With less than a week to go in this current iteration of military training with my unit in Pennsylvania, soldiers’ spirits are beginning to rise. They can see the end. They are envisioning getting on the buses for the all-night drive back to Macon. They are envisioning hugging their wives and holding their children. They are longing to lie down in their own beds, in their own homes, and shower in their own environs. It’s amazing how the quotidian pleasures of life grow precious when you’re deprived of them–the voice of a loved one, a hot shower, a meal that doesn’t come out of a plastic MRE bag.
When the apostle Paul was imprisoned, he penned several epistles known appropriately in history as “the prison epistles.” One such letter was Philippians wherein he addressed keeping the long-term goal in mind: “Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil 3:13-14).
Paul had learned what it means to “press on.” I love that phrase. He didn’t just use it cavalierly; he made it his character, his pattern, his way of living the Christian life. He kept the main thing the main thing. If you are tempted to capitulate to self-pity, despair over the day’s headlines, or doubt your efficacy, remember what God has said to you in his Word: press on, pilgrim. God is always and forever good and wholly trustworthy. Lead into the truth; trust the Lord with the results; and press on.
Who: In a few hours I will open my Bible to 2 Peter and minister to fellow soldiers, NCOs, and officers.
What: Chaplain roles and responsibilities; religious support of Service Members
When: 1230
Where: In front of the Tactical Operation Center (TOC)
Why: Religious Support (RS) of America’s U.S. Army
Context: The bottom line up front (BLUF): “Provision, Progress, & Certainty of the Christian’s Pilgrimage”
Text: 2 Peter 1:1-15
When I was working on this homily, one quote from Warfield I discovered in my studies struck me with special power:
“The gospel does not offer us beautiful ideals or poetic myths; it offers us historical facts. The apostles were not men of vivid imaginations, but witnesses of an objective, shattering reality.”
God’s “divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness,” Peter writes (2 Pt 1:3). In other words, what we have, we have received. We have been granted it by God’s grace. Human boasting is therefore forbidden.
Then Peter lists evidences of true saving faith:
Virtue (v. 4)
Knowledge (v. 5)
Self-control (v. 6)
Steadfastness (v. 6)
Godliness (v. 7)
Brotherly affection (v. 7)
Love (v. 7)
Peter teaches the same principles as James does, namely, that faith without works is dead (Jas 1:17).
Encouragement: How does the Christian pilgrim persevere? By recognizing that God has granted to him/her the needed strength to live the Christian life. By recognizing that Christianity is historically true. We worship not an idol of wood, hay, or stubble, but the resurrected, living Savior.
Stagnant faith is dead faith. Active faith brings assurance. “The used key is always bright,” Ben Franklin wrote. Why? It shines because of its repeated use. Lean into the Christian battle, fellow pilgrim, knowing that the conquering King has prepared a place for you at his table.
“Of course. Have a seat.” He pulled out one of the silver folding chairs and sat down.
He got right into it. No small talk. I liked him right away.
“You ever feel like God is silent?” he asked. “I mean, I pray. I repent daily. I really do. But sometimes I keep praying and asking God to show me, and it’s just silence.”
Through previous conversations, I knew him to be a believer, a Christian, a man familiar with Scripture. And he has always had, since I’ve known him, a quiet and dignified, serious way about him. He struck me always as a thoughtful man, not one skating upon the surface of things.
“You remember the persistent widow in Scripture, right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Remember what Jesus said at the end of that illustration about her, the persistent widow?”
He thought in silence.
He said, “‘And will not God give justice to his elect, who cry to him day and night?'”
“I know.”
“Remember David?” I asked, “that he sought the Lord and the Lord answered him and delivered him from all his fears?”
“I know,” he said. “I just feel like God is silent, like he won’t confirm things to me.”
“I hear you. May I ask you something else?”
“Yes.”
“Are you seeking something in addition to Scripture, some sign or voice to make it all real to you?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“Again, I know you know Scripture, but didn’t Peter speak to this tendency we have–to want something additional?”
He sat in silence, looking at me, and looking inward.
“In his second letter, Peter wrote as a man who’d been with Jesus on the Mount of Transfiguration. He was an intimate friend of Jesus, one of his inner circle . . .”
“Yes,” he said, leaning in.
“But what did Peter remind us of if not the prophetic word more fully confirmed?”
“I know. It’s just . . .”
“What does Jesus tell us again and again in his Word if not to ‘Fear not’ and ‘Be not afraid’ and that he’ll not forsake his sheep?”
“I know,” he said.
“Let me propose an either/or. Is it wise to be led by our feelings and external signs or by his Word?” I asked.
“I just feel like he won’t answer,” he said. “And I’m just so tired.”
“Is the cross not the answer? Is not the Holy Spirit inside of you the answer?” I asked.
“I see,” he said.
We spoke for over an hour–about his past, present, and future. We spoke of our ministries. We spoke of our families. We spoke of military life and the tolls it exacts.
His shift was nearing its end, and we shook hands yet again. “You speak truth, chaplain. I appreciate it.”
“If I don’t do that, brother, I’m in the wrong lane.”
“We’ll talk more,” he said.
“Yes, we will, brother.”
He grabbed his ruck and exited to go get a shower and some rest. I opened my pocket Bible I keep in my right cargo pocket and turned to Romans: “Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?” (Rom 8:33-35)
Lord, thank you for times like this–times I could never orchestrate in my fallen, sinful, human strength. Teach me to be tender to those you’re dealing with, so that they discover the light in the darkness. You are not far from each of us. We just have to listen. You were here, are here, and will be here. Grip this man, confirm your Word to him, encourage him, and surround him with your presence. You intercede for us when we can’t find even the words to express the anguish we all sometimes feel. Intercede, Lord, for my brother. Comfort him.
Another week has come and gone at Warfighter. The weather here has thus far been ideal. Daytime temperatures are in the 80s and the nights cool after the sun has descended. Our soldiers have discovered their rhythms. Many are operating on 12-hour shifts–daytime and nighttime. You can tell based upon the exposure, of lack thereof, to sunlight.
The sound waves carry the constant hmmmmm of the generators that power our military computers and electronic equipment. The intel and current operations shops in the tents are like walking into a big box electronics store, all aglow with monitors displaying maps with contour lines, lines of advance, bridges, roads, rivers, etc.
The signal guys are constantly monitoring communication assets and vulnerabilities. The future operations guys are wargaming how to react to anticipated enemy attacks. Fires and artillery are doing the same.
Our unit legal team is researching questions and answers related to queries from some of our downtrace units.
I walk amongst the troops, checking on everyone, engaging in small talk, trying to encourage them during these long days. Often they speak of their families and loved ones back home. Others are working through strains with their civilian employers.
I sit down to type a bit in order to clarify my thoughts. A few meters away is the tent entrance and the concertina wire surrounding our area of operations.
So far, so good–the long days and nights, the hmmmmm of the generators, the Chinooks and Black Hawks slicing across the sky above us, the guys leaning forward into their tasks.
As is often the case, we measure time based upon chow–hots for breakfast and supper, and MREs for lunch. Many of us are skipping meals. The chow here will keep you alive but no wise soldier eats more than is necessary. Hot sauce almost makes it edible. The coffee could double as diesel fuel.
“Hey, chappy. Services tonight?” a soldier asks.
“Of course, brother. I’m ready anytime.”
“See you at 1900, sir.”
“Roger that, brother,” I said.
And this is the way it goes.
I look over at my black notebook with my notes of what I’ll speak on this evening–anxiety and how to navigate it as a Christian.
I look over at a Hawthorne novel to my left that I’ve almost completed during the long nights–The House of Seven Gables. It’s my third time reading this one but I value Hawthorne’s insights still.
Missing my wife, I look at pictures of her I keep in my phone photos. She’s going to get her hair done today, so she’ll be prettier than ever–once again. I missed her birthday this week, and our son’s birthday, due to being away with my military unit. But they’ve endured my military absences for decades now, and are doing it again.
The days tick by, the generators hmmmmm, I type a bit more, and now it’s time to return to our guys.
This morning, I conducted what we call chapel/religious services with my guys at Warfighter. I’d not had much sleep and was very sluggish this morning after very little rest. The enemy kept whispering to me, “No one’s going to come to your service, chaplain. It’s going to fail.” But I pressed on.
I went and ate a few runny eggs and greasy bacon at chow and labored to pray to the Lord: “God, bring your people. Use me to encourage them this morning. Glorify yourself.” But I still felt enervated. And the passage I had chosen to teach was from James, about perseverance amidst trials. I felt the internal conflict. How could I encourage my fellow soldiers when I’d slept so little and felt so insufficient? But I pressed on.
I went around the area of operations and checked on everyone and reminded them of the service in the next hour. Soon, the shelter began to see bodies. Soldiers showed up–red, yellow, black, and white, and all of us in Army green. “What can we do to set up, chaplain?” they asked.
“If y’all can set up some tables and chairs, that’d be great.” Inside, I was suddenly bursting with joy. They were showing up.
Within three minutes, about 35 soldiers were gathered. I felt like God had said, “Hey, chaplain. Watch this. Don’t doubt me.”
My cup was suddenly full.
I laid out the elements for the Lord’s Supper, opened my notebook with sermon notes, and opened my Bible, and began.
A buddy of mine snapped a few pictures of some of us.
I taught through a couple of verses from James and Peter, and cross-referenced a passage from Hebrews 12. The soldiers opened up. We talked. I listened. Then I taught some more, and tried to truly listen to our guys. God moved.
Afterwards, a lieutenant came up to me to speak. He shared about his family, his faith background, and about his military ambitions. Then another soldier came to me about his kids. Then another soldier and I spoke of his struggles and his appreciation for the homily. On and on it went. “Red, yellow, black, and white; they are precious in his sight,” is the way the ditty goes from children’s church. Guess what? That’s true, still.
It’s not about our insecurities. It’s not about our insufficiencies. It’s about God. It’s that Christ is all and he is sufficient. “From every tribe, language, people, and nation” is the way John phrases it in Revelation. Yes and amen.
MIND & MATTERS 