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“Dissonance is a passing thing. Dissonance drives us to the next chord.”
~Brett Habing
Northland Baptist Bible College Concert Choir director
(aack! I have no date for this quotation! I do know that it must have been said in the spring semester of 2001)
Oh, God of dust and rainbows, help us see
That without dust the rainbow would not be.
by Langston Hughes
Abba is the dad you can go to for anything at any time. That’s God’s Father name to remind us to be little kids as we come to Him rather than the big complicated adults we try to be for those that come to rely on us. And I am learning to come to Him as a little child–with everything, for everything.
But someone, a dear friend who considers himself “crusty” and “bizarre” and “peculiar” [which, by the way, has a good connotation to my Sunday School kids!] and a host of other words I need to look up before I try to use them: this dear friend reminded me of another side of God–the nKoko side. Apparently “nKoko” is a word from an African tribal language that means “gentle grandfather.” And, for as much as I need an Abba Father, I need a nKoko, too.
What is a nKoko like? well, he’s gentle–he somehow manages to speak truth in a way that’s not at all harsh but makes you think to yourself “yes, that’s what I have known all along but was on the verge of forgetting.” And he’s a grandfather–taking outrageous delight in His grandchildren. To Him they are celebrities, though not in a “show-them-off” paparazzi kind of way. He’s just delighted to see them when they arrive. And they like to see Him because they feel comfortable around Him, even though they couldn’t explain why if they tried. But somehow He gives them the feeling that everything is going to be ok and that they are ok just as they are.
Now, I know that no earthly grandfather is exactly this way anymore than any earthly father is the perfect Abba. But every once in a while someone or something makes us feel this way, reminding us that it is possible to feel this way. And it makes us long for God down deep in our soul.
No, I don’t know the Hebrew or Greek name for God that corresponds to this simple African name, but I know that anything good has its roots in God’s nature, so someday I’ll find where in the Bible this term has its equivalent. Until then, I’ll think of God as my Heavenly nKoko as well as my Abba Father.
And I’ll thank God for the “crusty, peculiar, bug-loving German” who reminded me of this side of God.
A friend of mine who writes poetry managed to put into words the indescribable–how it feels to know a certain type of pain and the hope of not forgetting. I couldn’t have said it better.
His office phone rings. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to take this call.”
“Dad?” a voice crackles on the other end of the line. “I don’t have very good reception, but can you still hear me?”
“Yes”
“Oh, good,” she sighs, then laughs, “I feel like a bad Verizon commercial! I should get money for this somehow!”
He smiles, too at the joke–an old standing one between the two of them. “Where are you?”
“I’m driving home from work, and I need to talk. Do you have a minute, or is this a bad time?”
He does not even glance at the gentlemen waiting his return to the meeting, “I’m listening.”
“Dad, I’m stuck! I don’t know what to do exactly–no matter what I choose I’ll be wrong, and I HATE that fact!”
He lets her talk, listening to her rambling until she reaches her destination.
“Gotta go, Dad. I know my phone reception is bad, but thanks for listening. You were awfully quiet, though. You will tell me what you think, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. We’re in this together, as always. When the time comes, you’ll know exactly what to do. Talk to me some more about it tonight, ok?”
A sigh of relief on the other end of the line. “Ok. Dad, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Click.
He returns attention to the meeting. “Gentlemen, that was my daughter. Thank you for you patience. Let’s proceed with . . . “
His words are interrupted by the telephone again.
“Dad? It’s me again. I just hit a bird with my car! It’ so nasty! Why didn’t they fly away before I got there? I even slowed down . . .”
I love rain–the gentle, steady, sonorous kind I can relax into.
Rain is one of the most delicious sounds in the world.
A friend of mine commented that society needs another Charles Dickens to show us oursleves here in America, holding a mirror to our faces so that we can see our hypocritical inconsistencies, yet doing it in a way that sells enough copies to make a difference. I wonder . . .
In an age when more people watch the movie than read the book, would such books be read? Would books the length of Dickens’s be best-sellers? I guess there’s hope since his books today are still read and loved by many. (the fact that major bookstores still stock them is a clue)
Who would listen to such stuff? True, Dickens’s works still ring true with a majority of those that read and understand them, but would people be more likely to read such criticism of American follies and shrug them off as “true for you but not for me”?
Who would write such a book? Dickens wrote with biting wit yet a great heart of compassion. Somehow, he even seemed to pity what was pitiable in his villains (his description of Fagin’s last night before execution reveals this pity for Fagin without giving Fagin any loophole for escape from what he so justly deserved). The only people he had no pity for were the conceited and pompous hypocrites that grew fat from preying on others and never had the humanity to fear their just reward. Infusing such compassion into such brutal honesty is not a walk in the park. Who could do it? Only a person who is convinced that there truly is a right and a wrong. Only a person who sees that everyone, deep inside, knows that right and wrong exist and suspect where they stand in relation to them. Only a person who cares about people and can care about them while showing them themselves. Is there such a person in today’s world of postmodern compromise?
My sister put into words–simple, crystal-clear words, poetic in their jagged beauty–what God’s love is: What is love? I’ve thought of it like this before, but it was her words that said it best. A fresh restatement of I John 4:9 “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation of our sin.”
Wow.
*misty eyes*
Thoughts on “Death, Be Not Proud” by John Donne
John Donne wrote in the 1600’s, over 400 years ago, but his themes are still pertinent to today. With poetry (as with all literature) it’s important for us to find how what the pot has said relates to us in our lives. Donne was trash talking Death, that big bad ugly force that all mankind is afraid of—and rightly so (a healthy respect for death is part of being a normal human being). But Donne had found a relationship with the God of the universe, and a relationship with Him puts Death in His place: Jesus Christ God’s Son defeated Death once and for all when He died on the cross, and for all those who have received Him as their Savior from sin, Death becomes no more than a release to greater life and rest in the presence of God. Unfortunately, those who reject the life that Christ offers will spend their eternity in the very arms of this horrible creature Death.
Here’s my paraphrase of Donne’s poem. Please feel free to add your own.
Death, don’t think you’re all that just because some people have called you big, bad, and ugly—you’re not. Just look at all your so-called victories: those you thought you defeated didn’t really die, and you can’t really defeat me, either. I enjoy what Rest and Sleep do for me; they’re just imitating you, so I’m sure I’ll enjoy the rest you’ll bring me when my time comes. In fact, the best men that have ever lived have gone with you and found freedom from life’s stresses and limitations—so much for your scary reputation! In fact, you don’t even call the shots but have to wait for some catastrophe to give you your marching orders. You might be more powerful than mankind, but you take orders from us, not the other way around. You can’t even show your face in civilized company but have to hang out with those other well-known thugs Poison, War, and Sickness. Besides, we really don’t need you to make us sleep—sleeping pills, warm milk, or boring reading can put us to sleep, too, and bring us the rest we need to help us face life, not leave it forever. What do you have to brag about? When you put us to sleep, we will wake up in eternity where you have no power over us anymore. And without your power, where are you? Death, your time too will come.
You are nearing the end of childhood, entering adulthood, and things are looking . . . different. And there’s so much that I wish I could tell you, so much trouble I wish I could save you, but how can I transfer the things from my mind to yours—a mind-meld perhaps? Nope. It may work on Star Trek, but that’s not how knowledge is passed, nice though it would be sometimes.
I wish I could tell you that you can’t perfect yourself. Everyone seems to see the areas that we need to change, letting us know in no uncertain terms. We often feel that everything about us is wrong. And where in the world do we start to make the necessary changes? How in the world can we make everybody happy with us and be perfect people? Isn’t that what the Christian life is all about—being perfect like Jesus? How can we show a watching world how wonderful He is when we mess up all the time??? When I begin to see all of my problems and feel that I can’t please anyone, I become overwhelmed and frustrated and I despair of ever being the person I’m supposed to be. The more I try, the more I fail at it and the more criticism I find heaped upon my head from friends, parents, employers, and even those who don’t know me very well: I had one lady who had just met me tell me that I needed to be more adventurous! “Thanks, lady! How do I even judge the validity of what you are saying about me?” I wondered.
I wish I could help you understand that God’s got the perfecting thing under control. The word “perfect” in the New Testament usually does not refer to sinlessness but to completeness and maturity—the very things we want, right? The very things that people are expecting of us! But it comes through His working in us at the pace which He knows we can handle. Paul the Apostle in Philippians 1:6 reminded the believers that God was working in them—God had started a work in them and would not leave it half-finished. As humans, we often leave things half-finished or abandon things that we used to like or used to think important; small wonder, then, that we fear God will abandon us. Don’t want to admit that fear? The Psalmist David admitted it time after time and God never ever abandoned him, even though he was far from “perfect.” Hebrews 12:2 calls Jesus “the author and finisher of our faith”: He started it and promises to continue it until the work is done—it’s a for-sure thing.
I wish I could tell you what I am learning about resting in God and His work in my life. Hebrews 3-4 talks about resting from our own works in the whole sanctification process—we weren’t saved by our own works, and we won’t become mature through our own efforts. Instead, we need to rest in God’s work. That’s work enough, though definitely un-flashy and unimpressive (but, hey! Being impressive rarely works with people and never works with God!). It’s a relationship that you need with the God of the universe. Instead of trying to sort though the conflicting messages that come from all those around you, come to Him first to find out what He thinks of you (scary thought at first) and to let Him strengthen you and change you in His way. And the funny thing about His way is that it is far less overwhelming than self- or others-induced change. He will grow you up and make you the person you really, deep-down want to be. He is already growing you—naturally and gently like a plant rising up to meet the sunlight. Go to Him every day to be reminded of this. Take to Him the opinions of others. Go to Him in His Word, and listen to what He is saying to you; ask Him your questions; tell Him your deepest darkest secrets (He already knows them anyway). Get to know HIM.
This is my prayer for you. I just wish I could tell you.
It’s Sunday afternoon in St. Louis, Missouri, and God feels rather far away at the moment. I lay back and close my eyes, terribly needing sleep, yet not really wanting to doze, pondering this predicament. Pastor preached this morning on prayer and on the fact that those who have become the sons of God through faith in Jesus Christ, God’s only-begotten Son, have the right to call God “Abba Father”—the equivalent of “Daddy” in one of the Bible languages. But right now I do not feel close to him, and my own father is far away in another state. So, I close my eyes and remember moments that were very different than today is:
It’s bedtime in Union City, California—bedtime on a terrible night when nothing is going my way. I hate life right now, and life hates me. All feels hopeless. I’ve just been “talked to” by both of my parents for not accomplishing the things I am supposed to accomplish. I’ve just written all the angry thoughts I can write as I sit on my bed waiting for sleep. My prayers seem to rise to the ceiling only to condense there and return upon my head rejected. Then the rain begins, a quiet, gentle rain that seems to be crying my tears for me. Slowly it soothes my turbulent 16-year-old heart, and I am able to sleep, comforted by the very hand that I thought was against me. Maybe everything will really be ok after all—even though I still have to face the morrow.
It’s nearly midnight in Union City, California—a summer midnight with the heat of the day being slowly cooled by the breeze that wafts through the open sliding glass door. I lie on my stomach on the floor facing out through the closed screen door, feeling the night air on my cheeks. All the lights are off in the house. The stars (such as can be seen from the city floor) are out. The crickets are chirping softly and occasionally. All is still, and it seems natural to talk to God. What do I talk about? The little nothings that an 18-year-old girl can think of at the moment. And He speaks in the stillness, not saying much but letting me know that I am loved.
It’s nearly midnight in Union City, California, and my dad sits at the computer playing solitaire while I sit cross-legged on the floor beside him, talking and listening. What do we talk about? Things that a 20-year-old college student needs to talk to her dad about. Sometimes it’s about nothing really, sometimes it’s profoundly earnest. And I feel safe and loved and privileged for having time with my dad.
It’s just after dusk in Rapid City, South Dakota—a hot summer day giving way to a deliciously warm summer night with a warm breeze that scents the whole sky with clover. I can’t get enough of the breeze, and as I walk, I stretch out my arms as though to hug the whole night that God has given me. And I can feel His smile on me as though He made this night just for me to tell me how much He loves me. I walk with my cousins and we talk about the things that 21-year-old girls talk about, things serious and deep, catching up from the time we’ve been apart and trying to solve all of the world’s problems on such a beautiful night.
It’s mid-day in San Leandro, California, and I sit in my father’s office amid all of the paraphernalia of his busy job as an administrator in a Christian school. Most students dread going to the principal’s office because it means that they are in trouble, but I sit there delighted to have these moments with my dad. He’s still my father even though I am all grown up and out on my own. I still need to be near him, still need to share time and talk with him, still need the reassurance that his presence brings to my life.
It’s bed-time now in St. Louis, Missouri, and things aren’t making much sense sometimes these days. But it’s nice to know that I can—because I trust in Jesus Christ God’s Son as my Savior—come before God as my Abba Father. And I take comfort in the fact that someday my life will be made up of one great big Abba Father moment. What’s an “Abba Father Moment”? It’s one of those moments when I could feel that God was near me, a moment when I could walk a little by sight instead of just by faith, enjoying that feeling of being near Him, sharing the peace and beauty He had created right then just for me. In Heaven every moment will be an Abba Father moment.
by John E. Bode
O Jesus, I have promised to serve Thee to the end;
Be Thou forever near me, my Master and my Friend.
I shall not fear the battle if Thou art by my side,
Nor wander from the pathway if Thou wilt be my guide.
O let me feel Thee near me—the world is ever near;
I see the sights that dazzle, the tempting sounds I hear.
My foes are ever near me, around me and within;
But, Jesus, draw Thou nearer and shield my soul from sin.
O Jesus, Thou hast promised to all who follow Thee,
That where Thou art in glory, there shall Thy servant be.
And, Jesus, I have promised to serve Thee to the end:
O give me grace to follow, my Master and my Friend.
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