Beauty in Complexity

I’ve always been able to see the beauty of creation in the natural world. To me, I am able to see the artistry of God in the things he has surrounded humans with, soaring pines, brilliant sunsets, and loons drifting over misty northern lakes. In fact, many times I see humanity as intrusion into that beauty. Litter reminds me of the sinfulness and destructive tendencies of mankind. Even my own mind is a source of ‘sin pollution’ and anxiety. In that sense, when I hike I am echoing the actions of the Desert Fathers who sought out solitude to escape the excesses and sins of humanity. In this I have often struggled to see the beauty in humanity---struggled to see past the seemingly infinite evil and depravity that we are capable of. To watch the news, or even to experience a painful relationship gives one the impression that we are creatures of infinite entropy. Oh, I know there is great mystery in the fact that we, apart from the rest of creation, were created in God’s image, that we in some unquantifiable way echo some aspects of our Creator. Artistry is often cited as one of these. Yet even knowing this, I struggle to see the beauty in skyscrapers, or medical procedures, or even great art. The purity of mankind is always sullied by moral detritus. It is as if I witness mankind’s fall over and over. Instead, our interminable fallibility gnaws at me until I turn away from the headlines or indeed my own face in the mirror.

Tonight, however I felt a tremor of that beauty. I saw for an instant that human beings are impossibly complex with thoughts, dreams, motivations, and emotions that cannot be conveyed through speech, word, or any other creative endeavor fully (think of the thoughts that pass through your own mind and all of the memories and intentions that spawn them). The beauty of humanity or a beauty of humanity is in understanding the artistry in that complexity. That is a beauty of mankind, to see the intangible complexity glimpsed through conversation, through art, and through action. It is at least equal to the most complex symphony or beautiful wilderness vista. I cannot explain every connotation of being created in the image of our Creator, but I can say that there is artistry in our bones, brushstrokes of infinite precision mapping our minds. We can never know it fully in even the most intimate of relationships but we need to be driven on by that pursuit of beauty to grasp at the exposed strands and appreciate the wonder in them. Beyond all of our transgressions and misdeeds we are woven with strands of gorgeous Divine intent. Lord help me look past the grime, in others, and in myself. Help me never give up the pursuit of beauty in others. Help me do what it takes to see it. Every intricate strand is another praise of your infinite character.

The Life of Maltbie Babcock

Maltbie Babcock found himself drawn to nature. During the week he was often found strolling what we now call Eighteenmile Creek or enjoying the region’s panoramic view of upstate New York and, in the distance, Lake Ontario. Babcock would set out along the Niagara Escarpment and while away the hours enjoying the surroundings and relishing in the created world.

All told, Maltbie needed the time away as well. He was a vivacious young clergyman who seemed well-suited to any endeavor. Before he entered the ministry in the Presbyterian Church he excelled at schooling, graduating from Syracuse University with highest honors in 1879. He was an avid athlete and competed at high levels in both swimming and baseball. After graduating Syracuse, Babcock enrolled at Auburn Theological Seminary, where, unsurprisingly, he excelled, receiving his degree in 1882.

Maltbie Babcock’s success and personal magnetism continued into the pulpit, first in a church in Lockport, New York and later at Brown Memorial Presbyterian Church in Baltimore, Maryland. He was known to have “an unusually brilliant intellect and stirring oratorical powers that commanded admiration.” He was known to have a luminously creative mind and often produced colorful turns of phrase during his sermons. A contemporary once remarked, “Dr. Babcock loved words. He was an imitable phrase maker. Some of his epigrams will certainly live. They are so pungent and pointed. He loved to turn old phrases and texts around, and show them in fresh and surprising contrasts.” His efforts were not limited to the pulpit though, but overflowed with compassion as well, as he led a fund-raising effort to assist Jewish refugees of anti-Jewish pogroms in the 1880s. He was, in his time, a rising star.

He became so sought after in fact, that in 1900 when he felt the call to ministry to Brick Presbyterian Church in New York City, the residents of Baltimore petitioned to keep him there. An article written for The New York Times even chronicled their efforts. In the end though, Babcock moved back to New York, likely enticed as much by the work of the Kingdom as for the land to which he was born.

In the spring of 1901 he took leave of the city and accompanied some friends on a trip to the Holy Lands. No doubt he relished walking in the footsteps of his Savior and marveled at the vivid landscapes. Perhaps he left footprints on the shore of the Sea of Galilee and peered out upon the waters where Peter, briefly, obeyed the call of the Lord to step out in faith. He saw the world as if anew and likely found deep inspiration both in this beautiful world and the proximity to Biblical events.

We have no record of his thoughts on the trip for, upon leaving Palestine, he and several of his fellow travelers became ill with “Mediterranean Fever” which is now known as brucellosis, a bacterial infection that induces muscle pain, profuse and undulating fevers, and notably, depression. This proved critical for, unbeknownst to most, the gregarious and enthusiastic young man had previously battled with mental illness and in the 1880s had been hospitalized for “nervous prostration” a contemporary euphemism for depression. These struggles, coupled with the effects of this disease proved too much for the bright shining clergyman. On May 18^th, 1901, Maltbie Davenport Babcock committed suicide by slitting his wrist and ingesting mercuric chloride in Naples, Italy.

As his body was returned to the land that he so frequently loved to enjoy, those who knew him could only take solace in words of comfort he had once penned to a friend: “During these days of strain and suspense I have wished I could be a little help to you. I can tell you that at least, and pray that you may have, from God and your friends and your own heart, strength enough to get through a day at a time. … You cannot understand, or explain, but you know as well as I, that back of everything is God, and God is light,--- we shall see. And God is love--- we shall be satisfied. It may be a long while, but it will be worth waiting for. Trust Him all you can--- you will be glad you did.”

The man who once walked the fields and trails to draw near to his Creator was laid to rest at Oakwood Cemetery in Syracuse, New York. His body was buried beside the trees under whose shade he had once leisurely rested.

His widow Katherine, likely peered longingly out the windows of their home as if awaiting Maltbie’s return from one of his afternoon strolls. He would return no more. She would later publish some of his writings, poetry and sermons. But these surely brought little solace to the grieving woman. Her heart still yearned for her husband to walk back in the door, stomp the mud from his boots, and embrace her warmly. He often would tell her upon setting out that he was “going out to see the Father’s world.” Now he would see it no more in the flesh. Among the works Katherine published under the title, Thoughts for Every-Day Living, was a poem entitled, “My Father’s World.” The original poem had sixteen stanzas drawn from Psalms 33 and 50 but when close friend Franklin Sheppard arranged it as a hymn in 1915, he selected only three. Sheppard, who signed the work as “S.F.L” so as to not call attention to himself, changed the name, of course, to what we know it as today: “This Is My Father’s World”.

This hymn breathes from the heart of so many  of us still today when the troubles and strains of the world weigh heavy on our hearts and we long for the beauty of the created world to ease our burden. Perhaps now we can see in our minds, the land as Babcock did: the verdant forests of northern New York, stretching off to the horizon with the sun reflecting off the sliver-blue of Lake Ontario glittering in the autumn day.

This Is My Father’s World

This is my Father’s world,

And to my listening ears

All nature sings, and round me rings

The music of the spheres.

This is my Father’s world:

I rest me in the thought

Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;

His hand the wonders wrought.

This is my Father’s world,

The birds their carols raise,

The morning light, the lily white,

Declare their maker’s praise.

This is my Father’s world,

He shines in all that’s fair;

In the rustling grass I hear him pass;

He speaks to me everywhere.

This is my Father’s world

O let me ne’er forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong,

God is the ruler yet.

This is my Father’s world.

The battle is not done.

Jesus who died shall be satisfied,

And earth and heav’n be one.

Top 10 Books of All Time

I often find myself saying things like: ‘that is one of my favorite books of all time’ but I’ve never really sat down to compile such a list. This week I did so and I thought I share it. (These are in no particular order).

-          East of Eden by John Steinbeck

o   My favorite of all Steinbeck’s work. The epic scope of the novel, astounding descriptions of the California landscape, and biblical allusions are just some of the reasons that I love it. Cathy’s character is so utterly evil.

-          Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

o   On a completely different note, Cannery Row (and its sequel Sweet Thursday) is light and heart-felt, telling the episodic stories of Steinbeck’s vagabonds.

-          The Space Trilogy (specifically Perelandra) by C.S. Lewis

o   In my opinion, the Space Trilogy ranks ahead of The Chronicles of Narnia in terms of interesting spiritual allusions. The portrayal of Venus as the counter point to the fall of mankind on Earth is particularly vivid.

-          The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

o   No one need question my love of and devotion to this story which is broader in scope, plot, and fullness than most others especially in the fantasy genre.

-          The Road by Cormac McCarthy

o   While I am primarily drawn to McCarthy’s novels due to style. The reason why The Road jumps past Blood Meridian is the surprisingly hopeful light in which the author portrays the post-apocalyptic land.

-          The Nick Adams Stories by Ernest Hemingway

o   I’ve always preferred Hemingway’s short fiction to his novels. Nick Adams is Hemingway’s most enduring and self-reflective character. The fact that many of the early stories take place in Michigan is only icing on the cake.

-          To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

o   Amazingly I only read this for the first time last year. This novel presents the reality of racial divides and sin but does so with an unapproached hopeful perspective.

-          Freedom in Simplicity by Richard Foster

o   In thinking of non-fiction works that I return to over and over, Freedom in Simplicity has been underlined more than any other. I find myself returning to it to feel again the simplicity and purity of the gospel when everything else around feels complicated and chaotic.

-          Walden by Henry David Thoreau

o   The way Thoreau manages to draw deep thoughts from simple observations in the natural world is remarkable.

-          The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury

o   As a lover of the short form fiction, Bradbury’s collection of loosely related short stories about the colonization of Mars both intrigues me and gives me hope for my own fiction.

The Faithfulness of Abraham's God

Most of the time when we think of Abraham, we do so in the context of his faith. This is quite a natural response since both Paul and the author of Hebrews spend a lot of time emphasizing it. However, as we’ve been reading through the book, what has stood out to me is not Abraham’s faith but rather the faithfulness of Abraham’s God.

We meet Abraham as he is chosen by God, through no inherent justification of his own, to be the father of a great nation that would in turn bless the world. What we see after is a sequence of events demonstrating that this God was so faithful to His promise that He remains true in spite of Abraham repeatedly relying upon human logic to produce an heir (Ishmael) and save his wife (twice). Through it all God remained faithful because God IS faithful. It is an inexorable part of his nature. Not only does he forgive Abraham, but He remains so faithful to His promise that He blesses everyone associated with Abraham: Ishmael (who was not the promised child, yet still became the patriarch of nations), Lot, and even Lot’s daughters (who also produce nations through disreputable and decidedly un-family friendly means). In spite of these questionable circumstances, the Lord blessed them all because He had promised to bless Abraham. The Lord is so faithful that He will not (cannot) go back on his promise.

While it would be easy to apply this verse to show that God is forgiving of our failings (and this is not wrong), I believe there is a deeper truth here, and it involves who God is at the very core of His being. God is not simply faithful, He IS faithfulness. It is an inseparable aspect of His character.

Whether we acknowledge it or not, our actions are the direct result of our beliefs. By beliefs, I don’t mean truths to which we intellectually assent but rather the things we believe at the core of our being. If we believed, at the deepest level, that the Lord was faithful without limitation, how much more would our lives bear the fruit of obedience? How much richer would our faith be? How much less would doubt, insecurity, and complaining tempt us? These are just a few things to think about as we prepare to celebrate the ultimate fulfilment of God’s promise to bless the nations through Abraham’s descendants---Jesus’ incarnation.

Living in Confession

This isn’t some grand exposition. Rather it is more of a thought I had driving to church today.

Unfortunately, it seems that the longer we have been Christians, the less likely we are to admit our weaknesses. We see in the young and the young in the faith an exuberance that trumps all pretension. Whether they feel they have permission to not have their lives 100% in order or that they are so enamored with the love of Jesus Christ, they seem more willing to lay bare their lives for the sake of fellowship and sanctification. Perhaps as we age and establish more of a history as believers we feel that we should have it all together by now. We always talk about sin in the past tense. We only feel willing to share our struggles with others when we feel that we have properly managed them. How many of our limited years are wasted because we are not honest about our flaws and failings?

John writes in one of his letters: If we say we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

There are few of us who would claim that we don’t still struggle with sin. It would take quite a lot of delusion to claim that we were perfectly following Christ. Yet at the same time, we seem to be becoming less willing to own up to that reality. Contrary to our tendencies, the mark of the mature believer should be an increased willingness to confess our lingering sin and selfishness. The condemnation is gone, dead and buried. Our admission may well disqualify us in the standing of men and women who hold perfection as the requirement of faith. Our honesty might cost us. What we gain however, will far outweigh the cost. What we gain is healing, true community, and a renewed and honest relationship with our Creator.

James writes:

Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.

I think it’s time we confessed our sins. I think it’s time we admitted our frailties. It’s probably time to be open about our budgets, kids, marriages, our jobs, and our doubts. Our honesty will cost us. But our dishonesty will cost us far more.

The Tension of Ages

My family and I went out for a fall hike at Stinchfield Woods in Pinckney today. It was a beautiful hike (most of my excursions to Stinchfield have been) though my daughter’s little legs only lasted about two miles. As I drove home through downtown Dexter I passed a cemetery where sporadic, elegant maples towered above the manicured lawns and gravesites. The peak of autumn colors was still about a week or so away so only the slightest hints of their future glory shone in the afternoon sunlight. I marveled at height and breadth of the towering sentinels and wondered how many years it had taken for them to attain such heights. How many decades of drivers passed by or mourners wept in their shade?

The contrast for me was stark: here these stalwart organisms grew, towering up toward the sun outpacing their floral competition while beneath their boughs generations of humans lay buried beneath the good earth. It spoke to me of the transitory nature of man. Though long-lived for mammals, humans pale in comparison to other created things. Everything that encompasses this earthly life exists within the realm of our transitory nature. Our glories dissipate as we breathe our last (if not before) and the things we have accumulated pass into other hands, their meanings slowly lost over the years. We have little hope of any true, lasting impact even among those who we have loved. Eventually, monuments and memories fail and even the most world-shifting impacts become footnotes to history before they too are forgotten to the ages.

As morbid and futile as all this sounds, there is freedom in our transitory state too. All of the trials we struggle with are a breeze that blows but for a moment. All of the strife of this world will pass. The earth-shaking decisions and choices are mere bumps in the road of redemptive history. For those who trust in Christ, even the eventuality of the cessation of life is not final. For us, the comfort that comes in knowing the frailty and ephemerality of man outpaces the momentary troubles of the day, for we will rise.

As we in America struggle with the uncertainty and outright disgust of another presidential election, there remains a joy in knowing that these troubles, as mighty and desperate as they seem, will pass. History will continue. New crises will arise, new joys will be known. As we struggle with the pain and scars that are born from the innate sinfulness of man (there is no real denying that in our current age is there?) there comfort arises when we realize that no moment of time escapes the sight of God and that our history is bound to Christs’. One day, at the closing of our eyes or from the glimmer in the heavens, this age will pass away; our sorrows will be borne and we will experience the freedom and knowledge that comes in the presence of Christ. This, in no way, trivializes our time on this earth, in fact, it is the only way affecting change, calling out sin, or improving the human condition. Yet, it is not in our hands that history is laid.

Moses wrote of the temporal nature of man in Psalm 90:

Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God. You return man to dust and say, “Return, O children of man!” For a thousand years in your sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night…

The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away…

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom. Return, O Lord! How long? Have pity on your servants! Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all of our days. Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us, and for as many years as we have seen evil.

Our fleeting nature reminds us that the only change or victory comes from the hands of the Lord. My heart longs to pray with the patriarch as he cries out: “Return, O Lord!”, “Have pity on your servants!”, and “Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love.” This is the joy we can take from our frailty. This is the song we can sing knowing that our days are few. Help us to understand that we are dust and to dust shall return. While we tread the rocks and briars of this earth, satisfy us, and hear us as we rejoice in you; in that we shall forever be satisfied by you.

Ode to the Butterscotch Disc

There are many things which I am fully willing to admit that have been lost to our culture’s current obsession with technological progress. Reading, taking walks, honest to goodness conversations. All have suffered in our ever-pressing quest for the new, the better, and the best. Many things have been lost that should not have been lost; things forgotten that should be recalled. Yet at the same time, I am no luddite. Our technological advances have afforded us a multitude of comforts and luxuries. With all of our progress and ingenuity I am baffled at the continued existence of one particular product: the Butterscotch disc.

How is it that in 2016, with the array of absurd and wonderful confections we have access to, that some people are still consuming this hideous and outdated sugar sphere? Surely we have progressed enough that our taste buds demand more.

According to Wikipedia, the butterscotch disc was invented in the 1850’s. You know what else was invented in the 1850’s? The calliope. Also, the hand egg beater and the equatorial sextant. How many of those do we use on a every-day basis? Why then are we still consuming this faux toffee.

Now some of you might find this particular rabbit trail obscure. Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps there is still life in those humble amber discs. Perhaps. Or perhaps there is something more sinister lurking in the nether regions of that glass candy bowl sitting on the coffee table at your grandma’s house.

I may, however, be tainted in my distain for the “treat”. I still can recall the horrifying sensation that occurred when I was yet a child. As a youth I did not go to church regularly. Perhaps I attended on an Easter or a Christmas service, but the only time I found myself at church was with my grandmother who faithfully attended First Baptist Church of Ferndale. It was here that a shadow cast it’s pale gaze over my yet immature life. As I trailed along behind my grandmother on some errand or other, the pastor, a kindly man, offered me a piece of candy from the bowl sitting atop his desk. Innocent enough, huh? I did not steal the candy. I did not otherwise manipulate my way into this reward. It was simply offered, a gift as free as the gospel which would later change my heart. Yet this prize would not promise eternal life but, rather, something far darker.

I reached my tender hand into the bowl and, in the vague innocence of youth, fished out that most horrid of sweets wrapped in the sickly yellow plastic: the butterscotch disc. I don’t remember where I popped the candy into my mouth. It may have been the church or it may have been back at my grandparent’s house. Yet I remember in horrific detail the sensation as the hell-wrought confection lodged itself in my throat cutting off my supply of life-giving oxygen. In what seemed like hours I labored to free the disc which felt perpetually wedged in my esophagus while my grandmother rather calmly offered suggestions. Little did she know that I wrestled a struggle for my very life. Caught in the tendrils of the evil one I sputtered and gagged as the candy slowly dissolved, hoping beyond hope for relief from the pain. Only but for the grace of God did I escape to tell the tale. To this day the mere thought of such a disgusting sweet brings to mind the horrors that this fallen world is capable of. Perhaps, it was this connotation with my then-unregenerate life that led me to understand the connotation and implications of sin and death.

Heed my words friends. Do not be deceived into believing that nostalgia somehow tempers the intentions of this malevolent bonbon. In all our wisdom and progress we have yet to eradicate it from our penny candy jars. Halloween approaches. Spare those that you love the indignity and risk of consuming such a horror. I speak words of truth. Be warned, lest you too fall prey to its evil intent.

By the way, I’m not too keen on Butterscotch pudding either.