Time with Tim

An opportunity to ask the hard questions about our faith, our core beliefs, and our traditions, and get reliable answers from a loving Brother in Christ.

Send your questions and/or comments to Tim via e-mail at
easteregg1958@yahoo.com.

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Swordplay, or Playing with Swords?

It always concerns me when I consider the numbers in our fellowship who don’t avail themselves of any of the opportunities we provide for Bible study. I’ve talked to a number of people who don’t take advantage of Sunday School, or Wednesday night, or Saturday morning classes. When asked, most of the same folks admit they have no real personal study time, either. “Now Tim,” someone is already thinking, “I’m in worship every Sunday. Are you saying Bruce’s sermons aren’t adequately teaching me the Bible? Why, the way he makes us flip back and forth from one book to another is downright aerobic! I can find any of the sixty-six books in under ten seconds!” Well, let me make myself plain as day: yes! Yes, Bruce’s sound, biblical messages are woefully inadequate if you are depending on them as your sole source of study. It’s okay; Bruce would agree with me wholeheartedly.

All four Gospels record an event in the life of Simon Peter that is at once comical and pathetic. During the arrest of Jesus in the garden, Peter, fisherman extraordinaire, draws a sword from the folds of his clothing and deftly severs the ear of the High Priest’s slave, Malchus (see Matthew 26:51-54, Mark 14:47, Luke 22:49-51, John 18:10-11). Did I say deftly? I was kidding, of course. Peter was intending to cleave the head of Malchus in two. He missed the mark by several inches. But that’s to be expected; Peter was a fisherman by trade, not a professional soldier. Casting a net required entirely different motor skills and hand/eye coordination from wielding a blade. An accomplished swordsman could have carved the slave up with surgical precision.

Without trying to allegorize Scripture beyond what is warranted, I think there is an obvious analogy in Peter’s actions to the casual Bible student. Throughout the New Testament, the word of God is described with the figure of a sword. In Ephesians 6:17, Paul calls the word “the sword of the Spirit”. The Hebrew writer declares the word to be “living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” (Hebrews 4:12). Laser surgery seems crude by comparison! John’s vision of Jesus in the Revelation includes this description: “and out of His mouth came a sharp two-edged sword”, an obvious reference to the words the Lord speaks.

So what’s my point? (Pun intended.) Just this, in case you haven’t caught on by now. Peter was a rank amateur with a sword. So is the Christian who doesn’t discipline himself in the use of the only offensive weapon in the arsenal of spiritual warfare – God’s word.  Imagine for a moment that you visited a war museum once a week for your entire lifetime. Every visit you pay the admission price, go through the gate, and make your way directly to your favorite exhibit – a display case featuring “Swords Through the Centuries”. You focus your attention on your favorite piece, a First Century Roman broadsword. You read the historical data on the accompanying plaque (which you’ve long-since memorized). Only this week is different. From out of nowhere, a madman breaks into your reverie wielding an axe he has taken from another exhibit. He swings it at your head, but you duck out of the way. The axe smashes the glass case behind you and sends cutlery clattering to the floor. As your attacker struggles to regain his balance, you notice the broadsword you have admired for decades lying at your feet. The axeman turns on you again. You’re cornered; you must defend yourself or die. Desperately, you reach down and grasp the weapon. Now, are you confident that all those years of casual observance have equipped you for this moment?

Swordplay is serious business. Ancient soldiers honed their skills for years. Spiritual warfare is no less lethal, and requires no less training. In his final letter, Paul told his student Timothy, “Be diligent to present yourself approved to God as a workman who does not need to be ashamed, handling accurately the word of truth.” (II Timothy 2:15). He wrote to the Corinthians, “For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh, for the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh, but divinely powerful for the destruction of fortresses.” (II Corinthians 10:3-4).  Jesus Himself relied on nothing less than a thorough knowledge and application of Scripture when He faced Satan one-on-one in the wilderness.  Sooner or later, every soldier of the Cross finds himself standing in the breach, called upon to hold the line. He looks around, and his preacher, or elder, or grandmother, or blogger isn’t there to shield him, or even help him hold his sword. Will he be ready? Will a demonic foe be sent reeling from a stroke delivered by a well-trained hand, or simply antagonized by a glancing blow that missed the mark? You decide.

Thanks for your time,

Tim         

Time After Time

Recently we rented the movie “The Time Traveler’s Wife”. The plot centers around a man who is helplessly bounced back and forth between the past, present, and future of his lifespan. One moment he might be talking to his wife in the present, the next visiting her as a little girl. Frivolous as it might seem, imagine for a moment what that would be like. Well, I think I’ve just experienced sort of the same thing. It’s our screen saver.

Shortly after Elisa and I were married, I bought her her first digital camera. It wasn’t fancy; in fact it came as part of a “package deal” with a printer. She started snapping the shutter as soon as the battery was installed, and hasn’t stopped since. Several years and a camera upgrade later, our screen saver consists of over 5,000 randomly changing selections from our years together.

If the pictures were ordered chronologically, the effect would be powerful enough.  At ten seconds per frame, if I’ve done the math right, I could watch nine and a half years of life pass in about fourteen hours. But jumping back and forth between images separated sometimes by several years is much more dramatic. One moment I might see our large, comfortable house in Ionia, the next our home on wheels in my brother’s driveway. Next might be an image of my big buddy Argus with graying muzzle, followed by one of him as a stocky puppy, all feet. There’s one of Napoleon as a much smaller puppy when he barely filled my hand, right after one of him filling my lap. Many of the pictures are of Angel and Julie who have both since gone to kitty heaven. Just this evening I’ve seen the Malibu we currently drive, the Dakota I used to drive, and Elisa’s Cavalier that was turned into a bright yellow accordion by a man in an F-250 who didn’t know how to drive. In the later photos, we’re grandparents; in the earlier ones, we’re not. Two things struck me as I sat hypnotically reviewing snapshots of the last decade of my existence.

First, time flies. Face it, life’s short. In less than ten years, dogs were born, cats died, we bought and lost a house, drove seven cars, joined two churches, saw one generation of family pass into eternity and another come into the world. Moses (who, by the way, lived to be 120) wrote in Psalm 90:12, “So teach us to number our days, that we may present to Thee a heart of wisdom.” In an odd sort of way, shuffling the visual record drives this point home. Elisa snapped a couple pictures of me during a hike at Hartwick Pines State Park about five years ago. Now I work hard at staying in shape, but a mere glance at those images tells me I’m losing that fight. None of has much time here. Make it count for the Lord!

Second, I’m glad God is God and I’m not. Imagine what it would be like to exist eternally outside of time and space, seeing everything there is to see always and all at once. Not 5,000 still frames of frozen-in-time moments from two people’s lives, but motion picture documentation of everything playing simultaneously in a continuous loop. Now I’m not suggesting that omniscience is a hard thing for God, just that I’m content that’s His responsibility and not mine. Some theologians suggest that when we put on immortality (see I Corinthians 15), we will live in the eternal now and experience everything the way God does. I’m not sure that’s possible. We will never be God. We can never be eternal, because we had a beginning. We can never be infinite, because we are limited by our creaturehood. We can never be independent, because we depend on Him for our very existence. Whatever heaven is going to be like, I’m not at all convinced that we won’t continue to be limited by time and space there. The difference is that neither time nor space will end. Mindboggling? That’s my point. I’m content to be a creature in the realm of my Creator.

“Remember the former things long past,

For I am God, and there is no other;

I am God, and there is no one like Me,

Declaring the end from the beginning

And from ancient times things which have not been done,

Saying, ‘My purpose will be established,

And I will accomplish all My good pleasure.’” – Isaiah46:9-10

Thanks for your time,

Tim

The Wonder Years

I’ve managed to take in two fireworks displays this summer. One was the big Fourth of July show downtown; the other was a much more modest presentation at a Whitecaps game last Friday night. No matter. Fireworks always bring to my mind a story fondly told in my family, a story of my big sister’s first such experience. I’m not sure just how old Dottie was, but she is six years my senior and I hadn’t yet arrived on the scene. Suffice it to say she was in the wonder years. Anyway, the story goes like this. It seems that with the first burst of sound and color in the sky above her, she gasped and, looking wide-eyed at our father, exclaimed, “Do it again, Daddy!” As each subsequent rocket ignited overhead, she would giggle gleefully, clap her little hands, and repeat her delighted plea, “Do it again, Daddy!”

Dottie and I sat together on the Pearl Street Bridge last month for the big show. Our father is long gone. Although she did her share of “oohing” and “ahhing”, I doubt that, had he been with us, she would have given him the credit she once did. With the passing of the wonder years goes the notion that daddies are omnipotent, or for that matter, omniscient. I recall the first time in my early childhood that Dad answered my incessant questioning with the three words most likely to rock a little boy’s world: “I don’t know.” “What?” I innocently responded, “You mean you don’t know everything?” I was so profoundly disturbed by that revelation that I cried myself to sleep that night. (Little did I know how soon I would arrive at the conclusion that my parents didn’t know anything.) I can’t overstate how profoundly my life was changed by those three words. If my father didn’t know everything there was to know, and couldn’t do anything he wanted to do, where did that leave me as a son?

I’m so thankful I eventually came to realize that fathers are the same as just about everything else in this fallen world. They are a mere shadow of a heavenly reality. I do in fact have a Father who knows everything and can do anything. I’ve seen His splendor displayed in the skies in ways that make the most spectacular pyrotechnics pale by comparison. I’ve felt the earth tremble as His thunder rolls from one horizon to the other. And I’ve gone to Him time and again with questions that defy human wisdom, never once to be told, “I don’t know.” He has all the answers.

When C.S. Lewis came to saving faith well into adulthood, he was reborn in the truest sense. This sophisticated man of letters recaptured the wonder years. His mind became the playground of a child of God, a playground God’s children continue to visit in droves. I think this is exactly what our Heavenly Father wants for all of us. He wants to redeem the wonder years. He wants us to find comfort in the truth that He knows everything there is to know. He wants us to delight in His awesome power “ to do exceedingly abundantly beyond all that we ask or think” (Eph. 3:20). He wants to wow us, and He wants the credit.

My favorite Ziggy cartoon consists of a single frame. Ziggy sits on a hillside, clapping his hands as he watches the sun set over the crest of another hill. The caption reads simply, “Go, God!” Want to feel like a child again? Want to recapture the wonder years? Then start acting like the child of a Father who knows everything and can do anything. Go ahead, I dare ya’. In fact, I triple-dog dare ya”! Next time you’re in the middle of a thunderstorm, and the lightning flashes and the thunder crashes, I dare you to clap your hands, giggle with glee, and squeal at the top of your lungs, “Do it again, Daddy!” What’s that? No, it doesn’t matter who sees or hears you. Of course they’ll think you’re crazy. That’s okay, ‘cuz you’ll know you’re the sanest one there. Besides, don’t you want your Daddy to get the credit? He deserves it! “Do it again, Daddy!”

Thanks for your time,

Tim

It Stinks, Doesn't It?

Moms and Dads, I begin this entry with an obligatory caution. Some of the contents might not be suitable for younger readers. But then I hope your younger readers don’t have unsupervised Internet access in the first place. At any rate, please use discretion in sharing this with them.

Every weekday I have about a seven minute walk to the parole office from where I park the car. My afternoon return is only six minutes ‘cause it’s downhill. Each way I pass the recessed entryway of an old theater on Monroe Center. As the winter weather gave way to spring and warmed into summer, a strong aroma began to emanate from the shadows of that old movie house – the unmistakable odor of urine. For months it has seemed to grow more potent by the day. That is, until this afternoon. As I neared the theater on my way home, a very different but no less familiar scent began to fill my nostrils – chlorine. Though not my favorite fragrance, it was a welcome change from what I had endured twice daily for many weeks. The city finally had enough sense (or scents) to do something about that stinking doorway that was ruining my pedestrian commute! I mean, after all, don’t I have the right to walk the streets of my own hometown without my stomach being turned by the nasty habits of men too lazy or uncivilized to find a bathroom? Why, if it were up to me…What? What’s that, Lord?

“I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink; I was a stranger, and you invited me in.”

Okay, Lord, but let’s get real. Let’s define “homeless”. A lot of those guys are there by choice. They don’t want to work. They don’t want to be responsible for themselves. Why should they be allowed to get away with taking advantage of the system?

“Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, this he will also reap.”

But, Lord, look at all the resources the government is pouring into welfare programs, and the problem just keeps getting bigger! Surely the world’s answer to social problems can’t be right: more money, more food, more homeless shelters and subsidized housing!

“And his master praised the unrighteous steward because he had acted shrewdly; for the sons of this age are more shrewd in relation to their own kind than the sons of light.”

 Now don’t go misunderstanding me. I’m socially and politically as far right as they come. I don’t believe welfare is the purview of the government. The church has done a much better job through the centuries, because feeding, clothing, and housing the hungry, naked, and homeless is about restoring the image of God in fallen man. When did we lose that sense of responsibility? When did it default to the state? How is it that I could walk past that stinking doorway day after day, week after week, month after month, and all I could think was, “Good grief! Why doesn’t the city clean that up?” Why wasn’t I thanking God that, after all, I had a pot to ____in? Why wasn’t I back at Plainfield pleading with the saints to bring the fragrant aroma of life to adowntown that is dying? Why was I, Mr. Conservative, so giddy when the problem was doused with  taxpayer bleach?

I’ll tell you why. It let me forget. It let me forget that men, women, and children eat, sleep, and relieve themselves in the streets of Grand Rapids. It let me forget that “there, but for the grace of God, go I.” It let me forget the apostle’s burning question:

“But whoever has the world’s goods, and beholds his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?”

Gracious Father, thank You for the stark, sometimes stinky reminders that we have so much to offer so many in the name of Jesus. Help us not to be repulsed by the odor of death around us, nor seek to wash it away, save by the blood of Him who makes all things new again. Amen.

Thanks for your time,

Tim