While preparing to present the "Becoming a Contagious Christian" course, I watched a series of curbside questionnaires in which random people were asked to comment on their belief in God and how to get into heaven. Why was I not surprised when the responses were typically post-modern, ranging from rambling agnosticism to a determined opposition to a biblical world view?
A core aspect of resistance to the gospel message is the denial of the "setup" to the gospel. The "setup" refers to prevailing conditions that make the advent of the message of salvation necessary and good. If a grubby fireman manhandled you while you were walking down main street, you would be upset and demand an explanation. If the same fireman manhandled you as he rescued you from a burning building, you would receive the gesture in an entirely different way. What we believe to be the prevailing conditions of our times has a huge effect on how we receive the gospel. People are prepared to acknowledge the possibility that all of mankind is in extreme peril. However they are not prepared to entertain the idea that the holiness of an unseen God should be their greatest concern.
As crazy as this sounds, with all the threats of disease, war, poverty and other social ills, the greatest threat to mankind's enduring prosperity and blessing is the Creator Himself.
People would say "Surely, if a such God exists, then a biblical version of Him would be loving and forgiving?" Why should he be regarded as our primary concern in a world of earthquakes, floods, crime and the like? The answer to that question lies not in the portals of heaven, but inside ourselves.
The problem exists in the tendency of every person to believe in his or her own tailor-made brand of virtue. I'm referring to the inner accountant in all of us that will not rest until we justify our iniquities to somehow "balance the books" and remove any moral debt we may owe. We have re-educated our consciences and validated every instinct, desire and drive that emerges from the human heart, calling it "expression" and an aspect of individuality.
Our refusal to accept and submit to a divine moral code has ruined or removed our "compass" and without knowing it we have steered our "vessels" onto a warpath against God. He has remained unchanged and He signals us with the terms of peace, otherwise known as the gospel. Unless we accept his terms, this war will be our Waterloo.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
In the mood
As a member of an immigrant family growing up in South Africa, I can look back on certain levels of disconnection that occurred over three decades of separation from my birth country.
One of the most curious symptoms of our self imposed exile was loss of extended family perception. My father was an only child who lost his parents before my "conscious" years. Yes, as a contented child with an active private imagination, I was socially comatose till I was about 11 years old. The awkwardness of puberty finally provided the smelling salts to jolt my awareness of others to an acceptable level.
A few of dad's aunts paid us visits in the African sunshine. One such aunt survives to today, and provided a wealth of genealogical information on a recent visit my Dad and I paid her in England. Another aunt, Annie (as in get your gun!) now deceased, was a gregarious, chain-smoking, irresistible character. She was a real toughie, hardened by life in the industrial north of England. Her gritty, straight-talking humour made her all the more endearing. No amount of self indulgence or tactless commentary could tarnish her charm.
My mother came from a large family that had been emotionally removed from our world through a series of alienations involving death, step-parents, and probably the divide between Catholic and Protestant. In the end we were truly a nuclear family in a new land. In many ways, moving my wife and children to the USA is a deja vu experience. Hopefully the first experience will enlighten the second.
On occasion during my childhood, I remember my mother talking about trying to pull back the curtain of isolation that she found herself behind. Her intention was to write letters to family and, more specifically, friends. Back then, snail mail was the only mail. Letter writing was by hand as the word processor was not a domestic accessory. Typewriters were for professional typists or writers. As a result, letter writing was time consuming and almost ritualistic in nature. The expense of time continued long after the posting of the filled envelope, as weeks would pass before a letter reached it's overseas destination.
The rigour of communication through letter-writing prompted my mother to speak of the need to be in a "letter-writing mood". As a matter of fact, the absence of this "mood" provoked years, yes, years of procrastination. The procrastination would finally be interrupted by an avalanche of guilt when an intended recipient beat her "to the draw" and send her a letter first.
The absence of the "letter writing mood" is the only way I can account for the silence on this page. The fact that my life seemed trapped in an impenetrable moratorium for months is a factor. But it would be poor to use as an excuse. I should write more in times of less business.
One of the most curious symptoms of our self imposed exile was loss of extended family perception. My father was an only child who lost his parents before my "conscious" years. Yes, as a contented child with an active private imagination, I was socially comatose till I was about 11 years old. The awkwardness of puberty finally provided the smelling salts to jolt my awareness of others to an acceptable level.
A few of dad's aunts paid us visits in the African sunshine. One such aunt survives to today, and provided a wealth of genealogical information on a recent visit my Dad and I paid her in England. Another aunt, Annie (as in get your gun!) now deceased, was a gregarious, chain-smoking, irresistible character. She was a real toughie, hardened by life in the industrial north of England. Her gritty, straight-talking humour made her all the more endearing. No amount of self indulgence or tactless commentary could tarnish her charm.
My mother came from a large family that had been emotionally removed from our world through a series of alienations involving death, step-parents, and probably the divide between Catholic and Protestant. In the end we were truly a nuclear family in a new land. In many ways, moving my wife and children to the USA is a deja vu experience. Hopefully the first experience will enlighten the second.
On occasion during my childhood, I remember my mother talking about trying to pull back the curtain of isolation that she found herself behind. Her intention was to write letters to family and, more specifically, friends. Back then, snail mail was the only mail. Letter writing was by hand as the word processor was not a domestic accessory. Typewriters were for professional typists or writers. As a result, letter writing was time consuming and almost ritualistic in nature. The expense of time continued long after the posting of the filled envelope, as weeks would pass before a letter reached it's overseas destination.
The rigour of communication through letter-writing prompted my mother to speak of the need to be in a "letter-writing mood". As a matter of fact, the absence of this "mood" provoked years, yes, years of procrastination. The procrastination would finally be interrupted by an avalanche of guilt when an intended recipient beat her "to the draw" and send her a letter first.
The absence of the "letter writing mood" is the only way I can account for the silence on this page. The fact that my life seemed trapped in an impenetrable moratorium for months is a factor. But it would be poor to use as an excuse. I should write more in times of less business.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
The Love Boat
The time has come to offically introduce my car to the world.
After using Shank's pony for a month or so, one of the church directors, John Tosy, undertook to sort me out with a vehicle. He would kindly pay for it and his wife, Mary Ellen would pay my first year of insurance.
Despite the fall in automobile prices, finding a car to fit the budget required that we do some "bottom feeding". We headed off to Helping Hands where cars are donated for a tax rebate and then sold to generate funds for charity.
As we were picking our way through the wrecks, my future ride was dropped off at the yard. We snapped it up, even though it had a siezed water pump and burnt out belt. It is a 1995 Mercury Sable GS. 3.0l V6 engine, which Americans describe as "economical".
It is white, so Heather named it the "Snow Mobile" in anticipation of the coming weather. When the snow finally fell, we realised how white snow is and how grotty the car colour is!
Some church members have named it the "White Cloud" My elevated driveway causes it to hover over the church parking lot like a small Cumulonimbus when it is parked.
It has the coolest headlight configuration. Where other cars have a radiator grill, mine has an illuminated panel that stretches between the headlights into one long "unibrow". Making my car look like a space ship at night! Step aside Cylons!
However, my preferred name for the car is derived from the nautical lines of the car. It has a funny flatness over the rear wheel arch which is reminicant of a boat. It has no metal rear window stays. The glass wraps around the rear of the car continuously, looking like a luxury yacht. The interior is blue. And I mean blue. It even drives like a boat. Chugging along, drifting carelessly from side to side with the slightest nudge of the wheel.
Yes, my car is the love boat. I don't care how high you lift your eyebrows when I say it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
