A dying art

    When I was younger, in the days when the only form of internet was DARPANet, you contacted people with letters (by hand even!) and occasional phone calls.  Even those phone calls were a rare thing between countries; between states and cities was just expensive enough to be worth careful consideration before engaging in. This lead to constant communication with a choice few, as it took time to write and send a letter, and even more time (on the order of a few days to weeks) for the letter to reach its destination.
    With the knowledge that what you write today would not be read for a while yet, you made sure that each line and word carried the appropriate meaning.  Plus, you were writing which meant that you had to think and consider what you wrote before you wrote it.  Writing letters was considered an art form that took in-school training to do well.
    My, how things have changed. With the advent of e-mail, instant messaging, Facebook, and the like, communication is instant and always within reach.  It now takes considerable and purposeful effort to be out-of-touch.  You can keep up with the minutiae of people's lives, even people you knew for a year of middle school 25 years ago and have never spoken to since!  So much information: what songs they like, what pictures they post, what chickens have hatched an egg, where they are having dinner and with whom...

  And yet I have to ask: of what good is this?  In the days of letter writing, the words held so much meaning as they were all that was had.  If someone wrote you a letter, it was an act of will to have written it.  Now we are so inundated with information that words are cheap, just as much as information.  We yell personal comments across the crowded Face-net where everyone can see and weigh in their opinions, when all we really wanted was to tell our friend we missed their smile.

  I think that so much instant communication cheapens the communication itself until it is no longer worth treasuring.  I see a day coming, that may already have come, when we prefer the mask of instant communication to personal contact.  When we hide behind words and opinions rather than facing people with carefully considered words of truth and love.  The Bible speaks of the quiet words of the wise in Ecclesiastes, and I think we are becoming so busy yelling out, "Pay attention to me!" that we no longer hear the quiet voices of wisdom.  Sit in silence.  Turn off the phone, the tablet, the computer, and talk to your family.  Spend time with your friends.  Savour your time together and remember it in quietude as the days pass.

The Inquisition

  When Jesus walked the earth, all those many years ago, he spoke with rich and poor, men and women, even little children, calling them all to himself.  He reached tenderly to the hearts and met the needs of so many with grace and piercing insight.  Yet he was a man without a home, with no place to lay his head.  He placed a good deal of emphasis on the good soil of a person's heart, for though he spoke to the hard-hearted many times, it is clear that for most it was "easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

  Riches and hard hearts go hand in hand in Jesus' teaching, indeed, throughout most of scripture.  There are the exceptions: David, Zacchaeus, Matthew, Solomon, and some others.  But for the most part it appears that riches have a hardening effect; it is like wealth sucks the moisture from the soul leaving it dry and hard.  So what about me?  I am rich, at least, when compared with so many around me.  I live in a nice apartment with plenty of food and toys.  I have air conditioning and my children go to a private school.  I have money saved up for retirement, a fair chunk.  Are these riches hardening me?

  Would I even know?  Does the ant trapped in amber know it will soon be forever encased while it struggles?  I fear that my eyes are not as open as I think.  My lord and master focused on the poor, those who know their need for a saviour, who have so little to hope for.  And yet here I am, focusing my time on the rich.  I have most of my life.  It is my calling, I say, for do they not also need a Saviour?  Surely, but success has been so scarce.

  In this time of enlightenment and free speech, I can speak of my Lord, his death and resurrection, without fear of retribution.  So then why is it such a rare speech on my lips?  Oh sure, I acknowledge his role in every facet of my life, to anyone who lends an ear, but....but....is that enough?

  In Cartagena, my family and friends were taken on a tour of the Governor's Residence, which shared walls with the residence of the Inquisition when it was in town, so many years ago.  This was an extension of the Spanish Inquisition of legend, those who tortured people so cruelly in the supposed attempt to exonerate their soul.  At that time, all it took was an accusation, based in truth or lie, to put them to the tongs.  A simple offense could place you in the rack if you did not amend it in time.

  The cost for speaking of Jesus as Lord as one you know personally, apart from the Church and its traditions, would certainly put you in danger of being purified.  Would I have spoken up then?  Would I have placed my family and myself at risk, simply to pledge myself to an unseen Lord?  I don't think so.  Then as now, I would have followed the prescribed method of speaking carefully and in the right times and places, of applying tact to my own beliefs.  I would have hidden the Light within me within my layers of amber as counseled.

  Am I any different now?  It is no longer the rack or the stocks but the derision and scoffing that threaten me with so many feathery strokes.  Watch me disappear and speak silent words, living in a dead hope of my own traditions and excuses.  See me keep my family healthy and well fed, provided for with so many powerless words.  Look to the future, where I raise children and support a wife that adapts to the world we live in.

My Saviour died for the world.  I hide for it.

Rain

Rain comes often to this country, usually in the afternoon.  Yesterday it rained 4-5 times just in our little neighbourhood.  I love the pitter-patter sound of rain on the roofs and streets, the sound of taxis and pedestrians splashing their way down the street.  It is a soothing sound ushering in the replenishment of moisture and reminder of the variations of nature.

Consider the rain.  A sprinkling is a brief bit of sky-spittle reminding us that water exists just beyond our grasp, but keeps us hoping.  A light rain cools our feet and softens our brows.  A good rain wets the ground and cools the air, washing dirt and grime where it wishes.  It is pleasant and pleasing to the soul.  Then there is a pelting, when it seems the drops strike the surface with an angry vengeance.  A storm comes with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, knocking down leaves and keeping us huddled indoors.  The worse is gets, the more destructive it becomes, crushing houses and trees, reshaping hillsides and transplanting large vehicles with its floods.  In the worst times, the storm engulfed the entire world in its wrath.

  I love the rain in all its devices.  It reminds me that I am but a small force on a large planet.  It reminds me of God.  He is the quiet gentle whisper of promises of peace to come.  He is the one that cools our souls and gives us rest.  He cleanses us gently with soft warmth and love.  He judges with fire and heat, scourging our souls with pain and agony that we might turn to him and live.  If we still refuse, God wipes us away with a flick of his hand, leveling mountains of mankind's power and strength.

  My God, the Lord God, who is and has always been and forever will be, is calling me with letters of love, whispering to me of his kindness and gentleness, of his power and might.  Through the rain, he beckons to my soul.  I am refreshed.