“to love that well”

                                                           

I had seen death before.
But I hadn’t felt its dagger slice into me like it did when my dad died.
He was alive one day.  The next day he was dead.
Death became shockingly personal, and when it does your world stops.
Oh yes, the world goes on, outside of you.  Its apparent indifference stuns you. 
Like the grieving mother in Robert Frost’s “Home Burial” you want to say: “…the world’s evil. I won’t have grief so/ If I can change it./ Oh, I won’t, I won’t.”
The sudden death of someone close freezes your mind into disbelief.  And it silences your tongue.
Weeping and groaning are the language of mourning. 
You dig your nails in the earth, bury your tears in the pillow at its finality.

Only poets plumb the depths of overwhelming feelings and sometimes find words to express them.
I think I brought something of that painful, personal encounter with the sudden death of a parent to my teaching later on.  In literature one is never far away from death; often, too often, as Ernest Hemingway observed, “…the death of the very good and the very gentle and the very brave.”

When I joined the Calvin College English department in 1968, I did not expect that the death of the very good and the very gentle and the very brave would strike so terribly close, again and again.
But it did.
Prof. Henry Zylstra, chair of the department, had collapsed in 1956 on the streets of Amsterdam from a heart attack at the age of 47.  But he would not be the last.
Harmon Hook died in 1974 from a brain tumor at age 39.
Stanley Wiersma, while on a Fulbright as Henry Zylstra had been, died in 1986 at age 55 in Amsterdam from complications following emergency surgery.
Howard McConaughy, in his first year at Calvin, died in 1992 of liver cancer, only weeks after diagnosis, at the age of 34.
Kenneth Kuiper died in 1998 at age 68, before he could enjoy the rewards of retirement, from a lingering illness.
Lionel Basney, a man of profound knowledge and wisdom, died in 1999 at age 52 from accidental drowning.
William Vande Kopple, vibrant with life and laughter, died in 2013 at age 63 shortly after a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.
Anne Schmidt, beloved wife of English professor Gary Schmidt, died at age 55 not many days after a diagnosis of liver cancer.

These were good people who were taken before they or we could anticipate such a final farewell.
And they left huge holes, precisely because their lives had been such an important part of our own.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” said Dylan Thomas.
And we did.  Students too. 
Students spoke fondly of Henry Zylstra’s classes as “a revelation.”  He gave all of us “more to be Christian with.”
They remembered Harmon Hook as one who gave joy and light to others, who taught as a person, not professor, teaching them as people, and not as students.

The reality of someone you knew and felt close to suddenly disappearing from your world stuns the mind into incomprehension and plunges you into the dark valley of grief.  A treasured relationship is cut off.  You realize, maybe for the first time, that there was love in that relationship, and your heart aches with its absence.  Perhaps none of us ever gets used to someone special being gone.  Deep down, the loss is always felt.  And the admonition of Shakespeare inhabits our being more forcefully:
   “This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

Yes, we mourn the losses in our life.  We stumble in our sadness, sometimes we fall.
But the words that Stan Wiersma left behind in a sealed letter stir us to rise: “There is work to be done and a lovely world to be inherited more fully….”

Thus we rise again, for God gives us, the living, work to do.  As Tolkien reminds us: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”
And God gives us faith – the faith of Kenneth Kuiper who wrote: “The most important tombstone for us … is the round one … which was rolled away by the angel of the Lord from Jesus’ tomb…. chiseled into our hearts and minds are the words of the young men in long white garments, ‘HE IS RISEN.’
And so shall we be.”

Therefore, “let evening come…don’t be afraid…God does not leave us comfortless.” (Jane Kenyon)

 

Ruach

    

   

before light and life

the Spirit hovered over the waters

hovered over Mary

hovered over me

when cells began to knit together

fearfully, wonderfully

 

and then, the breath of life

eyes to see a light

ears to hear a voice

and,

touch of mother skin

 

sudden shock of water

words ringing, singing in my ear

an unseen dove?

an unheard voice above?

“mine, mine, mine”

 

wind, air blowing hair

stirring something strange within

a tongue of fire

burning, turning

feet back to the House

to say I do, I do, I do

 

beyond,

the sometime killing fields

valleys of dry bones

vales of tears

hollowed lives

and from among the ruins

the cry of “why, why, why”

 

but then, but there

in the midst of rubble

the wind blows

a flower grows

a bird is heard

and

oh glory

the cry

of a new-born child

 

nearby

the Spirit hovers still

 

 

 

"Puddle-wonderful"

if you made us for reveling in the sheer force of life
that has exploded all around
for shouting and dancing at the boldness of the first daffodil
and gasping in wonder at the delicate temerity of the early trillium
for the soul’s inhaling of the smell of fresh-mown grass
and the pungent fragrance of the lilac bush…

then we give glory, glory, glory to your all-creating power!

to be awake and wholly alive
to the jubilant rites of spring
when the first robin tunes nature’s orchestra
when nature’s first green turns gold
when spring breezes unglue the artfully folded buds
and “the world is puddle-wonderful”

then, with wide-eyed wonder of infancy still within
to the Giver of new flowers and the songs of birds
and the good green earth ever renewing
world without end -
we give thanks
for this our Father’s world…

                                            -adapted from Talking with God

After Easter

A small group of confused disciples, huddled behind locked doors somewhere in Jerusalem, stunned by the sudden appearance of their living Rabboni.
And then those words: “As the Father sent me, so send I you.” (John 20:21)
Simple words, but fearful in meaning.

For the Father sent his Son as a sheep among wolves, sent his Son into the valley of death, sent his Son from heaven to hell.
An earthly father would sacrifice nearly everything to save his son.
The heavenly Father sacrificed his Son to save nearly everything.

Simple words that could hardly sink in all at once.
For their Lord was sending them out into the dangers and death of true discipleship
.

To be in the center of the curious crowds had often been exhilarating.
To distribute the baskets of fish to the hungry thousands had been positively heady.
To sit at his feet and be the privileged of the inner circle had been deeply satisfying.
They had been called to follow, and they had.

But now they were being sent, and they trembled at this new calling.
For now began the real test of their faith: danger, scorn, rejection, betrayal, torture, death – the way of their Lord.
And that Lord said: “…so send I you.”

They could’ve turned a deaf ear. 
They could’ve run. 
They could’ve looked at each other and said, “You do it.”
But they didn’t. 
As the Son had obeyed the Father, so they obeyed the Son.

The doubting Thomas presumably took the Good News to Parthia, Persia, and India.
Mark established the Christian church in Alexandria.
James became a martyr under Herod Agrippa I,
Peter under Nero.
Matthew is said to have suffered martyrdom in Ethiopia,
Bartholomew in Armenia,
Thomas in India,
Andrew in Achaia,
Matthias stoned and then beheaded.
And thousands who came after them, for the cost of discipleship is high.

The willingness to sacrifice a throne in exchange for a cross is incomprehensible to us, or safety in exchange for suffering..
Incomprehensible, unless the Lord of new life breaks through the barred gates of our lives;
unless the risen Christ breathes on us the power of the Holy Spirit.
For when that happens, the called become the sent.

To the far ends of the earth?

Maybe.
But the place surely includes our community, our workplace, our church, our school, our home.
That may not lead to a martyr’s death, but it constitutes as real a test of our true discipleship,
as it did for Andrew, Peter, James, and all the others.
For Jesus said: “So send I you.”

Does that really mean me?

Beyond Expectation

Now that he has risen,
our eyes can conquer
fear.

Raise heads
and with the trees
reach out a hand.

It will come soon:
in windlessness and fire,
birds over land,
an almighty Dove.

Wait, and your voice
will be understood..

                         -Jan Dotinga
                          transl. from Frisian - hjb

A Pilgrimage to the Holy Land

We’re back from the land where God appeared and spoke to men.
We were in the country of Abraham and Samuel and Isaiah and Jeremiah.
We were in the place where God became Man.
And we stood near the place where that God-Man was nailed to the cross, died, was buried, and arose.
We’re back, but we’re not the same.

We’re not the same, for we were at Ibillin where we witnessed the power of a faith vision, where Father Chacour, now Archbishop of Galilee, built from nothing a set of first-rate educational institutions that hold hope for the 3000 Palestinian children and adults who attend.
We’re not the same for we heard him tell us that surely Israel needs our friendship and should continue to receive it, but also to remember that Palestinians are paying the bill for what others have done against his beloved Jewish brothers and sisters in the Holocaust and Auschwitz and other death camps.  We were painfully reminded of those words when we heard the stories of our Palestinian Christian tour guide and saw the disturbing contrasts within the West Bank and the obscene wall in Bethlehem.  With Christ we weep over Jerusalem and this divided people.

We’re not the same, for we were at the Al Basma Center in Bethlehem and danced with a smiling group of disabled Palestinian youth and adults whose lives are being transformed through vocational training  where they grow pride in the products they learn to make and skills they master.
The Center receives no support from the State of Israel, and we were deeply moved by the loving spirit that gives rise to this place within a community of meager means.

We’re not the same, for we walked the rocky ground where the “father of all believers” walked, where Saul lived and died in battle, where David hid in caves, where Hezekiah built his tunnel, where Herod designed and planted his many opulent palaces and where he was buried in a magnificent tomb that had been years in the making, now as reduced to ruin as was his worm-eaten body.

We’re not the same, for the baby Herod thought he had killed grew into the Messiah. 
We stood in the rushing waters of the Jordan, remembering his baptism, held hands, prayed, and sang “When Peace like a River.” 
On a high rocky hill that looked down on the Sea of Galilee, we sat in the grass around Pastor Bill who recited from memory Jesus’ most memorable sermon.  The power of our Savior’s words in Matthew 5 moved us deeply; we will never read that chapter in the same way again. 

We’re not the same, for we walked the Son of Man’s final journey, the journey of Holy Week.  
Each of us found a quiet place in the Garden of Gethsemane for meditation and prayer.
Then we descended into the noisy, narrow streets of Jerusalem and followed the Via Dolorosa along the Stations of the Cross and remembered that the Lord of lords stumbled here under the weight of a sin-laden cross on which he would be crucified as the most despised of criminals.
And when at last we approached the Place of the Skull, we remembered the words we had sung in the Jordan: “My sin – oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! – my sin, not in part, but the whole, is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul.”
Then, our pilgrimage ending in the Garden Tomb, we commemorated in Holy Communion the Savior’s body broken and blood shed for our eternal healing.  Each of us took a small stone from the “altar” as a permanent reminder of this holy moment, the words of the hymn welling up in our soul:
“What language shall I borrow to thank you dearest Friend,
for this your dying sorrow, your mercy without end? 
Lord, make me yours forever, a loyal servant true,
and let me never, never outlive my love for you.”
                                                                                                                                      

[Note: for a detailed account of our pilgrimage, see the excellent blog Mike VanDenend kept: calvinalumniassociation.blogspot.com]

Dona nobis pacem

 

In the world’s most memorable sermon, the Man of Galilee said to a world haunted by violence: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
                                                                           *~*

It’s a moonless night in a small, poor village in Galilee, not far from Nazareth.
In a dimly lit cinder block home, a woman lies dying.
A priest sits with her, holding her cold, tremulous hand.
Toward the dark morning hours, her breathing stops.
The priest offers to deliver the news to the grieving son’s three brothers.
But the son stiffens, scowls, and says: “If they set foot in this house, we will kill each other.”
For the truth is that the brothers have such hate in their hearts for each other that even the death of their mother cannot bring them together.

These brothers are believers, once active in their village church.  Their vicious hostility toward each other has infected others, like an invisible toxic fog seeping through the walls of souls and spreading its evil poison.  Fathers won’t speak to sons, mothers and daughters spread false rumors about each other. 
Most of the Christians in this village no longer show up in church.

Except for Holy Week.  On Palm Sunday every seat is taken, though the hostility is palpable.  The feuding brothers are there also, but sitting widely apart from each other.

Before the benediction and dismissal, the priest descends from the pulpit and strides toward the back of the church.  He locks the huge double doors that have been open with a chain and padlock. Returning to the front, he faces his astonished congregation.
The priest now turns prophet: he confronts God’s people who have become lost in their hate and malice. 

“If you can’t love your brother,” he thunders, “whom you see, how can you say you love God who is invisible?  I have failed to unite you, but there is someone who can.  His name is Jesus Christ, who gives you power to forgive.  And if you will not forgive, we will stay locked in here.  You can kill each other and I’ll provide your funerals gratis.” 
Silence.  Tight lips.  Clenched fists.  Stony glares.  But silence, as the minutes crawl by in agonizing slowness.

Then the mysterious power of God invades.
Someone rises.  It is the man who would not let his brothers come to mourn their mother’s death.
Head lowered, voice faltering, the hardness of his heart melting with the irresistible grace of God, he turns to his fellow villagers: “I have hated my brothers enough to want to kill them.  I need forgiveness more than any.”
He turns to the priest now.  “Can you forgive me, too, Father?”
They move toward each other, embrace, give the kiss of peace, and of forgiveness.
The repentant brother now moves down the aisle, where, the wonder of it all, his three brothers rush to meet him.  They hold each other in a long, tearful embrace of forgiveness and long-denied love.

God’s peace that’s beyond understanding descends on the congregation.  People who haven’t spoken to each other for years now weep together.  Repentance and forgiveness mingle in a holy stream of divine grace.
A second service follows, a joyous service of love and reconciliation.
Afterward, the transformed spill into the streets.  Groups move from house to house to ask forgiveness for a certain wrong.  And, amazingly, it’s always freely given.
                                                                                          ~*~

Today, more than 40 years later, that once almost forgotten village of Ibillin in northern Galilee is a pilgrim and tourist destination.  The man from Galilee, Elias Chacour, is now Archbishop, Leader of the Melkite Catholic Church of Akko, Haifa, Nazareth, and all Galilee, the first Palestinian leader of the Palestine Christians in the Holy Land. 

The dilapidated church he came to has been replaced by a beautiful and thriving Church of the Sermon on the Mount located on the campus of the Mar Elias Educational Institutions, named after the prophet Elijah.  Founded by Father Chacour, the eight schools include kindergarten through high school, a gifted student program, technical college, theological school and university, and open to students of all races and religions.  More than half are Muslims.                                                                                           ~*~

We long for peace: within our heart, our family, our church, our land, our world.
But how serious are we about peacemaking?  Is our church and denomination a force for peace?
Are our politics?  Do we know about organizations like Peace Direct, Peace Action, Peace Now, or the Canadian Peace Alliance, and do we offer them our participation and support?
If we are not peacemakers, can we still be the sons of God?