THROUGH THICK AND THINNING

This post, and those that follow it, can be found here.

NEVER SURE

In a post on April 28, 2010 ["Walking through graveyards"], I wrote: "It's been two weeks since, in the launch of a short sermon series, I talked for a bit about walking in 'my' graveyard." That was 3 1/2 years ago, and since then, not to put too fine a point on it, Death has twice come "knock, knock, knocking on my door" and I am more convinced now than I was then that "being clear on the fact of my own mortality increases my sense of the value of a day." Christmas Day, for example: now less than three weeks away.

This Christmas Day will be the 40th that Deb and I have experienced together. A big round biblical number. As we've been working our way through our preparations for this particular edition of the Big Day, the unspoken (but not always unspoken!) awareness we share is that this Christmas Day actually might be our last. The reality is: if this cancer of mine IS going to win this war, it's likely do so in 2014.

And how does this startling possibility affect this year's Christmas? What I am finding is that, to varying degrees, the possibility makes every piece of Christmas preparation and celebration taste sweeter. At least, it's the sweetness of each Christmas thing that I'm noticing. As usual, we bought a Christmas tree. As usual, we arranged with our next-door neighbour to help us carry it into the house and stand it up in the usual place. (We always buy a tall and therefore heavy tree.) With the usual decorations, we decorated the tree and the room in which the tree always stands. And every December day, I pour the tree a large jug of water. And this Christmas, what I am noticing is that every celebrational step we take has a sweetness to it. Not a new sort of sweetness. Not even a new amount of sweetness. I'm just noticing the sweetness more.

My 3 1/2 year old "graveyard" post included the famous words of the 17th century preacher Richard Baxter. "I preached as never sure to preach again, and as a dying man to dying men." I first came across this sentence 3 1/2 decades ago, long before any life-and-death health problems began to knock, but it has ever since been a good guide to me, strongly encouraging me to see any and every opportunity to preach as a not-to-be-wasted-because-quite-possibly-my-last-such-opportunity, and also quite-possibly-the-last-sermon-that-someone-in-the-audience-will-listen-to. I have found that being again and again reminded of my mortality, the mortality common to us all, has always been worthwhile, and has never soured but always sweetened the experience of standing before a group of people as the preacher. This Christmas, the same thinking is having the same sweetening effect on every traditional and celebrational move I make.

We human beings are fragile creatures. People are struck down unexpectedly every day of the year, sometimes in the most unlikely and least predictable way. The same 2010 blog post also included a reference to one of the "resolutions" of Jonathan Edwards, written in 1722 at the age of 19! "RESOLVED: To live with all my might while I do live."

The sobering fact is, this Christmas might be anyone's last. So let us all prepare for this year's Christmas with all our might, being careful to notice and to taste and to treasure the sweetness of every detail. And let us once again celebrate the birth of Jesus, the Ruler of the kings of the earth, as never sure to celebrate it again.

A CERTAIN MAN

For better or for worse, I have been this church's pastor for years and years and years. One of the great advantages of staying so long is that I hardly ever have to say, "Hm. We've never experienced THIS before." As it happens, I did say those very words this past Sunday when for the first time in 29 years, the Worship Services were called because of snow.

Driving home at the strange Sunday morning hour of 10:00 a.m., I was thinking about the Morning Services that were evidently not meant to be. As my thoughts then shifted to the week ahead, with a Tuesday morning appointment with the oncologist and my Friday morning reservation in the Chemotherapy Suite, it occurred to me that this Sunday morning was a parable: a parable about me...

"A certain man pastored a very kindly and respectful congregation for many years. And it came to pass that one particular week, he prepared a Sunday sermon to preach to the congregation, as for those many years he usually did. And he did so diligently for over the years two related truths had been made very clear to him: that a good sermon can do some people some good, and that not all sermons are created equal, some of them turning out to be not very good at all. When Saturday evening came to pass, as for many years it always had, he beheld that every necessary Sunday morning thing was prepared (his notes and the congregation's Outline and the slide show and the projectionist's notes and the Order of Service), the pastor said his Saturday evening prayers, as he usually always did. And so he committed the entire endeavour to the Lord, asking God to make use of his efforts of the week and his efforts of the morning to come to do the people at least some good.

And it came to pass on the morrow that it was decided that the sermon must not be preached because, as the saying goes, the snow must go on. And so the pastor drove home, for the evil Bureaucratic Empire had once again suspended its suspension of his Driver's License [but that's a parable for another time.] And verily, as he drove, the pastor reflected on the truth that although he did not after all receive the privilege of offering the sermon to the church family, even though it might have done some of them some good, he HAD in fact offered the entire endeavour to the Lord. And that, he concluded, must be good enough."

Meanwhile back in Real Life, I meet again this week with my faithful and attentive oncologist, who always looks at me (and talks to me) as if I were a man more likely to die of cancer than to survive cancer, as in his professional opinion he thinks I am. And as I do, I will reflect on the truth that in fact I may not actually receive the privilege of pastoring this church for the next ten years, as I am more than willing to live long enough to do. And I will remember to say to myself, as we have been told we ought to say: "If the Lord wills, I shall live and do this or that." [James 4:15]

But I CAN offer the entire endeavour to the Lord. And that, I conclude, must be good enough.

CONTRAST AND COMPARE

Last week, Deb and I vacationed in Florida. And there were dolphins! About a dozen of them, all told. At two different magnificent beaches we visited. At one point last week, as if to entertain us, one of them, swimming in the company of two others, jumped clear out of the water and then, in what seemed like an encore, leapt up even higher to perform a totally impressive front flip. It was one of the vacation's great moments!

This week, this Friday morning in fact, I begin Thing #3: the first of six biweekly, four-hour (or so) sessions in the "Chemo Suite", where I will receive intravenously the first of six large loads of deadly chemicals. Deadly as in "cancer-killing." Deadly as in "destructive of more than cancer cells." Deb and I have received a detailed list of the many possible side-effects I need to be ready for. And what an exciting list it is.

What I have here is a contrast. Last week: glorious Florida sunshine, spectacular beaches, sand like icing sugar, beautiful clear Gulf of Mexico water and a dozen dazzling dolphins, at least one of them impressively acrobatic. This week -- this cold, grey, first drizzly, then snowy week: the start of three months of chemical warfare and the unsettling prospect of feeling like and looking like a man with a serious case of cancer.

As we used to say in English literature classes: "Contrast and compare." The contrast brings to mind a short piece of a real-life conversation between a well-known Old Testament couple.

WIFE: “Do you still hold fast your integrity? Curse God and die.”
HUSBAND: “You speak as one of the foolish women would speak. Shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?”

The husband, of course, is Job (Job 2:9,10 ESV). And here are three things to notice.

1. In defence of Job's wife: the poor thing had exactly as much to complain about as did Job. So let's give the lady a break. "Please, no comments from the peanut gallery."

2. Job's strong response to his wife was grounded on his belief that both good AND evil are received from God. ("The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Job 1:21 ESV)

3. Job may have been wrong to curse the day of his birth, and maybe wrong about some of the other things he said in his suffering, but he was right in his theology. ("In all this Job did not sin with his lips." Job 2:10 ESV)

So with Job as my example, I contrast last week's days in Florida and this week's hours in the Chemo Suite and acknowledge that both are God's gifts to me. And I note that, in the long run, in view of what is really important, some pleasant experiences do me only a little bit of actual good while some really nasty stuff accomplishes great and lasting good of every sort.

And as for the side-effects? I note that God never does answer Job's questions. Not in the pages of the Book of Job, and not (apparently) during Job's life on earth. So I'm not expecting answers to the questions that might come to mind about digestive difficulties and alterations of appetite and frustrating degrees of fatigue. But I know to "cast my cares on the Lord" because, with ineffable love and wisdom, the Lord cares for me (1 Peter 5:7), which is more than can be said of the dolphins.

HARD PRESSED

Some good news this week. Yesterday we learned that the Pathology People have concluded that my gut-wrenching surgery (now four weeks ago) did manage to remove all the cancer from my nether parts. Meanwhile, the next set of chemotherapy treatments (declaring war on the cancer in my liver) begins in four weeks. So here, at the half-way point between my Previous Big Thing (Thing #2) and my Next Big Thing (Thing #3), I am mulling over something that the Apostle Paul wrote about himself.

Put me down as a big fan of the Apostle Paul. In my personal "Parade of the Giants" (The procession through history of my favourite great examples of faith in Christ), Paul is the man walking at the front of the parade. It's right that I should admire him, for deliberately imitating Paul is a repeated New Testament instruction (e.g. 1 Corinthians 4:16 and 11:1; Philippians 3:17 and 4:9; 2 Thessalonians 3:9.) These days, I have been thinking a lot about the exemplary statements he wrote to the church at Philippi. He wrote these words from a prison cell, probably in Rome, as he waited to learn if the Next Big Thing he was about to receive was going to be a Roman execution or a "Get Out of Jail" card. While he waited, he wrote on the topic of maybe and maybe not dying very soon. Remarkably, he described himself as "hard-pressed between the two."

Philippians 1:20-26 ESV
... it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. Yet which I shall choose I cannot tell. I am hard pressed between the two. My desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better. But to remain in the flesh is more necessary on your account. Convinced of this, I know that I will remain and continue with you all, for your progress and joy in the faith, so that in me you may have ample cause to glory in Christ Jesus, because of my coming to you again.

So there was this remarkable man, thinking through the two likely outcomes of his imprisonment and declaring himself to be "hard pressed between the two." From Paul's point of view, "to depart and be with Christ" was the "far better" option, but "to remain in the flesh" was "more necessary" -- for the Philippians and for many similar groups of first-century Christians dependent upon him.

For me, the art of using the apostle Paul as an example requires never losing sight of the important fact that he was a 1st century apostle and I am something very much else. This being the case, there is an important contrast between his expectation of his immediate future and my expectation of mine. I believe that it is exactly THIS difference that brought Paul to a certainty about not dying any time soon, a certainty that I am very sure I have no corresponding right to assume. Paul's conviction that he would "remain and continue" with the Philippians for the sake of their "progress and joy in the faith" does NOT entitle me to any sort of similar certainty about what happens to me next, for Paul was almost unique, one of a small number of foundational 1st century church leaders: chosen servants of Christ with a very specific, historic calling.

Still, Paul's "teaching" and "conduct" and "aim in life" and "faith" and "patience" and "love" and "steadfastness" and "persecutions" and "sufferings" are set out in the New Testament as examples for us to imitate (2 Timothy 3:10,11). And he considered that the "gain" that comes from dying was "far better" than the "fruitful labor" that would come from living on. So here's what is occurring to me. As I keep busy doing "two things at the same time" (From the post of May 31: "wholeheartedly fighting for my life and trusting God and praying with all my heart for strength and health and healing and a long life, while at the same time, quietly and peacefully accepting the reality that this might in fact be the beginning of the end of my life..."), I am being called BOTH to prepare myself for the upcoming chemotherapy-based battle for continued life on earth AND sincerely to prefer "to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better."

Although Paul's personal certainty does not entitle me to assume that I am NOT going to die any time soon, even for the sake of additional "fruitful labor," his example directs me to try on both dying and not dying very soon AND to live in a genuine state of being "hard-pressed between the two" -- and it is Paul's example that shows me how.

Paul's "hard-pressedness" was pretty plainly the result of believing that, as he puts it, "to live is Christ." Plainly, he was a man so thoroughly dazzled by Jesus Christ that there was nothing in this world as attractive to him and as appealing to him as Christ himself. Paul was "hard-pressed between the two" because he loved Jesus so much that there was nothing in this world that appealed to him more than seeing, and being with, Christ. Not even serving Christ. As such, he accepted the fact of his own death with composure and peace. But he didn't just accept it. He embraced it as his personal preference. Such was his love for his glorious Lord Jesus.

And so should I. With no real certainty on the question of "maybe and maybe not dying very soon," I am being called to cultivate such a love for Christ that my personal preference really is "to depart and be with Christ," believing that "that is FAR better." And so I'm working on it. In my Bible reading and my praying, in my Bible study and my meditation, I'm seeking to see Christ so clearly and to love him so intensely that I really am "hard pressed between the two," as the Apostle Paul is my example.

"NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP"

Once again, it's the week before surgery. This Friday morning, once again, I'll be wheeled down the surprisingly chilly hallways of the surgical wing of University Hospital and through the metal doors of one of the Operating Rooms, and once again will be the only one in the room not working that day, the only one not standing up, the only one not wearing a mask and then the only one being put to sleep.

"Being put to sleep" is sort of a daunting phrase for me, but that's because of my boyhood interest in becoming a veterinarian. Ever since I was a boy, I have known that "being put to sleep" is what can happen to you if you are an old dog or a horse with a broken leg. Being neither, I am only daunted a little. At the same time, the phrase intrigues me and that's because of the number of times in the New Testament that followers of Christ who have died are described as being "asleep," specifically "asleep in Jesus." [e.g. Acts 7:60]

This brings me back to an idea that I referred to in a previous post. On August 7, I wrote about death losing its sting and that "even the sting of separation from my loved ones is gone." And then I wrote, "Well, sort of. But that's a topic for another day." Today, two days before I am once again being put to sleep, "another day" has arrived and I return to the delicate topic of "separation from my loved ones."

What I am posting here, I owe entirely to the man who taught me to take the Bible seriously. His name was Arthur C. Custance, and in 1970, when I was fifteen years old, he retired, moved to Brockville and began attending the church that my family belonged to. And he wrote. As a recently-retired scientist and as a life-long student of the Bible, he had lots to write about. And what he wrote is yours to read online. At www.custance.org, many of his titles have been reprinted and are available for purchase as books or as PDF files -- and almost all of them are printed online, free for the reading.

In his book Journey Out of Time, Dr. Custance writes, as a scientist, of the mysterious relationship between space and time, leaning heavily on Einstein's theory of relativity. In the same book he writes, as a Bible student, about being "asleep in Jesus" and about being "raised on the last day," as Jesus repeatedly mentions in John 6:39,40,44,54. I strongly recommend that you treat yourself to this book, or at least to reading it for yourself online, but in a nutshell, what Dr. Custance explains is that, when in physical death we exit the three dimensions of space: length, width and depth, we also exit the fourth dimension: time -- and by God's own power, we are transported out of space and out of time to the world's "last day." Then and there, the apostle Paul explains, "the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality." (1 Corinthians 15:52,53 ESV). This explains why those Christians who have died are described as being (from our perspective) "asleep in Jesus." And why the thief on the cross heard Jesus say, "This day you will be with me in Paradise." He heard those words just before he experienced a journey out of time.

According to this view of things, this is what Paul was writing about to the Thessalonians. "But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by a word from the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord. Therefore encourage one another with these words." (1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 ESV)

If Dr. Custance is pointing us in the right direction here, and I for one believe that he is, then the upshot is that, while the loved ones of a person who has "fallen asleep in Jesus" DO experience a separation from the "dearly departed," that separation is NOT experienced by the "dearly departed" himself, for he (or she) has journeyed out of this TIME as well as this PLACE in order to be, physically, "with the Lord." To the people he leaves behind, he is, for the time being, "asleep." But in his own experience, he finds himself, "in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye," being raised from the dead. But that great event will happen, as Jesus explained, at "the Last Day": that great, great day when all those who have truly entrusted themselves to Jesus Christ are transformed into Christ's `imperishable, glorious, powerful and spiritual' likeness. (1 Corinthians 15:42-44 ESV)

When Paul the apostle calls the Thessalonians to "encourage one another with these words," he has several encouraging truths in mind: that all who believe in Jesus will eventually "always be with the Lord;" that all of us who believe in Christ will, on that day, be reunited with one another; AND that when a follower of Christ dies, although those he leaves behind WILL experience the grief of being separated from him, he himself will not. For all three of these reasons, those who ARE left to grieve ought not to do so in the way that "others do who have no hope."

Lots of reason for hope here! And lots to think (and read) about, but I've been thinking about someday being "asleep in Jesus" and about this "journey out of time" since I was 16 years old. And I will be thinking about it again this Friday morning as I am (just for four or five hours, they say) being put to sleep.