By Teri Ong

To my one and only dear, gentle reader!

I have not had opportunity to post much in the last three months. Our summer has turned into an “unbelievable” summer. We moved my mother from Minnesota to Colorado this week. Exactly a week ago we were in Brooten preparing to load a 24-foot truck with her belongings. The trip could not have been smoother with the tiny exceptions of driving through torrential rains in a flash flood warning area the first day and through blinding rain and hail in a tornado watch area the second day. But all of the important parts of a move (i.e. packing, loading, cleaning, unloading and unpacking) went, if you’ll allow me to say it, swimmingly.

After driving through the intense storm in eastern Colorado, and after sitting some of it out in a fast-food place in Brush, for the entire hour before sunset we witnessed a light-and-cloud show all across the eastern plains that defies verbal description. Photos of the event would be deemed to fantastic for anything but Photoshop. The intensity, the layers upon layers, the contrasts, the laser-like sunbeams, the double rainbow…. Words fail! It was unbelievable.

God lets it be so, I think, often in life– the most real things are the most unbelievable. I have heard writers say that true events and twists of circumstance can’t always be used effectively in good fiction because we demand more “believability” in stories than we can demand in real life. Real life is beyond the powers of our mental and emotional demands. For example, one Monday in April we observed a house in our neighborhood (100 yards from our own) that went up for sale under the HUD program. On Tuesday we went through the house with a real estate lady. On Wednesday we put in a bid. On Thursday my mother had a contract on that house. The contract price was less than half of what the house had sold for in 2004, and the house needed only minimal fix-up (mostly just painting). No one would believe that in a story book!

Who would believe that Shackleton’s men could survive a year and a half in the Antarctic and come home with only a few frostbitten toes? Who would believe that General Washington could survive being shot numerous times at fairly close range in the French and Indian War? Who would believe that the Colorado Rockies could come back from a 9 to 3 deficit at the top of the ninth and win the game 12 to 9 in the bottom of the ninth with a walk-off 3-run homer? Who would believe that my oldest son would propose to his sweetheart this week and plan a full-scale church wedding for six weeks from now?!

What follows here is a short work of historical fiction. The characters are real as are the most fantastic of the details– the storm, the ice, the animals, waiting it out on a ledge, etc. The “fiction” is in the telling in the form of a letter (the original was in a journal) and in the fact that there were more people in the camping party than I have portrayed. I have been on excursions gone bad, but not of this magnitude. I hope you can enjoy this high adventure. Some of the language is directly quoted from Abner Sprague’s journal.

High Adventure

by Teri Ong

September 28, 1889

Dear Edgar,

I am ever so glad to be writing to you; and I am ever so glad that someone else is not writing to you and your dear mother to tell you of our demise. But I must say that there were many hours last week when I believed that the latter was bound to be your next communication from the Rocky Mountains.

The fall weather has been uncommonly fine. The color in the aspen trees has been such as to dazzle the eyes. It seems that the mountain sides are veritably aflame with the shimmering gold of the leaves, especially when the large stands are nestled in with the nearly black green of the conifers, and seem to burn up the hillside. Dearie and I, along with Mr. Locke, whom you will remember as my foreman, decided to take a ride up into the hills near the lake above us. Our intention was to camp there for a night and do some fishing before winter set in.

The day was so pleasant and the wind so gentle and warm that we decided to ride further up after our dinner beside the lake. In the mid-afternoon, I began to fear that our camping trip had perhaps been ill-timed, in spite of the indescribable natural beauty that was all around us. A warm wind had begun to blow with some force. Often, as you know, a warm chinook is a harbinger of some of our fiercest snows. Without raising an alarm that might frighten Dearie, I began to look around for a safe encampment, in case we should need one.

Before I even had much chance to settle my mind, the wind increased to a gale, accompanied by sleet, soft snow, and hail. I have to tell you that going against the wind was like going against a stone wall. Even for us men, it was impossible to face the driving hail and sleet with open eyes. I became especially concerned for Dearie, who tied my cotton bandana around her face so that only her eyes showed a little under the brim of her hat. She had to put her shawl over the top of her hat, wrap it tightly around her shoulders and tuck it under her arms just to keep it all from blowing away.

We could barely see from one end of our horses to the other. It was not long until we were hopelessly lost. I believed that we were somewhere near Notchtop Mountain. It is so rocky and precipitous in that area, that I truly despaired of finding a safe shelter for all of us. Eventually, I did find a shelter between some rocks which was somewhat larger than a crevice but not as spacious as a cave. We had to climb down some distance to enter our shelter, which meant leaving the horses and our jackass on the ledge above.

Our position was on the brink of a precipice. I believe God graciously didn’t allow us to be able to see in the blinding snow and approaching darkness how perilous our situation was. I realized death could come in several ways. Our horses were in a bunch directly above us, and I feared they might become restless and might force one or two of them over the brink and carry us with them over the precipice and to certain death. Or snow might drift over the cliff and do the same thing.

We spent a night and a day huddled in our crevice, shivering in our, by then, quite wet clothes. We had no food either, since our provisions were up above on our donkey. I would not risk going up or risk sending Mr. Locke up to get anything. One wrong step and whoever was trying it would be a gone-er.

Late on the second day, the weather broke and the sun came out in all its blinding beauty. I went up and got a length of rope that we had brought with us to string up a tent. We all managed to get safely up to where the animals were, though I wouldn’t let Dearie move without my rope tied about her waist.

The animals were a sight to behold! Queenie, the white mare, was the first to take the storm. From the saddle, over her rump and down her tail to the snow was a sheet of ice all of an inch thick! And Mr. Locke had to break 10 or 15 pounds of ice from each ear of his jack!

Praise God we had enough daylight left after rescuing the animals to find our way back home. One of our hands had built a fire in our very own fireplace that sent up a very handy “pillar of cloud” the helped us get home, and then warmed us all once we got there. Dearie has demanded in her own sweet way that there be no more camping trips this year. She was quite sure we would all perish. But by the hand of our gracious Father, we are once again safe and snug in our little homestead.

Give my love to my sister, your dear mother. We will look to see you sometime in the spring.

With love and regards,

Uncle Abner

I am in the process of moving my mother from Minnesota to Colorado. We have spent many hours this week packing her things in the Minnesota house. But since we both understand that sightseeing in Minnesota will be markedly less likely in the future, we decided to devote one day to a trip to Duluth and the North Shore of Lake Superior.

That day we were blessed with spectacularly gorgeous weather. The humidity was low and the temperature was moderate. The sky was that intense shade of blue that is more frequent in the fall than in the late spring. There was just enough wind to keep the light play in the trees sparkling. And being mid-week just before the end of school, the wildflowers were abundant but the tourists were not.

After a quick photo stop at Canal Point to see if any BIG ships were due to go in or out of the Port of Duluth under the Lift Bridge that day (there weren’t), we followed the scenic route along the lake shore up to Gooseberry Falls, the first of several state parks along the shore on the way north (the locals say “the way east”).

Gooseberry Falls was the scene of numerous childhood picnics for me. On those occasions we did not use a traditional “Yogi Bear”-style picnic basket. Typically, we packed our supplies in a large tin bread box. It was red and white with a solid red lid, and it doubled as a booster seat for whoever needed it. Drinks were usually hot ones since the northern weather was frequently chilly. They were stored in large Thermos bottles tucked neatly into a storage bag pieced together by my Grammy from colorful scraps of leather that had been salvaged from somewhere by my aunt. We always had a stock of plastic coffee mugs (white ones with little ring handles) for those who didn’t get to use the Thermos caps.

On this day we took our coffee in travel mugs and our cold water in enormous “bubba” jugs.

Because of the iron content in the “Iron Range,” the water that flows, often precipitously, into Lake Superior has a dusky red tint to it. As kids, we always thought it looked like root beer flowing over a rocky ledge into a foamy froth at the bottom. Gooseberry Falls were just as I remembered. We were also delighted with the gnarly old-growth trees along the edge of the falls that had a decidedly Tolkien-esque look to them.

Later in the day, we stopped to see the old lighthouse at Two Harbors. It was especially picturesque– red against the deep blue sky and spring green of the well-groomed lawn surrounding it. There was an old fishing vessel on display at the foot of the hill on which the lighthouse perched. I thought about what a comfort that light probably had been to the men who sailed the comparatively tiny boat on the enormous and sometimes very stormy lake.

None of the Lake Superior lights are truly operational anymore, though the Two Harbors light still shines every night. Everyone uses GPS navigational systems now days, which I am sure give much more pinpoint accuracy. But what if the power goes down or your system gets some “worm” or “virus”?

I think we sometimes get a false sense of security from our man-made technologies. The manmade lighthouses of the past were associated with some outstanding natural feature or landmark, such as the famous Split Rock light a little further up the shore. If the manmade light failed for some reason, one could hopefully get a glimpse of the natural feature that had been there from time immemorial. The lives of Christians are to be a light drawing attention to the ancient landmarks of God and His Word. Too often in our day, we are complacent and have a false sense of security about where we are in the wide universe. We fail to be alert and attentive to the ancient landmarks that could get us safe to harbor when the arm of flesh fails us.

As children, my brother and sister and I spent many hours beach combing as my dad hunted for occasional Superior agates, which were always easier to find in gift shops than along the shore. This day my mom wanted to make a stop to collect some rocks for an ornamental jar– a memento of a distant day and place once she arrives in Colorado. We found a civic access at Two Harbors where we could park the car and walk along a sandy and pebbly beach.

The south side of the little half-moon bay was mostly sand, but the north side was mostly pebbles of various types and sizes, all of which showed evidence of being tumbled together in water and sand over untold eons. As we walked down the beach, we also saw evidence that other people had been there before us. We saw mini-monuments of larger stones piled up totem-style, a couple sand castles, and a mini-Stonehenge.

I mused about how silly it would be to assume that random forces of wind and water had built up the various structures– no matter how crude they were. Obviously the varied designs had various designers.

As I walked along, I would stop and pick up rocks randomly. I wasn’t looking for anything particular. Some were igneous, some were metamorphic, some were sedimentary. Some were large, some small, some tiny. Some were attractive in some odd way, but most were merely non-descript. I picked them up because it pleased me to do so.

They did not earn by some act of goodness or valor the distinction of being separated from the others on the beach and put into my pocket. They did not earn their distinction by being the “most” or the “least” in some category. They did not call out to me to be picked up. But pick them up I did, and they will ultimately be collected and preserved in a place of beauty.

I meditated on the words “you have not chosen Me, but I have chosen you…” (John 15:16). I thanked God that I was a chosen pebble on His beach. To the praise of His glory!

My son Baxter and I were discussing the relative merits of several Christian writers of the past who possessed marked theological quirks. Most of them had picked up on theological quirks that were popular in their own day– perhaps popular only in their day– but quirks, nonetheless. Did their quirks negate the true spiritual benefits one might otherwise derive from reading their works?

There is only one book that we hold to be inerrant in its original form– the Bible. The reason we believe it to be without error is that we believe it to be written by God through the instrumentality of human beings. Everything else that has been written or that will be written is strictly human. Even those works which seem to waft the most spiritual air in our direction are in the final analysis fully human. And being fully human in origin, they are all subject to a certain amount of human error.

I have said many times to students grappling with this problem, if we agree 100% with any human being, all it means is that we are wrong on the same points; we just don’t know which points those are. I believe that even the best of us will find out that we have been wrong about a great many things when we get to heaven and God fully enlightens us.

There are basically two ways to solve the problem of human error in media: 1) Don’t read (or watch or listen to) anything, or 2) Read (watch, listen) with discernment. In our society, in which mass media are ubiquitous, it is nearly impossible to go with the first option, even if you set your mind to do so. And if you do try to cut yourself off from all human teachers, you cut yourself off from the human teachers that God has given as a gift to His church. Not only that, you are in as much spiritual danger from the pride of your own autonomy as you would be from any potential error lurking about in the form of some teacher or author.

I don’t want to dismiss or diminish the danger to Christians, especially baby Christians, in taking into their minds what is out there. Reading, watching, and listening to the plethora of messages (mostly mixed messages) requires a great deal of discernment, and according to Pastor John MacArthur, discernment in the Christian church today is in short supply just when we seem to need it most. This is partly true because American Christians on the whole don’t spend enough time with the Genuine Article to be able to recognize the counterfeits, and we quench and grieve the Holy Spirit so much by our worldliness that we cannot expect much of His help in illuminating truth when we see it.

Reading (listening, watching) with discernment takes more work than either not reading at all, or reading without attempting to discern the Biblical merits of a particular work. In the end, however, applying our minds to discerning reading produces more true Biblical understanding and insight than the other options. Remember how the Apostle Paul praised the Bereans for being more noble because they measured everything they were taught by the straight stick of Scripture.

So, how much error should we tolerate if we discern that a particular author had some excess or theological misunderstanding (from our point of view, of course) or perhaps even expressed something we would consider to be heretical? We don’t want to grovel in a garbage pail looking for untainted bits and pieces when there is a good feast sitting next to it on the shelf. But on the other hand, a bit of mold on a brick of cheese isn’t necessarily bad, and can easily be cut off. When it comes to reading human authors, we always must “chew the meat and spit out the bones.” Let’s not forget that at the time of the crucifixion, saintly Peter told lies about his relationship to Christ while pagan Pilate proclaimed Him king.

My husband and I have had many literary discussions with people of all sorts of theological stripes. One of our favorite questions is, “What authors do you like to read?” Christian people almost always make qualifying statements such as, “I don’t agree with everything so-and-so says”, or “This author had this error or that error, but…” From my own understanding of total depravity, I think it is a good thing when we don’t agree with someone 100% for the reason I mentioned earlier. Sometimes we have felt that whoever we were talking to genuinely wanted to give a caution, but often it seems that people want to distance themselves for the sake of their own reputations. And sometimes it seems that people doing the warning have more fear for other people’s discernment than they do for their own.

Certain authors have made me look at Biblical truths in a new light, and I have been grateful that God gave the church such human teachers. But one does not have to read (or hear) very many human teachers to understand that not all are as astute or accurate. That does not, however, necessarily diminish the use God can make of them for the right person at the right time. Before he was born again, Charles Spurgeon had heard some powerful and Biblical preaching. But one dark and stormy night he stumbled into a little Primitive Methodist chapel where a lay preacher only had the presence of mind to read one verse of Scripture, “Look unto me, and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.” He looked directly at Spurgeon and said, “Young man, you are in trouble. You will never get out of it unless you look to Christ.” He then lifted up his hands and cried out, “Look, look, look! It is only look!” God used that ignoble human instrument to open Spurgeon’s spiritual understanding and bring him to assurance of salvation.

There are certain human teachers who are full of poison and shouldn’t be touched. They cause their readers to doubt that God exists or to doubt that God is a good rewarder of those who seek Him. There are other authors who may not cross every theological “t” or dot every theological “i” the same way I would, but this one thing I know– when I’m done reading what they have written, I love God more and have more desire to worship Him by my obedience. When that happens, I exclaim with Oswald Chambers, “Oh, how I love that author!”

Reference:

Cook, Richard Briscoe. The Wit and Wisdom of Rev. Charles H. Spurgeon. Baltimore: R. H. Woodward and Company, 1892. p. 40.

My “Biographies I” class that meets on Wednesdays has been reading 25 Surprising Marriages by William Petersen. It is a wonderful book about well-known Christian leaders of the past (mostly) and how their marriages helped or hurt their ministries. One story in particular set off my class rather explosively. It was the story of William and Dorothy Carey.

In case you don’t know much about them, I will recap briefly. William was a man of humble beginnings, a cobbler by trade, who felt called to India as a missionary. In spite of the fact that he had to maintain his family by manual labor, he was a brilliant man and a true scholar with a burden to translate the Bible for people who did not have it in their own language. Sadly, his wife was illiterate and had no inclination to go to a mission field, any field! When the time came to leave for India, William changed his mind about going ahead of the family the prepare the way. Through circumstances which delayed his departure by a few days, he was able to convince his wife that she should go with him immediately.

She obeyed his wishes, even though she did not want to go at all. Dorothy was of a fearful temperament and longed for the stability and security of life in her home country with a husband to look after and provide for her and her children. She got none of what she craved. William did love her; he even taught her to read after they were married. But once they got to India, he became bogged down in failed schemes for settling his family and getting on with translation work. Nothing seemed to work out for them. In the first few years, they moved several times, each time to places and circumstances that were increasingly exotic and difficult for Dorothy.

Eventually, she lost her mind, and instead of being a suitable helper to her husband, she was a millstone around his neck. Carey was drained emotionally with having to care for his wife while trying to advance the cause of the gospel in a dark land. He didn’t handle the situation well. His wife was all but abandoned in terms of familial care. Neither did he raise his children adequately. Two co-workers compassionately took charge of the Careys’ wayward children and literally saved them from physical and spiritual ruin. Poor Dorothy died in lunatic despair far from home and far from the security she ached for.

Their sad story caused my class of homeschooled students to rise up out of their seats in righteous indignation. How could William Carey even call himself a Christian and be so insensitive to his wife and children? Where was his heart? Didn’t he think it was important to provide for the needs of his family? Etc . Etc.

After discussing the cultural setting of their marriage, one in which the social suitability of a match was more important than romance, we discussed possible reasons why Carey had such a blind spot; he obviously did not see his failings as a husband and father in the same light as we do from our vantage point in the Christian family movement in 21^st century America.

It is quite likely that Carey saw his domestic problems as a cross he had to take up and bear daily in service to Jesus. They were just an obstacle that had to be overcome to complete the task of getting the Bible into millions of hands that had never had one before. His own domestic happiness was something to be sacrificed for the greater good of the Gospel. He was undoubtedly interpreting his domestic life in light of Luke 14:26-27:

“If anyone comes to Me and does not hate his own father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters– yes, and even his own life– he cannot be My disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple.”

Do I think he was insensitive? Yes. Do I think he was wrong to ignore the needs of his wife? Yes. Do I think he sinned in neglecting his children? Yes. Do I think that “that man” (as my class began calling him) “really thought he was a Christian and was serving the Lord?” (My class had their doubts.) Yes! I think he truly was a Christian and truly was serving the Lord. I also think he had a cultural blind spot about as big as an Indian elephant which prevented him from seeing the error of his ways.

C. S. Lewis held that “every age has its own outlook. It is especially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes.” That was why he advocated reading old books. “Not, of course, that there is any magic about the past. People were no cleverer then than they are now; they made as many mistakes as we. But not the same mistakes.” (p. 598)

We can see so clearly the gaping holes in Carey’s spiritual life as evidenced by the probably unnecessary destruction of his family. But what are the gaping holes in our 21^st century spirituality? I think I might know of one. I think I might know of one because I consider myself, like Lewis did, to be an “old dinosaur,” that looks on the modern age with something of an ancient viewpoint.

I believe the gaping hole on our spiritual retinas is inconsideration for the importance of the church in God’s plan for mankind. In fact, the problem is so serious that denegration of the Bride of Christ has become a point of pride in our generation. An “I don’t need the church” attitude often stems from a couple things: 1) “I was in a church before, but I was really hurt there, so I won’t be hurt in a church ever again” or 2) “I believe in the ‘priesthood of the believer,’” which means “total spiritual autonomy at all times.” Sometimes #1 and #2 run concurrently in the same person.

When I hear these sorts of things from the mouths of otherwise sound Christian folks, my spirit rises up as vehemently as my class did in response to William Carey. Do these people think they are really loving the Lord when they forsake assembling together? (Hebrews 10:25) Do these people really think they are being effective members of the Body of Christ when they won’t use their spiritual gifts to benefit the local Body? (Ephesians 4:1-16) Do these people understand that God has given some pastor the duty to “watch over their souls” and that they are causing grief to that pastor by being unfaithful, or are causing the Lord grief by being sheep without a shepherd? (Hebrews 13:17, Matt. 9:36)

One sweet lady that I consider a friend as well as a sister in Christ has given up on “church.” She has also told me more than once that when someone comments on her Christianity, she replies, “I try to be a good Christian, but I’m not always good at it.” I am sure that all Christians have that sense about their spiritual walk, but what has God ordained to help us be better at it? Life in the localized body of Christ! One of the benefits of “not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together” is that we can stir each other up to love and good works– we can stir each other up to be better at being Christians. And the writer of Hebrews tells us that this factor is even more important as we get closer to the second coming of the Lord. (Hebrews 10:24-25)

I am sure that Christ today is still looking with sad eyes on multitudes of American sheep scattered abroad and fainting because they have run off from the safety of the fold and the watchful care of their under-shepherds. (Matthew 9:36) That is not His plan or His best for us. He died to redeem His bride– the church– which He loves and cares for as His own body. (Ephesians 5:21-27) He wants to make His bride holy and pure through His Word so He can someday present His bride without spot, wrinkle, or blemish. He wants every bit of the whole body of His bride to be perfectly knit together and be healthy and growing to maturity. (Ephesians 4:15-16)

The part of His bride that lives in America today looks more like crazed sheep rushing from amusement to amusement looking to graze on pastures of pink cotton candy. Or it looks like a maimed stump of a body with dismembered parts strewn about, which is still jerking about like the proverbial headless chicken. Neither of these pictures look wholesome or healthy.

I pray that God will touch the maimed stump of the American church and bring us to our senses– heal us and make us whole and beautiful. Otherwise, I am afraid that we will be old and writing our testimony for successive generations, and we will have to say, “Children, beware! We tried to do the Christian life on our own. It doesn’t work!”

Reference:

C. S. Lewis, “On the Reading of Old Books,” in The Great Tradition (ed. Richard M. Gamble), Wilmington, Delaware: ISI Books, 2007, pp. 595-600.

The cartoon is from Lies Christian Parents Teach by Teri Ong, Greeley, Colorado: Chambers College Press, 2009.

Here goes!

Scar Tissue

by Teri Ong

The voice was the thing.

Her parents, fine singers themselves, had named her Chantal. And her life had indeed been filled with music and singing.

Chantal trained and disciplined her wild gift until it was a ruly and useful companion. In her youth she attained above average status as a singer, even touring with several vocal ensembles and choirs. There were the occasional solos, and, of course, service in her church.

As with most musicians, keeping body and soul together meant becoming a teacher. Before she left college, she was already teaching other youngsters how to control and use their voices in praise of their Maker. Her first date with Mr. Russell had been to a choral festival. He first took notice of her at a concert at their college. She had been conducting the ladies’ chorale.

Chantal enjoyed teaching, but was not sad to set that part of her life aside to marry Mr. Russell. For a few years, life became a happy blur of babies, child-rearing, domestic life, and, of course, service in her church. In the blink of an eye, it was time for her to take up baton and sheet music again and pour her life into students. A great many students. In choirs. In classrooms. In her studio. There was always singing.

One winter, the flow of lessons, classes, and rehearsals was stymied by a case of laryngitis– a deep and persistent case. Chantal had no voice whatsoever. She had always found colds and sore throats to be particularly bothersome because they interfered with her normal duties more than they would have disrupted other people’s lives. But this was a new experience.

No voice! No voice at all! For days and days. When it did come back, it was thin and uncertain. She began teaching again as soon as she could be heard at all. But her voice tired and weakened quickly and easily.

“It’s just the after-effects of the laryngitis,” she thought. “It will heal in time.”

But it did not heal.

Her voice remained weak and thin; her range contracted. She kept teaching students, she could explain and coach, though she could no longer demonstrate.

At first Mr. Russell encouraged her to get help. But vocal coaches and therapists found no solutions. Then came the doctors. She had a rare disease affecting the muscles that control the vocal cords. Diagnosis: a slow deterioration of the ability for the muscles to coordinate. Eventually she would lose all ability to speak, let alone sing.

Life went on. Other musicians suffered loss too. Pianists with arthritis lost their art. Musicians have paralyzing strokes just like other people. Even young artists experience loss through accidental injury. Chantal was not in despair. She had the hope of heaven through the Savior she loved. Someday she would be made new and glorious. She dreamed of a new and glorious voice– and big! A voice like Leontyne or Joan or Jessye. Meanwhile, she poured out the last bit of her voice, like water in a sandy place.

The wind of God soon passed over the flower of her life, and she was gone. Gone to heaven! How glorious it was! She had always imagined heaven as being pure and crystaline, but her image was a little cold. The New Jerusalem was warm and vibrant, the streets teaming with playing children, watched over by delighted old men and women, just as the prophet had said.

Chantal felt as if she had waked up from the best night of sleep she had ever had. Refreshed. Yes, that was the very word– made fresh again. Joy and serenity mingled with vigor in a way she never knew in the days before her mortality put on immortality. Before, when there was intensity of vitality, there had also been a restlessness. Later, when she had known the reality of godly contentment, the youthful vigor was gone. What happiness! To be home in the kingdom of the King of Love!

There was only one perplexing matter; her face was always a little wet. At first, she was hardly aware of the perpetual dampness. Then she came to understand that tears were often trickling down. Tears of joy, she thought. But as she enjoyed the wonders of the city she noticed that almost no one else had tears in their eyes.

She saw an old man sitting near the gate. She had seen him there often. She would ask him.

“Sir, I have noticed that I seem to be one of only a few who still have tears in my eyes. Do you know why that would be?”

“Welcome! You must be one of the newer arrivals. Soon you will be called to the tear room, and all will be made plain.”

“Where is the tear room? How will I know when it is my time to go? Will someone show me the way, or send me word?”

“Don’t worry! When the time comes, you will know what to do.”

Chantal smiled at the man. She was still puzzled, but was not troubled.

She spent days and hours talking to everyone she encountered. They all had such intriguing stories of how they came to be redeemed. Chantal had always thought about the possibility of hearing the life stories of the patriarchs or the apostles, even people who had witnessed the miracles recorded in the Bible first hand. There would be plenty of time for that– forever is a long time! But she was finding that everyone there had a glorious story of God’s grace. There would be so much to tell Mr. Russell when he arrived!

After awhile– she couldn’t really determine if it had seemed like hours, or days, or years since there is no night there– she felt drawn to the small door in the wall at the top of the main street. It was a plain door that somehow didn’t seem to fit.

Chantal walked purposefully up the road and knocked on the little door.

“Please do come in, Chantal,” she heard a warm voice call from inside.

She pushed gently on the door which gave way easily to her touch. “Oh! My Lord!” she cried. She was standing face to face with Jesus inside a room of cosmic proportions. She felt she never wanted to take her eyes off her Savior, but the scope of where she was was evident around the periphery. In truth, the room, if you could call it that, extended into the vast forever of the universe. If not for the welcoming closeness of her Master, she might have been terrified in her smallness.

“Come, sit here with Me, Little One.”

“Where am I exactly, Lord?”

“This is the tear room. I bring everyone here to wipe away their tears.”

“Yes, the man at the gate told me I would come here eventually. It’s funny, I always thought the tears would automatically be gone when one came in Your city.”

Jesus laughed a laugh that was at once comforting and reassuring. “Nothing in the city is auto-matic; We take care of everything personally. Father thinks it all and speaks it all, I hold everything together, and our Spirit energizes it. That’s the way it has always been– everywhere in the universe.”

“Of course; I think I have known that, but never understood it until just now.”

“Now, tell me what your tears are about.”

“I’m not sure; I think they are just tears of joy. It seemed like such a long wait to get to Your city, but now I know that it really wasn’t. And I am so happy.”

“ Are you sure that is all they are?”

“I think so.”

“Do you still want me to wipe them away?”

“If you wipe them away, does that mean that the joy will go away too?”

Jesus laughed the same deep laugh. “No. My joy will always remain. But I think there is something more you need to tell me.”

Chantal took the eyes of her awareness from the face of her Savior and turned them inward. She knew what Jesus meant.

“Well, I did think that I would be able to sing again when I got here. I thought that heaven was all about singing. I thought when I got my celestial body that I would get a new voice. I had hoped for so long that it would be a glorious voice– much better even than the first one You gave me.”

“Has it been a very great disappointment that your expectation in that regard was not fulfilled in the way you hoped?”

“I don’t think I would say I am disappointed. I am happy in every way and in ways I could not have understood before coming here. But now that I look deeply, I do think that is why my face is always dampish. I did think the scars of the old life would go away.”

Jesus held out His hand to stroke her cheek. A jagged, thick red scar filled the palm of His hand. She understood clearly; that was how her name had been written on His hand.

“Oh, dear Lord!” she sobbed. “How could I have misunderstood?! Your scars have never gone away. Am I, Your servant, above my Master?” Her eyes now gushed out great streams of tears.

The scarred hands of her Savior were cupped under her chin. The hands for whom all the oceans of the world were but a drop in a bucket pooled with her tears.

It was as if Christ had opened a sluicegate on her soul. Once the reservoir of her expectations had drained, the streams of tears stopped as quickly as they had begun. Chantal looked full in Jesus’ eyes.

“You will sing for Me always.” He lifted a shining vial made of pure crystal and poured the tears from His hand into it. When it was nearly full, Chantal had a sensation of hearing her voice, small and thin but pure, rising up in doxology. Her heart leaped. She put her hand to her throat.

“No, not that way. You will always bear in your body My own marks, but that is what produces the praise.” He handed her the vial. As she took it from His hand, she perceived that the voice she heard was coming from the vial of her tears.

Her dry face smiled.

Jesus held out his hand again. In it was a small white stone.

“Take it, “ He said. “I know you by name, and you have also found favor in my sight.Go now and sing for Me, Chantal.”

Her smile broadened; she lifted the vial high over her head. The song grew bigger as it rose.

An “endearing” photo taken by my husband at Royal Festival Hall in London.

I experienced a profound moment of self-realization last Friday. Shock of self-realization might be more accurate. The cause? Photographs– recent photographs– photographs taken by a professional photographer who came with her daughter on our London tour last November. Photographs taken barely three months ago. That means– if you haven’t guessed– that they show me as I really am – right now!

I wasn’t the only group member electro-shocked to a higher level of consciousness by the candid and, yes, graphic pictures of old age. My husband realized that he hasn’t had a “good hair day” in over 30 years, and has taken some drastic measures to tame his perpetually wayward cowlicks. What’s worse for me, though, is that he said some of the aforementioned photographs of me “endeared” me to him! That’s as bad as the grampa on the old Haley Mills version of The Parent Trap telling his middle aged daughter that she had “accepted the coming of age with grace and dignity.”

For at least the past two years I have sincerely wondered why the clerks (no spring chickens themselves!) in my favorite stores have regularly asked, “Are you one of our seniors?” I don’t feel like a “senior,” so I assumed that I really don’t look like one either. Bad assumption! Now I know why they ask!

I have tried to keep my outlook on life exactly that– an outlook. The eyes of my awareness gaze OUT of the sockets on my face, and as infrequently as possible do they gaze AT it. That way I can look out on the world with a thirty-something mind and ignore the fact that I have a fifty-something face and body. Ironically, I am teaching a creative writing class this semester and we just finished discussing the relative merits of realism versus fantasy! (I think I prefer fantasy.)

My husband admits that he only uses a mirror so he doesn’t cut himself shaving. Obviously, he hasn’t even used it for combing his hair in years! I only use one so I get the anti-wrinkle cream in the right spots. But looking at the photos (does the camera ever lie?), I am thinking I might as well save my time and money. I think the anti-wrinkle regimen is a lost cause.

A psychiatrist I heard on the Dennis Prager “happiness hour” on the radio offered a compelling view of the way life works. He (I didn’t write his name down because I was driving at the time) postulates that as we go through life, we spiral up a staircase through repeated phases of dependency, mastery, grandiosity, and feeling small in a big world. Interestingly, a man in his 70′s called in and said that he was very despondent over the fact that he felt increasingly small and couldn’t see that he would ever pass back to the mastery phase. The doctor said that he has observed that women have a harder time with the early stages of aging (presumably when the bloom of youth has faded and blown away like the flowers of the field in Psalm 103), and men have a harder time with the later stages of aging (when they no longer have the physical and mental agility for the demands of life in the workplace like in Ecclesiastes 12).

When it comes to looks, I never attained to the “grandiosity” phase, but as I gazed on the unforgiving photos of myself, I realized that I am now beyond feeling small in the world of attractiveness and am into the dependency on lotions and potions, as one of my daughters says.

One of my favorite Christian speakers, Bernadine Cantrell, a stunningly beautiful woman nearing 70, observed, “It’s easy to look like a million, if you’re worth a million!” (Which she does and is.) That means it’s nigh unto impossible for me, seeing how I never looked like a million, and I’m not even worth a hundred! I praise God for the daily grace shown to me by a loving husband who understands that “I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus,” stress fractures and all. He married me in the first place because he understood that “charm is deceitful and beauty is vain,” and was willing to marry “a woman who fears the Lord,” who was certainly neither beautiful nor charming. (Prov. 31:30) Like writer George MacDonald, he is able to see in his wife’s face the”beauty of youth (what tiny bit there was of it) shining through the grace of old age.”

So what’s to do? As the Apostle Paul said, I am left to “strive for the masteries…” as lawfully as I can! I’ll pray as MacDonald did in his Diary of an Old Soul (Jan.1),

Lord, what I once had done with youthful might

Had I been from the first true to the truth,

Grant me now old to do with better sight

And humbler heart– if not the brain of youth.

So wilt Thou in Thy gentleness and ruth

Lead back Thy old soul by the path of pain

Round to his best– young eyes and heart and brain.

I include here a short skit I wrote for the creative writing class I am teaching. I also deals with the subject of aging.

The Age of Relativity

by Teri Ong

Scene: In a science lab that looks vaguely like a kitchen. Two middle-aged lady scientists in lab coats are working at a bench (counter). Teri is looking in a microscope.

Teri: (with a start) Did you see that?!

Linda: (nonchalant) See what?

Teri: Something just went by the window super fast!

Linda: Nah– You’ve been looking into a microscope too long! It was probably just a bird flying by that you saw out of the corner of your eye.

Teri: No, I’m not kidding! Come over here! (Cross to a window, motion for Linda to come too) Something weird is going on. See what I mean. It’s like everything out there is going too fast. We’re in here and everything is normal, and then out there everything is just — whooosh!!! Can you believe that?

Linda: I don’t know. It looks pretty normal out there to me.

Teri: Maybe you’re right. Maybe I have been looking in this microscope too long.

Linda: What are you working on, anyway?

Teri: Sub-atomic particles.

Linda: That’s pretty ambitious.

Teri: Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m doing pretty well. Last week I saw a quirk.

Linda: Don’t you mean a quark?

Teri: No, it was definitely a quirk. I discovered that every time I close my left eye, everything in the eye piece goes fuzzy. It’s definitely a quirk. (Linda rolls her eyes and goes back to writing an equation on a pad.) What are you working on?

Linda: I’m working on the problem of relativity.

Teri: Oh, wow! Who’s getting married?

Linda: What!?

Teri: You said you were working on the problem of relativity. Whenever there are new relatives, there are usually problems.

Linda: No, not that kind of relativity. You know, E= mc2. Actually, we’re kind of working on the same thing.

Teri: (whips her head around) There! It just happened again. Everything just sped up out there!

(Coming back to the lab) Oh, sorry. You were saying we were kind of working on the same thing. How’s that?

Linda: You remember, the E is for energy and that is the basis of atomic structure.

Teri: If E is for energy, then m-c-squared must stand for ME times Calories squared. That’s the best way to get energy in my book. (Picks us a sub sandwich wrapped in a paper that says “Sub-Atomic”)

Linda: I don’t think those are the kind of sub-atomic structures Einstein had in mind. (Shakes her head) It really stands for Mass times the Speed of Light squared.

Teri: (nods head thoughtfully) So what is the “problem” of relativity?

Linda: In order to get very far into outer space, we would need to travel very fast. We would need to get as close to the speed of light as possible, but as you get closer to the speed of light, mass increases.

Teri: (looks down at her plump figure, and crosses to the window again) So that’s what’s going on! Everything IS moving faster and faster, and that is why I am getting bigger and bigger. You’re right! It IS a problem. What did you say happens, again?

Linda: The mass of a body increases as it approaches the speed of light.

Teri: (hugging Linda and jumping up and down) You’ve just unlocked the secret of the universe!

Linda: What!?

Teri: Don’t you see? For years, everyone has wondered why it seems like life goes faster and faster the older you get. It doesn’t just SEEM like it’s going by faster– it IS going by faster. And it isn’t really going by faster because we’re getting older; it’s going by faster because we’re getting bigger.

Linda: I think Einstein said it the other way around– a body increases mass the faster it goes.

Teri: Whatever! It doesn’t really matter. Think about it this way– You know how it is when you are young– little that is– time goes by really slowly. It takes forever to get from one week to the next– especially if you are in school or are waiting for your birthday. Am I right?

Linda: Well, yeah– I suppose so.

Teri: Just stay with me now. Then you get a little older and an little bigger, and time starts going by a little quicker. A whole semester goes by and you think, “Wow, that went by pretty fast.”

Linda: (deeper in thought) Yeah– I guess so.

Teri: Then you’re an adult, you get married, you have kids. You get a little bigger in the process. And time starts really moving. Before you know it, your kids are graduating, getting married, and having kids themselves. Whooosh! It starts going by in one big blur.

Linda: (more positively) Yeah! Yeah!

Teri: Then you’re a grandma, and…

Linda: (even more excited) You get a little bigger yet– and time is really speeding by

Teri: Now you’re with me! I knew it wasn’t my imagination. Things ARE going faster out there.

Linda: It must be all those sub-atomic particles we’ve been eating!

Teri: You’re sure to get the Nobel Prize for this! It explains so much!

Linda: (dejected) No– it won’t work. There’s a problem. My mother spends all day sitting in her recliner watching game shows and she says time is going by a lot slower. (Shrugs in disappointment)

Teri: (grabs her arm) But think about it. What happens when we get really old? We shrink, right? We get shorter; we shrivel up; our muscles atrophy. And then, I hate to mention it, but, you know, when, ah, time stops moving altogether, you pretty much shrink back to, well, nothing. (Very excited) It all makes SO much sense.

Linda: (hopeful again) Let’s write it up. We’ll submit it to the American Journal of Geriatric Relativity.

Teri: No problem here! I can wait till next week to work on the problem of fur-on-me’s.

Linda: Don’t you mean “fermions?”

Teri: Who cares about fermions? I want a fur-on-me. With life going by faster and faster, I might get cold without one.

Linda: Let’s get to work!

by Teri Ong

London is certainly a place that is at once multi-cultural and cross-cultural. We met a woman from an eastern European country who had learned English from an American teacher. As a shop keeper in London, she was faced with the difficulty of not only translating her thoughts into English– but even further into “English English.”– and even further, of making herself understood with her own particular national accent in a society full of a multiplicity of national accents.

Christians are citizens of God’s kingdom, and more specifically, ambassadors for God’s Kingdom in a foreign land. We learn to speak the language of Ouranos (heaven) so we can be good representatives of our King. But since we were brought up in Cosmos (world), our old accent sometimes distorts the pure tones of Ouranosian, and sometimes we find it difficult to think in the language of our new country. Even with this difficulty, we know that when we became God’s own, we were transferred from our old kingdom and were made full citizens of the new (Colossians 1:13). We understand that we are not Cosmosian-Ouranosians. One cannot have dual citizenship in God’s Kingdom, because to be a friend of the World is to be an enemy of God (James 4:4). We cannot be hyphenated citizens in that sense.

Hyphenated citizenship is a big issue in America. What is a Mexican-American, or an African-American? Is there such a thing as an Irish-American or an Italian-American? What about a Canadian-American or a British-American?

The issue of hyphenation is now creeping into the body of Christ. The question was raised in Joseph Cumming’s article, “Muslim Followers of Jesus,” in the December 2009 issue of Christianity Today. Cumming poses the question; “The evangelical community accepts that Messianic Jews don’t need the label ‘Christian.’ Is the same true for Muslim background believers, or is Islam too radically different?” In other words, is there such a thing as a “Muslim Christian?”

Cumming equivocates somewhat, but I thought that he missed the main point– Why would someone want to be known as a Muslim follower of Jesus? It seems to me that the main reason would be that such a person could answer “yes” to the question, “Are you a Muslim?”, when the issue comes up in an oppressive society where only Muslims have any freedom of movement. But such a person could at the same time cling to the hope of the Gospel as provided by Jesus.

This scenario raises a series of questions in my mind:

1. Is such a person desiring to be a secret believer like Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea? Or is this person desiring to be an underground believer? There may be legitimate reasons for flying under the radar of the authorities, but will such a person bear up or recant when faced with discovery? Naaman was given clearance, so to speak, from Elisha to continue to serve his boss, who happened to be the king, when the king went into the pagan Temple of Rimmon. But the passage implies that Naaman wouldn’t have been there is he didn’t pull official guard duty on worship day. It wasn’t a place he would go voluntarily just to keep up appearances. (II Kings 5:18-19)

2. Doesn’t being a Jewish Christian (if one were to use the term) have more similarities with being an American Christian or a Chinese Christian, than with being a Muslim Christian? A Jewish Christian who continues to celebrate national feast and holidays is not necessarily at odds with New Testament belief and practice. If, some day, temple sacrifices were to be resumed, it would be unbiblical, and therefore un-Christian, to participate in such an observance because Christ fulfilled all sacrifice for sin. But when a believer’s national heritage and practice of its traditions don’t violate New Testament teaching, there is nothing wrong with participating in them. The Apostle Paul had this in mind (at least partially, I believe), when he wrote about not judging how people celebrate holidays (Romans 14).

There should be no problem at all when believers want to maintain a connection with their nation, tribe or tongue. It is not wrong for American believers to celebrate Independence Day (which my husband jokes is probably the same day as British “Thanksgiving”). It is not wrong for English believers to celebrate “Boxing Day” (or probably even Guy Fawkes Day!). I think it is an entirely different matter, however, for Muslims who have professed Christ as savior to continue to pray toward Mecca and celebrate Ramadan. Those are not merely cultural or national observances; they are religious practices at odds with New Testament teaching.

This line of thought should raise one more question in the Christian’s mind: what are the limits on national and cultural observances for the Christian? I don’t think we have carefully thought through when it might be necessary for citizens of Ouranos to withdraw from the celebrations of Cosmos. Should German-Christians celebrate the culture of drunkenness during Oktoberfest? Should Brazilian-Christians celebrate moral debauchery during Carnivale? Should American-Christians celebrate the occult during Halloween? Perhaps I should say a word about the overweening culture of materialism associated with almost all holidays in America.

It used to be that “truth, justice, and the American way,” stood for nothing anti-Biblical or anti-Christian. But as we have continued our descent into “pride, greed, and the approbation of wicked lifestyles are the American way,” the day may not be far off that there will not be such a thing as an American Christian, except as it refers to the place of one’s birth.

In ethnically and religiously diverse cultures, blended appellations might sometimes be useful. For example, one might need to describe a member of Indian society as an Indian Hindu, or an Indian Buddhist, or an Indian Christian. But to hyphenate two opposing religious belief systems is not the same thing as hyphenating a nationality with a belief system.

I believe Christ will gather His Bride, as He said He would, from every tongue, and tribe and nation. That is preciously evident to me whenever I visit our Christian friends in London. I have met Belgian, Chinese, Indian, Japanese, Dutch, South African, Australian, Hungarian (etc., etc.)– Christians, on our numerous visits to the U.K. Sooner or later, I am sure I will run into Saudi Arabian Christians, Iraqi Christians, and even Afghan Christians. But right now I do believe that being the semantic equivalent of a Muslim Christian– a “Muslim follower of Jesus”– seems about as reasonable as being a “Christian follower of Zeus.”

Reference:

Cumming, Joseph. “Muslim Followers of Jesus?” Christianity Today, December 2009, pp. 32-5.

By Teri Ong

While I was in London, President Obama was in Oslo, Norway accepting his Nobel Peace Prize. I was gratified to see that some European protestors were uncharacteristically taking him on for his lack of substance. Sadly, there were no protests when we caved in on the man-made global warming issue, clearing the way for President Obama to enact environmental policies by executive order, thus by-passing congress and any last vestige of the will of the people.

Our greatest problems are not tied to excessive greenhouse gases, use of non-renewable energy, or even global swine flu pandemics. Our greatest problems are tied to human depravity. The great Victorian-era English authors such as Charles Dickens, George MacDonald, and Elizabeth Gaskell understood the connection between sin and social degradation, and were not afraid to take it on in their novels. Victorian sensibilities had been aroused in no small part by the efforts of William Wilberforce and his compatriots who, once slavery had been abolished, wanted to use their influence and resources to “improve the morals of England.”

I was reminded of Dickens’ portrayals of 19^th century London when, on my way to visit an antiquarian bookseller, I stepped on a very loose paving stone which gave way and covered my shoes and stockings with mud. Scenes of fine carriages full of upper class people splashing mud and muck on unfortunate street urchins and anyone else who happened to be standing in the wrong place lurched into my mind. In general, the streets of London are much cleaner nowadays, as is the air quality, but moral degradation is as bad as ever.

In Dickens’ day the industrial revolution had created a class of unskilled workers who were willing to work for minimal wages. After all, some money for some kind of work was better than no job and no money at all. Prior to mechanization, these same workers would have been employed in agriculture or in semi-skilled cottage manufacturing jobs. If there was no work during times of economic downturn, whole families might become unemployed, leading, of course, to rampant homelessness, malnutrition, and disease.

The British government enacted various laws to “improve” the lot of the poor. These attempts included the “Poor Law” which created residential (and pestilential!) facilities known as poor houses, where workers had worse conditions and lower pay than if they had had private sector subsistence level work. Lack of sanitation, poor nutrition, over-crowding and 16 – 18 hour work days led to much disease and early death. However, the government that “provided” for you in life would also provide for you in death. If you died in a poor house, the Anatomy Law donated your body to science for dissection so your family would not have to bear the cost of burying you. (I wonder if something similar will be included in President Obama’s vision of “end-of-life” planning for American senior citizens.)

Lisa Toland, in “The Darker Side of A Christmas Carol,” stated, “Many of London’s poor chose the streets to beg and prostitute instead of the government’s supposed discerning benevolence.” (Christianity Today, Dec. 09, p. 44-48) Historically, there are many examples of bureaucratized altruism being subsumed by the law of unintended consequences.

Some of the Victorians got the answer right. Concerned Christians carried out incredible charity work with no help from “government programmes.” Individuals including George Muller, Charles Spurgeon, Lord Shaftsbury, Hannah More, and the Countess of Huntingdon, and organizations such as the Salvation Army and the Young Men’s Christian Association provided orphanages, soup kitchens, rescue missions, Sunday schools for spiritual training, and day schools for teaching working children how to read and write. Christians were at the forefront campaigning for child labor laws and pressing for safe working conditions. They understood that loving their Redeemer, Christ Jesus, meant loving and caring for “the least of these” in society. They set an example of compassionate use of resources, and urged others to do the same.

Dickens, however, and other moralists got the answer wrong. They believed that people in society needed to imitate “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,” without necessarily acknowledging Him as Lord God and savior of fallen mankind. Imitating the best man who ever lived sounds good on paper, but humankind has no capacity to be like Jesus apart from His saving power and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.

In our own day, such social moralism has produced people who are proud that they drink only “fair trade” coffees and teas, wear shoes made of recycled shopping bags, and buy carbon credits when they fly somewhere. They think it a great cosmic favor that they are vegans and don’t mind paying taxes to put obese hedgehogs on diets (see Notes from London pt 3).

Frequently, “social justice” is a matter of class warfare. The spirit of Robin Hood– rob from the rich to give to the poor– is especially endorsed by the “poor” who hope that some of the booty will come their way. It is also true that in a democracy, the “rich” will never be able to out-vote the “poor” when it comes to deciding how much to take from people with means to give to those with needs. For many, “social justice” means getting their fair share, or a little more! But is the collecting and dispensing of largess the proper role of government?

I have frequently heard the old saw, “You can’t legislate morality,” bandied about, usually when some fervent crusader actually wants to legislate against immorality. But I think the real problem is, “You can’t legislate niceness.” When we were in London last spring, placards in the London Underground trains were advertising a “take a granny to lunch” campaign. It worked something like our car pool hotlines; you could call a central phone number and be paired up with a senior citizen who needed a little socialization. I admit that the program, at least in intention, was more admirable than our “It’s Just Lunch” dating service for disaffected singles. But I wonder how many people’s lives were actually improved significantly by yet another government program.

Our own government is currently in the process of robbing from the rich to give to the poor in a host of ways – ever increasing budgets for “education,” drug benefits for senior citizens, universal healthcare, continuous unemployment benefits, mandatory paid parental leave, etc., etc. And the move from “benefit” to “right” is as simple as cashing the first government issued check or swiping the first government issued cash card. (Maybe there is deeper significance in the term “swipe.” )

Jesus never had a top-down approach in mind in his advocacy for taking care of the poor. Biblical compassion is individual-to-individual, carried out cheerfully, the working out of Christ’s instruction to love our neighbors as ourselves. Ironically, the most compassion is often demonstrated through the sacrifice of those of the most slender means, as in the case of the widow who gave both of the pennies she possessed.

Biblically, the role of government is to punish evil doers and reward those who do right. (Romans 13:1-7) The best way on the positive side for the government to help the poor is for the powers that be to encourage and recognize those individuals and private agencies (including churches) who help the poor in practical ways. The main way this has been done historically is through tax relief proportional to a person’s charitable giving. It used to be that education, health care and the support of widows and orphans were under the purview of the extended family first. Should some fall through the cracks, the church was to take up the cause of the needy. But since the government got into the business of “charity,” the extra tax burden on families has put a damper on giving “out of the goodness of one’s heart.” And even if we don’t feel the strain on resources, we likewise don’t feel the burden, since the government will take care of things in our stead.

The best governmental way to help the poor on the negative side would be for the government to be especially hard on those evil doers who prey on the poor; for example, usurious credit card companies (no one can get out from under 31% interest!), rental companies that charge two to three times the fair market value for rented goods, check cashing companies that charge usurious fees, dishonest mortgage companies that get kick-backs for putting people in homes they are bound to lose, banks that charge exorbitant flat fees for bounced checks (even if the check amount is minimal). I’m sure you can all think of other predatory practices.

It is easy to become jaded in today’s self-centered society and think that Christian charity is dead, but one needs only to look at the front line relief workers in Haiti since the devastating 7.0 earthquake leveled the island this week. Hundreds and thousands of Christian missionaries, healthcare workers, teachers, etc., were already in the poorest country in the western hemisphere doing what they could for the poorest of the poor in the name of Jesus. And thousands more have risked their own lives to go help with rescue and relief work this very week. Many millions of dollars have been raised in a matter of less than a week, much of it through Christians giving sacrificially to Christian agencies, showing the level of care and concern for helpless and hurting people that is still possible.

The holding of all things in common so that the needs of all in the body of Christ could be met, as recorded in the book of Acts, was voluntary and sprang from hearts of love devoted to Christ and to loving neighbors as oneself. There is no such thing as “legislated love” or “coerced love.” There is, however, the possibility of the hand of God weighing heavily upon us if we fail to do what is right. And historically, sometimes the tool in His hand has been “human government.” But, no matter what comes down our pike in terms of various forms of “Obama-care,” nothing will ever supplant our responsibility to provide Christian care for those God puts in the path of our life. He has foreordained our good works (Ephesians 2:10), and most of them have human faces!

By Teri Ong

While we have been away, I am sure that Congress has been working hard on “the health care crisis.” Just before we came over, the Senate had cleared the way for debate on some version of a national health care plan. While we have been in a country that has a nationalized health care system, I have become more and more convinced that if we get what we are collectively asking for, we won’t like it.

Life is inherently risky. There is almost nothing we can do in a day that doesn’t have any potential medical consequences. One can even get water poisoning from drinking too much water and upsetting crucial electrolyte balances. Such perfunctory tasks as eating and sleeping, if done either too much or too little, carry well known possibilities for bodily abuse.

So– when the government is shelling out billions to pay for various consequences of living (including getting old), the government has a vested interest in getting citizens to do fewer risky and foolish things. And believe me, I have seen government in action in ways large and small in the last two and a half weeks.

Item 1: County councils in various parts of England are planing to hire inspectors that will be sent to the homes of families with babies and toddlers to make sure their homes are safe for children. (heard on a BBC news broadcast)

How well will privacy-loving Americans adapt to having bureaucrats poking around in their cupboards and fining them for that can of cleanser they forgot was there?

Item 2: UK taxpayers have forked over several thousand GBP (Great Britain pounds) to send out a brochure to senior citizens telling them what type of slippers to buy and how to wear them safely. For a mere 5 GBP, a senior can have a government representative come to his or her home and fit him or her with proper slippers. The representative will then instruct said senior in how to minimize the potential of falling down while wearing slippers. (The Daily Telegraph, Dec. 5, 2009, pg. 5, col 7)

With our government already buying up car companies and banks, maybe they need to look into footwear factories so they can be ready when Health and Human Services mandates safe bedroom slippers.

Item 3: Poster campaigns are all the rage. Every Underground station had Swine flu awareness posters showing how easy it is to spread flu germs. The posters show hand prints in florescent colors of items that have been touched by a victim of the flu. Eeooo! The worst thing about the poster campaign is that you are suddenly made aware of the presence of germs on solid surfaces while you are touching who knows how many solid surfaces in one of the most public (and probably most unsanitary) places in the world– London’s subway system.

I think I read somewhere about how increased stress runs down a person’s immune system. I wonder if the H1N1 awareness campaign is more expensive than the cost of printing posters! Maybe the health ministers in the U.K. need to heed the advice on one of their other poster campaigns: Like the man in the bathtub with the electric drill says, “If you’re doing something stupid– be careful!”

Item 4: Posters in the Underground also tell how many billion GBP are spent on health care services every year because of alcohol abuse.

Bar owners in America complained vociferously when they had to go “smoke free,” since people who drink alcohol in bars often liked to do so while enjoying their nicotine as well. Wouldn’t it be ironic if bar owners were forced by healthcare watchdogs to go “alcohol free” as well as smoke free!?

I personally would welcome a new era of prohibition, though I think it is unlikely that alcohol will go the way of tobacco, especially when marijuana is on its way IN. Alcohol is so devastating in the neighborhood where I live. I think poor neighborhoods suffer even more than they might otherwise from the economic burdens of drunkenness. But all socio-economic strata suffer the emotional and domestic pains that inevitably come with alcohol abuse. King Solomon understood:

“Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions? Who hath babbling? Who hath wounds without cause? Who hath redness of eyes?

“They that terry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.

“Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright.

“At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.

“Thine eyes shall behold strange women and thine heart shall utter perverse things.

“Yea, thou shalt be as he that lieth down in the midst of the sea, or as he that lieth upon the top of the mast.

“They have stricken me, shalt thou say, and I was not sick; and they have beaten me and I felt it not; when shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.” (Prov. 23:29-35)

In America as in the UK, the wheels of government are frequently oiled with alcohol. For that reason, if for no others, we are probably destined to pay and pay alike for the consequences of escapism. But at least remember– like another of the famous posters says, “Don’t drink and ski!”

Item 5: London also has an anti-rape campaign going on right now which is inextricably lined to the alcohol issue. The culture of drinking and partying from Christmas through News Year’s Day causes criminal behaviors to increase proportionally. This is a double problem because it costs law enforcement services as well as healthcare services. And realistically, rape and its attendant costs are only a tiny fraction of healthcare expenses related to what society looks upon as “benign” forms of “unsafe sex.”

If we ever hope to stem the costs of “unsafe sex,” we must begin with calling it what it is– the sin of immorality. As long as we celebrate immoral behavior, rather than being ashamed or disgusted by it, we will never take any steps to curb it as a society. I am sure that the cost of immoral bedroom behavior is much higher than the cost of unsafe bedroom slippers.

Item 6: Brits seem willing to pay (and pay and pay) even though the quality and quantity of available healthcare keeps slipping. One report says, “Twelve hospital trusts are significantly underperforming… despite nine of them being rated ‘good’ or ‘excellent’ by the official health regulator… The research also uncovered widespread safety issues including 39% of trusts failing to investigate unexpected deaths or cases of serious harm on their wards.” (Fred Attewill, “Box -ticking in NHS Hides Bad Practice”, Metro, Monday, Nov. 30, 2009, p. 16)

Someone quipped in America, “When you think of ‘the government option,’ think of the efficiency of the postal system with the compassion of the IRS.” But it would also be good to think of the effectiveness of government-run education. Annually, we keep throwing billions of dollars at a declining system, hoping to fix it. That has happened to government-run health care in the UK. Do we really think it won’t happen here? My own father was nearly the victim of passive euthanasia in one of the best VA hospitals in America, a system that is frequently touted as being a good model for what is to come. Our experience with American education shows that no matter what comes, we will once again being willing to pay (and pay and pay).

Item 7: Brits have also worked themselves into an old-fashioned Catch 22. The cost of health care keeps going up and up, which means that the bill to the government keeps getting bigger and bigger. How do governments ultimately pay for bigger bills? By taxing at a higher rate. Insurance costs will cause a 1% rise in tax rates in the UK across the board. The catch is that “as Britain’s biggest employer, the NHS (National Health Service) will be hard hit by the 1% rise… A Tory official claimed the bill would equate to 14,000 fewer NHS staff which, shared equally between the current payroll, would mean 1,000 fewer doctors and 4,000 fewer nurses.” (Joe Murphy, “Rise in National Insurance to cost NHS 446 million Pounds”, Evening Standard, Thursday, Dec. 10, 2009, p. 9)

Isn’t it Economics 101 that somebody has to pay the bills? The problem is that if your employer is the government and the cost to the government goes up, the government still has to cover the increased costs by taking more from somewhere. If all other employers have to cough up more in tax revenue, so should your healthcare employer (i.e. the government!), which in turn makes the cost to the government for healthcare go up yet more! If it sounds circular, it is. If it sounds complicated, it isn’t: costs go up, and we pay!

Item 8: It seems that a number of parents of underprivileged children are protesting that they haven’t gotten their fair share of money for exercise programs and diet plans, in spite of the fact that “the government has spent 69 million GBP in the past year funding schemes such as the Mend Programme as part of an attempt to fight obesity.” (Evening Standard, Dec. 10, 2009, p. 13) It was too funny that on page 35 of the same paper an article reported that an endangered albino hedgehog, which had been eating too much high calorie dog food, had been put on a special diet to get it back down to a safe weight before being put in a special game preserve for albino hedgehogs! At least human beings aren’t the only species being micro-managed in regard to healthcare.

Government-based health care has become our god of choice; we must just have faith that it will take care of us. But it is a cruel god requiring increasing obeisance and great sacrifice. Psalm 115:8 says that people that make idols “are like unto them; so is everyone that trusteth in them.”

The healthcare gods in the UK are fearful, insecure, and largely bankrupt. Is that really what we want to become?