Autumn of life - 1979

Fall is the end of the beginning. Spring and summer are times of new life and growth but the fall is a special time.  A time of reflection and remembrance. The distinct crispness of the air sparks interest in lighting a fire and watching the sun set over the yellow, orange and red trees.   

This is the time of year when small towns in Northern Idaho like Orofino seem to wake a little later. It is as if the collective society just didn’t want to move away from the warmth of layered blankets braced against open window sleeping.  Amid their pillows and comforters there was a sense the coming of winter in the smells of wood smoke, smoldering leaves, and diesel fumes. Most of the newer homes were heated by oil fired furnaces which burned almost cleanly. Wood stoves were the norm for most. In the first days of fall there seemed to be a blue tinge to the air early as homes were warmed early each day.

The county had just resurfaced the street just outside of my red painted screen door with and oil slurry and a layer of small jagged rocks. With each tire rolling down our street a new grey specter of dust would rise.  Dust that permeated every corner and cranny of my world. We didn’t have a garage to shelter our little light blue Pinto wagon from the elements and sometimes it was difficult to tell if the car was out there amid the dust and diesel smoke.  The dust that rose from the two lane street was permeated with diesel smoke from the empty trucks.  The aroma hung in the still air from the parade of large snow treaded tires moving up the hill. They all were going up the valley, through our little town and in front of my door.

The logging trucks that usually rumbled through town before dawn on the way to the latest timber sale didn’t start quite so early in these late days of fall.  The drivers knew they would only make one trip instead of two each day.  It was just too dangerous to drive at night on those old logging roads.  Big trucks filled with big men all trying to meek out a living in an ever dwindling lumber supply. The available timber was being cut further and further up the hill. 

Orofino was not the end of the world, but as a friend once said, “you can see it from here.”  There was only one stop light in the town.  It hung from a cable across Main Street and it bore the scars of trucks filled with their burdens of logs piled just a little too high during the energetic months of summer.  It was almost a ritual each fall to replace the light.

On the lower sheltered hillsides the tamarack trees were starting to turn golden, then brown.  They were a stark contrast to the variegated green of the pine, cedar and fir trees. The trees in the town were mostly bare.  Each resident had raked the remnants of summer into small pyramids along the street side, and set them smoldering.  Each multicolored pile came with a little wisp of smoke raising high in the clear sky. They would smolder for days at a time.  Each pencil of smoke was an offering to the coming cold season to come. Each fanned again and again by each passing car or truck.

The Clearwater River went through town, dividing it in two.  The color was a deep dark green as it slowly swept down the valley.  In deep winter it would start to freeze along the edges, but now it flowed with defiance against the rocks.  Great swirls were the only marks of the car sized boulders that lay just under the surface. It was the time of year when the river was full of ocean going steelhead and die hard fishermen.  If you look closely you could see a few of these cold enthusiasts in their little silver boats plying for one of the silver fish, fresh up from the Columbia.  It was cold work and once in a while you would see a boat with a cook stove belching black smoke as it moved up and down the glassy river. A hearty people.

Alongside of the river is Idaho State Highway 12 and it was the main corridor for even more trucks. These trucks hauled Montana Red wheat from Great Falls to the port of Lewiston.  Rumbling day and night down that ribbon that connected the great wheat farms of Montana to the sea. About once a year one of these trucks would spill a load or worse not make a curve coming down from the Lolo pass and end in the river.  And the river would take the intrusion and roll it down and down the canyon and occasionally leaving only parts and pieces along banks.

Fall was the time of eagles.  Pairs of these majestic birds had come north to find a place to nest and rest before it was too cold to fish.  Here at the base of the Dworshack dam on the North Fork of the Clearwater River, the fishing was good for the soaring eagles.  Up the canyon in front of the dam they were protected from the upcoming winter blasts. It was here they would nest and hatch the next generation. Their white heads and dark bodies stood starkly against the pure blue of the sky.  They would soar and swoop in a mating dance all in anticipation of the distant spring.   

The Old Bridge, the only connection between the two sides of town, looked new and shiny from a distance.  But up close you could see it was just another layer of silver paint to cover the blemishes of age.  The rivets that held it together had been painted over so many times they had started to blend in with the rest of the aged iron. There had been talk of replacing it after the last big thaw that had weakened the substructure, but it serving its purpose.  The founding fathers just put another coat of paint on it to keep the bridge from falling way from rust. It was a testament to the never changing life that was Orofino.

For a month or so from now, the morning the ground would be covered with a bright and starry frost. The white enveloping blanket would last a little longer every day.  The frost was a promise of snow that all knew would come. 

To brace ourselves against the coming chill, the wood was stacked against the side of the house. Each stick cut with the sweat of summer was a promise of warmth and comfort for the coming winter. This stack of promise had to be used sparingly because there would be no replacement until next year. Fires were struck each morning just to lift the chill for the rest of the day and let go out by mid-morning. The kids were a little quieter these mornings.  Each trying not to get out of bed before the fire had warmed the kitchen.  It was difficult to get them up and ready for school.  Sweaters and coats stored for the summer were brought out to protect from the early morning touch of winter.

A couple of blocks down the Michigan Avenue was the testament of even earlier times. The Ponderosa was the meeting place for everyone.  It has stood the test of time and had won.  Each seat had be reupholstered many times but they were still sturdy after 30 years of big men and even stronger women.  Above the counter was a clock with a rotating flip card display of the local businesses surrounded by a faint hue of neon light.  Sugar was still in glass dispensers, not in pretty packets of white, pink and yellow. The cups were large and heavy and some with a chip or two bespeaking of the years of wear.  The default coffee in the Ponderosa was a cheap-cheap and not so good for you brew. The standard is to sweeten it with enough sugar and when it is finished there should be a remainder of undissolved sugar at the bottom to start the next cup.

The Ponderosa was the place of meeting for Kiwanis and Elks service clubs in town. If you sat in a corner and waited long enough the world of Orofino would come in the door.  The gyppo contractors, and woodsbosses would congregate early to share knowledge and prospects for the latest timber sale.  This group would always be in a hurry and leave quickly.  But the club most noteworthy kept no attendance and had no membership rolls. Each would sit in a designated spot and at the designated time each morning they would start their meeting.  It was the meeting place for the old loggers.  Each would sit at the warm up spot, drink coffee and trade stories of log jams, yellow pine and virgin cedar. Each season the club membership was getting smaller and smaller. The ravages of time and injury were taking their membership one by one.

At the same place and the same time every day but Sunday.  Sunday was when the wives and daughters forced them into their best church clothes and would drive them to church.  This club was special cadre of men with a special uniform and unique language.  The most senior of the club called themselves tree fellers, because a tree falls and the wielder of the ax did not. It was their club.  Their heavy wool plaid coats layered on the coat tree in the corner, they were dressed in the uniform of the past and leaning on the now worn café counter, they huddled together as if for warmth.  Green wool pants held by red suspenders and cut off above the boot tops was the dress of the day.  Big black boots, called chalks, with worn off nails in the soles, laced high and tight, covered the two pairs of wool socks protruding above the boot.  The boots resonated with metallic clamor as they walked in and out. A plaid long sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow was worn atop a faded pair of long sleeved long johns.

If you listened closely you would hear words like: choker, high line, wanigan, and peavey.  Each word was spoken with a special meaning to the group and most likely used to keep outsiders out of their domain. The only interruption allowed in their meeting was the waitress offering a fill up to the now lukewarm coffee they held in their grizzle hands.  

Life had turned into a slow clock ticking its way to eternity. Like the clock over the counter, their light was still shining but the cards were a little over worn. Their age and past crippling accidents no longer would allow them to venture into the high country for the next great stand of timber. That is if there was a next great stand of timber.  Most if it was gone.  Gone from years of logging.  Gone from years of sweat, pain, spent youth and great nature bending efforts of strength. The club members would speak of trees six feet thick that once were found just a few miles from town.  Now there was none to be found.  And the lament went on in the latest meeting of the fellers. Great men forced into retirement.  As easy as it would be to dismiss this all to the past and the Fellers Club along with it, their no frills approach to their autumn days has a welcoming familiarity.  They have become content in their lives.  Each remembrance brings a little jolt to the system as big as one more cup of coffee.

And the waitress asks for the sixth time, “Can I offer you a fill up?”  No I am fine.

It is all about memories.  Who a person is, is not what they have, or even what others think of him.  It is more than that.  It is your perception of your place in the whole.  And no matter what your perception is, it is always good.  It is good because that is the best it can be.  These fellers cannot change the number of logs on the hills but they can memorialize them in their demeanor and their resolve.

Today, I am more like the fellers in the Ponderosa, recollecting the glory days, than the brash young man willing to hike to the stars in search of fulfillment.  But there is not a day that goes by that a cold day in Idaho does not cross my mind.  And each time, I am reminded of the memories of wood smoke, dust, stale coffee and cold.  And it brings me warmth.

Down the road two by two

Back in the day I was a enthusiast for dirt track racing.  Each Friday night I would accompany my Father-in-Law up to Chico's dirt track and on Saturday it was Anderson.  We had worked all week to get the well bruised car running again and fix all that was broken.  Each race would start with the announcer proclaiming, "Here they come two by two just like ducks to water." 

Wouldn't it be great if there was disagreements in the church?  Wouldn't it be great if we all just marched along two by two like ducks go to water?  The other day I over heard someone say there was a scriptural mandate for getting along.  They were saying  we should all agree in the church with a quote from Amos 3:3. They were saying there is no place of disagreement in Body of Christ.

I want express my disagreement with that philosophy.  There will always be disagreements in any organization that includes people.  A former pastor of mine used to say, "To dwell up above with the saints we love, that will be glory.  But to dwell here below with the saints we know, well that is a different story."
 
Amos was not saying that two people have to agree on the same thing all the time. The scripture is not even about man and man. It is about God and man.

Let me add a number of translations of Amos 3:3

• How can two walk together, except they be agreed? (King James Version & New King James Version)
• Do two walk together, unless they have made an appointment? (Revised Standard Version & New Revised Standard Version)
• Can two people walk together without agreeing on the direction? (New Living Translation)
• Do two men walk together unless they have made an appointment? (New American Standard)
• Do two people start traveling together without arranging to meet? (Good News Translation
• Do two walk together unless they have agreed to do so? (New International Version)

This is but one of many rhetorical questions in Amos. This question was asked to bring about conviction to the Israelites who were hearing the same thing from all the prophets. Amos asked them this question as a wake-up call for them to realize that all of God's prophets were unanimous in prophesying the same thing against them because they had all received the same message from God.

The people were turning a deaf ear to ALL the prophets. Amos tried to convince them that the combined prophecy from these men were inspired by God's Spirit. That's why they could prophesy the truth. The two of them (Amos, the prophet) and (God, the giver of the prophecy) were indeed walking together.

There is nothing wrong with two people walking together. There is nothing wrong with two people agreeing with each other. However, know that the original meaning of the scripture was about God and man; not two humans.

From now on, let's be aware that "the two" are not you and someone else. It should be you and God.
God and man cannot walk together, except they are agreed.

• God and man must be clear about the same direction.
• God and man must make an appointment to meet at the same place.
• God and man cannot walk together if man is walking contrary to God.
• You won't feel God's presence unless the two of you are walking in the same direction at the same time.

By the way it does help that you are going in the same direction: your spouse, your boss, your parents or your Pastor.  But remember God MUST be walking with you as well. Seek God's glory and include Him in your walks. If one is out of step, guess which one it is?

Feed my Lambs

MARK 6:34 says,  “And Jesus, when He came out, saw much people, and was moved with compassion toward them, because they were as sheep not having a shepherd:  and He began to teach them many things.”

Over the last couple of years I have searched for a place to exercise my spiritual gifts.  Whether it be Episcopal, Nazarene, Church of God, Lutheran, or Presbyterian, they all fell short of expectations.  Probably of the sample of the churches I personally attended were not the best examples of the denomination.  This situation has caused me to think that there is a pandemic within organized Christianity. The common thread is a subtle change from the centrality of the Word of God to something that could arguably be considered as important; worship.  I deeply understand and seek to worship my God in word and deed but I struggle with the lack of spiritual depth that a constant diet of worship and praise seems to provide.

So what is the reasoning behind this subtle change in style and methodology?  Is it easier to sing and raise our hands than to rightly divide the word of truth?  Is it more palatable to feel good by ecstatically repeating words over and over in the cadence of a snare drum and brass cymbal than to dig deeper into the Word of God and perhaps find something in our lives that requires changing.

So who within the church today to supporting this well-meaning paradigm?  Today, in America, churches are full of sheep – not having a shepherd.  Within these churches across our country, hungry sheep wait to be fed and to be led into the things of God.  Unfortunately, multitudes are as sheep without a shepherd not willing to, as Jesus stated, “If you love me feed my sheep.” 

And, unfortunately, while there is a yearning for God in the pew, there appears to be a falling away in the pulpit.  I not saying that much of today’s clergy is spiritually bankrupt, I am just saying it is easier to go with the flow.

For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God to salvation to everyone that believes; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.

Yea, I long for the day when more and more preachers begin refusing to “trim the truth in the name of tickling the ears of the people.  

 

What is the Law for?

I have been amiss in keeping up with my writing.

I am traveling up river and ferociously placing paddle after paddle in the rough waters of a book that in Kindle form has 12,956 pages. It is a very large tome on the life and times of Paul the Apostle.  The current section is on the historical world of the Pharisees of the first century. I am struck at the similarities of these religious bastions of scripture and the current church.

Within the adherence and adoration of the Laws of Moses and all the accompanying interpretations was a deeply-seated hypocrisy.  They had, as a part of their study and training learned the well the art of straining out gnats and swallowing camels. 

Each to reach the title of Pharisee had to learn how to defend almost any point of view.  And in doing so they had learned to be able to nullify by logic to nullify anything they professed to defend.  The intellectual prowess of Hillel the great Biblical Scholar and teacher was quite capable of slicing off any Mosaic regulation which had been found practically problematic or burdensome.  Pharisees and Sadducees alike had managed to set aside in their own favor.  They could construct rules by stretching a small particle of truth and proof texting to a point that Moses would have listened in mute astonishment.

As an example, there is an explicit mandate in the Law is the uncleanness of creeping things, yet the Talmud assures us that, “no one is appointed a member of the Sanhedrin who does not possess sufficient ingenuity to prove from the written Law that a creeping thing is ceremonially clean.” Dishonesty like this was at work even in the days when the Paul sat at the feet of Gamaliel. It seems to me that the great writer of so much of the New Testament would have struggled even to a point of frustration at a system at once so meaningless, so stringent, and so insincere? Could he fail to notice that they “hugely violated what they trivially obeyed?”

I too struggle at the rules and concepts of the Law in the church.  What is my responsibility to keep every little iota of every suggestion, mandate, commandment, precept, expectation, and even the phrase, “What would Jesus do?”  Did Jesus come to keep all these laws or is there something else?  It was against the temple to over throw the tables.  It was against the law to heal on the Sabbath.  How many times did Mary and Martha break the Sabbath rule by preparing and serving meals to the Disciples?  When Jesus touched a leper was He not made unclean? 

Jesus was the Lamb of God; blameless, without spot or blemish.  What is the Law to the Christian? 

Thanks be to God, “Therefore, there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit who gives life is set you free from the law of sin and death.”

Two hands

Every time I open my hands and look at the grooves and line in my own hands, I see my father.  I have big hands: the hands of German English heritage. Just like my father’s hands, the digits are not well suited to playing the piano or sometimes even typing.  There are few images in my mind of my father which are stronger than the sight of his hands. My father’s hands were huge, but the most remarkable characteristic was the rough callousness of them.  My dad was a mechanic in the days before computers and smog control devices.  Being a mechanic meant you were tough, greasy, tolerant, and patient. 

Those great big hands that would reach out to me to come and give him a hug seemed so coarse.  Years of working with hot engines, sharp tools, and caustic chemicals made them that way.  I remember dad when mom was in the hospital for a three day visit and trying to fix the kids something to eat, reaching out for a hot black iron frying pan from the electric stove top.  He had picked it up to take it to the table and he had gone five steps before he realized it was burning hot.  His hands were so desensitized to heat it took that long to set off the warning bells in his head.  With one giant throw the pan and our dinner went into the sink splattering oil and our food all over the wall.

I guess the reason I remember my father’s hands so well is because as he suffered from the ravages of Alzheimer’s and the rest of his world shrank his hands were still the most remarkable thing to see. They bore the unmistakable signs of hard work.  Those thick, strong and rough hands had not shrunk with the rest of his body.  Those hands that had gripped steel, plunged thousands of times into gasoline and oil,  and pulled chains.  Those hands hung from his arms from still thick wrists that stretched any watch band he had ever known.  They were not the hands that should be idle in his last days.  They shook and were increasingly awkward when he tried to wipe the drool off his  own proud chin.

 TWO GREAT HANDS

 

My Father was a man with two great hands,

The skin was rough as it could be.
Work was his life with its pulls and commands,
But he always made time for me.

Sleep and rest were not part of his clock,

There was always someone else in need.
Never did he stop, even when he could drop,
For there were many mouths at home to feed.

His bones were often tired and painfully uncured,

His hands often bandaged and red.
But a promise was a promise, and his bond was his word,
And everyone believed what he said.

He was my dad, and constant each day.

It amazed me how he could be ever so strong,
In his life, in his convictions and in his way.
In my eyes he would never do wrong.

Consistent in actions and strong were his words,
All were made better for walking with this man.
My hands are not as rough, or nearly as tough,
But my inheritance was his gentleness of his hand.

My Dad was a man with two working hands,

Until his life did stop with a beat.
Oh how I miss him, his hands and loving gentle soul,
But these hands I have will ever remind and keep.

Dig another Well

I have never been one to point fingers.  I believe that the effort expended in the pursuit of whom or what was at fault is simply wasted energy. My belief comes from two other mantras which I have accepted; 1) control is a myth, and 2) we are responsible for our own decisions. But we seem to live in a culture that seems to be always looking for an excuse. Things happen to both good people and not so good people.  Good things happen and we want to take credit and when the opposite raises its ugly face we want to blame. Blame is easier than understanding the reasons for tragedy and hardship.

In the recent Supreme Court decision on marriage our first reaction is to blame someone.  It is all those liberal judges, or it is that small group of dissidents that prevailed against my own sense of right and wrong. We end up singing the “woe is me” song or chant “our country is going to hell in a hand basket.”

We want to blame someone for our own personal lack of control of those black robed judges in Washington.  Our lack of control wants us to blame. Our frustration which comes from the lack of control is vented outward.

Yes there is a moral crisis in our country and in our world.  And the most followed religion in this world is seemingly unable to slow it down.  The counter-forces against the Church seem to be winning.  The cannon fire of the opposition seems to be better aimed and more powerful.  We are exasperated at our own personal and corporate control of the terrible slide downward.

Country singer Paul Overstreet wrote a song about a story in Genesis 26, which contains an important lesson for us. In this song Isaac is renamed Ike. Listen to the lyrics:

Ike had a blessing from the Lord up above,
Gave him a beautiful woman to love,
A place to live, some land to farm,
Two good legs and two good arms.

The Devil came sneaking around one night,
Decided he would do a little evil to Ike.
Figured he hit ole Ike where it hurts so he
Filled up all Ike’s wells with dirt

Ike went out to get his morning drink,
Got a dip full of dirt and his heart did sink
He knew it was the Devil so he said with a grin
God blessed me once, he can do it again

So when the rains don’t fall, and the crops all fail,
And the cow ain’t putting any milk in the pail,
Don’t sit around waiting for a check in the mail,
Just pick up your shovel and dig another well,
Pick up your shovel and dig another well.

Adversity is part of life.  For the Christian it just means we should realize God’s blessed and loved people will undergo uncontrollable problems. We can’t control the adversity. And it is not about fault.  It is how we react to adversity that counts. Life can be unfair.  People and circumstances can hurt you and steal from you, people can make decisions that you don’t agree with, the music may not be to your liking, but how we react is more important than all these things.  It is a personal decision to pick up your shovel and dig another well; because God blessed me once, he can do it again.

It is more than just smiling and setting your jaw to keep on keeping on.  There is an expectation, a faith  that God will be vindicated. In the end there is hope.  Because God is still in the blessing business.  

Solid food not milk

According to a recent church study of those who value church attendance and strongly identify as evangelical Christians, almost two thirds state their reason for attending is to learn more about God.  This is a good thing.  The church should be an avenue of learning; it should be a place where good teachers and preachers provide the vehicle of understanding and sanctuary of study.  But the study went on to say of those self-identified church attendees, only 6% say they learned something about God or Jesus the last time they attended.

Why is this happening?  Why is the very place where we come to know our God so without what we yearn for?  Where is the meat of the Gospel?  I believe the Gospel has not changed.  The Gospel as Paul would characterize it in his first letter to the church in Corinth (15:1-7), was Jesus who died, Jesus who was buried, Jesus who rose again, and Jesus who was seen. Is it that we know it all and nothing new is being taught?  Is the church satisfied to live on the milk as Paul stated in this same letter (3:2)?

The early church leaders did not have the things we consider essential for our faith.  They had no official church buildings, no vision statements, or even statements of core values. There was no social media, radio broadcasts, well-constructed web pages. They didn't even have the completed New Testament. Christ-followers were often deeply misunderstood, persecuted and some gave their lives for their faith. Yet they loved and they served and they prayed and they blessed—and slowly, over hundreds of years, they brought the Roman Empire to its knees.

Today’s Christian culture has more tools at its fingertips than any since creation. You can go to any Walmart or Dollar Store and purchase Bibles for less that we spend at Starbucks.  The most gifted preachers are available on the web. We can watch video sermons on our electronic of choice.  We may listen to live worship CDs as we drive down the road.  We have bible software on our phones.  We can read in depth studies in Greek and Hebrew on our favorite texts. We have Bible conferences on growth, denominational systems, leadership, missions, church planting, evangelism and even conferences for church leadership on people who don’t want to go to church.  We have Christian TV, Christian radio, short term mission trips for anyone who has the dollars to go, and we get a federal deduction for our giving to the Church.

Yet the very place where we should learn of Jesus we are not learning anything that would change our lives.  The emphasis is on decisions not discipleship. Relationship is not dependent on change on our part, but a free gift.  We are justified by our faith not by works.  But the Church is not going to the next level.  Discipleship, growth, maturity comes from knowledge and a changeable spirit; it is a constant giving up as we are enlightened.

Wake up Church.

Willingness of God

Matthew 8:1-4
Being an outcast throughout his life a leper was willing to try most anything to be included.  I heard a song today about a woman who was struggling to be included.  She sung, "We are all the same inside but everyone wants to compare me by my outside."  The leper was just like you and I on the inside but the only thing that was seen was his medical handicap. 
So he came to Jesus and  made the statement: "Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean." He had acknowledged the very evident power of God.  He acknowledged the ability of Jesus to heal.  He didn't ask to be healed he just stated facts.  His willingness was a statement, not a question or even a request.  He had fallen down at the feet of Jesus and in an attitude of worship he proclaimed that the power of God through his Only Begotten Son can heal. God in human form was able to make the outside just like the inside. To become like everyone else.
Jesus stretched out his hand and made the astonishing statement, "I am willing, and you are clean."  the leper was as clean on the outside as he was on the inside.  The scabs fell off.  The red splotches that had itched and pained this man for years turned like a pale rose.
He was probably very excited and wanted to tell everyone around him the news. But Jesus told him to keep his tongue, and to perform some required tasks in the local synagogue.
Not words, not exciting verbosities exclaimed to everyone around him proclaiming the Chosen One of Israel.
Go and make sacrifices. Do what Moses would have him do.  Do the things that normal Israelites would do if healed.  Let the outside be the same as the inside.
His actions were his testimony.  And the result of being normal in the middle of everyone else that once saw him as different, was spectacular.  The non-verbal became the verbal.  Action became the testimony.  The testimony became a calling to those who are not the same on the inside and the outside.  His miracle in itself became a shout to the world of the healing power of God. 
God is still making the unlovely, the strange, the unique, the ones that shrink from the norm, the ones that are different inside and the ones that different on the outside, in an instant to become whole.
He is willing as soon as you are willing.

That still small voice

Deep in the soul of every person on earth is a longing for something more than self. We try to stuff all sorts of things into our lives in an effort to sooth that longing.  But it will not be quieted. it is a little voice that in our quiet times becomes louder and disturbs us.
Entertainments distract us with even louder voices. Things are gathered around us to fill the the gaps in our lives but the voice continues on.  I believe this voice is in the heart of every human being and it calls to us to the eternal.  It calls us from the material to the spiritual.  It speaks to us and makes us dissatisfied with the normal.
It is sad for those who only see God in the big things.  When disaster strikes in a land far away there is a national outcry for prayer. But in reality we need to be still and know in all circumstances.
In the heart of everyone is something that is constantly drawing us from the normal to the sublime.
A week ago or so all the churches in our area of Sacramento gathered together.  There were Lutherans, Presbyterians, Baptists, Nazarene, Assembly of God, Community churches all gathered for a single cause.  The cause of just being the Body of Christ.  The redeemed met together to celebrate there small voices and together touch more than the usual.
We sang, we prayed, we listened to scripture, we heard a little gifted preaching, but most of all we celebrated the eternal.
We worshiped in unity and in truth.  Denominations were set aside for a few moments and in place eternity split open for a moment.  A fleeting moment we pulled back the curtain of the tabernacle and looked into the Holy of Holys and were amazed.  Like Isaiah in ISAIAH 6:1 In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord, high and exalted, seated on a throne, high and lifted up.  

The Dog that would not swim.

Charles Swindoll, in his book "Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back," tells the story of a farmer who wanted to impress his hunting buddies. So, he bought the smartest, most expensive hunting dog he could find and he trained this dog to do things no other dog on earth could do---impossible things that would surely amaze anyone. Then he invited his buddies to go duck hunting with him. After a while a group of ducks flew over and the hunters were able to make a few hits. Several ducks fell in the water and the proud owner shouted to his magnificent dog, "Go get ‘em!" The dog leapt out of the boat, walked on the water, picked up a bird and returned to the boat. As soon as he dropped the duck in the boat he trotted off across the water again and grabbed another duck and brought it back to the boat.
The owner beamed with pride as his wonderful dog walked across the water and retrieved each of the birds one by one. Unable to resist the opportunity to brag a little he asked his buddies, "Do you notice anything unusual about my dog?"
One of them rubbed his chin and said, "Yes. Come to think of it, I do! That silly dog doesn’t know how to swim does he??"
When Peter in Mathew 14 stepped out of the boat in the middle of a storm to walk on the water to Jesus, many people have the same reaction. Instead of recognizing that he was the only disciple to have the faith to even step out of the boat, he is criticized for his lack of faith when he sank in the waves. But in reality, he was the only one with enough faith to go to Christ. The other disciples sat in the boat and they almost always get overlooked in this story.
But they were there, still in the boat.

Déjà vu all over again!

What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Ecclesiastes 1:9

I stand on the shoulders of thousands of preachers of thousands of sermons, thoughts, ideas, illustrations and I completely understand the writer of Ecclesiastes.  There is no new thought, there is no new sermon, and there is no new study of scriptures that has not been done before.  There is little that we encounter in our studies of God that is different. 

There is transience about the human existence on this earth.  There is little that brings us face to face with something absolutely new. Nothing really changes except for the faces and the names.  History repeats itself over and over again.  We are born.  We live.  We die. The elevations are built up and the elevations are brought down.  History is repeated over and over again.  No great thing emerges from “under the sun” that would change our fleet moment on this earth.  The world is a very repetitive place.  Solomon was stating the obvious.  Nothing ever changes.

Any search for meaningfulness, any grasping out for thing that would excite our souls of the new has to come from somewhere else.

In this hopeless weariness we wait for the people around us to come up with something new.  We crave something new to make our existence more relevant. But Solomon is telling us “It isn’t happening”.  Here “under the sun” our world is always looking and listening, attempting to be satisfied, but always wanting more.  Each succeeding generation seeks to find what was not discovered before and fail.

In the current society we always want something to be different. Every technology screams to us “I am new”. iPod, iPhone, iTunes, TV sets the size of small cars, YouTube, Xfinity, Netflix, blogs, FaceBook, Twitter, Instagram, and yet our eyes and our ears are not satisfied.  We want more.  The overwhelming information that assaults our senses are but symptoms of the lack of change.  There will always be one more show to watch, one more game to play, one more song to hear, one more update from people we hardly know. So we keep on text-messaging, webcasting, Facebooking, Twittering, Flickering, uploading, downloading, and spewing the same ideas that someone else has said a thousand times.  But what have we gained? What have we accomplished?  Is there any profit?

Now before you get really depressed at the monotony of existence, the key understanding here is found when you understand “there is nothing new under the sun”.  Here at ground level everything is pretty much the same. Yogi Berra may have said it well: “déjà vu all over again!”  Meaningfulness is knowing and knowing without a doubt that there is a God in heaven who rules OVER the sun.  Meaningfulness can only be found in the context of Him.  When we come to the realization God in our lives does it make life here tolerable, even delightful, and making ultimate perfect existence possible, through Jesus Christ. All those things that make life here so weary and boring can have new meaning, when you understand who God is, what Christ did and you connect yourself to the genuineness of being a child of God. “Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man,” (Eccl. 12:13).