The Grave
It's a space where they place
The dead. Where those displaced from the ranks
of the living go to taste the regrets of time wasted.
Encased in a dark and dank resting place
that doesn't rest well
with the rest of the human race,
Who ALL face the inevitable, ignominious, and imminent departure
from the face of this terrestre
Where we are said to embrace what some boldly,
but others barely and naively believe
is just another, but much better, place.
We're marked by the stark and bold foreboding shadow cast
by the cold grave over young and old.
Over plans of life that end too fast
and, as it turns out, don't last
like fool's gold.
So we look longingly for something longer
than these short-lived dreams
and shortened dramas
dragged down by thoughts that dredge-up
an undesirable and undelayable death
and dwell on the demoralizing details of an unknown,
dreaded after-life.
But for those chasing after life, life after death is just an afterthought,
cause they thought that after this life we just stop living.
The Grave; Don't say, "C'est pas grave"
because the gravity of its finality
lingers and clings to us like a maladie,
its grave reality engraved on our conscience.
This consciousness we've been given
of a mortality that ends our livin'.
For every one of us
it's the one thing ahead we most dread -
the unconscionable thought of ending life dead.
It's messin' with our head,
enough said.
Where's the hope?
I'm glad you asked
Because by asking, we stop acting like members of a cast
in costumes and masks,
and instead start facing the facts
That there's someone who adores me, who already went before me
My Messiah, the Sign o'God's desire
to save us from the fire, a Redeemer,
my ransom's buyer with an eye on my plight, who fought my fight
so I don't have to face the grave alone.
Cause what Jesus did when He died was he didn't stay dead,
but His greatest deed went down the day He was dealt
the death blow by his destiny.
You see, the devil desired to defeat Him
by delaying him from the tree,
determined to undermine him and demoralize him.
Even those who had wanted to immortalize him
would later cry out, "Crucify him."
But you can't hold down or outlast the everlasting.
That's the last thing ever
you can try and do.
See, He was the Firstfruit, bringing to fruition from the past
the plan of God that a perfect man, called the First and Last,
should cast himself into the calloused hands of sinful man,
To fulfill the promise to take our thirsting, fallen lives
and make them fruitful,
The Firstborn from among the dead, throwing down his crown,
adorned by a wreath of thorns,
endowed and re-crowned with power,
now and forever,
his renown gone out for how He overpowered
mighty sin and the grave.
Being God, He who loved human beings with all of His being,
was laid in a tomb like a seed sown in the soil.
Unseeing behind the stone,
they closed Him in that dark empty room..
It seemed that the tragic scene that had seen Him bleeding and beaten,
berated and naked
had now ended in being sealed in a soiled shrowd of shame.
But the Forerunner, foreknown as the One who would go before us,
this author and finisher of our faith,
when His blood had sufficiently finished running down,
all poured out,
Shouted, "It is finished". He routed
and finished off the whisperer,
the accuser of the brothers, the sisters.
Cause what followed three days and nights of silence and sorrow
was that death was swallowed up in life.
Mortality, decay, and destruction clothed itself in immortal reality.
Reduced to a formality of life,
the finality of death never ever again having the last word.
'Cuz the buzzards that used to hover above have been plucked
and that swarming buzz of fear that used to linger
in your ear is no longer heard,
cause death has lost its stinger.
The grave's victory is now history.
Death is no longer menacing, missing meaning in inscrutable mystery,
cause the ministry
of our High Priest achieved for us an ability
to live for eternity.
His resurrection rectified everything defiled by the Fall,
finally effecting everlasting living
for every breathing being
who puts their belief in Him.
The fruit of His affection
for those who used to be left bereft by the effects of death
is that we think in a new direction;
The fear of the grave is no longer a perplexing infection. Upon reflection,
our future is now sure, and though surely
we share pain and sickness and
there be shadows and questions,
be assured of the lesson of the grave, now empty:
We were dead,
Christ died,
He rose,
we rise,
It's Paradise.
Spring is beautiful in Grenoble. Gray gives way to green and the surrounding mountains cut a fantastically sharp horizon against brilliant blue skies. Enjoying this panoramic view today, I was mowing the pitiful piece of greenery in front of our door I generously refer to as our lawn. The smell triggered a very powerful springtime childhood memory of being on the baseball field and taking in the intoxicating, refreshing aroma of newly cut grass. As I was reminiscing about my early years when a love for baseball was instilled in me, a few images from America's national pastime ran through my mind. One was rather horrifying, considering I am a diehard San Francisco Giants fan. Like a painful memory dredged from the depths of my subconscious, this dark secret I have kept in lonely silence all these years surfaced suddenly and sent shudders of shame through my soul. When I played little league baseball in my small hometown of Quincy California, my team for three of those years was, and it pains me to say it, the Dodgers. That's right, I actually wore a blue Dodgers uniform each summer, one identical to my Giants' most bitterly hated Los Angeles rival. The realization almost made me sick to my stomach, but a few chants of "Beat L.A." uttered under my breath restored my resolve to push past the pain and finish my yard work.
A more pleasant memory was of my favorite player growing up - Johnny Bench. He was a catcher, and so was I. He wore number five, and I did the same. I wanted to play just like him. He played for the Cincinnati Reds, whose dominance of the league from 1970-1976 won them numerous world series and league championships, as well as the name "the Big Red Machine". Bench is a member of the Hall of Fame now, and is widely considered one of the best catchers of all time. His equally famous teammate was third baseman Pete Rose, who today is banned for life for having bet on baseball while a player and manager. Despite having the most hits, games played, and at bats of any player in history, and being voted an all-star 17 times, he is still not part of the Hall of Fame nor allowed to participate in any league activities. Despite many appeals, Major League Baseball has never once seriously considered forgiving him and lifting the ban. To the commissioner of baseball charged with upholding the image and sanctity of the game, Pete Rose is enemy number one. But imagine if one day, Bud Selig or the commissioner that will soon follow him, decides that even though he is guilty, they will no longer hold this punishment over him. Imagine if Pete Rose is forgiven and reinstated. Do you know what that would be like? Like us experiencing peace with God. We were guilty and enemies of God. Even though we deserve punishment, He doesn't want us to remain separated by a ban or an old mandate of justice. He wants to reconcile with us and let us back in the game, like former enemies who forget the past, are forgiven, and become reconciled. I hope it happens one day for old Pete. And I hope it has already happened for you, too.
Another vivid baseball image for me is of the home plate umpire There is no worse feeling than watching a ball whiz past you, hearing the thud in the mitt of the catcher, followed a "Stee-rike" thundered by a much older and less athletic masked man behind you. With almost a feeling of poetic justice, I recently saw an umpire get hit with a ball that had deflected off of a bat. As he was leaning in close enough to smell the catcher's brand of shampoo, he took a fastball to the shoulder and came away wincing. But that is a hazard of the job of carefully considering every decision on every action of a game where balls are thrown at you in excess of 90 miles-per-hour, with fairness and an eye for precision. The umpire hovers just behind the catcher, making a call whether the ball just thrown is on target (a strike) or out of the strike zone (a ball). He also makes the call at the plate to decide if a runner sliding into home plate is safe or out. Either way, his call must be clear and loud enough to be heard by all. And just in case one is hard of hearing, his ruling is accompanied by one of a variety of demonstrative gestures indicating the call. His decision is definitive and binding. Well, that is, until this season when they decided to introduce instant replay, but that is another subject entirely for this baseball purist. When Colossians 3:15 says "Let the peace of God rule in your hearts", it is this image of an umpire that is being used. The peace of God hovers close and gives a definitive ruling on the small and big decisions of our life, helping us to know whether a job, a marriage, a move, or any of a million possible actions and activities, are "safe" or "out", on target, or outside of the approved zone. We can argue or dispute the call, but God's ruling needs no instant replay. He gets it right every time.
So the next time you are either watching baseball or catch a whiff of freshly cut grass, let it remind of you of God's peace. Peace with God and the peace of God. That's a pastime we can all not get enough of.
As the self-proclaimed "capital of the French Alps", Grenoble is a city which provides visitors and residents alike unparallelled access to hiking trails, rock-climbing, skiing, and paragliding, just to name a few of its outdoor sport offerings. For those who explore the mountains and find themselves in need of shelter, there are quite a lot of alpine refuges available in these parts. These are some variation of small cabins nestled in the wilderness able to withstand the elements and provide a safe, dry place for adventurers. This can actually be a scary sight for those who may have been traumatized as children by images of forest houses found in the stories of Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks and Snow White. For example, once when Emma and I were hiking, we came upon a stone and tin refuge high in the mountains and I swear that I heard someone cackling. Just remember, where one man sees a shelter, another man sees The Shack.
There are two types of refuges, guarded and unguarded. Though that might sound like a war zone, it just means that one is manned and the other is not. To stay at the guarded refuge, one has to book it in advance. The on-site caretaker makes sure the important things are taken care of, like keeping the spider population in check and providing something softer than leaves and smooth sticks next to the seat of porcelain. And guests, who sleep dormitory style here, can usually pay to have a hot meal prepared for them. But hiker beware, earplugs and deodorant are optional. As you might imagine, this type of refuge is not free. In other words, it's a refuge for those who know in advance they are in need of one.
But to me, that makes the first kind of refuge more like a hotel. If I plan and book ahead, is it really a refuge? It seems to me that a refuge is something one stumbles upon or runs to when really in need or difficulty. I think the second type of refuge fits this description better. There is no charge to stay in the unguarded refuge. Yes, things are more basic and the upkeep depends on volunteers or those who stay there tidying up after themselves. But there you'll find the necessary table, chairs, fireplace, and mattress on the floor. The door is always open and it operates on a 'first come first served basis'.
I would like to think of my family and our home as a refuge for students, travelers, and the needy. I remember growing up in a pastor's home, there were times when our meals or television time were interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door. I saw as my parents modeled the unguarded shelter to my watching eyes. Unfinished food or favorite TV programs were quickly left behind to attend to the need at the door. They never let on that their agenda had been interrupted, but rather communicated that there was no one more important at that moment than the unexpected guest. Our simple house with basic needs was, if nothing else, accessible, on a first come, always served basis.
Sad to say, too often today my heart and my house are like the first refuge, with the emphasis on being well stocked, clean and comfortable, but with a preference for advance bookings. The reality is, those I am called to serve in this city need to find a shelter they can stumble upon or run to and always find the warmth and welcome they may need. There are plenty of hotel chains that will cater to the pre-registered but rarely to those at the last minute or on their last dollar. So I am aiming to be more of a forest chalet than a fancy chain. And to be a destination of the unguarded variety.
