Math Lessons by Jesus

In the immediate "aftermath" of Jesus' miraculous feeding (with limited resources) of 5000 and then 4000, another scene unfolds - the disciples are worried about not having enough bread.  They are with the miracle worker who just (presumably) amazed them with his food multiplication ability.   He gently gives them a math lesson:

And Jesus, aware of this, said to them, "Why are you discussing the fact that you have no bread? Do you not yet perceive or understand? Are your hearts hardened?  Having eyes do you not see, and having ears do you not hear? And do you not remember?  When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?" They said to him, "Twelve."  "And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up?" And they said to him, "Seven."  And he said to them, "Do you not yet understand?"

5 loaves - 5000 - 12 baskets left over

7 loaves - 4000 fed - 7 baskets left over

"Do you not yet understand?" 

What was it that Jesus was wanting them to understand through this math quiz?  Was it simply that he had twice done amazing feeding miracles - starting with limited resources, feeding many beyond what those resources would usually feed, having an abundance left over beyond what was started with?   Note that this was true on both occasions.  Or was he trying to point out something deeper - the principle of faithless diminishing returns - that in the face of a miracle, faith not actualized leads to a restriction in the ability of God to perform future miracles; that faith opens the door to the storehouse of heaven and provides a context and milieu for the power of God to be evident.  Could it be that our lack of faith in our western materialistic, naturalistic culture and world view has in some way stayed God's hand and restricted him in the realm of the supernatural? 

God restricted?!?  Remember what happened to Jesus in the context of unbelief in his home town Nazareth.  The people saw their home grown boy and disbelieved - "isn't this Mary's son - aren't his brothers James, Simon, Judas and Joses?  Isn't he a carpenter?"  They were focussing on the natural.  They were unwilling to see that, while he was indeed all those things, he was also the son of the most high God, that he was in fact God in the flesh and that he had not only already demonstrated his miraculous power but he had come to their town to do the same. Mark, in his account, writes that "he could do no mighty work there....."  Imagine - the power of lack of faith to create a milieu in which God in the flesh was restricted in what he could do!  Insisting on nothing more than the natural gives birth to just that - a life and experience of "nothing more than the natural."  How sad.

I can't help but think that we in the western world, that we in the western church have this same Nazareth mentality.  As a result we have reaped what we have sown - our insistence on natural explanations and natural expectations has blossomed and bloomed into a life of nothing but the natural.  When the supernatural somehow breaks through we discount, diminish and discredit to the point where our 5-5000-12 becomes 7-4000-7 and eventually 0-0-0.  

A good friend of mine is having his PET scan this morning to determine the extent of his newly diagnosed esophageal cancer.  My tendency in this situation is to be, like the disciples, overwhelmed by the lack of resources or, like the people of Nazareth, myopic in my view of who Jesus is.  But I am choosing today to believe in the God of the miraculous - the one who multiplies, fulfills and heals.

Venice Ambulance Adventure

When I was 5 years old I was home alone with my full term pregnant mother when she called me with a sense of urgency in her voice. She was hemorrhaging and asked me to run across the street to get the neighbour who was a physician. I remember the sense of fear and overwhelming responsibility that that stressful situation caused.
Fortunately that situation ended well with the cesarean birth of my sister.

So it was not altogether unfamiliar 47 years later and a world away in Venice when my wife called me to announce that she was hemorrhaging heavily. The situation was somewhat different - I was an adult, a physician; we were in a foreign country with a foreign language and medical system. Despite these differences, the emotions this situation evoked were all too familiar - an overwhelming fear bordering on panic.  A part of my mind was objectively commenting on my reaction making note of the fact that I was trained in dealing with medical emergencies so why was I so discombobulated?  The difference of course was not only the unfamiliarity of the  landscape but also the familiarity of the "patient". The stakes were definitely higher.

When Marguerite passed out and took what seemed like forever to regain consciousness, going white as a sheet and emitting short sonorous noises from her foaming mouth it heightened my concern. The bleeding was moderate and didn't seem life-threatening but accessing medical care was going to be a challenge.  If she fainted lying down, the likelihood of walking 10 minutes to the vaparetto and enduring a 30 minute boat ride to the hospital in the upright position was small.  Should we wait and see if it would stop? Should we call 911 (or in this case 118) and get an ambulance?  How would I explain where we were? What was the cost of an ambulance?  How long would it take for them to get here?

Finally I took the proverbial bull by the horns and called 118, and after a bit of back and forth between myself and the operator, communicated (I thought) within reason what the situation was.  After asking if she had any medical problems and if she was conscious the operator said she would dispatch an ambulance and it would be there "soon".

Ambulances in Venice are large motor boats. We had laughed as we passed them parked in front of the hospital on our way into Venice never thinking that we would be the recipients of the grand canal tour in one 2 short days later.

I was torn between staying with Marguerite and going down to the "street" to await our saviours. The distance between the two involved 3-4 flights of narrow  18^th century marble stairs, a jaunt across a courtyard and through 3 doors, all of which closed locked. I made the trip back and forth 4-5 times before finally, after 20-30 minutes of these round trips, I saw 3 guys wandering somewhat aimlessly toward me. This vision was not what I had anticipated. I had in mind  bells and whistles, lights and sirens, high speed approach, and controlled recklessness in landing directly in front of our apartment the resultant wake flowing up and over the canal wall onto the sidewalk, lightly soaking my waiting feet. These fellows' approach was more subtle and reserved having parked 1 block away with no fanfare.  They seemed neither in a hurry nor equipped for an emergency. They were wearing orange rubber fireman like pants and white polo shirts. They were pushing an object  which appeared to be a cross between a wheelbarrow and a rickshaw. No first aid bag, no oxygen ..... nothing. It made me wonder if I had somehow undersold the situation to the 118 operator.

After we established with my non-existent Italian and their marginally better English that they were indeed the help I awaited, I directed them into our apartment and up the stairs. En route 1 of them (presumably the designate English speaker though that was questionable) took a cursory history and asked whether my wife could walk down the stairs. I replied that I thought not given that she had already fainted once and was wired to faint at the drop of a hat at the best of times.

After a brief assessment and, I suppose not being overly impressed with our blood offering, they attempted to get her up. No half measures here (let's sit her up and see how she does with that and then get her standing). No, they took her by the hand and in 1 fell swoop jerked her into the standing position. Simultaneous with this maneuver the faint residue of colour in my wife's complexion vanished and approximately a liter of clot and blood plopped on the floor and splattered outside the bathroom into the hallway.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence following fast on the heels of the splashing plopping sound created by the blood/floor interface.

It was at this moment that plan B went into effect. One of the keystone cops was dispatched presumably to return to the boat for some equipment, and the patient was placed in the modified wheelbarrow and taken down a short flight of stairs to a narrow hallway/landing. I was instructed to get some clothing for her. When I returned she was sitting partially reclined with an attendant slapping her ashen obviously unresponsive face having entered her second faint of the evening. I assisted them in getting her more horizontal and when she came to under the therapeutic administration of more slapping she promptly vomited - spinach and ricotta cheese ravioli which, through the effects of gravity wound it's way down between the space between her neck and shoulder ridge, seeping down into her upper shoulder blade region. This display coupled with the impressive faint seemed to in some way trigger plan C - incomprehensible urgent words were exchanged between the remaining 2 attendants and 1 ran down the stairs and presumably out to the ambulance. I was left in the narrow hallway attempting to clean up the vomit, and administer a cool cloth to her forehead while the remaining orange pant clad Italian maneuvered the wheelbarrow either up or down depending on his patient's apparent alternating likelihood of fainting or puking again.

After a seemingly interminable time with increasing concern and impatience I grabbed the front of the transport device and indicated that I would assist in getting her down the stairs. 1 short flight was all the attendant would agree to and shortly later his cohorts arrived back on the scene with a bag of equipment and quite handily went to work starting  an iv and covering her with sheets.

I was designated to hold the iv bag and we commenced down the remaining 2 flights of stairs, through the courtyard and down the street to where the ambulance was docked.

We took off and sped through the canals with blue lights flashing. The only disappointing thing was the lack of a siren the presence of which would have completed  the scene. Apparently we created a bit of a stir as tourists on bridges and passing water taxis took video and still footage of the event as we flew by.

Arriving at the hospital canal-side the stretcher carrying Marguerite was expertly whisked through the loading bay area into the emergency room. I followed close on their heels feeling quite ignored by the medical personnel during the trip and disembarkment.  The team entered the assessment room and one attempted to close the door on me. After much discussion they decided to let me stay the announcement that I was a doctor having finally seemingly convinced them (being a husband apparently was not adequate qualification to stay.

She was assessed and quickly transported through an open courtyard featuring crumbling facades and ancient marble and brick floors to an elevator which served to deliver my wife to the gyne ward and myself back to the 21st century.

The gyne team demonstrated their efficiency by accepting her in transfer, hurrying her into an assessment room and slamming the door in the face of the quickly pursuing, objection raising husband/doctor.  This time neither credential was sufficient for my admittance to the inner sanctum.

The outcome ultimately was that they were going to try to control her bleeding with medication overnight and reassess the situation in the morning. By this time it was midnight and I was unceremoniously advised to leave. I felt quite unprepared for the task of returning the 3-4 k trip to our apartment - a somewhat dazed brain and a iPhone gps running at 10% power where my tools. I felt a bit like I was setting off on the amazing race with no map or sense of direction with which to arrive at my intended destination.

After floundering around somewhat aimlessly for 30 minutes hoping to see a familiar landmark and sparingly doling out short glimpses at my failing gps, I asked for help from an American couple studying a map. They pointed me in the right direction and, a vaparetto ride and multiple dark narrow streets later, I arrived "home".  After saying a  short desperate prayer and taking stock of the unusual feeling in my stomach (like I had just free-fallen 10 stories in an elevator), I fell into a dreamless sleep.

To be continued.......

AED – 3 letters that meant nothing to Colton Boechler before Saturday June 2, 2012; before he went into cardiac arrest after a 360 degree spin off the diving board at a public pool on that spring day; before lifeguards applied the adhesive pads of the automated external defibrillator (AED) to the 11-year-old’s chest and discharged over 100 joules of electricity to jumpstart his heart.  After that event those 3 letters mean everything to him.

If his heart had chosen a less opportune time to stop he may not be here today.  If he had had a cardiac arrest at school or in the skate park or even at home; in fact, anywhere in the absence of the AED, he would have succumbed to his ailment.  For him, the UBC aquatic center where his heart stopped was his “safe place” – where equipment and personnel were available to shock him back to life.

We too need a safe place when our hearts are sick.  When tragedy strikes or we’re overwhelmed with life or we’re simply wandering off course, we need to be in a place where resources are available for our resuscitation.  For me that safe place is my Christian community – my immediate family and the extended family of my church cluster – those that are living life with me; people who know me - my strengths and weaknesses, my personality and vulnerabilities; those who know how to apply the proper treatment to my ailing heart.   

Sometimes that treatment is to apply the “shock” of the gospel – to remind me of who my God is and who I am in Him; to zap me with the good news that I have a God who loves and cares for me and that that love is in large part expressed through my brothers and sisters – my family in Him; that He is in control and that all things work together for good to those that love Him and are called according to His purposes.  Sometimes the treatment comes in the form of a loving rebuke.  Sometimes it’s a listening ear, a warm embrace or loving, empathic companionship on a difficult road.  Usually it’s just helping me to process and gain perspective.  I have experienced all of these resuscitations in Christian community and they have restored my heart, allowing me to continue on life’s journey. 

Just like Colton and the potential tragedy of being outside a safe place when his heart failed, we too are in a dangerous place if we’re not where our heart can be attended to.  We need others in Christian community as much as Colton needed that AED.  May we never stray too far from that safe place.

Celebration!!!

I am not one inclined to celebrate – I don’t know why - a part of me is more Eyore than Tigger.  I want to hold back and not give myself wholly to unfettered joy.  I object to inauthentic displays of positivity and flakey fluff so I sometimes err on the side of pessimism.  I am cautious and miserly with my public display of enthusiasm.  There is sometimes something pathologically enjoyable about wallowing in the muck of gloom and despair. 

I don’t want to give the impression that I am always down.  I have moments and seasons where I exalt in being alive; where everything is sunshine and happiness.  I do have seasons though, where I am inexplicably down; viewing everything through mud tinted glasses. 

I have recently been going through one of those down seasons.  Part of it had to do with my perceived failure in ministry.  As a Christian “leader” sometimes my value and worth is too closely tied to my performance and results.  If my small group or cluster is going well, I am happy and feel worthwhile and conversely, if things are not going well, my stock crashes.  Lately our cluster has not been going the way I had envisioned it.  I felt that I had a vision for where God wanted to take us and unfortunately, others seemingly didn’t share the same opinion.  By making some strategic changes to steer us in a “new fresh direction”, I ended up decimating the group – at least if one can measure decimation by the numbers turning out.  In fact, it got so bad that a couple of weeks ago our cluster (defined as a group of 30-40 people living life together) had an event attended by only myself and one other (the other being my wife and she had to be there!).  No matter how much of a positive spin I tried to put on it (“we had a quality time together” I said), the event became a symbol of my failure as a leader and an emblem of my lack of worth. 

As others talked about their cluster success stories (“we’re bursting at the seams and are thinking about splitting into two groups!”), I found it hard to “rejoice with those who rejoice.”  In fact, the thought of strangling those who rejoice came to mind.  A deep intense anger was building – anger at my cluster people, anger at myself and my inadequacies, and, when I peeled back the layers, I realized I was angry at God.  Why hadn’t He made my vision happen?  Why do ministry and mission always have to be so hard?  Why can’t you just bring the fruit God? 

I got alone to stew (in my hot tub) and started pouring out my heart (and a tentative bit of my anger) at God.  Actually it started out as full on pity party.  As I processed through prayer, it began to become clear to me that I had reversed roles with God.  The servant had become the master, the subject the king, the private the general.  I was annoyed and angry because God had not carried out my vision.  He had not blessed and brought about my plans.  In a moment of insight I realized that I had put myself in the place of God and expected him to be my celestial butler.  

My joy and my worth had become dependent on my circumstances.  If things did not go the way I wanted, my being screamed out “not fair!” in adolescent-like immaturity.  This was not a view of myself that I found overly attractive.  Several passages of scripture came to mind.  I thought of Job and his dressing down by his creator – “dress for action like a man (translation: man up!), I will question you….where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?…”  In other words,” who are you to question my ways?  If this is what I have for you right now in your life that is for me to decide.”   

I thought of the words of the prophet Isaiah ^“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.  “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. “  God is above and beyond us.  He sees the big picture and is in control.  Not only that – he loves and cares for us. 

The next day I was reading in Lamentations (a suitable book for the state of mind I found myself in) and came across a long lament in chapter 5 about the state of the city of Jerusalem and environs at the time of the exile.  The author goes into vivid detail about the desolation and desperation of the situation.  Famine, slavery, injustice, jackals prowling – happy stuff!  Certainly things where not going the way he or the Israelites had pictured it.  In the midst of this depiction, the author says “but you oh Lord, reign forever; your throne endures forever”.  In the midst of the stark imagery of the brokenness of the situation, hope breaks through and a stake is driven into the ground – Despite all that is going on around me, my God reigns!   

As the prophet Habbukuk said: “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior. The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights. “ 

The apostle Paul, in the midst of his imprisonment (a fate worse than a poor cluster turn-out) for his involvement in mission and ministry says on numerous occasions “rejoice in the Lord always!” and, in case he wasn’t heard “again I say rejoice!”  We are to be a joyful celebratory people!  Our joy is to be found in Him – not in our circumstances, not in creation, not even in the cool stuff He does in our lives – IN HIM!!!! 

Does this mean that we ignore disappointment and difficult circumstances?  Do we simply put on a happy face and “suck it up”.  Are we to be all happiness and blissful inauthentic fluff?  No.  Our joy comes from a deep place.  An underground stream of deep peace and satisfaction based on our relationship with our creator runs consistently in our souls.  It is unaffected by the above ground stuff – our circumstances. 

So why should I celebrate? Why should I rejoice?  Because God’s the King of the universe, he’s my Papa and He loves me more than I can imagine.  That’s why.

Venice Ambulance Adventure

When I was 5 years old I was home alone with my full term pregnant mother when she called me with a sense of urgency in her voice. She was hemorrhaging and asked me to run across the street to get the neighbour who was a physician. I remember the sense of fear and overwhelming responsibility that that stressful situation caused.

Fortunately that situation ended well with the cesarean birth of my sister.

So it was not altogether unfamiliar 47 years later and a world away in Venice when my wife called me to announce that she was hemorrhaging heavily. The situation was somewhat different - I was an adult, a physician; we were in a foreign country with a foreign language and medical system. Despite these differences, the emotions this situation evoked were all too familiar - an overwhelming fear bordering on panic.  A part of my mind was objectively commenting on my reaction making note of the fact that I was trained in dealing with medical emergencies so why was I so discombobulated?  The difference of course was not only the unfamiliarity of the  landscape but also the familiarity of the "patient". The stakes were definitely higher.

When Marguerite passed out and took what seemed like forever to regain consciousness, going white as a sheet and emitting short sonorous noises from her foaming mouth it heightened my concern. The bleeding was moderate and didn't seem life-threatening but accessing medical care was going to be a challenge.  If she fainted lying down, the likelihood of walking 10 minutes to the vaparetto and enduring a 30 minute boat ride to the hospital in the upright position was small.  Should we wait and see if it would stop? Should we call 911 (or in this case 118) and get an ambulance?  How would I explain where we were? What was the cost of an ambulance?  How long would it take for them to get here? 

Finally I took the proverbial bull by the horns and called 118, and after a bit of back and forth between myself and the operator, communicated (I thought) within reason what the situation was.  After asking if she had any medical problems and if she was conscious the operator said she would dispatch an ambulance and it would be there "soon".

Ambulances in Venice are large motor boats. We had laughed as we passed them parked in front of the hospital on our way into Venice never thinking that we would be the recipients of the grand canal tour in one 2 short days later.

I was torn between staying with Marguerite and going down to the "street" to await our saviours. The distance between the two involved 3-4 flights of narrow  18^th century marble stairs, a jaunt across a courtyard and through 3 doors, all of which closed locked. I made the trip back and forth 4-5 times before finally, after 20-30 minutes of these round trips, I saw 3 guys wandering somewhat aimlessly toward me. This vision was not what I had anticipated. I had in mind  bells and whistles, lights and sirens, high speed approach, and controlled recklessness in landing directly in front of our apartment the resultant wake flowing up and over the canal wall onto the sidewalk, lightly soaking my waiting feet. These fellows' approach was more subtle and reserved having parked 1 block away with no fanfare.  They seemed neither in a hurry nor equipped for an emergency. They were wearing orange rubber fireman like pants and white polo shirts. They were pushing an object  which appeared to be a cross between a wheelbarrow and a rickshaw. No first aid bag, no oxygen ..... nothing. It made me wonder if I had somehow undersold the situation to the 118 operator.

After we established with my non-existent Italian and their marginally better English that they were indeed the help I awaited, I directed them into our apartment and up the stairs. En route 1 of them (presumably the designate English speaker though that was questionable) took a cursory history and asked whether my wife could walk down the stairs. I replied that I thought not given that she had already fainted once and was wired to faint at the drop of a hat at the best of times.

After a brief assessment and, I suppose not being overly impressed with our blood offering, they attempted to get her up. No half measures here (let's sit her up and see how she does with that and then get her standing). No, they took her by the hand and in 1 fell swoop jerked her into the standing position. Simultaneous with this maneuver the faint residue of colour in my wife's complexion vanished and approximately a liter of clot and blood plopped on the floor and splattered outside the bathroom into the hallway.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence following fast on the heels of the splashing plopping sound created by the blood/floor interface.

It was at this moment that plan B went into effect. One of the keystone cops was dispatched presumably to return to the boat for some equipment, and the patient was placed in the modified wheelbarrow and taken down a short flight of stairs to a narrow hallway/landing. I was instructed to get some clothing for her. When I returned she was sitting partially reclined with an attendant slapping her ashen obviously unresponsive face having entered her second faint of the evening. I assisted them in getting her more horizontal and when she came to under the therapeutic administration of more slapping she promptly vomited - spinach and ricotta cheese ravioli which, through the effects of gravity wound it's way down between the space between her neck and shoulder ridge, seeping down into her upper shoulder blade region. This display coupled with the impressive faint seemed to in some way trigger plan C - incomprehensible urgent words were exchanged between the remaining 2 attendants and 1 ran down the stairs and presumably out to the ambulance. I was left in the narrow hallway attempting to clean up the vomit, and administer a cool cloth to her forehead while the remaining orange pant clad Italian maneuvered the wheelbarrow either up or down depending on his patient's apparent alternating likelihood of fainting or puking again.

After a seemingly interminable time with increasing concern and impatience I grabbed the front of the transport device and indicated that I would assist in getting her down the stairs. 1 short flight was all the attendant would agree to and shortly later his cohorts arrived back on the scene with a bag of equipment and quite handily went to work starting  an iv and covering her with sheets.

I was designated to hold the iv bag and we commenced down the remaining 2 flights of stairs, through the courtyard and down the street to where the ambulance was docked.

We took off and sped through the canals with blue lights flashing. The only disappointing thing was the lack of a siren the presence of which would have completed  the scene. Apparently we created a bit of a stir as tourists on bridges and passing water taxis took video and still footage of the event as we flew by.

Arriving at the hospital canal-side the stretcher carrying Marguerite was expertly whisked through the loading bay area into the emergency room. I followed close on their heels feeling quite ignored by the medical personnel during the trip and disembarkment.  The team entered the assessment room and one attempted to close the door on me. After much discussion they decided to let me stay the announcement that I was a doctor having finally seemingly convinced them (being a husband apparently was not adequate qualification to stay.

She was assessed and quickly transported through an open courtyard featuring crumbling facades and ancient marble and brick floors to an elevator which served to deliver my wife to the gyne ward and myself back to the 21st century.

The gyne team demonstrated their efficiency by accepting her in transfer, hurrying her into an assessment room and slamming the door in the face of the quickly pursuing, objection raising husband/doctor.  This time neither credential was sufficient for my admittance to the inner sanctum.

The outcome ultimately was that they were going to try to control her bleeding with medication overnight and reassess the situation in the morning. By this time it was midnight and I was unceremoniously advised to leave. I felt quite unprepared for the task of returning the 3-4 k trip to our apartment - a somewhat dazed brain and a iPhone gps running at 10% power where my tools. I felt a bit like I was setting off on the amazing race with no map or sense of direction with which to arrive at my intended destination.

After floundering around somewhat aimlessly for 30 minutes hoping to see a familiar landmark and sparingly doling out short glimpses at my failing gps, I asked for help from an American couple studying a map. They pointed me in the right direction and, a vaparetto ride and multiple dark narrow streets later, I arrived "home".  After saying a  short desperate prayer and taking stock of the unusual feeling in my stomach (like I had just free-fallen 10 stories in an elevator), I fell into a dreamless sleep.

To be continued.......

Stereotypes

During a recent sermon our pastor referenced in a funny way (in passing) how husbands relate to their wives - I can't remember the exact stereotype but it was something to do with insensitive, less emotionally and relationally in tune, etc.  I wondered (admittedly in a somewhat self-righteous way) what impact these types of references  had on our way of viewing ourselves and the other gender.

Initially I was critical, thinking that this type of reference is subtly offensive to those of my ilk, but then I realized I had done a similar thing in a conversation with a young male patient and his mother that week.  We had been talking about a potential depression I suspected he was suffering from.  He scored quite low on a depression screen I had asked him to fill out indicating that my suspicion of depression was probably wrong.  I took another stab at it - "we guys are usually not really well in touch with our emotions" I ventured.  Obviously this was a blatant though probably widely held stereotypical belief about the less fair gender.  Busted!

The reason we can get away with such biased statements is because in making them we include ourselves with the guilty party.  We are in a sense engaging in self depreciating humor to make a point.  However, we would never get away with saying something like that about a group that we were not a part of.  For instance I would never imply that women or Torontonians (2 groups in which I do not hold membership) were insensitive, emotionally uninformed boors.  In a way our biased statements are permissible because we are including ourself in the "joke" much like the Indocanadian comic Russell Peters whose Indocanadian mocking shtick is edgy but would be blatantly racial if offered by anyone of a different background.

Despite this apparent self effacement, we are in a subtle way influencing thought and perpetuating stereotypes. If we joke enough about husbands being insensitive will we begin to believe it, accepting behavior consistent with and rejecting behavior inconsistent with this belief? I wonder....

Would it perhaps be more useful if one wants to be self effacing to use oneself alone as an example and not drag the rest of one's group into it. "I know that often I am not tuned in to my emotional state" rather than "guys tend to not be too well tuned in to their emotions."  Maybe not as amusing but perhaps less likely to create and perpetuate stereotypes.

Do angels Swear?

About a week ago, I was feeling overwhelmed with church stuff – cluster, small group, elders, mentoring, and shepherding. Wasn’t Jesus’ yoke supposed to be easy and his burden light? In a moment of discipleship fatigue, I cried out “Lord, please bring your kingdom to my world this week without me even being involved. Show me your power and capability to do this without me.” I then spent the week in anticipation – looking for God’s hand in “bringing his kingdom.”

Later in the week I was meeting a friend for coffee. He is going through a difficult time in his marriage, having been separated for 6 months, and I had been challenging him with the gospel – to love his wife as Christ loved the church – that uncommon unconditional supernatural love that only God can fuel. I knew that he had been challenged by and resistant to this message.

I arrived at the coffee shop first and ordered a drink. Seeing my friend’s car (let’s call him Bill) pulling in I said to the barista that I would pay for his too. There was an older woman off to the side at the counter apparently just “hanging out”. As Bill entered the cafe he called out his usual loud friendly greeting “hey Bro!” I asked him what he wanted. “A friend” he said promptly hanging a right and going down to the washroom. The three of us at the counter (myself, the barista and the older women) had a chuckle. “I’m not sure if you guys have those on the menu do you?” I said.

When Bill returned minutes later the older woman started talking to us about her “friend” that she had had for 53 years – her husband. Bill, always one to pursue conversation with strangers said “so what’s the secret to a successful marriage?” She started to list them – “Get along. Work on it. Hang in there through the good times and the bad.” (Exactly the words that Bill needed to hear). “That is so what we’re not going to be talking about” he said intimating his desire for an out in his marriage relationship. The conversation continued back and forth between them in rapid succession:

-“Are you married?”

- “For now”.

-“It’s like the vows say ‘to death do we part’ “

-“That can be arranged!”

-“Jesus....” she said shaking her head ripe with good natured exasperation ”... you know.... you guys....” (further head shaking).

She then wandered off to have coffee with her “friend” of 53 years and we sat down to our drinks and conversation. I wondered if this was how God had shown up. I couldn’t have scripted that gospel message introduction to our conversation better if I had tried. It truly was the heart of what Bill needed to hear. Bill kidded that she was “a plant”. I sat there marvelling at what God had done and wondering if she was an angel. But.... do angels swear?

Unconditional Love

Marguerite and I recently invited a bunch of our new neighbors and some other friends to our Christmas carol party. The plan was to go and carol in the neighborhood and walk over to the extended care near our house and bless the residents with song. As it turned out, only 1 neighbor and his son came. We didn't even hear from the others that we had personally invited.

In spite of the lack of neighbours responding, the evening was wonderful; an amazing time of laughter, song, worship and joy. I can't remember a time when the carols have been so meaningful to me as when the group of us were singing of the hope of the Christmas story to those living out lives that, because of the ravages of age, are far from hopeful.

Despite this incredible experience, the next day I began to think about my "inconsiderate neighbors. " I allowed resentment and bitterness to settle in and simmer. "That's just rude" I thought. "The least they could have done was to call and say they weren't coming." " That's the last time I invite them to anything," I finished off with.

While perversely enjoying marinating in my bitterness and self pity, there was a vague sense that perhaps my attitude wasn't quite right. I allowed myself to take that vague thought out and examine it. I had recently learnt that our sins (unrighteousness thoughts and actions) had their basis in not believing something about God - about his glory, his greatness, his grace, his goodness. Remembering this caused me to ponder God's grace - his pursuit of us when we were far from him and in rebellion against him. I thought about the fact that God kept pursuing (despite multiple rejections ) even to the point of sending his son Jesus to die on the cross for our sins. In the face of this unceasing gracious pursuit he was still rejected yet never gave up in going after us. In Romans 10 he says "All day long I have held out my hands to a disobedient and contrary people." Nothing says this with more of an exclamation mark than a baby in a manger entering our world on a rescue mission. "The word became flesh and dwelt among us. "

As I prayerfully pondered this in light of my own resentment the words "how do you think I feel?" came to mind. Indeed. How did he carry on putting himself in a place of rejection. How did he feel? The only answer that explains his action is that he, in his essence, is love. He inexplicably loves you and me.

When reflecting on the unparalleled love of the Father I had two thoughts - firstly I had a new appreciation for his grace. What an amazing God we have, so unlike me in my petty bitterness. The rejection he suffered was many levels of magnitude greater (embarrassingly so) than mine - the creator of the universe not only indifferently ignored by his creatures but actively rebelled against and ultimately beaten and killed, yet he kept on loving and pursuing. Secondly it made me think that maybe, in light of this amazing truth, I could give it another go - that maybe I could be more gracious and forgiving and persistent in my reaching out to others. Maybe I would take my cues from my heavenly Father in not giving up after one rejection.

Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.

Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.

Wouldn't you like to get away?

Sometimes you want to go

Where everybody knows your name,
and they're always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name.

You wanna go where people know,
people are all the same,
You wanna go where everybody knows
your name.

("Where Everybody Knows Your Name" by Gary Portnoy and Judy Hart Angelo)
Cheers Lyrics

The other day I had a cool experience when entering my local coffee shop to meet a friend for coffee. Being a fan of the tv show “Cheers” in my early days, I thought their “community” there at the Cheers Bar was admirable on many levels. For the hapless Norm to have everyone shout out “Hi Norm” as he entered the bar and flopped onto his usual bar stool must have been his daily highlight.

Anyhow, when I walked into our neighbourhood coffee shop that morning the place was packed. I immediately saw Denise and her husband Mark in the centre of the shop and was approaching them to greet them when I heard my name called from the 4 o'clock position and had to turn to my right to greet Bob with a wave and a wink before turning back to utter a few words of greeting to my initial targets. Just then, as I was approaching the counter, my friend Ken who I was meeting for coffee, approached me and we had a few preliminary words. Meanwhile, simultaneously the owner of the shop behind the counter called out my name asking me if I wanted “the usual”. All this occurred in the course of about 60 seconds. It was quite a display! It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Certainly all the social moons were in alignment for that particular moment in time.

By this point in time I was feeling a bit self conscious. I was sure that others in the shop were wondering who this popular fellow was. Not only did he have acquaintances in all quadrants of the coffee shop but he was one who had “a regular”. It was at that moment, as I listened to my dark grande coffee being dispensed, I realized that I had finally arrived..... I was known.

Kids say the darndest things

I was having breakfast this am at Starbucks with my little princess Paige. As we usually do, we talked about the joys and challenges of the world of an 11 year old and a 52 year old. I was giving sage advice about how to deal with her problem of blushing when giving a presentation in class (an 11 year old challenge but one that I have much experience with). I was quite pleased with some profound analogies, advice and sayings that I was slowly weaving into the life of my young daughter – feeling quite impressed with the father that I had turned out to be. At one point, appearing to process the latest morsel of advice she said “did you do that?” Well... no, I had to admit, I did exactly what she had done (been anxious and self conscious about the problem) but I sure wish someone wise had given these tidbits to me!

As we moved on in the conversation I asked what God was teaching her these days (a question as it turned out that should have preceded all of the above). She said that a verse had been given to her both by her teacher at the end of the year and by her friend at camp this summer and that she had been thinking about what it meant for her in her life. The verse was from Proverbs 3:5-6 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your path straight.”

Well, her simple innocent statement and recitation of this verse was like a simultaneous light going on and gentle slap in the face from the Lord. I could just hear Him saying (with an affectionate chuckle) “you think you’re so smart with all your “understanding” in this situation and here your young daughter has demonstrated deeper understanding than you”. With a more humble demeanour I said to Paige “maybe we should have started our discussion there”.

Maybe before immediately moving to my understanding and wisdom in trying situations I need to stop, take a breath, acknowledge Him, and begin to lean into Him and His trustworthiness. Thanks to my Paige for having ears to hear from the Lord.

Blackberries!

I had a wonderful hour of blackberry picking with my youngest daughter Paige today. It is so amazing that God has graced us with such an abundant crop without a bit of our own planting, cultivating or maintaining. The "icing on the cake" was spending time with Paige (another of God's wonderful graces to me) marveling in the caches of succulent purple berries and creating a blackberry crumble together to boot. The coup de grace will be sampling the finished product. What a great day! God is good!

Famous

There is something exciting about seeing your letter to the editor printed in the paper. My 5 seconds of fame!

By Dan MacIntosh, Vancouver Sun August 27, 2011 The only thing more maddening than the B.C. Liberal party's handling of the HST fiasco from start to finish is Finance Minister Kevin Falcon's characterization of the $3-billion price tag for the HST reversal as a "manageable bump on the road." I'm not sure what parallel universe of roadways he travels on, but in my world $3 billion is more than a bump.

It is more than a little disconcerting that he would treat taxpayers' hard-earned cash so casually and callously. The idea of spending that much of British Columbians' money to fix a problem that the Liberals created rubs me the wrong way. Maybe if one deals daily in numbers with that many zeros the amounts seem insignificant, but this small bump looks like a rather large mountain from my vantage point.

I hope that going forward, before encountering any more "manageable" bumps, Falcon and his crew will choose their road more carefully.

Dan Macintosh


Read more: http://www.vancouversun.com/news/Despite+being+triumph+democracy+anti+vote+financial+pain/5317084/story.html#ixzz1WFGEKjEu

Things I learned in Mexico

Things I learned in Mexico:

1. Missionaries like Juan and Alicia, George and Stacey are inspirations to me – their “sold-out-edness” to the will and mission of Jesus. I have a lot to learn!
2. Material riches do not = happiness. I know this is cliché but it is so reinforced each time I go out on foreign missions
3. It is a joy to serve and be part of a big vision. The vision of orphan babies in loving care made each Ikea drawer assembled and each trim piece painted a joy.
4. Jesus loves me. When I meet him face to face, there will be no need for hope and faith (faith = “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” – Hebrews 11:1) but love will persist (1 Cor 13:8-13). He loves me deeply and forever. My perception/understanding of that is partial and there is a deep longing for more.
5. I have a great extended family with which God has encircled me. The Hanschkes, Joslynn, my wife and kids are great! It was so great to get to know each of them better.
6. It’s a dirty desolate place – makes me wonder if a little irrigation / gardening / garbage cleanup would infuse more hope, self-respect and richness to their lives. I longed to get out of the dust and onto a patch of cool lush grass.
7. Safety is beyond my control. When all else is stripped away my fundamental dependency is on God and his sovereignty, love and grace. Even if I die (stray bullet? How often do I think of that reality in Langley?) I win.
8. It is hard to create a spiritual conversation. The best I can do is try to create space and opportunity and pray into it. I don't do this well.

Resurrection

It has been a couple of years since my last post so I thought I would resurrect my blog. I'm unsure why but over the last couple of years, I have written/journaled significant moments in my life - I seem driven to the written word - to documenting life's lessons. Just as unclear to me is why I haven't posted them or why I am chosing to begin again at this particular moment.

I won't psychoanalyze this moment too deeply but will simply "blog on". I don't think it's as important whether anyone actually reads this as it is for me to go through the process of processing. I find this is best done through writing.

Perhaps the resurrection of my blogging interest has to do as well with standing once again on the cusp of a mission trip (certainly that was the catalyst for the creation of this blog). Marguerite and I with our two youngest kids are going to the Tijuana area to do a one week mission trip at an orphanage with an organization called Jugo ministries. For me, mission trips seem to be one of the crucibles that God uses to refine me. Mission trips tend to burn away some of the "stuff" of life and help me to look beyond the immediate to see the important.

In this particular instance, because we have inundated with multiple news reports of the dangers of going to border towns in Mexico, it has caused me to question the wisdom of such a trip. The values of service, caring for orphans, going where God calls are all stacked head-to-head against the value of personal safety and protection of the ones that are in my care.

The fundamental issue for me could perhaps be framed in the question "is God really calling me to this mission?" Because if the answer to that question is "yes" then we truly have nothing to fear. God is in control and is a loving God who will not allow anything to come my way except that it will work together for good for me! The ultimate goal being the conforming of myself more and more into the image and likeness of Jesus.

The reality is that there is nowhere that is completely safe (even my home in Langley). While we do not go seeking dangerous situations, we do step boldly into areas where God leads trusting that we are in his loving hands. The reality is that we are completely victorious as Christians. Nothing can separate us from his love - "neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation". Even the worst-case scenario (imagine random bullets, injury or death - believe me I have!) is not a defeat. Even in death we win! As Paul states, we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. Death no longer has any sting - it is "swallowed up in victory".

This is the fundamental reality that we move forward in. He is sovereign. He loves me (Jesus loves me this I know). He takes care of me.

Cameron

As we wind down our trip (and this blog) on our last evening in Zambia I wanted to dedicate this post to my son Cameron who has lived this adventure with me.

I used to say that skiing/boarding was the perfect family activity because you have your children captive audience for parent-child interaction for a whole 10 minutes up the chair. I now realize that that is a far distant second to a one month mission trip with your son. What an amazing experience it has been sharing this trip with Cameron! It was great sharing with him in the medical end of things – to show him my world (with a Zambian flavor of course). I love teaching and so being able to share medical knowledge and experience with my son has been tremendous. To see him go from someone who got lightheaded at the sight of blood to someone who was drawing blood numerous times in the lab, and doing a thoracentecis (draining fluid through the chest wall) was exhilarating for his physician Dad, as is his interest in a medical career as a possible path for himself.

It was also great just living life together for the month. Life is fairly slow on the mission field and we often found ourselves in the evenings sitting together (talking, reading, playing DS or watching The Office season 2). We had times of reading the word together and praying for each other. We shared a lot of laughs together and some real adventure (hiking around Mukinge, sharing the wonder of the safari, flipping a boat white water rafting down a level 5 rapid on the Zambezi). Watching him develop a friendship with Humphrey (clerk at the hospital) and patiently teach him some guitar was also very cool. Overall, it was neat to get to know each other at a deeper level. It has reaffirmed my pride in, and love for, Cameron – he is an intelligent, sensitive, good natured guy with a great, fun personality – it is exciting to be not only his father but also his friend and confidant (hopefully he also feels that I qualify for that designation).

I would highly recommend a similar adventure for anyone - beats the chairlift hands down!

Risk

Touching a leper, being within coughing distance of someone with presumed TB, drawing blood or doing an LP on a known HIV carrier, traveling the roads in Zambia, walking in snake territory at night – all of these are risks that we have encountered here that we would not ordinarily face in Langley.

Just one week ago, the missionary couple next door to us was subjected to a home invasion and was held with their 3 young children at gunpoint (AK 47) while all their cash and their vehicle was stolen. Thankfully, no one was hurt and they seem to have been spared major psychological trauma.

When Marguerite and I were here 20 years ago we heard stories (some of which we saw first hand) of hardships that the missionaries had undergone for their commitment to their calling. One physician had lost wife and child to illness (cerebral malaria and another illness), 1 couple had lost their 16-year-old son to a crocodile attack. While we were here an American missionary teacher lost his life in a car accident and his wife sustained a spinal cord injury. He left 3 small children behind.

One may argue that similar things can happen in Canada and I would grant you that, but the fact remains that there are many more health and safety perils here than in our part of the world. To say nothing of the “risk” as a missionary of loss of prestige, career advancement, financial security and the like.

Why would people expose themselves to such risk? We live in a world of risk management where one is always trying to minimize potential harm to self and loved ones. To go to Africa with your family seems, on the surface, to be naive at best and foolhardy at worst.

What I have found almost universally about the missionaries I have encountered is a holy recklessness and disregard for self that is motivated by a higher calling – that of pouring out their lives to meet the physical and spiritual needs of the poor and less privileged. They take as their model our missionary God, who, saw us in our poverty and depravity and entered a foreign and unwelcoming world and dimension, our world/human history, to live and die for those in need. They take as their mantras the apparent recklessness of scripture – the calling to be “living sacrifices” and to “find one’s life by losing it”.

It is only by having a clear sense of God’s calling to such a life, and only by clear trust in his ability to ultimately take care of us no matter what happens, that such a self sacrificing lifestyle can be considered. While we are to do all that we can to protect ourselves and our family from adverse outcomes, we also need to realize that our lives and health are in the hands of one much more powerful than us and one that cares for us more deeply than we can imagine. True joy and security comes not in safe roads, or powerful medicine or the size of our RRSP but in being in the center of God’s will. It is only with that knowledge that I can set foot outside my door in the morning whether it is here at Mukinge or at home.

We are not promised a carefree, stress free, danger free life as Christians. In fact, we are assure that ”in the world you will have troubles” but we are also assured of Jesus’ ongoing presence with us and our ultimate hope of eternal life – indeed in this sense, Jesus has overcome the world.

Alarmed!

Woke up at what I thought was 6:05 this am and couldn’t figure out why my alarm hadn’t gone off since I had set it for 6:00 am to ensure I had enough time to get ready for my 6:15 run. The reason I thought it was 6:05 was because that is what my watch said. Had my pre-run visit to the washroom and glass of water and got my gear on hurriedly, and, as I was stepping out the door, looked up at the kitchen clock – 3:10 am !!!!!

I have one of those cool Timex watches that has the ability to have 2 times at once – I have one set to Langley time and somehow it got switched to this – so got up at 6:05 pm pst (or 3:05 am Zambian time).

I was wondering why it was so dark out! It was kind of nice to know that I had another 3 hours to sleep before my run!

Longing

(Written Aug 20 before our internet went out for 4 days!)

I was out for another run with David Friend this morning, as is my practice here – around Mukinge hill at 6:15. We stopped to watch the sun break over the African horizon at 6:31 - a majestic orange/red orb at first tentatively peaking and then, over 2-3 minutes, breaking completely free of its terrestrial tethering. What a sight! Well worth getting up early for. It’s hard not to erupt in praise for my Creator as I stand in awe of his wonderful creation.

I had another good time of reflection after the run as I tried to catch my breath and reclaim my resting heart rate. I usually have some good time in prayer as I wander around the yard listening to the songbirds and the occasional rooster’s impudent crow (no scene is perfect!). I was thinking about how much I appreciate my wife and family and how absence truly does make the heart grow fonder. I didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much. It seems that speaking with Marguerite on skype, while wonderful, only intensifies the longing to be in her presence again – a deep, visceral longing like an ache in the depth of my being. I love just looking at her. When I see her beautiful face on skype and hear her voice, I want to reach out and hug her only to realize that she is thousands of miles (and 9 days 14 hours 36 minutes and 17 seconds) away. Skype truly is an imperfect way to carry out a relationship (have you ever tried kissing an isight webcam? - I have).

In the midst of these thoughts this morning, God, clear as day, planted this thought in my brain – “Your relationship with me is like skype”. The light went on for me. I am often frustrated with my relationship with God – the imperfect communication in prayer and bible study. I have sometimes expressed my frustration to God in these terms: “why did you set up this weird situation where you communicate through a book and I talk to the sky and often feel like my words are going nowhere?” My relationship is like skyping with my Heavenly Father – somewhat removed, with all sorts of interference and miscommunication, fuzziness and sometimes garbledness. I long for the day when the Son will break through, erupt though the horizon of this transient existence and I will see him face to face – when I will sit on the knee of my Heavenly Abba (“Daddy”) Father and give him a big hug, basking in his presence. Telling him face to face how much I love him and fully receiving his love in return. Face to face!

I think God uses the marriage relationship in scripture for a good reason as a picture of our relationship with him as his church – his people. Just as I intensely, achingly long for the day when I will see my loved one, Marguerite face to face and be reunited with her in every sense of the word; and just as I am completely frustrated with our current skype relationship, so it should be with my relationship with God – a frustration with the current state of affairs and a deep longing for more – more here and now, but ultimately, the culmination of the more “on the other side”.

___________________

As a deer pants for flowing streams so pants my soul for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and appear before my God? (David in Psalm 42:1-2)

…but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away….For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. (Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:10,12)

So we do not lose heart….. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. For we know that if the tent which is our earthly home, is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling. For while we are still in this tent we groan, being burdened – not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. (Paul in 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:4)