I know your deeds, your hard work and your perseverance... Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken your first love. Remember the height from which you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first.
Revelations 2:2-5
I was sitting in the back row, taking in the sights of Scarborough in the evening, as our number 10 bus idled at a red traffic light. Out of the corner of my eye a quick motion caught my attention and I turned just in time to see it. A young man, sixteen or seventeen perhaps, with an oversized jacket full of so much color it would have made Joseph green with envy, and jeans riding oh-so-low, was approaching the pelican crossing, bopping his head to the music emanating from his extra large headphones. He took a quick step towards the pedestrian barriers at the crossing and in one fluid motion vaulted the steel barricade and then walked off with, oh, so much swagger. He had hardly broken stride from approach to scale to push off. Wow! It would have taken three or four more steps to walk round the steel bars and cross the proper way but that was so uncool, wasn’t it? Who does that when there’s a three foot fence to jump over?
I suppressed a snicker as I quickly realized it would probably have been more of a sneer borne out of my jealousy that at a measly thirty-odd years I have neither the spunk nor the sprite to do such a thing. It was all in a days work for him; for me and my growing paunch, it would take a few weeks plotting. You could excuse him and call it youthful exuberance but you’d look at me and call me downright foolish. He had hardly expended any energy, I would be lucky to get away with my front teeth intact. But oh, how I wished I could do that again!
And it’s not just him I envy. I look at our friend John’s new baby, sleeping calmly and I wish I hadn’t a care in the world! I watch my nephew trying his hand out on some Lego® and I wish I could put my creative instincts to such idle work. I have such nostalgia for secondary school and the legendary experiences I had there which we will talk about till the day we die. Can you feel me here? There are many things I did once upon a time and will never do again. But then there are some that perhaps I should!
Like just sit and read the Word and love it. Like drive off to nowhere and bask in the presence of a mighty God while I watch the beautiful sunset. Like go on my knees and pray my heart out.
Do I read Scripture? Oh yes I do. Do I pray? To be sure! But when I remember the passion and desire with which I did these once upon a time there is more than just a hint of nostalgia. I wish I could go back and do those things again with the same energy and excitement and ... and love! I want to rediscover the love of Christ that held me, the truth of God that inspired me, the grace of Jesus that thrilled me. These truths are as real to me as ever, but perhaps I do not just stop and enjoy them as often as I once did. Now I am older and wiser but surely that must enhance my worship, rather than hinder it, no?
As we grow in Christ we must stop often, take stock and, like John through the Spirit advised the Ephesian church in our verse today, “do the things you did at first.” So here’s to reliving our early Christian experience. Share with us! What did you do once upon a time that you would love to do again? You just might have a great idea that will inspire somebody’s worship and help an old Christian grow young again. Go ahead, share it with us!
With love, Doosuur.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Mini-Mental State Examination
Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18
They were more like the scratches of a mother hen in the loose soil, the barely legible scrawl of her scrawny hand. She had taken the piece of paper out of my hand in response to a question I had just asked and the ball-point in her small hand quivered as she held on to it, a little too tightly.
This lovely eighty-something year old lady was gaunt and unkempt, her tousled silver-gray hair framing a pale and wrinkled face with jutting cheek bones. It was clear to anyone who cared to look that she had once upon a time been quite the stunner. Her beautifully angled face would most certainly have turned a few heads in her day. Her arms must have been strong and her feet nimble. But those days were far long gone. And today, while she sat with me, in a hospital bed, I wondered how much of her life gone by she could remember. Not very much, I presume. Because the reason I was sat there, interviewing her with a string of statements I had prefaced as “silly questions”, was that the Consultant, on the rounds the day before had described her as “increasingly confused.”
I was given the rather pleasant task of conducting a mini-mental state examination on this lady in order to, if you will allow it, find out just how with it she really was. “Do you know where you are now?”, “What month of the year is it?” I asked her in turn.
She would score a respectable eleven out of thirty, but she got full marks for her response to my question, “would you please write a sentence for me? Any sentence will do.” As she took the pen from my hand and began to write I honestly did not expect her to come up with anything. What a pleasant surprise, then, when I noticed she was trying her darnedest to make out a letter “T”. Well now, I thought, perhaps there is something to hope for - a little comprehension to hang onto.
Next came an “h”. What now? Hmmm... Perhaps “The quick brown fox...?”
But then, “a”, each letter taking five or more seconds to carve out, her handwriting more like a chisel in granite than an ink pen on paper.
“T-h-a-n-k ...” It was by now obvious where this was going, but as I smiled, I let her finish. It might take me five minutes to get this sentence out of her but I would let her speak her piece.
In the end the words, “Thank you very much” had been not so much written as cajoled out of the pen but how very pleased I was. Not so much that her gratitude was towards me, indeed it most likely was not because I had done nothing deserving of thanks, but that her “any” sentence would be one of thankfulness. What did she have to be grateful for? Her beauty had been taken from her. And then her strength. And even now, in the twilight of her days, she could feel her very life ebbing away. But as ever, the one phrase she could muster was “thank you very much.”
I smiled as I took the paper and pen from her hands and leant in close to whisper to her, “No, Thank You.” She had given me a gift because I had caught a glimpse of joy within her suffering body, of beauty yet residing within, of gratefulness for a full life even when that life was at its end.
Indeed, everyday, in every moment, there’s always a reason to say thanks. Look around you now and see what God has done for you. And then say “Thank you very much”.
With love, Doosuur
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18
They were more like the scratches of a mother hen in the loose soil, the barely legible scrawl of her scrawny hand. She had taken the piece of paper out of my hand in response to a question I had just asked and the ball-point in her small hand quivered as she held on to it, a little too tightly.
This lovely eighty-something year old lady was gaunt and unkempt, her tousled silver-gray hair framing a pale and wrinkled face with jutting cheek bones. It was clear to anyone who cared to look that she had once upon a time been quite the stunner. Her beautifully angled face would most certainly have turned a few heads in her day. Her arms must have been strong and her feet nimble. But those days were far long gone. And today, while she sat with me, in a hospital bed, I wondered how much of her life gone by she could remember. Not very much, I presume. Because the reason I was sat there, interviewing her with a string of statements I had prefaced as “silly questions”, was that the Consultant, on the rounds the day before had described her as “increasingly confused.”
I was given the rather pleasant task of conducting a mini-mental state examination on this lady in order to, if you will allow it, find out just how with it she really was. “Do you know where you are now?”, “What month of the year is it?” I asked her in turn.
She would score a respectable eleven out of thirty, but she got full marks for her response to my question, “would you please write a sentence for me? Any sentence will do.” As she took the pen from my hand and began to write I honestly did not expect her to come up with anything. What a pleasant surprise, then, when I noticed she was trying her darnedest to make out a letter “T”. Well now, I thought, perhaps there is something to hope for - a little comprehension to hang onto.
Next came an “h”. What now? Hmmm... Perhaps “The quick brown fox...?”
But then, “a”, each letter taking five or more seconds to carve out, her handwriting more like a chisel in granite than an ink pen on paper.
“T-h-a-n-k ...” It was by now obvious where this was going, but as I smiled, I let her finish. It might take me five minutes to get this sentence out of her but I would let her speak her piece.
In the end the words, “Thank you very much” had been not so much written as cajoled out of the pen but how very pleased I was. Not so much that her gratitude was towards me, indeed it most likely was not because I had done nothing deserving of thanks, but that her “any” sentence would be one of thankfulness. What did she have to be grateful for? Her beauty had been taken from her. And then her strength. And even now, in the twilight of her days, she could feel her very life ebbing away. But as ever, the one phrase she could muster was “thank you very much.”
I smiled as I took the paper and pen from her hands and leant in close to whisper to her, “No, Thank You.” She had given me a gift because I had caught a glimpse of joy within her suffering body, of beauty yet residing within, of gratefulness for a full life even when that life was at its end.
Indeed, everyday, in every moment, there’s always a reason to say thanks. Look around you now and see what God has done for you. And then say “Thank you very much”.
With love, Doosuur
Friday, April 2, 2010
Beat, Beat
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5 (NIV)
Beat, beat.
And her heart would tear, as she gazed upon the cross through watering eyes.
Hers were the arms that rocked him to sleep, hers the voice that sang in his ear.
Her precious son was trussed up on wooden beams like a hardened criminal -
mocked, battered, beaten and scourged.
Oh how she longed to hold him once again,
to cradle his head close to hear heart and wipe away his tears.
What he had done to deserve this she could not tell
for he had spoken love, he had preached forgiveness and he had lived service
Surely there was an answer, surely another way
But the heavens were silent. No answer today.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And their little hearts raced, as the children ran around at the foot of the cross.
They chased each other up and down the hillside, oblivious that their Lord was crucified.
For them he had come, or so he said,
and like no one before he had showed them kindness.
One of them turned and shielded his eyes against the morning sun as he squinted to see,
Was that not “The Man”, he wondered, whom he had boasted to his friends about?
For a few weeks earlier the one they called “Rabbi”
had held him close and comforted him and had told his disciples to look after him1
It was a special moment, the best of his life.
But that was a few days back and he could not be sure right now,
for the blood and the grime had sullied his face.
“Tag, you’re ‘It’”, the other children cried,
and off he went again, chasing after them.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he tossed and turned as the words kept ringing in his ears:
“What is truth?” he had asked the prisoner and now, finally, he knew that he knew.
Had his wife not warned him, “Pilate, have nothing to do with that righteous man”?
Had his voice not shaken as he pronounced Barabbas free?2
But now it was too late and the Truth was on a cross
and all the Governor could do was toss and turn.
Beat, beat.
Beat, Beat.
And his heart skipped one,
as blood drained from the soldier’s face.
“Truly this was the Son of God”, his confession,3
as his charge hung helpless on the cruel cross.
He had joined in the laughing, the mocking and the spitting.
He had crowned the prisoner with thorns, thinking it was only jest.
But now as creation rebelled he knew at once:
Truly this was the Son of God, and his heart skipped again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he wished it would stop,
for his heart kept him alive while he wished it would not.
His lips had denied his Master and friend
and he had lied to a servant girl.
The look on His face had said it all,
when the Master had glanced at him while the cock crowed.4
In His eyes he saw forgiveness, not anger or judgement,
and yet the burden of guilt was too much to bear.
Oh how he wished he could take back his words
for Jesus had always been there for him.
He had healed his mother, he had saved his brother.
He had changed his life and taught him to live better
But here and now, all that seemed lost.
And he bowed his head and wept again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And His heart was full of love
for the people who had gathered round.
As he looked around at the world beneath,
He knew it was finished and salvation was won.
“John, here’s your mother”, he told his best friend,
who cradled and comforted His mom as she cried.5
The calls of the children came to his ears
and He smiled as he recalled the little boy’s surprise.
“Let the children come!”, He had insisted,6
for they were precious to Him and He loved them so much.
And every word He had heard he recalled,
every touch, every scent.
His experience of mortality was close to an end
but he would need to remember to represent Man after death.
Pilate, the Centurion and his friend Peter were not too far gone
if they could but open their eyes and see -
He was the Way, the Truth and the Life
and this was the moment for which He came.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
“It is finished!” He cried, when he came to the end7
A cry of victory, the shout of a King.
The lamb had died, the pain was finished
Sin had been conquered and salvation was won.
Beat, beat.
And it beat no more.
With love, Doosuur.
Scripture references:
1Mark 9:36,37; 2Matthew 27:15-26; 3Matthew 27:54; 4Luke 22:54-62; 5John 19:25-27; 6Mark 10:14; 7John 19:30
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5 (NIV)
Beat, beat.
And her heart would tear, as she gazed upon the cross through watering eyes.
Hers were the arms that rocked him to sleep, hers the voice that sang in his ear.
Her precious son was trussed up on wooden beams like a hardened criminal -
mocked, battered, beaten and scourged.
Oh how she longed to hold him once again,
to cradle his head close to hear heart and wipe away his tears.
What he had done to deserve this she could not tell
for he had spoken love, he had preached forgiveness and he had lived service
Surely there was an answer, surely another way
But the heavens were silent. No answer today.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And their little hearts raced, as the children ran around at the foot of the cross.
They chased each other up and down the hillside, oblivious that their Lord was crucified.
For them he had come, or so he said,
and like no one before he had showed them kindness.
One of them turned and shielded his eyes against the morning sun as he squinted to see,
Was that not “The Man”, he wondered, whom he had boasted to his friends about?
For a few weeks earlier the one they called “Rabbi”
had held him close and comforted him and had told his disciples to look after him1
It was a special moment, the best of his life.
But that was a few days back and he could not be sure right now,
for the blood and the grime had sullied his face.
“Tag, you’re ‘It’”, the other children cried,
and off he went again, chasing after them.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he tossed and turned as the words kept ringing in his ears:
“What is truth?” he had asked the prisoner and now, finally, he knew that he knew.
Had his wife not warned him, “Pilate, have nothing to do with that righteous man”?
Had his voice not shaken as he pronounced Barabbas free?2
But now it was too late and the Truth was on a cross
and all the Governor could do was toss and turn.
Beat, beat.
Beat, Beat.
And his heart skipped one,
as blood drained from the soldier’s face.
“Truly this was the Son of God”, his confession,3
as his charge hung helpless on the cruel cross.
He had joined in the laughing, the mocking and the spitting.
He had crowned the prisoner with thorns, thinking it was only jest.
But now as creation rebelled he knew at once:
Truly this was the Son of God, and his heart skipped again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And he wished it would stop,
for his heart kept him alive while he wished it would not.
His lips had denied his Master and friend
and he had lied to a servant girl.
The look on His face had said it all,
when the Master had glanced at him while the cock crowed.4
In His eyes he saw forgiveness, not anger or judgement,
and yet the burden of guilt was too much to bear.
Oh how he wished he could take back his words
for Jesus had always been there for him.
He had healed his mother, he had saved his brother.
He had changed his life and taught him to live better
But here and now, all that seemed lost.
And he bowed his head and wept again.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
And His heart was full of love
for the people who had gathered round.
As he looked around at the world beneath,
He knew it was finished and salvation was won.
“John, here’s your mother”, he told his best friend,
who cradled and comforted His mom as she cried.5
The calls of the children came to his ears
and He smiled as he recalled the little boy’s surprise.
“Let the children come!”, He had insisted,6
for they were precious to Him and He loved them so much.
And every word He had heard he recalled,
every touch, every scent.
His experience of mortality was close to an end
but he would need to remember to represent Man after death.
Pilate, the Centurion and his friend Peter were not too far gone
if they could but open their eyes and see -
He was the Way, the Truth and the Life
and this was the moment for which He came.
Beat, beat.
Beat, beat.
“It is finished!” He cried, when he came to the end7
A cry of victory, the shout of a King.
The lamb had died, the pain was finished
Sin had been conquered and salvation was won.
Beat, beat.
And it beat no more.
With love, Doosuur.
Scripture references:
1Mark 9:36,37; 2Matthew 27:15-26; 3Matthew 27:54; 4Luke 22:54-62; 5John 19:25-27; 6Mark 10:14; 7John 19:30
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