Handiwork

Genesis 1:1–2:3

The Hand that lit the sun at dawn

And fanned its flames at noon

Now sprinkles dew upon the lawn,

Then brushes off a cloud and soon

Adjusts an orb and turns it on,

And having made its millionth moon,

Withdraws and hides a yawn.

Vanity and Brevity

Job 14:1,2

Between pulses, a period—

So brief a myriad

Make but a while—

In which to smile

As the camera clicks—

In which to fix

One’s sleeves and tie

Before the guy

In the hood

Says, “Good,

Hold it,” and pulls the cord.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Do You See What I See?

John 1:1-5

The baby turned his head and blinked. One eye saw the head of a donkey, and of course the baby had no idea what it was. The smell was unfamiliar. Smelling was new to him, as was every other human sensation. But the baby, only a week old, saw with his other eye the creature whose progenitors he had created ages ago, when he first strung out the DNA of horses. He thought gray was a good color for a donkey. He remembered that sixth day of creation, when all the land animals began their existence. The act of remembering startled the baby. This was something He had never had to do, as God.

As God, he simply knew—knew everything, all at once, forgetting nothing, missing nothing.

The baby thought it was weird seeing the stars through the stable’s patchy roof. Billions of years ago, he had uttered the words, “Let there be light,” and light shone forth, and the universe expanded, matter and dark matter both, energy and time and space swirling like fairies. Now, billions of years later, some of those stars into which the primal elements had congealed were twinkling in his own retinas. The baby blinked again. Closure, that deep need in the human psyche, was strange to him. The baby knew, on top of his omniscience, that there were a lot of things he would have to get used to, in the world he had come to save.

Finally, the baby fell asleep. The stars became the flickering illumination of our cities, and instead of shepherds and angels there were men and women rushing about, shopping, and making merry—celebrating Christmas with nary a thought to the child without whose birth this earth, though every forest in it were ablaze, would be forever dark.

One On One

Matthew 4:8-11

Matthew 16:26

The panorama, appearing at a snap of the devil’s crooked fingers, was dizzying: an immersive view of the world’s natural wonders, and of civilization’s signal achievements—spread out simultaneously like a vast, moving collage. Over him, in the dim upper reaches of the illusory sky, Jesus saw the northern lights swirling like neon banners, their magnetism tickling his skin. At Jesus’s feet lay the chasm of the Grand Canyon, and superimposed on that, but never touching the desert, spilled the mighty cataracts of Iguazu Falls. Ocean waves crashed on a rugged, gull-flecked shore which sheltered alpine valleys thick with wildflowers and migrating elk, and dotted, here and there, with visitor centers.

Then an eclipse-like darkness fell, revealing the illuminated skyline of Manhattan.

“See there,” said the devil to Jesus. “You can own that prime real estate, and have lots of primal sin to manage.”

Percussion music, from some volcanic loudspeaker, accompanied a mob of sleepwalkers driven by a mercantilist, idolatrous fixation with lucre. The music turned martial in tempo, a seismic march, then became cacophonous, as in a carnival. The sleepwalkers were transposed into a silhouette of a helmeted army, only to dissolve into throngs of shadowy revelers.

Light returned, not from any celestial source, but from harsh, hidden footlights in the netherworld. New York was gone. In its place were the Sphinx, the Acropolis and the Colosseum, ringed by the Great Wall of China.

“Something with more character perhaps, Jesus?” the devil suggested. “Old homes do have their charms. And these are even gated! So—just to sweeten the deal—”

Instantly everything was transformed into gold and silver; the very air sparkled with diamonds, smelling of stiff greenbacks. The high mountain alone consisted of stone and dirt—the mountain upon which the devil had set Jesus. “It’s all yours,” the devil offered, “this splendor—if you will but give me my due. Worship me. This one time. Just once. What do you say?”

What would you say, if you got that same offer today?

Cleaning Up After Dinner

Luke 9:13-17

All of us have read about the multiplication of the loaves and fish, a miracle performed by Jesus when a logistical need arose which flummoxed his disciples. Jesus on that day was preaching to a large crowd that had followed him to a remote place near Bethsaida. Since it was getting late, his disciples urged Jesus to send the people away, back to town, where they could find something to eat. There were in excess of 5,000 souls (and rumbling stomachs) in attendance, so it is understandable that the Lord’s “handlers” were concerned about crowd control and the optics for their ministry—better to avoid a dicey situation, they decided.

We know of course what happened next. Jesus let the people stay, and directed his disciples to bring him some provisions. Five loaves of bread and two fish were all his men could scrounge up. Jesus took these, and blessed them, and had them distributed to the multitude. And the multitude ate heartily, and had seconds.

A miracle is a miracle, but to me, the really interesting and telling thing about it is this:

When the disciples afterwards collected the leftover fragments of bread, filling twelve baskets with crusts and end-pieces, Jesus never says, “Ah, fellas. What’s the point of picking up leftovers? I can make fresh bread at will, all day long, out of crumbs. There’s no need to gather leftovers.”

No, Jesus was simultaneously a worker of miracles and a practical man. He expected his friends to pick up the leftovers. As God, Jesus is the giver of all good gifts. As man, he understands the value of those gifts, and appreciates and treats them the way a good steward would.

A Tale of Two Encounters

Luke 18:18-23

Luke 23:40-43

The last we see of the rich, young ruler is man looking troubled and sad, piqued that he could not do what Jesus had asked him. To sell everything he owned and give the proceeds to the poor was more discipline and humility than he could muster—it was positively reckless! Why, if he did that, he might end up like that prodigal son, the young brother Jesus had spoken of in one of his stories—the guy who found himself wallowing in a pigpen, salivating over hogwash. The young ruler frowned at the thought of himself being deprived of wealth and, and options.

A man must have options, he believed.

The young ruler desired to follow Jesus; that was something he could do, something he could put on his agenda, even make a priority. After all, he kept the laws of Moses most assiduously. What’s another commandment on top of those?

But Jesus had plainly given him this ultimatum: Give up everything, and trust the Lord exclusively.

Well, that was easy enough for fishermen to do—they had little to lose. But he, rich and young and pious and cultivated, had plenty to lose, thank you very much.

So, Mister Rich Young Ruler continued on his way, and the farther he went, the better he felt. He was truly sorry he couldn’t seal the deal with Jesus. Yet the soft texture of his robe was a comforting reminder to him of his station in life—this life, the good life, good ethically and lifestyle-wise. Soon, the rich, young ruler had nearly forgotten about inheriting eternal life.

Sometime after this encounter, there occurred another one. A thief hanging on a cross—a scoundrel, a loser, but a man with an honest, desperate heart—also had a conversation with Jesus, a short, painful exchange. From the sinner, a confession and a plea; and from the sinless One, who bore our sins, a promise of paradise. This thief, penitent, had little indeed to lose. His loot was lost, his pride was long gone, his strength was ebbing. Yet he perceived that his one last chance at life—real life, a NEW and everlasting life, lay across the space between his cross and the next.

In the end, this man inherited eternal life, no questions asked.

Somewhere between our own perceived need and our own perceived security, we in our turn must meet Christ. We will size him up against our egos, and then we will either follow him, transcending our miserable crosses, or else stay in the lush pigsty of our own making.