The Theology of Grammar by Lorraine Triggs

As a child, I had a concrete grasp of a story’s viewpoint. First person – that’s me, second person is you, and third person are those other people over there. Obviously, a first-person story was more entertaining and superior to a second- or third-person story, because of its subject matter.

Fortunately, my understanding of viewpoint matured as I gained experience in writing and editing and in reading my trusty bibles—The Chicago Manual of Style and The Christian Writer’s Manual of Style. I highlight sections in the style and usage section. I memorize rules about time constructions and capitalization and hyphenation. (Including this capitalization rule from The Christian Writer’s Manual of Style: “Capitalize the word Bible except for those instances when it is used metaphorically, as in The Audubon guide is the bird lover’s bible.")

At least I think I’ve matured in my child's understanding of viewpoint, and then I open the Bible, which is no metaphorical bible, but God-breathed words that reveal the Word made flesh, not a metaphor but very God of very God.

The fourth stanza of American writer John Updike’s poem “Seven Stanzas at Easter,” reads:
Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

Gospel writer John defines the door in John 10:9, where Jesus said, “I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture.” The resurrection is not a metaphor; it really happened. Jesus is the real door; I get that.

What trips me up is the word anyone. Those third person others standing over there may enter the same door that you and I do, be saved, and go in and out and find pasture. And through my myopic first-person lens, I already have the pasture picked out for them, the grass might not be as verdant as mine, but no bother, it's still a pasture.

But I have walked through the door, and that egocentric first-person viewpoint should bother me. A lot. Jesus’ invitations to come, to go in and out and find pasture, to rise up and walk are for me, you, and the others over there. Jesus preached peace to the far off and to those who were near, and reconciled both to God, eliminating the distinctions between our human viewpoints.

After all, there is only one first-person viewpoint.

God said to Moses, “I am who I am.” And he said, “Say this to the people of Israel: ‘I am has sent me to you.’” (Exodus 3:14)

What Happens to Nate Saint? By Wil Triggs

“Have you understood all these things?” They said to him, “Yes.” (Matthew 13:51)
 
In Kindergarten Bible school this weekend, the kids will find out what happened to Nate Saint. I’m doing a two-week missionary story on him. Last Sunday they heard about his life growing up, his love for planes, his invention to drop cargo from large canisters on the wings of the small planes he flew. And then the tentative and cautious contacts with the Auca people. Last week’s story ends in joy, as some of the Aucas receive gifts that kids could relate to—yo-yos, balloons and other toys. Relations between the small band of missionaries and the native tribe seem to be moving forward toward friendship.
 
The children wanted to know what happened next. I think some of them think they know—the Aucas will one by one trust Jesus and the missionaries and the Aucas will live together happily ever after.
 
I know what happens next and they’re about to find out. The end of the story isn’t just that Nate Saint dies, but that afterwards people come to faith. Many others, inspired by the sacrifice of these missionaries, enter missionary service themselves. What happens next is that Nate Saint is killed.
 
I am hesitant, though, and don’t want to tell the kids about the dying part. They seemed content with the story going well. They seemed happy to hear the good stuff. What happens next is sad and scary and wrong. I want to shield them, somehow, from the hard section of the story that seems not right.
 
This is not unlike Jesus dying on the cross. It’s terrible. The disciples go into hiding. Imagine all that was going on in Peter’s mind with his betrayal and Jesus’ arrest and death, and Jesus’ words about resurrection and life running through his mind along with images of Lazarus walking out of a tomb. Peter and the other disciples didn’t reassure each other with “Sunday’s coming,” I don’t think. They had to be besides themselves in grief and shock and wondering what to do next. Death and atonement had to come before resurrection and the Spirit to overcome sin.
 
I have been a Bible school teacher for most of my adult life. I’ve seen that shielding impulse repeated in a lot of curricula through the years. We easily skip over the hard parts. Most of the time it’s not the end of the story, but somewhere in the middle where things move into the shadows.
 
Joseph sold into slavery. The famines that drove his brothers to Egypt to ask for help. Elijah running for his life after he defeated the prophets of Baal. The prophets spoke to people who wouldn’t listen. Four hundred years of silence. Simeon waiting almost his whole life for that one day. The slaughter of the innocents. The martyrdom of Stephen, which is the end of him but the beginning of the church. The apostles sharing the good news and Christ using them in amazing ways before most faced deaths like what Jesus faced.
 
Being a Christian isn’t for wimps, but oftentimes, I feel like a wimp. I am not always ready to face that hard stuff or to tell little ones about it. And there’s something there, too, about perseverance—staying true to him on Wednesday, the traditional hump day of the week, or the errands of Saturday, Sunday after church and before the real first day of the week. Our small group is reading a book where the author says his family has “Tongue-Torched Thursdays,” when their not-so-tamed tongues lash out at one another. Our lives are filled with ordinary days where not much happens. Those are the days where the rubber meets the road. Probably for most of us, today is one of those days. This is the middle of the story, too. Not much is happening and yet everything is happening.
 
The story needs to get hard to be a good story, and we are in the midst of the best story ever. We are part of it. No, we don’t hide the hard stuff. It’s difficult for us to do it justice for our kids or for ourselves. We were wandering around the wilderness with our Kindergarteners for what seems like an eternity, it was really just a few weeks—not even a year, let alone forty, with an entire generation of people dying off before they could cross the Jordan River.
 
God is more patient and long-suffering than we are in the middle our own series of stories. He’s always faithful—with us in the middle days of ordinary life and ever-present with us in the hardest days ever.
 
We look back, but we also look ahead. As we celebrate the Lord’s Table this Sunday, let’s examine ourselves and consider the cup that Jesus drank for us. Let us also look ahead to the day when we are all together celebrating at the marriage table, the end of the story as the beginning of something altogether new.

Death to Clichés by Lorraine Triggs

“What do you mean Paul Bunyan didn’t carve out the Great Lakes?” I shouted at a science show on the Smithsonian Channel we were watching the other day. “I can’t believe it. Everyone knows he did.” The show asserted some other method that had to do with time and ice. Just like everyone knows that Johnny Appleseed planted all the apple trees in America, and George Washington never told a lie.

My thoughtful husband replied, “Calm down. We all know it’s true, but the Smithsonian has its reputation to think about.”

As a child who believed in Santa long past the acceptable age, I still have that tendency to hang on to stories and myths—now morphed into clichés and truisms—as a way of explaining the unexplainable, that Paul Bunyan thing notwithstanding. Folklore can be a beautiful thing.

Christianity has its own folklore in the form of heroic truths of the past repeated so many times that we begin to think these little proverbs (not from Proverbs) are actually Christian truths. Matt Smethurst (guest speaker at the Community Sunday of the Fall Missions Festival) posted an article on The Gospel Coalition site back in 2017 titled, “5 Christian Clichés that Need to Die.” Here are Matt's top five:

• When God closes a door, he opens a window.

• You’re never more safe than when you’re in God’s will.

• Let go and let God.

• God will not give you more than you can handle.

• God helps those who help themselves.

Apparently, these clichés are experiencing a slow death. But not slow enough for Matt or for me.

Take the first cliché. I don't think God is running around closing doors and opening windows when we pray. I’d rather share “open window” answers to prayer than, sigh, no, God hasn't answered that prayer. But God hears the sighs of how long, Lord, how long, and he answers, don't be anxious. Look out that open window to the birds of the air. Seek me.

The third cliché on Matt's list is the opposite of what God wants us to do. Instead of letting go, we are to hold fast and cling to him. Run to him for refuge and hide under his wings. Trust him and do good no matter what. Perseverance is not letting go.

The second and fourth clichés go together for me. Never more safe than when you’re in God’s will? That one would be a hard sell for believers in Nigeria, North Korea, Indonesia, Somalia or Myanmar. And, sorry to disappoint, but God will give you more than you can handle. “Dear friends,” wrote The Apostle Peter, “don’t be surprised at the fiery trials you are going through, as if something strange were happening to you.” (1 Peter 4:12, NLT)

That last cliché? Help comes from Jesus for the utterly helpless and hopeless. Consider one Scripture passage: Romans 5:6-8. For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die—but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

Like legends, these Christian clichés try to explain the unexplainable whether it’s unanswered prayer or suffering or God himself. We want to be in the know, the ones in charge, but we're not. Once we stop trying to explain how we think God should work, we will be awestruck that the Lord, seated on high, looks far down on earth, and “raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap.” (Psalm 113:6-7) 

I once researched Johnny Appleseed for an article I wrote for a children’s magazine. The real Johnny Appleseed was a man named John Chapman, who planted apple orchards as he traveled from Pennsylvania to Indiana. He was also a businessman and missionary who helped make peace between native Americans and white settlers.

Sometimes the real person is better than the legend. And the one true God is better than all we can think or imagine or squeeze into a cliché.

From A Pastor Prays for His People by Wendell C. Hawley

Almighty and everlasting God,
Who numbers the stars in order and turns darkness into light,
you have set eternity within the heart of man.
We think about eternity and trust you.
Your promises are written in our hearts . . . we believe them.
What no eye has seen, nor ear heard,
And what has not entered into the heart of man . . . 
You have prepared for those who love you.
The credo of others may be,
Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die!
But for us of the transformed heart,
We seek a city whose builder and maker is God.

Thanks be to God . . . 
You are light to the wanderer,
joy of the pilgrim,
refuge of the brokenhearted,
deliverer of the oppressed,
strength of the perishing,
hope of the dying,
Savior of sinners.
We long to hear that voice from heaven saying,
"The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord, and of his Christ, and he shall reign for ever and ever."
Praise be unto God.

Father God, the world presses in upon us every waking hour.
We are squeezed and pulled and rudely affected by a system contrary to the way of the Cross.
Consequently, we are shocked to realize how subtly the world's approval,
language,
conduct,
attitude
seeps into our life.
Help us remember that Vanity Fair is not our home; we are just passing through.
We are soujourners. . . just a breath away from our eternal home.

Keep us unencumbered lest our goods become our gods, and our cares, cankers.

And now, Father God, give ear to each penitential prayer as we ask for forgiveness and grace.

Thank you for clean hearts and revived spirits.

This Guy by Wil Triggs

We were on a charter boat traveling all night to get to the place where we could all catch a mess load of fish. Problem was, the swells got so bad, we were going up and down, over and over, and we all started to feel really small, like this boat we were on was nothing compared with the big ocean we were in. The ocean was rolling, and it seemed that surely our boat would roll right over. The rain got really bad. You could see the sheets of it falling through the moonlight. People started to get sick, throwing up off the side of the boat, all of us. Some of us headed below deck to get out of the rain and there was this guy sleeping through the whole thing.
 
He woke up. He looked kind of annoyed (not sure with us or the weather) as he went up on deck. He looked away from the boat up at the storm and said, “Knock it off.”
 
Somehow, the water went all still and calm.
 
What? I mean, was that some kind of freak coincidence?
 
Imagine hearing about a group of people stuck in the middle of nowhere with no food. No phone service for UberEats or GrubHub. This guy with them says to sit down, so they do. After they sit, he says a prayer and opens one kid's lunchbox and starts passing food around like he has a truckload of catered sandwiches from Jason’s Deli. Everyone eats. Those sandwiches tasted like some incredible artisanal delight, more than good, the best deli ever.
 
OK, so, that’s just weird. Made up, right? Some kind of magic trick. The Amazing Kreskin or David Copperfield or David Blaine, just not on stage.
 
Did you hear the news about your neighbor or your co-worker and what happened? Her brother died. He was sick for just a few days. Or maybe it just hit him all at once. Maybe it was COVID. Maybe it was cancer. Maybe it was getting hit one too many times at a sports event. Or a heart attack just out of nowhere. Like the worst kind of defensive tackle. There was nothing the ambulance could do. He was gone. Off to the morgue they take him. People are just in shock.
 
Then this guy comes in from out of town. He looks at the corpse, the dead man, and this guy just says, “Get up.”
 
Imagine the unimaginable. Your co-worker’s brother sits up. He comes back from the dead. He is alive.
 
People are starting to get excited about this guy who seems so different from the rest of us. What he’s doing, well, it can’t all be some sleight of hand magic. I mean, there has to be something special about him, something amazing.
 
Yet, when you do at last see him, he looks, well, just like any other person, any other guy. There’s no halo, no heavenly voices, nothing crazy like that. This guy is not part of the marvel universe. He’s not bigger than us or stronger, he’s just one of us.
 
Some people want to make him president. Or more, whatever more might be. I mean, they’ve never been energized like this. They really think he needs to fix government, because if he can bring someone back from the dead and feed all those people and take care of the cataclysmic weather, he can surely take care of the border crisis and the financial debacle and the unbridled reach for power to people from the left and the right and the up and down, not to mention taxes, tsunamis, melting glaciers, corruption in government, fires, economic downturns and earthquakes and 1984-style Big Government and Pharma and, oh yeah, my sin.
 
He's wanted in another way, too; wanted like a criminal. Afghanistan’s most wanted. Post-modern Marxist classrooms. LGBTQ+ whatever. Mainland China, North Korea’s most wanted, or maybe hated would be a better word. Weird thing is, this guy doesn’t move away from it all. He runs toward the disaster, not away - he goes where he’s not wanted. He cannot leave the world and its people untouched.
 
He’s got a photographic memory. There are things and people he cannot forget. Those people, “remember me,” that’s where he is, right next to the man in jail, hanging there next to the thief, the woman beaten, the man who beat her, the shooting victim, the shooter, the homeless mental patient, the child orphaned. The wife cast out of her home, the broken mother, the desperate father, the pastor imprisoned, the prison warden, the blind man, the old man with no hope, the student denied entrance to university, the prosecutor and the defense, the crippled man on the stretcher who can’t fit through the door of the church, the lady who can’t remember her own name, the family swept away by a mudslide, the cancer patient, the hemophiliac reaching to touch his jacket or even just his shadow cast on the ground by the Mediterranean sun, a student swept out to sea in a riptide she can’t swim out of and all she can say is one word, one name, his. . .
 
We all long for a new heaven and a new earth. In the meantime, we get to make do with this guy.

New Year's Resolution: See More Theater by Wil Triggs

In the land of Narnia, at the beginning of the Chronicles, the creatures and the land faced a situation described as always winter, but never Christmas. A cold and dark world it was.
 
But what about when it’s winter and then it’s Christmas and then it’s . . . what?
 
When I was a kid, the week after Christmas and before New Year’s was pretty great. No school, new toys, flannel pajamas, fudge and See’s candy and other good foods lingering from Christmas.
 
All seemed well. People headed home for where they gathered with family and friends. It might have been across town or across the country or even some other part of the world. The newborn King was safe and sound in the manger. The family goes back to Nazareth, and everybody lives happily ever after. For us, New Year’s follows Christmas. The tree comes down. We pack up our ornaments and lights and put them in the basement or the garage for another year. Think football games, and parades and finger foods. Life begins again with resolutions and resolves to live a better life in the year to come than in the year just ended.
 
But after Christmas in the Gospels, that’s not the way it worked out.
 
The Magi had told Herod of the good news of the birth from the line of David, and he encouraged them on their way. Eventually the Magi show up with their gifts—that’s where the 12 days of Christmas come from, so they got to see Jesus. I think it probably took them a lot longer than 12 days. Afterwards, the dreams and warnings came, and they opted to avoid the Herod expressway and take back roads back home for fear of Herod’s wrath.
 
They weren’t the only ones with a king-sized problem. Mary and Joseph didn’t just leave Bethlehem and head home to Nazareth like I imagined. Instead, Herod began killing babies to make sure his reign was safe from whatever kind of king he feared had come. Instead of going back to their home, Joseph, Mary and Jesus opted to go to Egypt. Mothers started to wail tears of grief. It was brutal. Did Herod think he had succeeded in killing Jesus when all those boys died?
 
The people who lost their sons, grandsons, nephews, is it any wonder that they were looking for some kind of release from the rule under which they lived? I’m sure that kind of grief didn’t just fade away. The government could do anything it wanted to them and did.
 
The brutal tyranny of man at war with the humble way of God’s love. In hymn speak, “This is My Father’s World” was having a little tussle with “This World is Not My Home.” Roman rule did not just go away. But there is a different world at work. Then and now, and not only the present and the past, but also future.
 
In his book The Heart in Pilgrimage, in the chapter “The World as Theater of God’s Glory,” Lee Ryken writes of John Calvin and the wonders of the created world. “God’s glory is on display,” he writes. “We are spectators of it. It is in the nature of a theatrical performance that a dynamic interaction exists between the audience and the performers.”
 
This is a celebration of faith observing the natural world and all its creative wonder. But I can’t help but misapply it. First to see more theater and more nature in 2023 and second to think of Calvin’s words not in relation to the natural world, but the fallen world and its connection or disconnection to the world to come. As things seem to be in decline, we know who will prevail and rule and make new. This is the ultimate theater where Satan is vanquished and a new acts begins.
 
I can see Nigerian people of the church emerging from their hiding places in the bush to go back to their villages, the church that was burned down in Nigeria rebuilt, and I can hear the beautiful African voices singing of the love better than all other loves combined.
 
The Christian man in another country whose work partners were martyred finding new office space in a different town, working with them together on a new project, a magazine celebrating the peace of God in every language of the universe.
 
The men who used to kidnap, torture, even kill, now serving those they once held captive, their eyes open to the loving and forgiving God who became the object of their repentance and worship. There they sit, side by side, in joy and fraternal fellowship.
 
The lion lies down with the lamb. Happy new year.

A Christmas Heretic by Lorraine Triggs

Fairly confident that our choice of preschool for our four-year-old would never appear on his résumé, we landed on the park district preschool. Our choice was bolstered by the teachers, Miss Jan and Miss Karen, who were friends from church. We knew he would be in good hands.

As Christmas came, Jan and Karen invited me to talk to the children about one of our Christmas traditions—one that was especially meaningful to our family. I got the hint. As park district employees, Miss Jan and Miss Karen had to exercise caution in what they said. As a parent, I could throw caution to the wind, and I did, packing up our Nativity set to show the children.

Our crèche was beautiful and to scale—five inches to be exact, with Mary, Joseph, the baby in the manger, a shepherd, two lambs and an angel hanging above the serene scene. At one point, we purchased a shepherdess carrying a lamb. Unfortunately, she was 7.5 inches tall and loomed large over the Holy Family, so she didn’t come to preschool with me that afternoon.

As I pulled out the Nativity set, piece by piece, I asked the children if they knew what each figure was. Fortunately, I had “plants” in the audience—my son and another four-year-old from College Church, who were eager to tell their clueless friends who was who.

Once the scene was set, I asked the children what they liked best about Christmas. Presents. Cookies. Candy Canes. Presents. Santa. Christmas trees. Presents. Even my plants got caught up in the frenzy. When things calmed down, I said, “Did you know that we don’t need any of that stuff to have Christmas?”

Silence as 15 or so sweet faces looked at the heretic in their midst. I quickly assured them that I love all that about Christmas, but Christmas would still come even if we didn’t have presents or Santa or Christmas trees. As I talked, I removed all the pieces except for Baby Jesus, and said, “Christmas comes because of Jesus, the newborn king. We only need him.”

Christmas comes with attachments for most of us. We ask, “How are your Christmas plans coming?” or “Are you done shopping for everyone on your list?” or “Are you traveling for Christmas?” Christmas cards are cheerful recaps of accomplishments. And I won’t even mention the Christmas posts.

We know we don’t need any of that stuff to celebrate Christmas, but it’s hard to let it go. It’s hard not to fill December with, well, with everything Christmas.

The shepherds in the fields that night didn't have any plans other than watching their sheep. Mary and Joseph's travel plans went awry, and they couldn't get a room. The only ones who brought presents were still traveling. Yet they had everything and then some because the Savior, the Christ, had been born.

Jesus, the one who emptied himself and was born in the likeness of men, filled the empty ones with grace and truth and living water. He didn’t come for those who were already filled, mostly with themselves. He came to the humble, the poor in spirit, the lost, the sick, and perhaps to an awkward shepherdess, who took a few steps closer to the baby as his mother and father made room for her and her lamb around that baby’s manger.

Foot Pain by Wil Triggs

When a person walks through a day, his feet get dirty. It doesn’t matter. Shoes or no shoes. Walking through the day. It just happens. Dirt gets on our feet.
 
We don’t walk nearly as much as people used to. We have cars. If you don't have a car, there’s always public transportation. Uber. That kind of thing. Or you can always get a ride from a neighbor or co-worker. People are nice that way.
 
And then there's work. Think about people in the service industry. They have it hard. They’re on their feet all day.
 
At a restaurant, servers bring you your breakfast. Eggs and meat, your choice. Potatoes and toast. Butter and jam on the side. Or the gluten-free alternatives. Would you like a refill on that coffee? All the time on their feet.
 
You go into a store. You don’t think about it, but those people are standing up and walking around all day long. They go through the produce that comes off the trucks. They get rid of the overripe avocadoes, and line all the other ones just right, to be sure they look magically boxed up on display so you can get a good look at them and make the best choice for you. And when the avocadoes are finished, these workers move to another box just off the truck. The nicely arranged apples or pears are no accident, all of them the handiwork of someone working while on his feet.
 
The woman in the food truck not only has to stand, but also has restricted movement—just a few feet to move from window to grill and back for hours. All the while, standing. Standing on her feet.
 
I never really thought much about my feet until my right foot began to hurt. People noticed. “Why are you walking like that?” was a question I heard a lot. The doctor gave me the answer: I haveplantar fasciitisin my right foot. Standing isn’t the problem, putting weight on the foot is where the pain comes. I’ve become familiar with insets and exercises to ease the pain. When I’ve mentioned this to others, I’ve been surprised how many other people are in the same place or have recovered from this malady.
 
But even if we have no foot issues, it is a good thing to finally get home and take off our shoes and put on slippers or thick wool socks.
 
A friend of mine from college used to wash his feet every night. He said he couldn’t stand the smell otherwise. He was a big guy who could easily put each foot into one of the dorm bathroom sinks and would stand there carefully washing them with Ivory soap - every toe, top and bottom, ankles too. He faithfully did this every night.
 
The footcare industry offers us salves, softeners and soothers to help with our feet once we get home and take off our shoes.

In Jesus’s time, foot washing was a normal part of culture. How much more dirty would feet have gotten when Jesus walked through a day like we do.

Unless you work in podiatry or shoe sales, you probably don’t spend much time looking at your or anyone else’s feet. I’m thinking more about feet because of my own foot pain, but as it gets better I’ll soon stop thinking about them.
 
Yes, Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, but for now I’m thinking about the feet of Jesus and pain.
 
How many tears does it take to wash a person’s feet?
 
Consider a tear, not that much water in one or two. The woman who used her own tears to wash Jesus' feet had to have had quite a cry. There was no towel but her hair, no soap but the tears that fell from her eyes. It had to have been a lot of tears.
 
Psalm 56:8 says “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”
 
When her sorrows collided with the feet of the man of sorrows, God noticed every one. It’s true, too, for the tears we shed.
 
When we stand and walk, our feet take our full weight on themselves. But those two feet, the ones the woman cleaned with her own tears, they took the weight not only of Jesus, but the immense weight of all our sins, as he walked to and then was nailed to the cross.
 
I know the tears the woman shed were nothing compared with the blood that Jesus shed, but there is a connection, our tears and his, his feet and ours.
 
We don’t usually pay much attention to feet, with the exception of the feet of newborns. We marvel at the details, so small and perfectly shaped and new. Those two newborn incarnated feet found rest in swaddling cloths bound up in the manger of Bethlehem, coming to walk this earth for us, he walked into the wilderness, walking on mount and valley and water, then wrapped in the herbs of grief, rising to walk anew in the garden and on the road and by the sea, now sitting at the throne of heaven.