Drowning: Do you not care that we are perishing? By Wil Triggs

I did a lot of odd jobs growing up. Cutting lawns in exchange for the goods or services of others, painting my trumpet teacher’s stucco-sided garage in exchange for music lessons, but what seemed like my first real job was working at the day care camp at the YMCA in Torrance, California.

It wasn’t really a job job exactly. I wasn’t on their payroll. The official Y employees/swimming teachers also had a day camp program for little kids. I would go to the camp and hang out with the kids.

When it was time for them to go into the pool, there were too many of them. They had the day campers all roped off in about a third of the shallow end, while the regular swimming lessons for older students and adults filled the rest of pool with their activities. There were really too many people in that pool and only one lifeguard. So my job during pool time was to make sure that none of the day camp kids drowned.

I had no training in CPR. I don’t even know if there was such a thing. There was mouth to mouth resuscitation. I remember learning that. I’m happy to say that I never had to use it. I’m also happy to say that none of the kids drowned. But I do remember pulling up a lot of kids who seemed like they had been under too long, their heads breaking the surface of water, sometimes laughing smiling, sometimes coughing, choking. Ocassionally someone drank water and needed to sit with me at the side of the pool to catch their breath and take a break.

My pay was a few dollars every day and free high-level swimming lessons. They taught the dolphin kick and the butterfly. I swam with weight belts on my chest. Sometimes I'd sink.

With this job, when I first started, I was so excited. As I look back, I can see God preparing me for years of ministry to kids and students even at this young age. I took my role seriously—watching after the kids in the water. But even the exciting becomes rote, you sort of melt yourself into the routine of swimming pools and kids, and it's easy to forget what you're really there for.

One day when I was off, I went to, where else (?), a pool. It was the municipal pool in my city’s park—kind of like Northside Park. The pool bigger than Northside’s, at least it seems like that looking back. It was nice to swim on my own, no kids to worry about, no weight belts strapped on. I swam underwater a full length of the pool. I was great. Then I saw underwater bodies heading to the ladders and the sides, everyone all getting out of the water all at once. I surfaced and saw what I never had to do myself.

The lifeguard on duty in the water instead of his perch, a child in his arms. The lifeguard rushing to the side and resuscitation efforts beginning immediately. Everyone stood frozen, all of us looking, wanting, hoping to hear the cough, the choke, the catching of breath signalling life. But in the confusion, pool staff rushing everyone to get out of the pool and out into the park on the other side of the locker rooms.

Minutes that seemed like hours later, the child was wheeled out to the ambulance, her eyes open, looking very much alive.

The pool closed for the rest of the day.

You can believe that when I went back to work on Monday, I was more aware than ever of every child entrusted to my care—watching, checking more than I needed to, making sure that pool time was fun time the way it was supposed to be.

It seems like such a long time ago, and yet the memory and the danger still seems fresh. My mind wants to take the metaphor of drowning to the people around me who don’t know Jesus—while I might be drowning in stuff or tasks or fears or worries, what about people who think they’re fine, but don’t know the storm around us all? What kind of a lifeguard might I be today?

This Sunday morning, in our Kindergarten Bible School, we get to tell the story of Jesus calming the storm. It’s my favorite lesson of the year. We make the boat and the storm and act it out as a whole group. And with all of the waves and the storm going strong, we wake up Jesus.

Help us. We’re going to drown. Don’t you care?

Real waves. Real fear. An ocean roiling all around us, swallowing us into death. All of it happening in Room 001.

And then Jesus gets up and says, “Peace! Be still!”

The Kindergarteners all at once are silent (at least it’s always worked so far). The storm is stopped. Drowning averted.

Jesus asks, “Why are you so afraid? Have you still no faith?”

Kintsugi at Easter by Daniela Abuzatoaie

Earlier this spring, someone’s breaking his coffee mug reminded me about the Japanese art form called Kintsugi, a process whereby broken pieces of pottery are repaired with a lacquer resin mixed with, most commonly, powdered gold or silver. Through this technique, an artisan carefully mends the broken ceramics, covering the cracks and flaws with the metal mixture, rendering the vessel a new, more attractive appearance. While the location of the formerly broken lines remain visible, paradoxically, their gold or silver covering adds to the final workmanship’s new beauty.

Easter Sunday reminded me about the Kintsugi of my existence and about how God in his mercy, has mended and continues to mend the broken pieces of my life through the power of Jesus’ blood and resurrection. “Though your sins are as scarlet, they will be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they will be like wool.” (Isaiah 1: 18)

Through Christ, God takes our sin and washes it white, he takes our hearts of stone and gives us hearts of flesh, he makes old things pass away and we become new creations. All of this is possible because we are his workmanship (Ephesians 2:10). Those who have trusted in Christ’s atonement for their sins, have experienced the powerful transformation from death to life, from bondage to freedom, and from being spiritual orphans to children of a loving God. This transformation is not imagined, but is real and powerful and alters the small and large choices of our everyday life, changes the affections of our hearts, and redirects our deepest hopes toward heaven.

Nothing under the sun brings greater meaning, greater motivation, and greater joy, than to become a vessel for honor, sanctified, useful to the Master, prepared for every good work. (2 Tim. 2:21)

Will you give God the broken pieces of your life and let his loving hand restore you to glory?

The Author's Interpretation by Lois Krogh

Two on a road to a town
Just the same
as any other little town.

One man, Cleopas, the next
Never named.
Both hopeless and confused.

“Oh, foolish ones and slow of heart!”

Do you not know? Can you not see?
All the prophets of old spoke about me?

That a messiah would come, you’ve long been expecting,
That first he must suffer is uncomprehending.

Beginning with Adam and back to t he present
He told the great story of love in redemption.

To you there are turns in the long story line,
But each part was framed in the wise author’s mind.

A People. A Purpose. A Plan and a Place.
Saved for His glory. Saved by His grace.

“And their eyes were opened, and they recognized Him.”

Back to the city from where
They just came.
Their hearts burn bright and sure.

Seeking the Dead by Lorraine Triggs

A few weeks ago, I decided to check to see what spring bulbs were coming up on the north side of the house. I had my head down, eyes on the ground, intent on finding any signs of life. Instead I spotted a clump of gray feathers, and then the dead bird.

Gross, yuck. Look no more. I hurried around to the front of the house with my head up and eyes on the horizon, or at least looking down the street at the recycling truck picking up the bins.

After more than two decades of homeownership, I wonder if I am a magnet for creatures, dead or living. The baby bunny I respectfully covered with an overturned clay pot till my husband came home to bury it. The racoon resting on the whole house fan. The dead chipmunk in the laundry room. And it's not just me. I also know about ducks in a home study and exotic tropical creatures who partnered with missionaries in Ecuador. Or my niece Holly who took in an injured crow who became "Alfred," one of their many very-much-alive house pets.

It’s highly unlikely that Zillow would list “magnet for dead or living creatures” as any home’s selling point.

Good thing Zillow wasn’t around in Jesus’ days, especially with his attraction to dead creatures—Jairus and his daughter, Lazarus, us.

In Mark 5, Jairus, a ruler of the synagogue, falls at Jesus’ feet and begs him to come to his daughter who was at the point of death. As Jesus and this influencer head off, they are interrupted by a needy woman, a non-influencer, who had spent all her money on doctors and “was no better but rather grew worse.” (Mark 5:26) Though not physically dead, she needed healing and new life, and finds both in Jesus.

Meanwhile, people came from Jairus’ house with tragic news—his daughter was dead.

Why bother Jesus anymore. It’s too late. She’s dead. Nothing more to be done. How many do we write off as hopelessly lost, too late for the touch of Jesus to make any difference.

But I think Jesus’ ears must have perked up. Come on, Jairus, let’s get to your house. Your daughter is dead, yes, well, not for long.

When it was just Jesus, Jairus, his wife and their dead daughter, Jesus gently says, “Little girl, arise,” and now it was Jairus, his wife and their breathing, living, daughter breathing, living, walking.

And just in case you’re tempted to mix up the Lazarus in John 11 with someone else in the New Testament, the gospel writer John describes him as the one whom Jesus raised from the dead. Yes, this Lazarus, who had died and walked out of his tomb, grave clothes and all when he heard Jesus say, “Lazarus, come out.”

Then there's the women who came to Jesus’ tomb on that first day of the week. Deep in grief, they expected to find a dead body. Instead they encountered angels who asked them why they were seeking the living among the dead. Really? You expected to find Jesus still dead after three days?

And in true Resurrection paradox, it’s this living Jesus who seeks out those who are dead in their sins and turns every day into Easter with his gentle graced words:

Little girl, arise.

Lazarus, come out.

Dead in sin be made alive.

The Significance of Saturday--A Lesson I Won't Forget by Sarah Burkhardt

To paraphrase the words a wise teacher said to me as I sat in his office, “We often forget that it wasn’t Good Friday and then Easter Sunday. There was Saturday in between. God often does bring some healing, but we may not fully understand the reason for our suffering or find full healing for some things until we get to heaven.”

I had been struggling with intense anxiety that week, overwhelmed by all the unknowns of my future. I felt like I was taking shots in the dark at job applications and even more worried about how I would get through another semester. This teacher, whose class I enrolled in at the last minute, turned out to be a godsend. I have sat in quite a few other offices, getting through various situations, but this lesson is one that I won’t forget.

Have you ever wondered what exactly Jesus' disciples did on that Saturday, he was in the tomb? We know what happened to Christ’s body, and that the temple veil was torn. But what were Jesus’ followers doing? What questions were they asking? Pastor Josh Moody asked this in a sermon last Easter, and I think it’s a good question. I know I could probably read a book on the subject. I also think that it’s okay that we don’t know. But, as often is the case, I thought that C.S. Lewis would have some insight into it.

As a young girl, I watched the movie, “Prince Caspian.” It took multiple viewings for me to understand because, typically, the movie plot line was not done as well as the book. Scenes ran together, and it was hard to understand how they were cohesive, especially to my young mind.

Now when I watch it, I understand. Prince Caspian depicts what it is like to live on the Saturday in-between, making choices amid unknowns, when we haven’t seen God for a while but need him to come through. It’s a depiction of faith while waiting for answers, combating doubt and learning to have eyes to see, kind of like Saturday.

In the movie, “The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe”, Lucy is a character to watch closely. She sees Aslan and ends up leading her siblings in the right direction, after a dangerous detour. At one point in the movie, her older sister Susan asks “Lucy, why didn’t I see him?” Lucy replies “Maybe you weren’t looking.” It is at the last minute--when the Narnians have defeated half the Telmarine army and the undefeatable half is upon them, when their shelter is collapsing on itself, and Lucy is almost shot by a Telmarine soldier--that Aslan is found.

The scene that follows has enough meaning for the whole story to me. It is probably my favorite scene from the Narnia series. Here is a clip.

The beauty of film is that it can depict a lot more than words on a page. However, it takes some insight and imagination to fully understand what’s going on. Lucy is hesitant because she doesn’t know if this is a wild lion or Aslan. When she realizes who it is, she lights up with a radiant smile, rushes to hug the lion and soak in his lovingkindness with a playful hug. She talks to him like a close friend, asking:

“Why didn’t you show yourself like last time?”

“Things never happen the same way twice, dear one,” he responds.

“If I had come earlier, would everyone that died, could I have stopped them?” she asks another question. And after a brief pause, he answers.

“We can never know what would have happened, Lucy. But will happen is another matter entirely.”

And with that, Aslan roars, and Narnia begins to come back to life. The army is defeated, only with Aslan’s help. The ending is beautiful, and there are lessons to learn from many of the characters’ journeys. (It's worth watching, or better yet, reading [again].)

We all have chinks in our armor: things that cripple us, losses and hardships we experience, and we try to persevere through all of it. Sometimes we are continually hit with trials and don’t know what to do but fight on, waiting for rescue and redemption. Other times, we have so many questions and are not sure we can find answers to our doubt, or ever be assured in confident faith.

We all have Saturday moments, grasping for understanding of truth in the middle of the suffering we see. Saturday is the time in-between the seeking and the finding. Like Lucy, we may have faith but still want answers. We know Aslan is there but are afraid to find him, to go alone. And we want to ask why he wasn’t here earlier? Why did this have to happen this way? Could I have done something differently? Or even, simply, as it was for the children and Narnians and has been for me at times, how do I survive?

In one of his devotional writings on the Cross and suffering, Dr. John Stott says that “the fact of suffering undoubtedly constitutes the single greatest challenge of the Christian faith.” Can suffering possibly be reconciled with God’s justice and love? Stott says more, but goes on to quote from his own book, The Cross of Christ: “I could never myself believe in God if it were not for the cross. The only God I believe in is the one Nietzsche ridiculed as ‘God on the cross.’ In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it? I have entered many Buddhist temples in different Asian countries and stood respectfully before the statue of the Buddha, his legs crossed, arms folded, eyes closed, the ghost of a smile playing around his mouth, a remote look on his face, detached from the agonies of the world. But each time after a while I have to turn away. And in imagination I have turned instead to that lonely, twisted, tortured figure on the cross, nails through hands and feet, back lacerated, limbs wrenched, row bleeding from thorn-pricks, mouth dry and intolerably thirsty, plunged in God-forsaken darkness. That is the God for me! He laid aside his immunity to pain. He entered our world of flesh and blood, tears and death. He suffered for us. Our sufferings become more manageable in light of his” (From his devotional, Through the Bible through the Year, p.269). Stott clarifies the difference of other religions from Christianity through a suffering Christ, seen through imagination.

What is the lesson of Saturday? I am learning it more now. We don’t know what the disciples were doing. Perhaps they were planning an attack, like Peter. Perhaps they were waiting, like Lucy. Probably a bit of both, between personalities like Peter and Thomas. What we do know, as John Stott and others before me know, is that our God is a suffering God. Scripture tells us this not only in the New but also the Old Testament.

The Chronicles of Narnia help me understand it more. Saturday teaches us that it is only the cross that justifies the suffering of this world. The cross is our only hope for salvation and our one confidence, because only through it can we find strength to face the wounds and battles of this world. Our questions and reasons for suffering may not be fully answered until we reach heaven, but Christ allows us to know the lovingkindness of the Father through a relationship with Jesus, through knowing him and sharing in the fellowship of his sufferings (Philippians 3:10).

I recently heard this quote: “If we seek, we will find, but we do not want to find, so we do not seek.” Saturday fills the space where we struggle with our unbelief, the place where we seek but are afraid to find. It helps us learn to still have eyes to see and to live despite the questions that we just can’t have answers to this side of heaven.

The saying is trustworthy, for:
If we have died with him, we will also live with him;
if we endure, we will also reign with him;
if we deny him, he also will deny us;
if we are faithless, he remains faithful—
for he cannot deny himself.

2 Timothy 2:12-13

The Wondrous Cross by Wallace Alcorn

The warden saved the gas chamber for the last. I was in San Quentin State Prison only by our Chapel Choir being on on a west coast tour and I having writing ahead for a personal tour on the basis of taking the Wheaton course on criminology. (I guess I presented my request rather presumptuously because he seemed to presume upon my letter that I was the professor.)

The choir had made our way down from Vancouver, Seattle, and Portland to the Bay area. My appointment came between our church concert in Oakland and another in San Francisco. I rented a car and taking three guys with me, we drove north across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County and to San Sausalito. (I tried to act professorial, and let him assume these other choir members were my students.)

The assistant warden kindly gave us a surprisingly thorough tour and answered our earnest questions thoughtfully. In the gas chamber, now, he pointed to the one-way glass window beyond which witnesses sit. He rehearsed the protocol and demonstrated the procedure.

A chemical capsule is placed on a lid beneath the seat in which the condemned prisoner is strapped. When the warden gives his signal, the lid drops and the capsule falls into a vial of another chemical. A reaction results, which generates the lethal gas. And that’s it.

With this, he studied our facial expressions and bodily motions. I don’t know what he saw, but I remember how I felt. As if this weren’t enough, he concluded: “Cute little gas chamber we have here, isn’t it?”

A “cute” gas chamber? I had already visited the electric chairs in Cook County and Statesville. Earlier, were gallows. There have been firing squads, the guillotine, and various devices of execution—none “cute” or any other euphemistic or dismissive adjective.

That evening, back in a pleasant San Francisco church, we sang ever so sweetly, as we had throughout the tour, a beautiful choral arrangement of Isaac Watts’ already lovely “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” What had previously been routine struck me profoundly: a wondrous cross? A cute gas chamber, a wonderful electric chair?

When I survey the wondrous cross,

On which the Prince of glory died,

My richest gain I count but loss,

And pour contempt on all my pride…

See, from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down;

Did e’er such love and sorrow meet

Or thrones compose so rich a crown?

A monstrous incongruity, this: a wondrous cross. An oxymoron, as they like to say, “of biblical proportions.” Indeed, biblical; precisely biblical.

One day in all of history on one ordinary hill in the midst of many hills, one man who appeared no different from any in the gawking crowd hung on a cross exactly like those thousands erected all throughout the Roman Empire to execute the vilest criminals. On this one cross that one day two thousand years ago, a promise was kept and lives were forever changed on that — here it is — wondrous Cross.

On this one cross, on this one man there was laid forever all the sins of every man alive on every continent and all the sins of every man who had ever lived anywhere and all the sins of every man who would ever yet live wherever—and everything changed.

Never a “cute” gas chamber, but forever the wondrous Cross. Now George Bennard:

…And I love that old cross…
has a wondrous attraction for me…

a wondrous beauty I see…

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,

Till my trophies at last I lay down;

I will cling to the old rugged cross,

And exchange it some day for a crown.

Beholding Glory by Lois Krogh

They didn’t come
to see him die.
They came to see a miracle.

Drawn by a desperate curiosity,
moved by a perplexing need,
they quietly hoped
what the leaders scoffed,
“He saved others.
Let him save himself.”

They left
filled with deep sorrow
from all they had seen.

Hearts heavy.
Thoughts darkened.
Eyes blinded
to the dazzling drama.

The apex of history.
The culmination of prophecy.
The reconciliation of God and mankind.

Days, weeks, years later
some would come to know
and wonder at the glory
they’d been privileged to behold.

Open my eyes that I may see
truth in the midst of deception,
grace in the midst of despair,
beauty in the midst of destruction.

Sleeping in Gethsemane: Reflections on Mark 14 by Cheryl Warner

I would never do that, I tell myself.

Or would I?

That’s what Peter thought too.

“You will all fall away,” Jesus told them, “for it is written: ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’” The shepherd was just about to be struck.

“Not me,” Peter said. “Maybe everyone else, but me? Never!” He was so sure of himself. Just like I am so sure of myself.

But Jesus knew Peter. “Tonight—before the rooster crows twice you yourself will disown me three times.”

And Jesus knows me. I wonder, Before, this day is done, how will I have denied Jesus in three ways—in thought, word and deed?

Peter was emphatic: “Even if I have to die with you, I will never disown you.” And all the others said the same. I’ve said the same.

They only got as far as Gethsemane. Jesus was deeply distressed and troubled. “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death,” he told Peter, James, and John. He asked only one thing of them. “Stay here and keep watch.” Would they? Would I?

“Abba, Father,” he said, “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.”

Then he returned to his disciples and found them . . . sleeping—not watching, not praying, but sleeping. “Simon,” he said to Peter, using his old name. “Are you asleep? Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour? Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

Once more Jesus went away and prayed, pleading with the Father to let the cup pass. Again, he returned to find his friends sleeping. Their eyes were heavy. They did not know what to say to him.

The scene repeated itself for a third time, right up to the arrival of the betrayer. Judas and his band of thugs hadn’t been sleeping.

Three times, Jesus prayed. And he resolved to obey the Father, rising to meet his betrayer.

Three times, Peter fell asleep. Three times he fell into temptation. Three times he denied even knowing Jesus. He had been so sure he would stay by Jesus’ side. He had been ready to die with him. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. His eyes were heavy. He couldn’t stay awake. He didn’t keep watch. He didn’t pray. He didn’t know what to say. He said he didn’t know Jesus.

Suddenly, Jesus’ words flashed through Peter’s mind: ‘Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny three times that you even know me.’ And he broke down and wept” (Mark 14:72, NLT).

The guilt. The shame. The shock of it all. What just happened?

How could he?

How could I?

Am I any different than Peter? How do I deny that I know Jesus? Does my life show that I belong to him?

When do I do anything but watch and pray? Just a minute, Jesus, as soon as I send this text . . . finish this chapter . . . make this call . . . take a nap . . .

Do the cadences of this world lull me to sleep?

Do I yawn in the face of temptation?

Am I sleeping while sin is crouching at the door?

Or am I keeping watch, expecting his return at any moment?

“Keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come.” (Matthew 24:42, NIV)

Peter learned the hard way and warned the rest of us: “ Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” (1 Peter 5:8, NIV)

Paul’s last words to the elders in Ephesus also warned them to keep watch. “Keep watch over yourselves and all the flock. . . . After I leave, savage wolves will come in among you and will not spare the flock. . . . So be on your guard!” (Acts 20:28-31, NIV)

Lord Jesus, wake me up. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. May I by your Spirit watch and pray so that I do not fall into temptation. And when you return, may I be found searching the skies, watching for you.

A Puritan prayer*

I come to thee as a sinner with cares and sorrows,

to leave every concern entirely to thee,

every sin calling for Christ’s precious blood. . . .

Keep me from deception by causing me to abide in the truth,

from harm by helping me to walk in the power of the Spirit.

Give me intenser faith in the eternal verities,

burning into me by experience the things I know;

Let me never be ashamed of the truth of the gospel,

that I may bear its reproach,

vindicate it,

see Jesus as its essence,

know in it the power of the Spirit.

Lord, help me, for I am often lukewarm and chill;

unbelief mars my confidence,

sin makes me forget thee.

Let the weeds that grow in my soul be cut at their roots;

Grant me to know that I truly live only when I live to thee.

* Excerpt from “Resting on God,” The Valley of Vision: A Collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions, ed. Arthur Bennett (Edinburgh: The Banner of Truth Trust, 1975), 234-35.