Mining for Books
"This is the disciple which testifieth of these things: and we know that his testimony is true. And there are also many other things which Jesus did, the which, if they should be written every one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written. Amen." The apostle John's concluding remarks indicate his feeling of utter failure in representing the man he knew as well as any human could. Since Jesus was the archetype of humanity in every other way, we cannot expect him to be different in the area of biography. The four gospels included in the New Testament only give the brightest highlights of 33 years of life, the things the disciples probably regaled one another with in their "church services." Considering the bulkiness of some modern biographies of people half his age, we can assume that Jesus's life has only been represented to us in the most sketchy form, one which his twelve buddies probably scoffed at, nudging each other with knowing looks.
My understanding of this passage of John made some progress today, as we discussed how impossible it would be ever to record for posterity all the amazing stories from my granddad's life. His knack for storytelling makes his life a tantalizing one; you always want to hear more, and the delightful thing is, there
is more and more and more. If he (and, I contend, everyone) has a life with such potential for excavation, imagine how John must have thrown up his hands and said, "Lord, help me" when he had written 22 chapters--hence the epilogue.
That didn't keep him from trying. It was important enough for John that the world knew something of the mind-blowing story he had heard, seen, and participated in. My current thoughts about Granddad give me just a taste of what must have gone through John's thoughts: "If only they could have some hint of how unspeakably amazing this man was, they would love him as I do. I will be forever cursed and shamed if I don't give my all to try to tell the story."
This reading of John's gospel simultaneously drives me and comforts me that Granddad's story can and will be told. I can give the highlights, the vignettes that have meant the most to me, and do my best to hold his character up to be honored. I can tell about his Mount Whitney stories, his bottle jack story, his Roe Baker stories, his cannery stories, his army stories, his poetry, his father-in-law stories, his teaching stories--the mere listing of them could fill a number of books. And Granddad is the first one who would say he is unworthy to touch the strap of Jesus' sandal.
So my jaw drops again at the wonder of Jesus. If what we have about him, which takes my breath away, is only a grain on the seashore of his being, how much more is left for me to seek and find in him? Enough for the rest of my mortal life and beyond. Amen.
A Tip Without Q
My sophomore English teacher in high school did an enlightening exercise once in class . Actually, she did this several times, but the following memory stands foremost in my thoughts. She held up an everyday household item and we were to write down what it was. There were about twenty items.
We were instructed to "grade" our own papers after the exercise was over and she gave us the answers. Where nearly all my classmates had written down "Kleenex," I wrote "facial tissue." For the bottle of glass cleaner, the majority had written down "Windex," for clear adhesive tape, "Scotch tape," for a small bandage, "Band-Aid," and for a cotton swab, "Q-tip."
I lucked out in seeing her point early in the test. Our thinking and language are shaped by a materialist consumer culture in ways we are not usually aware of. Even I, who "caught on," didn't even recognize the correct answer for the Styrofoam cup ("polystyrene cup") when it was given.
In using my mom's worthlessly small cotton balls this morning, I discovered whence the name for "Q-tips" came ; some British guy must have seen that this tiny version of a mop, a swab on the end of a cue, would have infinite possibilities. (At least, this should be the way it was; qtips.com says
differently.) The size of these cotton balls brought to mind what the tips would be like without the Q. The vast majority of my English classmates, however, never gave it a moment's pause.
That's all I'm asking, really: a moment's pause. As long as we recognize it, I don't find this tendency insidious. You can call it a Post-it Note or a self-adhesive memo or whatever you want. To me, as Jane Austen might have said, "it doesn't signify."
But we are not our commodities. From all the conveniences our commercials tell us we "deserve" (one of advertising's darling words), we must be called continually back to "sell all your possessions and come, follow me." The stomach-wrenching effect of being asked to do that turns my attention to loosening my grip on stuff, but it isn't enough. If I should be called to live without cotton swabs
or Q-tips for the sake of Christ, I must be prepared to do so.
"But please, Lord, not yet."
Young and Old
Tears filled my eyes as I wandered through the empty house--empty of people, brimming with meaning and memory. My grandparents are moving out of the home they've made a haven of love and comfort for 55 years. Even after months of cleaning and streamlining, threads of them still entwine with every object in the house.
"Without Me you can do nothing." A simple wall-hanging reminded me of the principle by which they have lived these wonderful decades. They seem to have come to terms with it and moved on with life, serving and loving in such a way that anyone may safely take their example.
But I'm certain they cannot have very easily become such efficacious vessels of grace; years of conscious obedience and mutual submission have resulted in what they and their house have come to represent. They are love, but not because they are good people. They are love because they know Him without whom we can do nothing. And knowing Him like they do takes a lot of time.
One of the ways to know Him, though, is to look with His eyes at His most precious possessions. My baby niece came over today, too, and I met her for the first time. She has had health irregularities from the womb, but it was confirmed today that she should function normally with her one healthy kidney. The fact that she is alive and beautiful beyond description is an expression of the depths of His grace.
She slept throughout their two-hour visit, moving her mouth as she twitched and fidgeted in her dreams. Her toddler sisters shrieked and carried on, wrapped up in their small world; but who knows whether theirs, or perhaps hers, is bigger than ours? Maybe, as
Wordsworth suggests, we have forgotten the eternity of our previous life in our obsession with the temporality of this one. Either way, there is something magic about her, the freshness of her Creator's stamp.
May she grow old into a vessel of grace like her great-grandparents. And please, Lord, me too! Me too.
Efficiency or Laxity?
With me, the latter is a good guess. You'd never guess I'm choleric-melancholy, since I exhibit so many phlegmatic-sanguine symptoms.
I've discovered that nearly everything I do is marathonic. I can't seem to do things a little at a time. When the pressure is on, I "get taps on my toes and get goin'." Usually, though this has recently been called into question, I get a lot done that way. So, is this a newly acquired understanding of my own personality or weakness of character? I don't know yet.
What this discovery probably
doesn't mean is that the blog will be updated daily. Some things just can't maintain quality without sabbatical.
I am back, though. Hello? Readers? Hello?
