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Church for the Birds

Good morning church family,

The crows didn’t caw as I crept near the opening in the woods. I saw them up there, high in the pine; perched like ushers at the cathedral door. But what a blessing they didn’t spy me. Had they set to squawking, earth’s finest choir might have flittered away.

I feel funny relating this tale of mine for I know you won’t believe me when I tell you what I saw. I hardly believe it myself. It was late in the spring of last year. The thawed and muddy ground was firming up under the sun’s lengthening rays. Perennials were poking their heads out through last autumn’s leaves. Ladybugs strolled across window screens, warm breezes made sails of unzipped coats, and what was left of winter’s snow was retreating deep into mountain woods. Even though I knew there were groggy bears with grumbling tummies about, I decided to leave our family bird feeder out for one more weekend. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the family of goldfinches that dined with us every morning or the pair of black-capped chickadees that darted in and out throughout the day. With the promise of occasional sightings of blue birds, cardinals, nuthatches, and orioles; there was more value in looking out the kitchen window than at any of the blinking screens around the house.

But on Sunday morning of that week, the feeder didn’t boast a single bird. The budding maple standing just beyond was also empty of every winged thing. Coming closer to the window and looking down to the ground that lay beneath, no mourning doves or jays were scavenging the droppings. “Where is everyone?” I wondered to myself.

Though I thought it strange, I didn’t think of it for long. It was Sunday morning after all and I needed to pour my coffee, eat my porridge, and get myself ready for church. But every once-in-a-while during breakfast the wind would sway the feeder and the sudden movement would draw my eye out the window again. But still – no birds.

“Honey,” my wife said to me as I was walking my empty bowl to the kitchen sink, “before you get all dudded up, would you mind taking the trash out? It’s got the packaging from that chicken I made last night.”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. I lifted the malodorous bag from out of the can, looked briefly about for any prospective trash to top off the sack, and cinched the red, plastic strings; tying them tight. Walking out the back door, the morning air was chilly and invigorating.

I trundled down the back steps and walked across the soft yard. Arriving behind the shed where the trash bin was kept, I lifted up the lid and swung the bag in; dropping it on top of the other garbage. Letting the lid drop, it clattered loudly back into place; interrupting morning’s prelude of quiet. As I turned to head back inside, I heard the flutter of wings and caught a glimpse of the most striking, beautiful blue feathers flying toward the back woods. “An indigo bunting,” I declared; whispering to myself. As I stood tracking the bunting flying through the budding trees, my eye caught the glint of yellows, oranges, reds, and golds shooting through as well. I was only in my pajamas, but having stepped barefoot into my snow boots – I felt sufficiently outfitted to tramp a ways into the woods to see what I could see.

It was really a lovely morning. The wind was down, the way it often is early in the day, and the ground had that smell that seemed to say it was eager to warm up and get to growing things. Walking a few steps into the woods, I found the forest floor damp and quiet under foot. There was no path exactly, but I picked my way through the brush and trees, stepping over fallen limbs and around patches of brambles. With timers going off in my head, reminding me of suits and ties and responsibilities, I suspended my progress and stood looking up into the canopy above. Again, there were fleeting glimpses of brightly colored feathers flapping through the branches and boughs above. And then, quite out of nowhere, I heard a rambunctious chorus of chirping coming from deeper into the forest. The sound was something like the fellowshipping of many birds.

My curiosity kindled, I carried on in the general direction of the chatter. As I grew closer, the tweeting suddenly hushed and my steps turned stealthy. Drawing near to a sunny clearing, I looked up into the limbs of the encircling trees. Hundreds and hundreds of birds were fidgeting on branches, facing the center of the opening. It’s then that I noticed the crows – dozens of them – with their backs to the clearing; perhaps standing guard as they looked out into the wood. I leaned out of sight against an oak tree and stood still. Looking more carefully now, I saw birds of every feather gathered together. There were warblers, wrens, rusty blackbirds, veeries, and thrush. I spied juncos, gold and purple finches, flycatchers, flickers, redstarts, and woodpeckers. I also counted pewees, chickadees, robins, jays, cardinals, and grackles. Everyone was there. I even saw a pair of owls perched on a sturdy branch; the very picture of perfect composure. “What in the world is going on?” I wondered.

Despite the presence of all these birds, the forest was still and silent. I stood there in quiet wonder and anticipation. Suddenly a cooing came from a single dove perched gracefully atop the uttermost twig of a spice bush located at the center of the clearing. The cooing was rhythmic and staccato. The birds ceased their fidgeting as the congregation grew even quieter. And then it happened. All the birds laid aside their own songs to sing a single song together. I’m not enough of a musician to describe it adequately but they were clearly singing parts and keeping time. There was a pleasant trilling and toodle-dooing to the melody. The song was more sweet than grand; a lovely little chorus sung with a most attractive lightness of heart. I can’t say for how long they sang – probably just a minute or two. Whatever the length, it was too short for me.

With the last note still hanging in the air, the dove fluttered off of the spice bush and up through the opening in the trees. Hundreds of birds took to flight right behind her; darting off in every direction. Turning and heading for home myself, I shook my head and pondered on what I’d just witnessed. “Were they just singing together? Were they singing to God?” I wondered. “Did I just stumble upon a woodland worship service and did I just hear a songbird choir sing a song unique to none of them and conducted by some Spirit-filled dove?”

My pace quickened as I walked back through the woods. I was more eager now than I had been before to get to church myself and join the throng in singing a new song. My heart had a new “hallelujah!”

As I walked back up my back steps, I saw the finches at the feeder. “Thank you for sharing this morning,” I said, calling after them as they flew off to light on one of the branches of the maple. “You really blessed my heart.”

“Poh-day-doh-twip, poh-day-doh-twip,” came the finch’s excited reply.

Whatever your feather and song, we’re looking forward to gathering together to worship and sing along. It’s a communion Sunday and I can’t wait to sit at our Father’s table with all my brothers and sisters around. It will be grand being about Heaven’s business! May the Lord, mighty God, continue to bless and keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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A Short Theology of Snow

Good morning church family,

Do you ever get to thinking and then have an inkling that ice and snow were never part of God’s original plan for creation but instead may be aspects of His curse upon the earth? I just can’t picture winter ever coming to Eden’s woods. Can you see ol’ Adam, naked as a jaybird, having to dig out after a foot of heavy, wet snow has fallen on the garden paths and buried the ox cart? I can’t. If the Lord created mankind to live in unashamed nakedness, He most assuredly would have created an accommodating environment, wouldn’t He? I imagine Eden’s weather must have been pretty boring; consisting basically of endless summer. Wouldn’t utopia’s temperatures be unceasingly warm and temperate; its winds ever light and variable, its skies always clear and blue, its mornings bright and fair, and its evenings dreamy? What Shangri-la would have driving winds slinging sleet on men’s faces like so many stinging nettles? In what paradise would a bone-chilling cold turn soft earth to iron and cast every landscape in a bleak, gray light? No – it seems snow may very well be part of God’s judgement on us.

Now, I know that many of us have cultivated a love for winter and are able to find joy in ice and snow. Bless your hearts. It’s admirable that so many New Englanders (including my own little natives) are able to find in every snow bank, not a deposit of ugly slush but a treasure of frozen delight. And I get it too. I love the more romantic aspects of the season – the heartening smell of wood smoke wafting along in the crisp night air, the crunch of snow under little booted feet, the frosted tree tops on an evergreen ridge, and the extravagant beauty of a flurry’s snowflakes falling to earth like thousands of crystal chandeliers from Heaven. Winter most certainly has its moments.

I just think it’s better to understand winter in the light of judgement and to not try and make sense of it in terms of blessing. God is such a wonderful teacher, storyteller, and artist and I believe He created the seasons as an exquisite object lesson to provide endless illustration for many of the important points He wishes to make. We glory in the triumphs of summer. We feel the melancholy of fall. We shiver in the uninhabitable winds of winter. And we rejoice in the earth’s redemption every spring. While nature’s life cycle humbles mankind, it also offers it great hope. There’s so much to ponder and consider.

When the Lord opens Heaven’s storehouse of snow and dumps it on the fields and gardens of his proud children, there is, in the storm, an invitation to remember Him. As we huddle around the fires built in our homes and eat food that was grown in summer and laid up in autumn, we are filled with thanksgiving and gratitude. To the mink, God gave a beautiful winter coat to curl up in come cold weather. To the goose He gave the ability to wing away to warmer latitudes. To the black bear He sings a lullaby sweet enough to last till spring. But to us, God gives a command to subdue the earth. With hard work, ingenuity, and a humble reliance on Heaven – He sees us through the season of death to rejoice in newness of life.

As we sit and watch the world fill up with snow through our frosty living room windows, think of the warm Heaven soon to come. And let’s also think of those still out in the cold.

We’re looking forward to getting together later this morning for a sweet time of worship and fellowship. I can’t wait to enjoy the time with each of you and with the Lord who brought us all together. What a blessing! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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A Nightmare from Heaven

Good morning church family,

“Why is it,” Jeremy wondered to himself; stepping into the shower, “that I only seem to remember the frightening dreams?”

Jeremy had, moments earlier, woken with a start just minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He’d laid still in his bed, listening for sounds of trouble in the dark house; not yet sure what was real and what was imagined. But all had seemed well. The only thing he’d heard was the rumbling of the furnace firing to life in the basement and the whisper of his wife’s breathing as she lay beside him in bed. With covers drawn under his chin, Jeremy relived the dream that had just finished playing out in his subconscious. In the dream’s opening scene, he’d walked up to the front door of his house and found it ajar. His steps arrested by the unexpected sight; he was suddenly filled with dread. Stepping cautiously inside the house, Jeremy found the refrigerator, which for some reason was located just inside the door, wide open with its contents strewn about the living room. There were other signs of burglary and mayhem within his field of vision. Sensing that the vandal was still in the house, Jeremy halfheartedly shouted “Hey! Anyone here?” Immediately, a man wearing overalls and a straw hat strode casually into the room, moving debris aside with his foot. He carried an old Springfield rifle in his hand and looked like something out of a Depression-era migrant camp. “What’d you think was going to happen?” the vandal said to Jeremy before spitting tobacco juice on the carpet. “Didn’t you know I’d shim your back door and wait till you weren’t watching to have my way with your house?”

And that was it – the whole dream. The little nightmare only ran some thirty seconds but Jeremy was having a hard time getting it out of his head as he took his shower. Lathering up under the steamy hot water, Jeremy tried reflecting on the story, but given the disquieting nature of the thing, he opted to dwell on baseball instead.

The problem was, Jeremy would have very nearly the exact same dream about a week later. Working late at the office, he’d rushed home to find the kids all in bed, a plate of dinner in the microwave, and his wife in the shower. He’d covered the dinner and put it in the fridge; opting for a beer and a bag of chips instead. Coming out of the bathroom and finding Jeremy snacking and watching something with squealing tires and shooting guns, his wife had frowned and asked him to come to bed. “Let me decompress for a minute or two,” Jeremy had said, one eye on the blinking screen and the other peering inside the chip bag.

Next thing he knew, Jeremy was launching himself out of a fitful sleep and rising to a sitting position on the couch. His heart was racing and his hands were reflexively drawn into fists. The sound of the beer bottle falling over on the coffee table jogged his memory and set him back to reality. As he turned off the television and looked up at the clock on the wall, the image of the nefarious Okie in overalls holding the Springfield, flashed across his mind. The same short dream and the same eerie question: “What’d you think was going to happen?” played over and over again in his mind.

But weeks went by; allowing time’s crashing surf to smooth away the memory of the rerun nightmare. The nagging thought that the dream might perhaps have been more of a vision, omen, or warning had faded into the recesses; deadened in the pile-up of days. But then came the night in the hotel.

Jeremy had traveled to Las Vegas to attend a junket for company salesmen. The pretext for the trip was to gain familiarity with new product, become acquainted with the service personnel, and have an in-person Q&A session. But the whole thing was really a holiday; an expense account blowout for the company’s highest earners. The junket ended on Friday morning but Jeremy had booked his return flight for Saturday. “What’s the rush in getting back?” he’d reasoned to himself. “I owe it to myself to enjoy an extra night in Vegas.”

Jeremy wasn’t the best version of himself that Friday night. He wasn’t exactly unfaithful to his wife or anything and he was largely safe against charges someone might make that he’d violated the laws written in that leather-bound Bible he’d left back on his desk at work. But he wouldn’t have wanted his wife, kids, parents, pastor, or men’s group friends to have seen all that he’d done and said that night. In truth, he’d drank too much, flirted with the devil, and imagined himself Mr. Hyde most of the night. Tired and tipsy, he’d fallen asleep in his hotel while watching some trashy, titillating thing.

Waking up to a bright, blearing sun streaming into his room and the sound of housekeeping knocking on the door, Jeremy jumped out of bed and fumbled for his phone. “9:32” was the readout on the home screen. His flight was supposed to leave just after 11am. As he stood there, trying to get his bearings, he suddenly jumped. There in the corner stood the dusty old man with the Springfield smiling wryly at him and spitting tobacco. The awful dream came flooding back to him. Jeremy’s heart raced as, out from under the straw hat, came the awful words again: “Didn’t you know I’d shim your back door and wait till you weren’t watching to have my way with your house?”

Later that day, as he stared at himself in the tiny mirror in the airplane bathroom, Jeremy became settled in the conviction that the dream was from Heaven and that the prophecy was most assuredly an unfavorable one. As he tried to wash his face and freshen up from the night before, his head and heart began to sober to the sad state of things. He was in desperate need of change.

Arriving home a little after six that evening, Jeremy felt sheepish as he approached the front door. He wished he’d kept in better touch while he was away. He wished he hadn’t stayed the extra day in Las Vegas. He wished he hadn’t gone at all.

Walking in the front door, he looked around. Looking through the living room and into the dining room, he could see his wife clearing the table and carrying dishes to the sink. On the couch against the far wall, his eldest daughter was huddled under a blanket, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over her head. Her face illuminated by the blue light of her tablet, Jeremy briefly caught her indifferent eye. His two boys were arguing and fighting about something as they stormed, heavy-footed up the stairs. “Hey, everyone,” Jeremy said; feigning a shout, “I’m home.”

The boys continued their climb unabated, his daughter turned further into the couch cushions, and with her back turned while facing the sink, his wife offered an unenthusiastic “Hey, honey.”

Standing there, the only one to greet him was the dusty, old vandal with the rifle. Spitting tobacco juice, the old man nodded derisively at the debris caused by Jeremy’s selfish neglect. “What did you think was going to happen?”

“Lord,” Jeremy whispered as he looked around, “help me. Help me secure my home.”

We’re looking forward to gathering together later this afternoon to worship the Lord and to commit ourselves again to Christ’s lordship in our lives and to be blessed by the loving reassurances of our Heavenly Father. Never forsake His invitations to grace and peace! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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Finding Mervin

Good morning church family,

Kurt hadn’t intended on spending his vacation looking for another man’s knife. But that’s exactly what happened. And the funny thing was – Kurt hardly even knew Mervin.

Every few months, when either his Hyundai Sonata or his wife’s GMC Yukon was due for an oil change, Kurt would drive to the Speedi-Lube across town where Mervin would have one of his roustabout crew of grease monkeys do the job. Mervin, who managed the Speedi-Lube, wasn’t much older than Kurt but had quite a few more miles on him. Three times divorced, tattooed from wrist to chin, salty tongued, eyes red and tight, burned out on life, and sporting a wheezy laugh that always turned into a cough, Mervin was almost nothing like Kurt. Kurt Severson was a thirty-five-year-old, married father of three who ironed his polos, kept the hedges around his house neatly trimmed, solved crossword puzzles in his spare time, and never missed church on Sundays. But that’s not to say that the two men didn’t have anything in common.

A couple years back; on a warm, summer day, Kurt had ding-dinged his way into the Speedi-Lube lot on his way to going fishing for the day. When Mervin saw the rod and tackle box riding shotgun in the Sonata and a Cabela’s hat on Kurt’s head, Mervin brightened up.

“Oh man,” Mervin began, “you’re killing me. You goin’ fishin’?”

“Yeah,” Kurt answered with a shy smile. “The wife is visiting her folks and she took the kids. I finagled some time off from work – so I’m headed up to Sebago for the day.”

“Well, don’t freak out if you find a stowaway in your trunk later today,” Mervin said while laughing, wheezing, and coughing in quick succession.

That was the beginning of a very casual, haphazard, but friendly acquaintance. Every three-thousand miles, Kurt would hang out in the waiting room and he and Mervin would trade fishing stories and talk bait and tackle. Over time, these choppy conversations revealed that Mervin’s rough and tumble life didn’t afford for very much fun. Fishing, Kurt learned, was one of the precious few healthy diversions that Mervin enjoyed. From all that Kurt could gather – it was the only thing keeping him sane.

That’s why the sad story Mervin told to Kurt late last fall nearly broke Kurt’s heart. Kurt had brought the Yukon in for an oil change before a trip to Ohio for Thanksgiving. Mervin was entering customer data of some kind into the computer behind the reception desk and Kurt was seated on a squeaky, pleather chair drinking a bad cup of coffee from the Keurig that was set up for the customers. As Love it or List it droned away on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall, Mervin explained that as a last hurrah of summer, he and a buddy of his had bombed over to Vermont for a weekend of fishing on Lake Bomoseen. They’d found a cheap Airbnb right on the water with a nice boat ramp for launching his buddy’s boat.

“We were fishing this little cove,” Mervin began; shaking his head and typing into the computer as he related the story. “It was on the far shore – right across from our little cottage or whatever. I had my knife out; trying to work on a hook that had gotten all stove-up somehow and my buddy Jason, who was fishing off the front of the boat, stumbled and fell back onto the bench. The boat – you know – wobbled or something . . . I don’t know. I guess I moved to get stable or whatever but in all of that – I dropped my knife into the lake.” Mervin was shaking his head as he stopped typing momentarily to turn to the copier behind the desk. As he turned back after pulling some paper off the tray, it seemed to Kurt that Mervin might be tearing up a little.

“Oh, man,” Kurt had replied, “you probably weren’t able to find it, huh?”

“No,” Mervin had said with a sigh, “I looked for it a bunch but I’m not that good a swimmer and my lungs are no good for stuff like that. Oh well,” he’d said with a sigh of resignation as he moved to go out into the service bay, “it was just my daddy’s knife – handsome, ivory-handled thing. He gave it to me when he was dying. I could kick myself. I never should’ve been using it.”

And that was all that was really said on the matter. It was the first time Mervin had ever mentioned his family. The bro code prohibited any further delving into the matter but enough had been said and communicated to let Kurt know that the loss of that knife had been a pretty significant hurt in Mervin’s life.

Sometime the next spring, as Kurt and his wife were talking about summer vacation plans, the idea of spending a week in Vermont came up. Lindsay had always wanted to day-trip around the Green Mountains and parts of upstate New York. Kurt remembered Mervin’s talking about Lake Bomoseen and how nice everything had been. Looking into it, his wife kind of liked the location and the small lake looked good for swimming and maybe a little bit of fishing. There was only one Airbnb listed on the lake but it was free for the week that the Seversons had in mind. The vacation was booked.

Arriving to the little lakeside cottage that July, the family was excited for the week ahead. Six Flags, Fort Ticonderoga, hiking, swimming, exploring, and taking a tour of the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory had been all the talk during the five-hour car ride from Maine. The cottage was pretty well lived-in but nice enough and perfectly comfortable for the family. The Lake was small but beautiful – and proved perfect for swimming. Standing out on the back deck and surveying the lake, Kurt looked out across the hundred yards of shimmering water to the far shore. His eye immediately fell on the little cove where Mervin must have been fishing when he lost his knife. “I bet I could swim over there no problem,” Kurt thought to himself. “It’d be fun to look around a little.”

Look around a little he did. For the next seven days, every free moment when he wasn’t gallivanting around, barbecuing, playing and fishing with the kids, or sleeping, he had his trunks on and was off to the other side of the lake looking for sunken treasure. The crossword puzzles never came out of his satchel; nor did any of the recreational reading he brought. As much as he loved to sit and doze in the sun, Kurt didn’t allow himself that pleasure either. He became obsessed with the idea of finding Mervin’s lost knife and returning it to him.

But Bomoseen was a lake with a muddy bottom and it didn’t take much for the water to cloud; obscuring the view. A couple times, Kurt’s eye had locked onto something shiny and metal but the diving only produced a bottle opener, soda can, and a bit of broken reel. But instead of discouraging him, these little discoveries only served to fire up Kurt’s glimmering hope. He became more dedicated as the week went on – steeling away at nap times and other odd times to have a look around. But for all his searching, he hadn’t spied the lost knife.

On the family’s last full day in Vermont, Kurt got up early. He liked to sit out on the deck while doing his devotions and enjoying his first cup of coffee for the day. The family would be getting up soon as the long-awaited trip to Six Flags was on the itinerary. As Kurt read his Bible in the still and quiet of the pre-dawn morning, he looked out over the lake. The air was heavy and humid. Birdsong broke the silence as the rising sun was causing security lights all along the shore to blink off for the day. Little columns of gnats twirled about atop the water and every now-and-again a fish would flap and splash above the surface.

“Lord,” Kurt prayed, “I suppose I should have asked for your help before now. But I would really like to find that knife of Mervin’s.”

There was a pause before the Lord said in reply, “I would really like your help finding Mervin.”

Kurt was floored by this word from Heaven. For the next few minutes, the Lord shared His heart concerning the acquaintance that Kurt had worked so hard to keep. Kurt realized at once that of all the things lost – Mervin was the most important.

“Okay, Lord,” Kurt found himself whispering out loud, “I’ll do it. I’ll share the gospel with Mervin. I promise.”

Just then the sun rose above the treetops behind the cottage and the day’s first direct sunlight fell on the far side of the lake. Kurt put his coffee down and tiptoed inside to put on his trunks. “Just a quick look before the lake comes to life,” Kurt thought to himself.

Wading into the water, he dove out into the lake. Skimming across the surface, the cool water quickened Kurt’s senses and filled him with energy. As he approached the far shore, he put on his goggles and began swimming with his eyes fixed on the lake bottom. The early morning sunshine sent a shaft of light through the greenish, murky water; allowing for the best view of the floor yet. Holding his breath, he scanned the mossy, muddy rocks along the bottom. Then, for just a moment, Kurt caught a glimpse of something glinting in the sunlight. Taking a quick breath above the water, he ducked his head back down in the same direction. Sure enough, something shiny and hard was poking up between the rocks. Keeping his eyes locked on the sight, Kurt dove down to the bottom. Barely able to see now, his hands felt along the slimy, floor. There! The glint again! He reached out and grabbed the metal object. His chest getting tight, he swam to the surface, clutching what indeed felt like a knife. Breaching out of the water and taking a deep breath, Kurt tore off his goggles and saw the beautiful sight – a four-inch blade that folded into a hand-carved ivory handle. It was Mervin’s knife.

Walking out of the water and climbing the steps onto the cottage’s back deck, Kurt saw his open bible and half-drunk cup of coffee. The sight reminded Kurt of his promise and his broad smile turned into a sober look of concern. “Now by the light of My Spirit,” the Lord seemed to say, “I’m going to help you find my Mervin.”

We’re looking forward to a wonderful time of fellowship with Lord tomorrow as we sit at His table and enjoy a blessed communion we once thought impossible. And there’s always more room at our Father’s table for another to come and sit. Be thinking of the Mervin in your life and ask the Lord for His help in bringing that lost soul home. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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Tigers by the Tails

Good morning church family,

When someone starts talking about technological advances being made, he is most likely thinking about those advancements in terms of the material world. He’s thinking of better surgical instruments, greater fuel efficiency, faster download speeds, and smarter operating systems. He’s likely not thinking in terms of soul and spirit. For, if he was, he wouldn’t be speaking of advancements then; but of dangers.

All sin is deadly but certain sins are surely deadlier than others. A man who commits a crime of passion, for instance, will certainly be closer to confession and repentance than one who commits a crime in cold blood. Envy is a far more perilous condition of the soul than discontentment happens to be and treachery is more fatal than rebellion. I’ve read of fire ants killing people and so, in that sense I suppose they should be classified as deadly. But, even with that knowledge, should I happen upon a colony of fire ants in a field somewhere, I wouldn’t recoil in fright. But, if in that same field a fierce lion stood opposite me taking stealthy steps as his hungry eyes were locked on mine – I would be positively terrified. Well, if there’s any sin prowling my head and heart that’s as dangerous and deadly as a wild lion, it’s the sin of pride. And just as a stalking lion is aided by tall, tawny grasses, so pride is aided by divining technologies.

Pause and consider for a moment how modern technology has served to grant to its owners, superhuman, almost godlike powers and capabilities. Imagine a busy highway for a moment and further imagine that all you could see were the passengers; the cars being invisible. Hundreds of seated humans moving effortlessly across the landscape at high speeds is surely a superhuman thing. Do the same with people traveling from New York City to London on an airplane. If you imagine away the fuselage, all you’d see are hundreds of people flying five-hundred miles-an-hour at thirty-thousand feet while eating foie gras and drinking white wine. With hydraulic technologies, a human being is able to lift huge rocks, rip tall trees out of the ground, and move his home from one hill to another. Voice activation technology gives us the power to speak all manner of things into existence. One word to the digital butler in our pockets and – voilà! – information is provided, lights come on, food appears, and complex problems are solved. Modern technologies have made us faster, smarter, stronger, and far more able than any other humans who’ve ever walked the earth. They’ve also made us so woefully prideful and independent that we now rival those wicked tower-builders who populated the Plain of Shinar long ago.

So, what should our response be to these technological dangers we’ve allowed to become so integral to our modern way of life? Do the Amish have the answer? Should we unplug from the grid in order to be tied in again to the group? Might we find inspiration in the violence the Luddites once inflicted on the machinery of the Industrial Revolution and smash our smartphones to smithereens? Ought we to adopt a Lenten way of life; subjecting ourselves to various forms of religious denial? Well, I don’t know about you but none of these options seem particularly realistic or in keeping with the biblical mandate to live in freedom; being mastered by nothing. Sin management doesn’t sound like righteousness to me and containment is no victory.

No, it seems to me that we ought to look to the Rod of Moses for insight and instruction. When God called Moses to go to Egypt and win the deliverance of the Hebrew slaves, Moses was shepherding his father-in-law’s flocks out in the Midian desert. Shepherds needed a good sturdy stick for directing the flock through narrow mountain passes, for checking straying animals, and to possibly fend off would-be predators. A shepherd’s rod also made a good walking stick. So, when Moses traveled to Egypt, he happened to take his staff with him. And then, if you read the account, a curious thing happened in the presence of Pharaoh. God gave that rod a marvelous technological upgrade. That simple walking stick became a scepter of great power and provision. Over the next forty years Moses, with that rod, bested Pharaoh’s magicians, drew fresh water out of a rock, parted the Red Sea, and performed many other superhuman miracles. With that upgraded stick, Moses had in his hand something that made him able to do godlike things. And while that was a wonderful blessing when Moses was using his staff as a means of glorifying God and leading His people; it became a deadly thing when it proved an instrument that served Moses’s anger, frustration, and resentment. Had Moses not been given a rod endowed with heavenly power, he may not have died in the wilderness and been forbidden from crossing over the Jordan.

When our Medieval forbears set about to rank sins on a scale of the least to the most deadly, it’s interesting that they reserved the top spot for pride. In fact, pride was put in a category all its own and regarded as mankind’s primary sin; that principal depravity from which all other sins flowed as tributaries. Whether we like it or not, the smartphones that most of us have in our hands are similar to Moses’s rod in many ways – scepters of great power and provision in our lives. We would all do well to recognize, that while we may be able to use modern technology’s inherent powers to glorify God and advance His will, it’s just as likely that we might allow it to be an instrument that serves our selfish pride.

Over the last few years, the Lord has made me wise to this concern and I’m committed to letting Him guide my use of these technologies. I would love to see technology be used to help lead God’s people out of the wilderness and I would hate to see it leave me buried in it.

What a blessing it will be to gather together tomorrow morning and to lay our lives, crowns, and phones at the feet of our King. What joy and strength comes in surrender and worship! I’m so thankful to have been shown the way. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
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