,

Acknowledging God

Good morning church family,

Feeling cagey and exposed, he looked down to see if his arms were tied to the chair. They weren’t. But still, he couldn’t lift them. He couldn’t even make a fist.

His freshly-shorn hair lay in clumps on the floor and the faint smell of shaving cream was in the air. His bald head itched and stung from the tight passes made with the straight razor. Wind from the fan mounted on the wall behind, blew over his wet head; sending a chill down his spine.

Was it a barber’s chair under him? He would have been glad for a mirror to offer a view of his surroundings, but the wall in front of him was bare. Behind him stood a man smelling of tonic. He thought he saw a white coat out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly, the fingers and thumbs of two hands were pressing firmly all about his shaven head. The pressing was more probing than therapeutic; the work of a doctor and not a masseuse. Then a dialogue between the white-coated man and an unseen assistant began. “Some cratering indicative of neurosis,” the man said in a cold, analytical tone; his assessment finding an echo in the assistant’s scratching on a clipboard. “Strong indications of megalomania in the frontal cortex,” he continued. “No signs of psychopathy. Hmmm…that’s odd,” the man said in a whisper. The man’s hands suddenly leapt off of his head as though it had turned white hot and he heard the sounds of feet shuffling backward.

And there the dream ended. Casey Freiling woke up with a start, his pajama shirt wet with sweat; his mind alert and racing. It was the third such time he’d dreamt this exact dream in the last two weeks. Like Pharaoh in Egypt long ago or Nebuchadnezzar in Babylon, he knew intuitively that the dream was not the normal nocturnal scribblings of the subconscious. No, this had to be a vision. Casey was determined to learn the interpretation.

He started with his church. Casey had been a believer for over twenty years; coming to Christ as a young man and serving his local church faithfully ever since. He never missed a Sunday, always tithed the first fruits of his paycheck, was forever working his way through a stack of recommended texts, and kept his church’s code of ethics as well as he could.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it,” was his pastor’s reply. “It’s probably something you ate. Many a ‘vision’ you hear about today is probably nothing more than indigestion.” The pastor was trying to be lighthearted about it but Casey wasn’t joining in the chuckling. “Either way, Casey; just keep your mind on God’s Word and trust in Him.”

Unsatisfied with this processed counsel, Casey sought out a couple other leaders in the church. They listened intently and even went so far as to cross their arms, hold their chins in hand, and furrow their brows in feigned concern. But their counsel was little different from the pastor’s. “Hard to tell, Casey,” one of them said. “Maybe it’s a riff on something you saw on TV or something.” The other picked up on something Casey had said, “You said you woke up sweating through your shirt, right? I don’t know about you, but I’ve had some pretty wild fever dreams in my day.”

Casey wanted to push back by reminding them that the dream had come in triplicate, that the dream was nothing like anything he’d seen on any screen, and that he hadn’t been ill in months. But he despaired of finding wisdom in either of the men and, instead, just shook his head in time with theirs. “Alright, I guess I’ll see you next Sunday,” Casey said.

He really didn’t want to, but Casey’s next approach was to lay out a little cash and see a Christian counselor. “What do you think the dream means, Mr. Freiling?” the counselor had asked.

“I have no idea,” Casey responded, slightly agitated. “I was hoping you could help me.”

“Well, that’s what I’m aiming to do. Our dreams, you see,” the counselor sat back and brought his hands together at the fingertips, “are often us trying to talk to ourselves in notions, pictures, or ideas. I imagine you have the interpretation within your own heart and mind, Mr. Freiling. I strongly suggest you try and talk it out with me and bring it into the open.”

Casey endured the session and paid the receptionist, but left as frustrated as ever. He next scanned Amazon for titles that seemed promising. He even ordered one, but he’d hardly finished the first chapter when he knew its prospects were poor. Next, he scanned the internet for charismatic churches in the area; hoping to find one that might have someone on staff for this sort of thing. He found one about an hour away and made an appointment with someone purporting to be the church’s “Chief Armor Bearer”. But the meeting started with Casey being asked to fill out a spiritual inventory that read more like a sexual confessional. The man seemed kind and earnest enough, but the whole thing only served to further muddy the waters.

Instead of having the dream recede into the blessed nether regions of his subconscious, it only took up a more prominent position in his thinking. It was rare for Casey’s mind to dwell on anything other than the dream when it wasn’t otherwise occupied. He relived the dream often and often sought out means and methods for understanding it. He’d read as much as he could, watched videos, sought counsel, ventured out to the gnarly fringes of Christendom, and even tried something called “inductive journaling”. But nothing brought relief.

Then one day he happened to mention the dream to a coworker. It was an unguarded moment for Casey, who had worked for years to keep his work relationships as professional and impersonal as possible. But maybe it was the fact that he and Brandon were walking and not sitting and talking, that made the casual exchange possible. Whatever it was, Casey had taken the opportunity to share his dream after Brandon described a recent visit to his barber.

“Woah, Case,” Brandon said, kicking pebbles off the paved pathway as they walked, “that’s messed up man. But that doesn’t sound like a barber to me. I think that’s some phrenology stuff you got going on there.”

Casey had never heard of phrenology before. Later that night, he looked it up. He learned that there was once a branch of science that operated on the theory that a person’s character and mental faculty could be determined by examining the size and shape of his skull. While the practice of phrenology seemed perfectly laughable to Casey, it did seem eerily similar to what the man with the white coat was attempting to do in the dream.

“Should I go online and try and find a phrenologist somewhere?” Casey thought to himself. “Am I neurotic like the guy said in the dream? Am I a megalomaniac? Is there something wrong in my head? Should I ask my doctor to schedule an MRI or something? What does this dream mean?” Casey’s mind began to spin with questions and wild suppositions. But then came the moment of grace.

“Why haven’t you asked Me?” came the question from the voice he hadn’t heard since he first visited the altar two decades earlier.

“I’m sorry, I – – I suppose I didn’t know that I could.”

“When are you going to get out of that chair, Casey? For too long now, you’ve been allowing everything and everyone to make out your life’s pathways for you. It’s silly, child. No one else really knows you or the plans I have for you.” The Lord paused and Casey reveled in the wonderful communion for a moment. “It’s like what I had Solomon say, ‘in all your ways, acknowledge Me and I will make your paths straight.’”

Casey reflexively dropped to his knees and, with tears in his eyes, begged forgiveness. He was forgiven indeed and raised out of the “chair” to stand with Christ on his own two feet. But the best thing for Casey was that the prayer time never had an ending “amen”.

We’re looking forward to gathering together in the morning to seek and find, ask and receive, knock and have doors opened to us. It’s going to be a blessed time of encouragement and renewal – and I can’t wait to share in it with each of you! May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
/by
,

In Stereo

Good morning church family,

From the time I was a little boy until the day I left home for college, I fell asleep most every night listening to a recording of some kind. The first bedroom I can remember sleeping in – the one I shared with two of my brothers – had a dresser with a record player and speakers sitting on top of it. At night, my brothers and I would pull on our pajamas, brush our teeth, and pile into our little, upstairs room. I would climb in the top bunk and jaw with Joel and Josh until either Mom or Dad came in to read to us. We’d hear a chapter out of Great Expectations, The Red Badge of Courage, Island of the Blue Dolphins, or The Incredible Journey and then say “goodnight” as the chair was tucked back in under the desk and the lamp’s orange glow was clicked to black. It was then that my brothers and I would decide which record to play. We’d sometimes listen to music – Hooked on Classics was a favorite and I distinctly remember borrowing a copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller album from our Jamaican neighbors across the street for a few weeks one autumn – but most of the time we listened to comedy records. My dad had a pile of Bill Cosby and Bob Newhart albums that he’d let us listen to. We would carefully – very, very carefully – load the record through the spindle and onto the platter, start the motor, and place the needle in the outermost groove. I can’t tell you how many times I heard Cosby tell of the time he had his tonsils taken out or Newhart do his driving instructor routine. Despite the incredible storytelling and infectious sense of humor captured on these recordings– I never made it to the end of any side. I’ve always had a knack for laying back, blinking out, and falling fast asleep.

Years later, when our parents moved the family to Vermont and rented a large house with bedrooms enough for all of us, we graduated from record players to little boombox stereos that played cassettes or CDs. It was during these years that our bedtime listening really flourished. Whether it was through gifts given at Christmas or birthdays, purchases we made with money we’d earned, or donations made from church family and friends, us kids created a sizable listening library. I remember that we had a couple of shoeboxes filled with all kinds of selections. There were several episodes of Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion in there. There was also a condensed version of The Civil War read by Ken Burns himself. There were recordings of old radio broadcasts starring Jack Benny, Fred Allen, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, and George Burns and Gracie Allen. We also had all kinds of fables, legends, swashbuckling tales, and sweeping epics to choose from. There was one overly theatrical production of Robin Hood that we were all particularly fond of. In addition to these studio recordings, our collection boasted a bunch of oddball stuff as well. Tape recordings of a backwoods Vermonter giving his hilarious reflections on flatlanders, lectures of a college history professor, and even some captivating presentations made by a renowned cryptozoologist. We acquired an ear for it all and ended each day by picking something out of one of the shoeboxes, crawling into bed, and pressing play.

I don’t know what impact, if any, all those twilight hours had on my spiritual formation as a young man. I’m sure it wasn’t nothing but I doubt it moved the needle very much in either direction. That said, there was one recording that I listened to dozens and dozens of times that I’m certain the Lord used mightily in my life.

I remember it being a creamy white cassette with labels affixed to either side that were peeling at the edges. Typewritten on these labels was the title of the recording: “’The Pineapple Story’ by Otto Koning”. The tape was a recording of a live presentation of a talk that Koning gave to a church somewhere. Koning and his wife were Dutch missionaries who’d committed their lives to serving a small community of native peoples in the jungles of Irian Jaya. Koning happened to be a fantastic storyteller who was blessed with an earnestness that was unsullied by pretention or affectation. He also had a wonderfully winsome sense of humor. “The Pineapple Story” tape was easy to listen to; Koning’s Dutch accent, staccato delivery, and dry wit really drew me into the story. The tale centered on a pineapple garden that Koning had planted on the little missionary compound they lived on. Mrs. Koning ran a clinic and Otto spent most of his time learning the language and working on a translation of the Bible into the tribal tongue. But the villagers that they lived among were chronic thieves who stole nearly everything the missionaries had. Koning tells funny stories of women wearing can openers as necklaces and men having fountain pens slid through holes in their noses. But over time, all this stealing and thieving began to create real resentment toward the villagers in Koning’s heart; stirring up an unhealthy anger and frustration within him. And the thing that frosted Koning the most was the brazen and unabashed pilfering of all his pineapples.

I remember Koning confessing to his audience that he had traveled all the way from the Netherlands to Papua New Guinea to share the good news of Jesus Christ but that he’d ended up spending most of his time fighting with the people over pineapples. His missionary life became one of threatening the people, bargaining with them, withholding goods and services, standing guard, and speaking all kinds of invective in an Irian Jayan tongue. It was both brutal and comical. But everything changed in both Otto’s heart and in the village, when the Lord spoke to Koning while attending a church service on furlough. The Lord used the words of the preacher to convict Koning of his having taken offense at what he saw as the violation of his right to those pineapples and to encourage him to give the pineapple garden to God.

There were many nights that I’d be lying there in bed, staring up at the ceiling, my imaginings of Koning’s tale being projected on the dimly moonlit canvas above, when I’d suddenly hear the tape to go to static and then snap to a stop. I’d quickly prop myself up on one elbow, eject the cassette, flip it over, and press play again. I many times listened to the entire, hour-long message. I so loved hearing Koning tell of how light his heart became once he gave everything to God – his life, his ministry, his time, efforts, can openers, fountain pens, and pineapples. I remember him telling of waving cheerfully to all the thieving villagers doing their grocery shopping in his garden while praying that the Lord would watch over the produce he’d given Him. The conclusion of the story is too long to be retold here, but it involves the villagers believing that Koning had become a Christian through the whole ordeal, believing that God was judging them for taking His pineapples, and the jungle coming to finally believe in the saving love of Jesus. It so blessed my heart! When the message was over, I’d sometimes have a hard time falling asleep.

The Lord was working in the garden of my own heart during those evening hours; preparing the soil for what He wanted to plant and nurture in my life. I didn’t know it then but some of the lessons that Koning was teaching would one day find powerful and needful application in my own life and ministry. There were nights back then in Vermont when I could have been little Samuel hearing the Lord calling his name at night in Eli’s house. The only difference for me, was that God’s voice came through the speakers of a Sony cassette player and not the air. But either way, I’m glad I heard it in heavenly stereo.

We’re looking forward to gathering in the morning that we might tend to the things of the Lord while having the Lord tend to matters of heart and soul. I can’t wait for the harvest supper of faith that we’re sure to enjoy! Isn’t it grand to be a Christian? May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
/by
,

With the End in Sight

Good morning church family,

I’ll be turning fifty-years-old next month and the whole thing has me feeling a little like a kid who’s riding his bike down a steep hill for the first time. The quickening descent catches me by surprise. My stomach’s a little queasy and my knees want to knock. Applying the brakes only makes it worse; putting a shimmy in the frame and setting the front wheel to wobbling. Any thought of veering off by turning the wheel would mean bailing head over handlebars. The only thing I know to do is to lean forward, tuck my head between the grips, and hold on for dear life; hoping everything will even out at the bottom.

It’s an odd thing to no longer be a “young” person. For me, the realization that I was entering the custodial class of human beings came on quite slowly. One of the first indications I had of my mortality came just days before my wedding to Lisa. Thirty-five at the time, I’d flown to Southern California a week before the ceremony to be sure I’d have enough time to get the marriage license, help with final arrangements, and confirm that the betrothal wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. While Lisa and I were in downtown Riverside to sign our names on dotted lines at the county courthouse and to pick up our programs at the printers, I spied a barber shop and decided I ought to get a quick haircut. The sole barber in the small shop was an old Mexican gentleman who didn’t speak much English. I spoke haltingly and mimed for him the sort of cut I was hoping he could give. He just nodded and smiled patiently as he shook out the linen barber cape; clearly unable to understand much of what I was saying. He ended up doing a great job but what I’ll never forget was what he said when he wheeled me around to face the mirror. I remember him flashing a toothy smile, tapping me on top of the head, and saying, “Very thin.” I met his eyes in the mirror and cocked my head sideways. “Hair,” he said, tapping my dome again, “losing it.”

That would be the first of many alarms to begin sounding in my subconscious; each one gently shaking me awake to the reality that my summer was not eternal but was every day giving way to fall. Of course, time and again I hit the snooze button on those alarms and tried to go back to sleep. But for some reason, over the last year I’ve become wide awake.

More and more, dear characters that God has written into the story of my life have taken their bow and left the stage. A number of things I always expected I’d one day do; I now realize are beyond me. A little back-of-the-envelope math has me realize that the aging professional athlete announcing his retirement is over a decade younger than I am. If it weren’t for one of my four pairs of reading glasses or three pairs of eyes belonging to my children, I wouldn’t be able to make out the fine print on packaging. I’m getting used to certain aches and pains and I’ve stopped wondering where all the snaps, crackles, and pops are coming from. Maybe most sobering of all, I hardly know any of the songs on Top 40 radio. Yes, my world’s getting smaller, my body funnier, and my way ever more narrow.

Some of you reading this may feel like slapping me around with the back of your hand and giving me a swift kick in the pants. “Come on, Pastor,” you’d say. “Snap out of it! You’re being melodramatic. You’re a young buck yet. Write this again in twenty years and maybe I’ll hear you out.”

Well, let me assure you, these ponderings are not born of either the blues or a morbid sentimentality. Nor is this pattern of thinking due to swooning health. No, I really believe it’s the Lord’s way of quickening within me a desire to make the most of every day. Enough of the “lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the boastful pride of life,” as the Apostle John put it. It’s time I seize every conversation, surrender every fear, reach for everything beyond my grasp, and seek out new songs to sing every day. I’ve heard many a testimony of the Christian who wasn’t afraid to die. But it’s a rare word indeed to hear tale of the believer who wasn’t afraid to live.

My parents live across the street from a little cemetery. Whenever we drive over to Vermont to spend some time with them, the graveyard offers the best place for stretching our legs and taking walks. Every time I stroll among the stones; scanning the names and hyphenated histories, I’m sobered. Whatever petty grievances I was nursing, whatever silly thoughts I was entertaining, whatever lustful impulses I was looking to gratify – they’re all extinguished and left smoking like unfed campfires turned cold. It’s such a blessing to keep a cemetery in your soul.

But I’ll quit writing and leave you with a bit of King Solomon’s wisdom instead. “It is better,” he wrote, “to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will lay it to heart. Sorrow is better than laughter; for by sadness of face the heart is made glad. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. It is better for a man to hear the rebuke of the wise than to hear the song of fools. For as the crackling of thorns under a pot, so is the laughter of the fools; this also is vanity.” (Ecclesiastes 7:2-6)

We’re looking forward to gathering together tomorrow morning to share in the great and grand work the Lord has commissioned us to do. What a blessing to partner together with the Lord in the transformation of lives and the redemption of the world – think of it! I’m looking forward to learning of all the Lord has in store for each of us. May the Lord, mighty God, bless and continue to keep us!

  • Pastor Tate
/by
,

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
/by
,

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
/by