Precious...

 Precious: 

adjective

of high price or great value; very valuable or costly: precious metals.

highly esteemed for some spiritual, nonmaterial, or moral quality: precious memories.

dear; beloved: a precious child.

affectedly or excessively delicate, refined, or nice: precious manners.

noun

a dearly beloved person; darling.

        It's late; after 10 p.m. It's quiet, almost. The constant noise of the oxygen concentrator is pumping it's precious air through the canula in an effort to assist what has become a laborious task. The gurgling of the pneumonia fluids that have been building in his tired, cancer-filled lungs has become very apparent. 

        We've moved beyond the pain management routine of tablets and capsules, and we're now in the oral morphine drops stage, together with atropine and lorazepam. Names of medications that I've only recently come to know exist in this journey of palliative hospice care. They are welcomed for the comfort they bring to him, and greatly reduce the agitation his diabetic neuropathy and infection-filled, cancer-riddled body has been experiencing. Except for the gurgling, his body is mostly at ease, in this strange, sleep-like state.

        We had the conversation. You know the one. "What's happening to me? How much time do I have left? What will it be like?" Questions that deserve answers, but seldom find any that are truly satisfying. 

        "Dad, the people that are coming to see you are with home healthcare, but they're actually with hospice. They're here to help you be as comfortable as possible." 

        "So, I'm not going to go to rehab and walk again?"

        "No, I'm afraid not. You're body has been ravaged by the MRSA, the cancer, the diabetes, the kidney infection, and the double pneumonia. You cannot move in bed without great pain. They're here to help you be comfortable by easing the pain."

        "So, I'm dying."

        "Yes."

        "Well, ok then. I think I'm ready to go. I'm not afraid of dying." 

        "I'm glad. I know you know who Jesus is, and what he's done for you. I know you know that God is here with us right now, and will not leave us. Ever."

        "I know. I've been praying a long time," he says.

        I believe it.

        My father, who has never been an outward, outgoing Christian, has always believed that one lives one's faith by doing, not by just talking about it. And he has spent a lifetime - 85 years - doing just that. Taking care of people who could not help themselves. And never doing it for the fanfare. Rather, he just sort of did it, non-chalantly. Quietly. And with dignity and respect for those he helped. 

        And now we stand here at the threshold of eternity together. He's peering into the unknown but known, and I'm just watching and praying.

        Stories flood my mind - stories about our family, our heritage, his life and experiences. They all played a role in helping to shape this man whom I have looked up to for 56 years. Memories of vacations, of little league practices, of camping trips, of Cub Scout Pinewood Derbies, of weddings and funerals, and so much more. Each one not only shaping who he is, but shaping me as well. 

        But this moment - this one is different. 

        It is a holy moment. 

        God is very near. 

        And I can hear the psalmist's words echoing through the ages and pages of scripture, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his faithful ones" (Ps. 116:15). "Precious."

        What a peculiar word. These days we might use the word to describe an object of some great value - "a precious stone or jewel." It means the value is of a high enough quality that it bears an extra effort of care and respect. It has worth beyond the normal.

        But in this context of the Psalm, it is referring to that holy moment when our death is deemed precious by none other than the creator of Life - the Lord. One such translation I read years ago added the words, "...and he does not lightly let them die." I don't recall which translation that might have been, but it seemed appropriate as a reminder that even this moment in life - our very last one - is deemed worthy and of such notable value that God takes note, and treats it with a holy solemnity that cannot be fathomed. 

        Precious.

        Perhaps it is precious because we are made in his image. We are the very likeness of our creator. We are called to hold dear that which God holds dear. We are to love what God loves. Our hearts should break at what breaks God's heart. That creation - all of creation - was made with such holy intention that all of it should/ought to be revered and held with great care. 

        Perhaps it is because we, ourselves, are of such inestimable value that the one who hung the stars in the sky and numbered the sand on the seashores deemed us worthy of redemption when we decided we could live on our own. God decided that we were too valuable to God's own heart that God could not just "let us go" without a fight. So God chose to pay the price - the highest price of all - the death of his own Son in an effort to spare us from eternal separation from our Creator. And that redeeming act of atonement on that cross outside of Jerusalem so many ages ago is the price that was deemed sufficient. That price was precious to God.

        And so, we are precious. Our life and our death are both precious to the One who breathed into us the breath of life. Every moment, every breath, is sacred. Holy. Sanctified by the blood of Jesus.

        Even this moment is precious. 

        "For we are fearfully and wonderfully made."

        And we are precious. In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Dylan's prayer...

"And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

- "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," 1951 Dylan Thomas

    The Welsh poet wrote these words to his atheist father as a means of dealing with his own understanding of the inevitability of death for us all. He mentions many different kinds of men from all walks of life as they approach their mortality in this poem, but ultimately ends with his own words to his father, as stated above.


    Dylan was reared in a household by his atheist father and a staunch Christian mother, which likely made his developmental years more than a little interesting. Scholars have long debated just exactly where Dylan himself stood with regard to his own spirituality or religious leanings, however, he intimates a deep spiritual connection in many of his writings.


    This poem spoke to the means by which we ought to know that, even though death is inevitable for all of us, to enter into that last mortal act should not be done passively, but courageously, with every ounce of energy we can muster. Images of light and dark demonstrate the truth of life and death of all of us in the human condition. Knowing that it is coming to everyone, Thomas offers how many men face it. Finally, in the last stanza, he shares his thoughts to his father to muster every bit of strength he has to fight the dying of the light.

    My own father, in the last stages of lung cancer and suffering from pneumonia, kidney failure, and a second recurrance of MRSA, has entered into that phase where he is not really here in this world, but not yet in the next. In spoken conversations from dreams and visions he's having, people from his past, both distant and recent, have come to present him with last minute to-do lists of obligations from his childhood, work life, and somewhere in between. Like hearing only half of the conversation of someone on a telephone call, we can only guess at the context of many of the comments he mumbles from his hospital bed, which is so out of place in their living room.

    I struggle with the dream-state into which he has now entered. I know that when I ask him to repeat what he's just said, I can only imagine that startled interruption I must be to the vision he is having from his past. He still recognizes me, but seems confused, as though I am out of place in the time and place where his mind currently occupies. Like being awakened from a dream in a startling manner, disorientation takes hold for just a moment, and he's trying to piece together the dream he had with this temporal reality, and the pieces do not fit well. And so I am left with the impression that to interrupt him for clarification of what was just mumbled only leads to more confusion, frustration, and anxiety. It is best to just let him be.

   The pain has increased, and the medication has begun to increase in potency and dosage according to the hospice instructions left by the nursing staff to help offset the effects of the disease and infections that are ravaging his body. The mumbling and dreaming have calmed down a bit, but he on occasion will still reach up to an imaginary tool rack and adjust a knob, or help send a television chassis down the assembly line. Recently, his visions have included his sister, who died several years ago, and her two dogs that were fighting in the yard. According to those who know more than I do, this is a normal phase in the last days of one who is dying.

    Waiting is the hardest part. It only manages to add to the helplessness of watching someone whom you love travel a road that each of us will eventually take. At this stage, one wonders who has the more difficult path to trod - the dying, or those who witness.

    Dylan's words come back from the shadows of my mind to whisper that there must be something that I can do to help my father fight the fate that has overtaken him. The cry to "rage, rage against the dying of the light" hits my consciousness like the impassioned impulses of a bleacher denizen screaming out for the favored team to press on toward the goal line.

    And yet, the inevitable remains. The suffering haunts. The gasps bring tears. And the memories flood.

    I do not fault Dylan Thomas' prayer for his father. Ultimately I begin to understand. He wants not that death should come, but that it should not come easily. It is a final wish for his dying father that he offer up one last valiant effort to combat the mortal enemy of life, even though the battle cannot be won. Passively acquiescing is not the valiant way to die, according to Dylan's wishes for his father.

    The Apostle Paul had quite a different take on death. Sitting in a Roman prison cell in the last years of his life awaiting his own death by capital punishment, he would share:

"For to me, living is Christ and dying is gain." - Philippians 1:21 NRSV

    And yet, I am ever reminded of the Apostle Paul's comments to his protege, Timothy, in his second letter:

"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." - II Timothy 4:7 NRSV

    Unlike Dylan's wishes for his atheist father, Paul had surrendered long ago to the power of the Resurrection through the One who experienced it first. And in his surrender, Paul was more than victorious, promised the crown of life from the Author of Life himself. Thus the bold assurance to the believer is that death is not to be feared, dreaded, or even fought. Rather it is a means by which we see completely and clearly the Eternal reality of faith.

    So, raging against the dying of the light is to misunderstand the Light itself. The Light had already died, and behold, is alive forevermore.

"Where, O Death, is thy victory? Where, O Death, is thy sting? But thanks be to God who gives us the victory through Jesus Christ our Lord."

See you in Church!


Grace and peace,

Brad

Reclaiming the Future from the Present...

     I just recently came across an article that "gave me an itch that I just had to scratch." You know, those thoughts or phrases that you have come to you that make you want to dig deeper, research more, even go so far as to Google it for any new info that might help you satisfy that curiousity that comes upon you.

    The article spoke about how Methodism over the last one hundred years or so has lost its moorings, and has somehow set sail into waters without wind nor sail, rudder or keel. The article, written by Donald W. Haynes, (found here), is entitled "Methodism: How We Went Wrong" and discusses the history of the movement of Methodism from John Wesley's initial efforts at bringing about a renewal movement in the eighteenth century all the way through to the twenty-first century today. It speaks of the subtle (and not so subtle) changes that took place over the last two hundred years that brought about a different direction from Methodism's founding principles. Starting with Sunday School, and then moving through the changes in focus from conversion to gradualism, the article recounts the sad story of how Methodism lost its way in the world as a shaper of Christian discipleship. 

    I found myself convicted, in that I have been a part in this transformation - through my own complicity in recognizing the downfall of the once "fastest-growing" denominations to one of the fastest-declining ones over the last century. Dr. David F. Watson, Academic Dean and Professor of New Testament at United Theological Seminary in Dayton, Ohio, cites a recent Barna survey that states:

It is no secret that the church in North America and Western Europe has fallen on hard times. According to the Barna group, in the United States over the last twenty years the number of practicing Christians--those who attend church at least once a month and say that faith is very important to them--has declined from about 45% to 25%. The extent to which this trend will continue is unclear. What is clear is that it is unacceptable. As Christians we are commissioned to storm the gates of hell and make disciples of all nations--including our own. The decline of Christianity in the West represents a massive ecclesiastical failure. ("Why Firebrand?" June 1, 2020, www.firebrandmag.com/articles/why-firebrand/)

     If this is the case, I have to ask myself, What am I doing to help stop this trend? How am I helping to contribute to this decline? In what ways have I become a hindrance to those who are honestly seek Truth, and I have failed to offer any hope or direction?

    I will be honest with you, I am not liking my answers. 

    And so I have begun re-reading some of the most important documents in our denomination's heritage, namely the Standard Sermons of John Wesley. (I say "re-reading" because they were required reading in seminary thirty years or so ago, but I was much younger then and seeking grades rather than knowledge!) What I am discovering is a renewed appreciation and passion for Wesley's passion for the power of the Gospel to save souls. 

    Again, I turn to David Watson's words regarding Firebrandmag.com's purpose statement:

"For the Christian, there is one rational end of all our studies: to know, love, and serve the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom he sent. All other goals bow to this one." ("Why Firebrand?")

    If I am called to know, love, and serve the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom he sent, then I need to know what I'm doing now that is NOT directed toward that goal, and begin to make corrections. As always, I know that it is only by the grace of God that I can even begin to recognize these things. And for that, I am eternally grateful. For this is how I know that my salvation is secure - that Christ died for me, rose again and lives and reigns forever as King of Kings and Lord of Lords. I've done nothing to earn or deserve this. It is entirely God's grace. 

    Because of this grace, I want nothing more than "...to know, love, and serve the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom he sent." And that means that I want everyone I know and meet to experience this same joy and peace. 

    I think this may just be the first step for me toward reclaiming the future of God's promises from the present.

    What about you?

    See you in Church!

    Grace and peace,

    Brad