Nazareth

Artist's drawing of what Nazareth must have looked like in Jesus's childhoodIn many ways the past year has been "annus horribilis," as Queen Elizabeth would term it--a "horrible year"--for some people in my community. Pastor John's sermon this week was just the thing to sum it all up, leaving us hearers with hope for the future. You may need this, too. With credit to Pastor John for his message, let me tell you about Nazareth.

In the time of Jesus's childhood, Nazareth was nowhere. It wasn't any of the major cities, it wasn't mentioned by Josephus, it wasn't on the road between one important place and another. To get to Nazareth, you had to take a trail out of the Jezreel valley and climb up into the hills to a tiny little collection of about 35 dwellings on a hillside. They had not enough water to sustain them. To survive, they carved rocky terraces out of the hillside for growing grains, olives and grapes. (Read more about Nazareth of Jesus's time here; it's fascinating.) Nazareth was the equivalent of the proverbial little hick town tucked way back into the Smoky Mountains; people from there had an accent to their speech, were the butt of jokes and had no standing in the political, religious or social culture of the times.

It was a "hard scrabble" kind of life that the people in Nazareth lived. They dwelt in small rock houses built built against the hillsides, some of them built over cave openings. The people had to carve simple cisterns out of the rock to catch enough rainwater to supplement their one little spring. (Forget taking baths.) They had to build watchtowers by their hillside vineyards to guard against thieves when the harvest was coming on. They had to try to grow their own food on hills so full of rocks that the harvest yield was limited.

Isolated. Provincial. Poor. Constantly in hardship. These words sum up the lives of the people living in Nazareth village.

So when Nathanael was invited to come see Jesus who came from Nazareth, it makes sense that he asked, "Can any good come from there?" (John 1:46)

Indeed, the people of Nazareth weren't too kind to one of their own, either. The Bible describes how Jesus's own family believed he had become mentally ill (Mark 3:15) , and how his fellow villagers got angry at his brief commentary on the synagogue reading and tried to kill him. Jesus was all too aware of the lack of support from his own family and village, remarking, "Only in his hometown, among his relatives and in his own house is a prophet without honor." (Mark 6:4) He must have felt misunderstood, maligned and abandoned.

And yet Luke points out that something good came out of Nazareth (Luke 2:52): "And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man." (KJV) Jesus, who stood up for the oppressed, called out the oppressors, lived with integrity and eventually changed the world by his example of humility and compassion, ... came from Nazareth. And according to Luke's quick summary in that verse, he grew up well--intellectually, physically, spiritually, and socially.

A good thing came out of Nazareth.

So where have you been dwelling this year? In Nazareth? Have you been living an "annus horribilis" in some aspect of your life? Have you experienced isolation? Hardship? Lack of sustenance? Brokenness? Fear for yourself or your family? Dryness? Ridicule? Misunderstanding from your own villagers? Loneliness? Have you been maimed by the very place or people that shaped who you are? For some of us, that may have been our entire life's story, not just the story of this year.

Your story is not over. You have other options than allowing Nazareth to shape you or the ending of your story. Wait on the Lord ("wait on" as a waiter serves a patron). God can still bring something good out of your "Nazareth."

The Olive Trees by Vincent Van Gogh

Creativity Strikes Again at the Old Homestead

As I left for work the other morning, this scene caught my eye. Someone had dressed up our yellow fire hydrant in the front yard for the winter weather. I stopped and took this picture so that I could show it to Husband...and of course, post it on the blog.

Well, it seems the culprit that anthropomorphized our yellow friend was none other than Husband himself. He'd been to the dollar store and gotten these accessories for our little friend. Rather festive, is it not?

A Snippet of Mary's Voice

Lamps on our friends' table at a special Christmas dinner last nightBut Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. Luke 2:19

Today I was listening to a reading of Luke 2 again, and this verse especially struck me. It comes after the story of Mary and Joseph being sent off to the stable, her giving birth to Jesus, and the shepherds coming by to see the baby.

What caught my attention was that the gospels are all written by men and seem to come from a man's viewpoint, but this one specifically records the thoughts of a woman. The gospel of Luke is written by a physician, and the notes in my NIV Study Bible tell me that one of the characteristics of his writing is a "special concern for the role of women." How did he know that Mary treasured the memories of what happened that first Christmas? How did he know that she pondered them in her heart?

In my opinion, Luke interviewed Mary and heard the story from her perspective, which he included in his book. There's that story of the angel telling her she would "bring forth a son," and the story of Elizabeth and the birth of John the Baptist, and then the story of the birth and childhood of Jesus. Who would have known all of that, except Mary?

I wish he could have recorded her voice telling him all about it. I would love to hear her narration, to hear the thoughts she had as she pondered these things in her heart. Luke's gospel, I realized this morning, must be the one that includes Mary's story. I'd like to read it again, looking for the pieces that must have come from her. What is missing in Luke's gospel is her reflections on what it all meant. But maybe they're hidden between the lines, or delivered in his own voice.

The older I get, the more I want to hear the voices and the stories of women as they share their experiences and reflections on God. I think I've detected a very significant voice that I should be seeking out this Christmas season. I think she's there, peering out from behind a guy named Luke.

Two Kinds of Waiting

These are in the south-facing window of my officeWe're in that strange time between the end of the term and the actual release that comes with being done and not going to work for a while. Students finished their finals yesterday; now the faculty are buried in the task of grading. The administrators are taking advantage of the usual committees not meeting, and are doing marathon sessions in strategic planning meetings, search committees and budget committees. I sat in those sorts of meetings for a straight six hours yesterday. They're exhausting, but you come out if it with a sense of well-being, because we're actually getting the time to make progress on strategic work.

In the midst of all this hustle and bustle, we're actually waiting. Not a static waiting but an active, energy-burning waiting. We're waiting for that fulfillment of expectations when our plans for Christmas break come true. We're waiting for that rest that's so desperately needed. Many of us are waiting to see the faces of loved ones who will arrive to spend a few days with us.

The difference between that, and waiting for the first and second coming of Christ, is that with this kind of waiting (waiting for Christmas break to start), we know when it will arrive. If we just put one foot in front of the other, grade one paper and then the next, go to one committee and then the next one, ... the days will pass and the long-awaited Christmas break will become a reality. It may not fulfill all our hopes and expectations, but it will arrive, on time.

I think that kind of waiting is easier than waiting for the literal coming of Christ. On the other hand, when that finally gets here, I'm confident that it will far exceed our hopes and expectations.

And so we continue to wait for His appearing, and that, too, is an active, energy-burning waiting.

He who testifies to these things says, "Yes, I am coming soon." Amen. Come, Lord Jesus. (Rev. 22:20, NIV)

Pious Gossip

Les chuchoteuses (The Gossipers) in Montreal, by Rose-Aimee Belanger (photo found on the web)According to my dad, the ripest time for gossip is the time for prayer requests. That, he says, is when the worst gossips in the church come out of the woodwork, wrap their news in religious language, and get their kicks from trotting out the juicy stories behind a shield of false piety. (Well, okay, some of that is my vocabulary, not his.) Here's what it sounds like:

"Let's pray for Shelly. She just found out her husband is having an affair with his office nurse, and he's now left the house. She's really feeling awful, and needs our prayers."

"We need to pray for Marvin. You know he's been having cancer therapy" --no, we didn't know-- "and the prognosis is iffy."

"I hear that Sandra's daughter is battling with anorexia. Sandra and John have entered family counseling with her, and they're very worried. We need to pray for them."

"You know, Darrell and Maude's son isn't coming to church anymore. We need to pray for him. Maude mentioned to Ethel that she's really concerned for him because he's getting so rebellious."

"We need to pray for Penny. Her daughter was arrested for shoplifting the other day, and she has a court date coming up."

It looks pretty innocuous in writing, doesn't it? The clues can be spotted in the tilt of the head, the brightness of the eyes, the extra delectable detail thrown in here and there, and the obvious relish with which the speaker voices his or her prayer request. You may sniff the suspicious scent of pious gossip in printed prayer requests in a church bulletin, or in a "pray for so-and-so" message passed around by e-mail.

By the way: after many years of observing all of this, I truly think the men do more of this than the women do. Or perhaps I think men gossip through prayer requests more because they tend to make it sound more pious. Or maybe it's because I run with so many men who have been taught to speak up front and express themselves in articulate and smooth verbiage. I happen to believe I can spot the hollow motives at ten paces, at least. But I could be wrong. Maybe this "man" is just the person who, in the medieval times, would have been hired as the town crier. And every town needed a crier; it was at that news spot in the old towns, so we learned from one of our tour guides, that Community happened.

As I ponder it all, I think what irks me the most is that these bits of gossip are shared as prayer requests. It's that connection between telling tales, and calling on God. And I think it irks me the worst when this is done on a leadership team of some sort, be it church leadership, school leadership, or whatever. Leaders should be about a higher standard.

I have a lot of questions circling in my mind about this, and they feel like they're about to dive-bomb and grab some prey. Humor me while I work my way through them.

For starters, what if we just said, "Hey, we need to share what's going on among ourselves so that we're aware of the lay of the land; What's the news?" and then we shared, keeping those stories apart from prayer requests?

Or what if we had some sort of communally agreed upon rule that we weren't going to share "prayer request gossip" unless we personally had committed to a course of action that would minister to the person we're talking about? And what if we then held each other accountable?

Or even more radical: what if we just shut our traps and prayed for these people and situations on our own, silently? Does God hear us any better if we tell each other about it? Does He do any more to address an issue if higher numbers of people are praying about it? Unless the pray-ers are committed to becoming the hands of God, reaching out with His healing touch, do we have any business spreading tales around among us? What good is there in many words that reveal the struggles of others, except to make us feel falsely and briefly better about ourselves?

The more I think about all this, the more I think my sensitivity to it may be due to my own temptations. And so many of us should bow quietly, convicted.

The Day I Cut My Last Tree

It just seemed, yesterday, that with a sunrise like this one, it was going to be a day of good things. The December 6 snow still covered the landscape, glowing in the colors of the morning.

And so I ticked off the projects on my list. Walk on the treadmill: check. Do the wash: check. Get some groceries: check. Put together a care package for one of our students working in a Honduras orphanage this year: check. Get our Christmas tree:... well, I needed to get our Christmas tree.

Husband was busy studying; this was going to be a solo effort on my part. "How about an artificial tree?" I asked, hopefully. I heard the preacher quoted this weekend as saying that every fresh tree you bring in has 1000 bugs on it. Plus, one of my most traumatic moments was the first time I cut a Christmas tree, the year I lived in Finland. It seemed so wrong to cut down a living thing. I'm vegetarian, by the way, so this is all congruent for me. Except for cockroaches. I'll stomp one of those little guys flat in a moment. But I digress.

"The kids are coming home for Christmas," he said, "so let's get a real tree."

I groaned inwardly. Being the generally obedient sort (ahem!), I acquiesced to Husband's wishes. I flipped through the newspaper to find where trees might be sold. The usual places haven't been selling them--I don't know why. Perhaps our town has put a ban on selling Christmas trees? The paper told me I could find trees at two places: Klickers, and DeWitts tree farm. Klickers is on the other side of town. I couldn't quite tell from the directions where DeWitts was, so being the adventuresome sort, I hopped in the car and took off.I drove along with the little clipping from the newspaper in my right hand, referring to the directions. In a few minutes I found myself gaining elevation, headed straight for the Blue Mountains. They rose up blue-white out of the dormant wheat fields, carved by the streams that flow out of the canyons. Up and up I drove, following Cottonwood Road, and then taking a right down Foster road overlooking our valley. Soon I passed a small sign on the right: "Entering Oregon." The paving abruptly ended and I was on gravel.

I overshot the tree farm, missing the little sign by their driveway and following the road down into a canyon. The place was quiet, lined by fences here and there, these trees still bearing their snowy icing. I didn't meet one other driver out there.
Finally at this spot I turned around and headed back, finding the sign for DeWitt's where I'd missed it before. I pulled in by the dark red barn, stopping in front of the cardboard sign that said PARKING. The place looked deserted. I didn't see any trees leaning up against braces like they usually have in town.

Glancing around a bit, I saw a plastic curtain in the shed doorway move, and then a stocky chap of ruddy complexion stepped out with a welcoming smile. "Here for a tree?" he asked. I nodded. "You're welcome to go pick out your own and cut it, or I can help if you want."

Uh-oh. I would have to be part of doing the dastardly deed. There wasn't time to escape and drive to Klickers. "I need help," I said. "If that's OK with you."

We were soon clumping through six-inch deep snow--I in my walking tennies--up the hill through the tree farm, dodging long-needled branches laden with snow, looking for the perfect tree. This farm belonged to Stocky Chap's father-in-law, he told me. Some years ago he'd planted five thousand trees up here. He wanted a forest, plus he planned to sell some for Christmas trees. He certainly had gotten his forest. We wended our way up through the narrow rows, higher and higher.
Eventually we broke out into a younger patch of trees with more space between them. Over near the vineyard I spotted one that would do quite nicely. Stocky Chap revved up his little chain saw and I winced and looked away, but found myself looking back again. It was like watching something really horrible and not being able to avert my eyes as the saw bit into the trunk of the tree. Chips flew. The noise wasn't nearly loud or screechy enough to signify the awfulness of it. And then, in a shockingly short time considering the loss of it all, the tree was down.

We dragged the tree back down the hill through the forest to the little homestead. Stocky Chap remarked, "This is the stuff of Christmas memories." I smiled. Not mine, but I can see the charm of it for people who have gone forth as a family each year to pick out and cut their tree. A picture of triumphantly bringing home the tree and drinking hot apple cider came to mind.

Arriving back at the homestead, Stocky Chap measured it: nine feet. "Forty-five dollars," he said. He added, "There's coffee and hot chocolate in the shed if you want to warm up." He ducked past the plastic curtain into the shed to find some twine. Father-in-law had arrived from the house and helped Stocky Chap hoist the tree onto my faithful car (named Caleb, because it means "Bold," which my CRV is, especially in face of snow and ice).And so I drove back down the hill looking at the snow across the valley and the approaching darkness. Down Foster Road, down Cottonwood Road, and finally down home, where Husband and I went through the usual bothersome, somewhat contentious chore of getting the tree into the stand and adjusting it until it was finally straight.

This morning Husband remarked, "That tree is really drinking up water. It was almost gone when I refilled it before we went to bed last night." And again it had drunk all its water by this morning. It makes me sad, how it's acting alive when it's already been cut. It makes me sad that it won't stand on the hill again. I know Stocky Chap said, "Just think of it as a harvest," but I can't. I don't want to be a part of cutting down a living, healthy tree, ever again.

Rejoicing, Part II

All photos are from our summer 2007 visit to Estonia.This past summer while we were in Estonia, our host Eha took us to the Tallinn Song Festival Grounds which are the venue for Laulupidu, a choral music festival that takes place every five years. (To listen and watch a really fun song called "Kikilips" from the youth version of Laulupidu in 2004, go here. It'll ring delightfully in your head for a while afterwards.)

We entered the grounds at the back of a long grassy hill sloping down to a music shell of deceptively small proportions when you see it in comparison to a huge sky and the Baltic sea stretching out behind it. The amphitheatre and shell are actually gargantuan, surrounded by park lands on either side. At the top of the hill, looking down over it all, is a sculpture of Gustav Ernesaks, a beloved Estonian composer and choral director. (That's Husband in his "lap" to the right.)

Laulupidu began in 1869 when Estonia was a province of the Russian empire. Estonians were becoming more interested in music as they also experienced a "national awakening." Their choral festivals were a symbol of their growing national identity.

During the Soviet occupation for fifty years following World War II the festivals went on, monitored carefully by the censors. However, one song, "Mu isamuu on minu arm," with music composed by Ernesaks, got by the censors. (Listen to it here, from the 2004 Laulupidu.) It has, over the years, been the ending song of the festival, with everyone standing and singing. Imagine a choir of 24,500 singing their song of national identity in face of the occupying authorities! In 1969, so the story goes, the censors tried to stop it, but the people sang it anyhow, over and over, until finally the Russians sent Ernesaks up to lead the song so that it would at least look like they were approving it.

In 1988 Laulupidu became the venue for nonviolent revolution as the Estonian people essentially sang themselves free with song after patriotic song, starting the beginning of the end of Russian occupation. They regained their independence formally in 1991. My friend Laurie alerted me to a movie now out about the Singing Revolution; you can read about the 1988 event here.

What does this have to do with the topic of rejoicing? Because I believe that singing is so closely related to the biblical command to rejoice, that it's almost inseparable. Singing, as you can see in the story of Estonia's singing revolution, is amazingly powerful when it's about something we love deeply, be it our country or our God. Memories are carried through singing. Walls come down when we sing. Armies are defeated when we sing.

Let's look at some biblical examples.

Miriam led the people in singing after the Israelites crossed the Red Sea. That song was a memorial to the work of God. (Ex. 15:1) Similar to the story of Miriam, the prophetess Deborah led out in a song with the general Barak after Israel defeated Sisera's army. The song remained in the national consciousness as a memorial to God's deliverance in a very strange set of circumstances (Judges 5). Musical reminders that God has been with us in the past are so strong for empowering us in the present moment.

But singing is also a tool for gaining victory. Joshua instructed the people shout and blow trumpets, and the walls of Jericho came down. (Joshua 6) Did you know that the word for "shout" used in the story of Jericho is the same word used for "shout" in Psalm 66? It is akin to singing praise. The walls of Jericho weren't down yet, but the people sang out praise in faith and hope that they would. And they did. Powerful!

Many years later, king Jehosaphat was faced with a vast army of men from Moab and Ammon. He led his men into battle singing, and they defeated the attacking army (2 Chron. 20). It's another amazing story of singing to victory.

The psalms are all songs, and the lyrics serve a similar purpose: thanksgiving for God's deeds, words of hope that impossible situations will be turned around. When David sang, it was a calming influence on Saul's mercurial moods. David, who surrounded himself with musicians (1 Chron. 25:1; Neh. 12:46), continues to be the most loved king that Israel ever had. Those were the glory days of Israel. The rejoicing and praise carried the power to elevate the entire kingdom.

There was also singing in the days of the apostles. When Paul and Silas sang hymns in prison (Acts 16), there was suddenly an earthquake which freed them. But despite the open doors, something about their singing and praying caused all the other prisoners to stay where they were, and the jailkeeper fell at the feet of Paul and Silas, asking how he could have salvation. Paul (cranky and sometimes impossible though he seems to me) was a singer who somehow recognized the power of singing, and used it to change his world. He wrote to the new Christians, "Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God." (Col. 3:16)

As I mentioned yesterday, how do you rejoice from a jail cell? How can you rejoice as an act of faith and hope when you're in misery, hungry, poorly treated, suffering? The only way I can imagine it is that rejoicing must, in times of trial, take the form of singing. It is, in my opinion, the most effective way to turn things around, to put your faith and hope to work, to encourage one another, to knock down walls and overcome armies (in whatever form they present themselves), and to gain the victory. Estonia's singing revolution is just one marvelous case study of the larger principle:

Rejoicing brings deliverance.

Yes, and I will continue to rejoice, for I know that through your prayers and the help given by the Spirit of Jesus Christ, what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. Phil. 1:18-20

[Note: To see more Laulupidu videos--which I find fascinating and energizing--go to YouTube and put the word "laulupidu" in the search box. Enjoy!]

Rejoicing, Part I

"Trees Rejoice," fractal art found hereToday I participated in a Bible study on what it means to rejoice in spite of trials. It fit right in with my current devotional studies in Psalms. I had come to Psalm 102 this morning before I went to the study and was once again impressed that the psalmists can never whine for long; they almost always end up in praise.

To be more specific, the note on Psalm 102, just under the title, reads "A prayer of an afflicted man. When he is faint and pours out his lament before the Lord." The first part of the psalm describes a really, really miserable life. But then just before the halfway point of the psalm, the writer suddenly turns away from his misery and makes the following points: (1) God is on the throne forever, (2) He will rise and have compassion on Zion and rebuild it, (3) He will respond to the prayer of the destitute person; he hears our prayers, (4) The whole world will praise and worship the Lord, (5) The children of those who serve the Lord will live good lives in His presence.

What amazing assurance, right in the midst of abject misery!

Our study group recognized that. My friend Roslyn (all names changed here) started out by saying that rejoicing is an act of faith, not necessarily an act of joy. I added what I'd learned in Psalm 102 and said that I thought rejoicing is also an act of hope. Another friend, Stella, whose parents were both killed in a car accident some years ago, then spoke up: "Rejoicing does not mean the absence of sorrow; it means the presence of God."

Rejoicing does not mean the absence of sorrow; it means the presence of God.

This is why the apostle Paul could rejoice and sing when he was in prison. In fact, our study leader, Thomas, pointed out that Philippians--written by Paul from prison--has the highest percentage of the word "rejoice" of any book of the Bible. How could that be, Thomas asked, when prisons in those days were so devoid of any support or comfort? Often a prisoner would starve in there, unless he had someone on the outside who would bring food for him. What focused Paul so strongly on rejoicing?

Rejoicing does not mean the absence of sorrow; it means the presence of God.

I would have missed Stella's statement if my friend Vincent hadn't pointed it out as the most significant comment made during our study. Vincent would notice things like that, though. He has gone through significant trials in the last ten years, one of the most painful being his daughter's journey through an ugly divorce. And still his smile, gentleness and pastoral care for others lights up a room.

Rejoicing does not mean the absence of sorrow; it means the presence of God.

Looking around the room, I saw so many people who could attest to the significance of rejoicing in the midst of trials. Wanda's husband has so far won two exhausting bouts with cancer. Yolanda's son spent time in jail as a teenager for dealing meth. Benton and Lorene were sitting in the back row where it would be easier for her to leave the room, slowed down by the effects of her rheumatoid arthritis. Martha's daughter, she recently learned, has been cutting herself in response to a deep hurt in the family. And our leader, Thomas, has also suffered deeply; his daughter died in an accident a year ago during an outing with friends. These are some of the stories of our lives. They are all messy. None of us lives with a pure happy-ever-after. And yet we still rejoice.

We rejoice because rejoicing is not the absence of sorrow. We rejoice because it is impossible to do otherwise in the presence of God. Our rejoicing is not a giddy leaping about--although some of us admitted to trying that. It is an act of faith and of hope in a world where rejoicing has the mysterious power to hold misery and darkness at bay at least enough to not overcome us. This is powerful stuff.

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Phil. 4:4, 5

All I Want For Christmas

We don't do Christmas presents.

You read me right. It started some years ago in my family of origin. I don't remember who said it first, me or my brother, but the comment went like this: "We're in our thirties, we have decent incomes that buy us what we want when we want it, no one in our family actually needs anything at Christmas, and we have no clue what each other wants in our family, nor can we tell each other what we might like for Christmas. So let's quit."

To pacify those who couldn't face Christmas without getting something "gifty," we proposed that the family drive over to the bookstore together, and each of us would buy ourselves a book. Then we'd each have something to new for Christmas.

And that is what we did.

When I married Husband six-ish years ago, he was still carrying on the family tradition of everyone having a gift from each other person in the family (count it up--that's five gifts for each of us, minimum), plus doing stockings for the kids, stuffed to the gills with an assortment of goodies. (I love that word "assortment." It reminds me of those round tins of British butter cookies.) Husband heard about my family tradition, and each year our Christmas has gotten simpler and simpler. Sort of the "step-it-down method" of change, I guess.

This year we'll have two of the kids home for Christmas, and Husband's thinking we'll make it a "no gifts" Christmas. However, on the agenda are still stockings filled with delights such as nuts, satsuma tangerines and gold dollars in the toes. Other than the stockings, our gifts will consist of the activities of sledding (yep, our 20-somethings including the son-in-law still like to go sledding up at Andes Prairie), cookie-making, juggling, generally schlepping around and sleeping in as long as we wish.

Mighty fine.

I, however, still plan on a new book for myself. It wouldn't be Christmas without one.

Drive to Dayton

[Click on the photos to see them in larger format]
Today I drove to Dayton, Washington for an appointment. It has snowed the last two mornings, and as you enter the Palouse hills there's a new picture-postcard scene to greet you around every corner. One of the first was this barn as I entered Dixie, a little burg that I'd miss if I didn't have to slow down to obey the speed limit.
The panoramas were quiet, almost magical with the hills disappearing up into the winter fog. Blues and greys and whites merge imperceptibly into each other. As a girl who grew up around palm trees and jungle creep, where the seasons were "rainy" or "dry," this still strikes me every year as being strange, as though I'd moved to a different universe. What is this kind of world where, under the snow, winter wheat will soon be appearing, where the farm machines sit out by the road with their new winter-white caps of snow, where simple farmhouses sit quiet and dark as though nobody were home? How can a world so cold and inhospitable also look so enchanting?

Ode to the Hemidemisemiquaver

It's not as weird as you think. I was trained musically in the British system in which notes have different names than they do here in the United States. So here's how it goes, since understanding these little guys will be important if you're to get the object lesson.

The longest note in my book is a "breve," known in the U.S. as a "double whole note. It lasts for eight beats, which is more than you generally find in a measure of music. While I suppose there might be some note that would last a longer time, I wouldn't know what it is.

By the way, doesn't it strike you odd that "breve" sounds like it might be related to "brevity?" They are comparatively quite the opposite of each other.

Once you figure out the "breve," there's a note half as long, called the "semibreve," known around here as a "whole note." The length of these is bearable (i.e. four beats), but I sure wouldn't want to sit through a composition made solely of semibreves.

And so it goes. In a typical four-beat measure you can have one semibreve. Or two minims. Or four crotchets. Or you can get really adventuresome and fit in eight quavers (pictured on on the left) into a four-beat measure. Don't eight quavers sound rather jello-like?

But we're not done yet. A quaver has a little flag on it's stick, as you can see. From here on out we just keep on adding flags. So a semiquaver (sixteen in a measure) has two flags. And a demisemiquaver has three flags (thirty-two of those in a measure). And hemidemisemiquaver has four flags.

You can get sixty-four hemidemisemiquavers in a measure. Sixty-four. If you're at all musical, you recognize the nimbleness (Nimbility? Nimblosity? Hmmm. This gets fun!) required to fit sixty-four fast-moving little notes--or variations thereof--into a four-beat measure. That must be why the literature I read says they're rather rare. I believe I've heard an Andres Segovia recording on the guitar with his fingers moving that fast. Maybe. That would be approximately sixteen notes sounding out every second.

There is, by the way, a note faster than the hemidemisemiquaver, but its name is boring: the semihemidemisemiquaver. When you get two "semi's" in there, it loses it's charm, don't you think? Why not keep going with the fun and call it a "yemihemidemisemiquaver," or something similarly irresistible?

Another fascinating tidbit to point out is that for every note there's a rest. If it's a hemidemisemiquaver rest, it's the tiniest micromoment when sound ceases and there's a breath of quiet.

I got to thinking about the hemidemisemiquavers yesterday evening after I mentioned the word and my husband cracked up. (I put on my annoying "I'm an authority; quit laughing" attitude, and he sobered up enough to believe me.) Hemidemisemiquavers represent something deep to me, the more I think about them.

Tiny things--even when you can fit sixteen of them into a heartbeat--are extremely important. Tiny things bear noticing. I've seen this in little expressions that flit across someone's face [To follow interesting posts on the relationship between microexpressions, tiny disconnects in logic, and truth, I highly recommend the blog, "Eyes for Lies." Fascinating]. I've seen it in the tiniest pause when someone is expressing himself verbally. I've seen it in the smallest gift of kindness, if just a gentle pat on someone's shoulder in passing. That "hemidemisemiquaver" of a moment can mean the difference between understanding and misunderstanding, between human connection or isolation, between falsehood and truth, between life and death.

Long live the hemidemisemiquaver, rare though it may be! Long live those with the perceptiveness to notice those "hemidemisemiquaver" moments in life, and to make them count in making someone else's life a little better and truer.

Q&A: Rocks in Psalms

"Come, let us sing for joy to the LORD; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Ps. 95:1

I love having the resources of an academic community at my fingertips! When I wonder about something I'm studying, I can get expert answers so quickly. I invite you along on this Q&A with me....

The Question:

[Professor Old Testament], can you help me with a question I’m curious about this morning? I think I need someone who knows Hebrew. I was just having my worship and journaling on Psalms 95, and I was thinking about the phrase, “the Rock of our salvation.” (Ps. 95:1) I was curious why the psalmist chose the word “rock,” and what the significance was to the Israelites. My Bible notes referred me to Ps. 18:2 for more information, so I went to those notes, and they say that there are two different Hebrew words for “rock” used in 18:2. So I’m curious: what is the difference between the two “rocks,” and which one applies to 95:1?

I was trying to think of any English equivalents, and I am considering that we have the words: rock, stone, boulder. Maybe some others, but I can’t think of them.

Any light you can shed would be interesting to me.

Thanks!

Ginger

The Answer:

Dear Ginger,

Of course I am willing to send you a few observations. I will make a few remarks about "rock metaphors" in the Bible and then zero in on the examples from Psalms which you mentioned:

In addition to the literal meaning, rock (in Palestine it is "bedrock") can have figurative meanings in the Bible. As such, like any other metaphor in the Bible it can be either positive or negative (for example, the lion from the tribe of Judah, versus the roaring lion). As positive, rock or bedrock stands for safety, protection, hence it stands for God who protects when we are in danger. Palestine is a place full of rocks (and stones), while in Babylon there was only mud and sand (See the story in Genesis 11). Stone and rocks are the best building material in the Mediterranean culture.

As negative, rock stands for a danger or difficulty in life when we feel pressed, so to say, against the rock and pray to God our rock to come to our rescue and take us into a large place. Oppressive world powers are also described in the Bible as "destroying mountains and rocks." There are many passages in the Bible which use these fascinating metaphors.

According to the rules of the Hebrew grammar, Psalm 95:1 could also be translated as "our Rock of salvation." "Rock" in this case stands for God and his protection, while the noun "salvation" is built on the same root as the name "Jesus." This Psalm makes several references to the journey of the Israelites to the land of Canaan. It reminds of several stories related to the rocks in the wilderness. The psalm is suggesting that rock stands for God's constant care for his people. In the NT, Paul in 1 Corinthians will identify this Rock as Christ who led his people through the wilderness.

You are right when you say that two different Hebrew words are used in the two different passages: Psalm 95 uses the word TSUR (read as "tsoor"). This word was commonly used by Israel's neighbors in the northwest and the place name Tyre (a city on the Mediterranean coast) comes from this Semitic root. The same is true of the name TAURUS. Psalm 18:3, on the other hand, uses the word SELA' commonly used by the people who lived in the southeast. The famous place in Jordan known to us as Petra is called in Hebrew and Arabic "Sela'." You can see that this word is used in this verse in parallelism with the word fortress. Often times, while TSUR is used for natural rock, SELA' is used to describe rock which has some type of carved place in it. It is possible here to see the two words as synonyms because verse 32 on this psalm describes God also as TSUR.

Are there nuances, however, presented through the uses of the two words? I would say yes: While TSUR is more of a rough, natural, virgin type of rock, SELA' is more of a carved, worked, shaped type of rock. Thus, the former is primarily used to represent God, while the latter often stands for the place of safety to which God leads/takes his child out of danger.

I trust that these observations will be of help in your study.

Have a blessed Thanksgiving holiday!

Better Than Our Fears

Lions Park duck pondThis week one of our English professors did a presentation on her sabbatical, during which she studied the diaries of her great-great-grandmother, Grace Byington, the wife of a pastor and church leader in the 1800s. The presentation was a wonderful window into the way people lived their lives back then. But more than that, I was struck by the frequent ending to Grace's diary entries: "Our Lord is better than our fears."

That refrain has been sounding out over and over in my head since I heard it on Tuesday. Our Lord is better than our fears. It was clearly of much comfort to a hard-working, sometimes disappointed woman in Michigan who churned an awful lot of butter and tended the farm in order to help make ends meet. Did she think her life was a good one?

Our Lord is better than our fears.

I did a web search for the phrase, and came up with the following passage from a sermon by Charles Spurgeon. Could Grace have read his sermons? He lived during the same years and he, too, used the phrase. Here it is:

Ah, yes, we shall often have to say, "Oh Lord, I had not thought that you would do as much as this, but You have gone far beyond what I asked or even thought." I hope that this will be among our dying speeches and confessions, that the half was never told us, that our good Lord kept the best wine until last, and that the end of the feast on earth, being but the beginning of the feast eternal in heaven, was the crown of all. Let us declare concerning our Lord that we found him better and better and better and better, even until we entered into His rest. He has been at first better than our fears, then better than our hopes, and finally better than our desires. So good, so blessed a God do we serve, that he always by His deeds of grace outruns our largest expectations. What cause we have for worship and grateful praise; let us not be slow to render it. [emphasis mine]

As we enter into the week of Thanksgiving, let me chime in with Grace and at least start by saying this: "Our Lord is better than our fears."

MR DUCKS

Taken at Lions Park last Saturday afternoonLife is just nutty at the moment. Busy and a bit of crazy. Plus I've been in a mighty tussle with a bad cold for a week and a half. So I've not had much time to think, let alone write.

I did, however, take myself for a nice walk by Lions Park pond and Garrison Creek a few days ago when the lighting was glorious. Whenever I see the ducks at the pond, I think of the fun "Arkansas reading test" my cousin Keith gave me when I was growing up, and quote as much of it as I can remember to Husband, if he's along with me:

MR DUCKS
MR NOT
OSAR
CM WANGS
LIB
MR DUCKS!

Leaving that deep thought with you, I'm off into another long day.

A Referral

Please go look at my blog-friend Joan's post today, here.

We all need to hear the message she heard.

Book Review: The Speed of Trust

The library at our university
In the autumn, if it's a good rainy day, you just might want to curl up with a good book and a hot drink within reach. While my moments for reading are grabbed on airplanes or in a few moments while eating breakfast (the couch and a nearby hot drink sound like heaven), I do manage to finish a book from time to time ... and to share it here, if it's good. Currently I'm finishing The Speed of Trust by Stephen M. R. Covey. I highly recommend it, especially if you have any type of leadership role.

The title refers to Covey's premise that if you build good solid trust with those which whom you interact, you can get things done a lot faster. You come to agreement faster because you're not slowed down by everyone being self-protective and either arguing or checking on the other person to make sure they're not being conned or taken advantage of. Makes sense.

Covey begins by setting out four principles of credibility: integrity, intent, capabilities and results. These are core, he says, to building credibility and are the basis on which trust-building behaviors are built. He goes on to describe thirteen behaviors he's identified as trust-building. In a chapter for each, these behaviors range from speaking honestly, to creating transparency, to delivering results, to listening first ... and nine more.

I found myself both affirmed and challenged in reading this book. There's a lot I do in my leadership style that creates trust, but there's also room for improvement. I saw some areas in which I could change a behavior or two and make a big difference. It's not that any of us have ill intent, but sometimes we miss opportunities to improve in our clarity and open the landscape wide up for others to trust in our leadership. For example, I picked up on one simple tip he gave--stating intent--and have watched it work surprising quickly to bring positive results in small but significant ways.

Just one other note: While Covey focuses primarily on trust in the workplace, he really makes an effort to also show how the principles and behaviors can improve family life. If you're not a leader anywhere else, I suspect that slogging through the organizational stuff will still be worthwhile for the concepts you can also use at home.

A very readable book. Get it. Read it.

Discovering Historical Philadelphia

Independence Hall, PhiladelphiaHere's a little look into the historical side I saw while in Philadelphia.

First, I suppose an explanation is due as to why this was such a discovery for me: I have never liked American history. As a kid growing up in Malaysia it irked me to have to learn about dates and people halfway around the world and two centuries ago, made to sound like they were all as holy as Bible characters. I could never keep the people, eras, wars and places straight. The stories were dry and flat, from a country and time in which everything was unfamiliar, from the houses, to the fashions, to the interest in politics.I was much more intrigued by having to learn the full name of our king in Malaysia. Just in case you are interested, the name of our king at that time was "Yang di-Pertuan Agong Tunku Ismail Nasiruddin Shah-ibni Al-Marhum Sultan Zainal Abidin." Pretty cool, huh? Much more interesting than Thomas Jefferson or Benjamin Franklin. What I didn't understand was how wise and truly world-changing the ideas of Jefferson, Franklin and others were, compared to our rather nothing-ish Yang di-Pertuan in his fancy clothes.

Fast forward to 2007. I went out for a walk on Saturday morning, thinking I'd get to the river, which I could see from my hotel room window. Walking down Market Street with a feeling of well-being in the relative quiet of early morning in a big city, I was brought up short by the sudden end of modern skyscrapers. Lawn stretched out on both sides of the street, and up to the right was the little building pictured at the top of this post. It should have been overpowered by the tall buildings around it, but instead it was the kind of building that, the minute you see it, you can't see anything else.Independence Hall. And to the right front of it was the long, low structure housing the Liberty Bell.

I got to see it when we took a tour on Saturday afternoon. We were fortunate to have an energetic National Park Service tour guide who is in love with history, with the ideas that flowed from these men who shaped our country, and with the buildings in which he works. He started by taking us into the colonial courtroom on the right side of Independence Hall as you face it. Having been to Williamsburg some years ago, I thought to myself, "Just another colonial room."
Nope. He told of how the colonial court worked on the model of the British justice system. Then he pointed out that "cage" you see on the front right side of the picture above. That, he said, is the "dock." It's where the prisoner/defendant stands during the entire trial. In the system back then, he pointed out, the defendant was presumed guilty until it was proven otherwise--thus the bars around him.

Immediately my mind flew to the title of a book by C.S. Lewis, which I haven't yet read: God in the Dock. I'd always pictured a boat tied up at a pier when I heard that title. I suddenly realized that the book is about putting God on trial, presumed guilty until proven otherwise, with the rest of us sitting there in our mortal audacity, judging the Judge of the Universe. And now I have that one on my "to read" list.Next, we went across the hall to the assembly room, where George Washington was declared the commander of the Continental Army in 1775, where the Declaration of Independence was adopted in 1776, and where the Constitution was drafted in 1787. I kept wondering: And why did Philadelphia not become the capital of this new country back then?

Our guide pointed out the chair at the front and center of the room, the actual chair where George Washington sat presiding over the drafting of the constitution. On the back of the chair, up top at the middle, is a painting of a rising sun. The task of developing the constitution was rather contentious through the four months that they worked on it. Benjamin Franklin was concerned that it gave the federal government too much power. But at the end, he remarked that although he'd wondered often during those months whether the sun was rising or setting, "now at length I have the happiness to know that it is a rising and not a setting Sun."It used to be that the Liberty Bell was housed in the tower over Independence Hall, but it now is in a low, long building across the street. There's a fascinating display to walk through on your way to see the bell, showing how the bell has been a symbol for hope and freedom all around the world in different times. Why?

What I didn't know is that there is a Bible verse cast into the design of the bell, inscribed right around the top of it. It comes from Leviticus 25:10 and reads, "Proclaim liberty throughout all the Land unto all the inhabitants thereof." William Penn chose that verse to symbolize the right to worship according to conscience--a defining concept behind the founding of the state of Pennsylvania. In the mid-1800s the abolitionists started calling the bell the "liberty bell;" they took it on as a symbol of freedom from slavery. Since then the liberty bell with its inscription has been a symbol for women's right to vote, for the civil rights movement in the United States, and for people from around the world seeking freedom from oppression.And about that crack? Well, I found out that no one knows exactly why or when it cracked. It just did, and despite one attempt to repair the crack, the bell hasn't rung since 1846.