The Third Candle

There is a single rose coloured candle in the Advent wreath, a pale pink spire amid the faintly scented evergreen boughs and the stately purple columns that mark each Sunday of the season of preparation. The delicate pink candle is lit on the penultimate Sunday of Advent. Not on the last Sunday of the season, or on Christmas Eve itself, but somewhere near the end. Not quite at the end, but nearby. Some Christian traditions are more formalized than others and in the protestant way, we might talk about Hope, Love, Joy and Peace during the yuletide season as abstract or spiritual realities of our faith but we probably have to look up which idea belongs to which Sunday anew each year. It is easy to forget why one candle somewhere near the end of the season is different than all the others. 

The third Sunday of Advent is Gaudete Sunday to our liturgical brethren. Joy Sunday. An idea that encompasses so much more than those three letters can convey. It is the unrestrained response of joy and elation as we come to the place where our waiting ends and our anticipating begins in earnest. 

Rejoice! The Lord is nigh! 

He’s almost here. 

It is the moment when the engine revs before power hits the wheels. It is when the orchestra all comes into tune as one sound for the opening bar of a performance. It is when the beginning is about to begin. Rejoicing Sunday is the Sunday when those who have been waiting spontaneously break into cheers at the entrance of the star.  Every nerve taut, every thought focused; as anticipation culminates in what is about to be fulfilled. 

Advent, as a season of preparation is characterized by both repentance and wild celebration. David danced with wild abandonment before the Lord as the Ark of the Covenant which carried the very presence of God between the wings of the cherubim on the Mercy Seat was brought into Jerusalem. The king’s worship of the Most High’s presence returning to dwell amongst His people Israel was total and utterly forgetful of himself, so great was his joy at God being with His people.

That is the promise of advent and of Gaudete Sunday. God will soon be among us. The Ark of the Lord is coming into the city of our God. Abandon yourself to worship as the divine Logos is clothed in flesh and reveals to us His name: Emmanuel. 

God with us.

The Church Behind Barbed Wire

A couple of weeks ago I found myself looking through the titles that line the shelves of my little church library. I was early and looking to entertain myself for a few spare minutes until the others arrived for prayer. As I scanned the colourful spines filling the shelves with an ecclectic mix of Biblical commentaries, biographies and Christian Romance fiction, a battered copy of  I Found God in Soviet Russia by John Noble caught my eye. I pulled it from its place and was soon absorbed in his story. 

An American stranded in Germany for the course of WW2, John Noble found himself behind a new enemy’s lines in the Soviet-occupied zone of post-war Germany. Quickly arrested without charges, the young man was confined in an East German prison, and two Soviet-operated former Nazi concentration camps;— until finally he was shipped east with a ten year sentence to slave labour in a Siberian gulag. And, the thing about the gulag—you weren’t meant to survive it. The Soviet penal system intended to wring every last bit of strength from a person’s body before erasing him from memory. Bitter cold, near starvation, hopelessness, and unimaginable cruelty were the daily lot of gulag prisoners. It's a story that none of us would choose for ourselves.

It was in the midst of Noble’s starvation in his first days of arbitrary imprisonment that God intervened. He didn’t send an angel to open the prison door and lead the formerly worldly young man out. Instead, the Almighty God joined him in prison. And thus began John Noble’s sojourn as an ambassador for Christ in one of the most hopeless places on earth;—a place no missionary could be sent. The Soviets sentenced John Noble intending for him to die, but God sent him to tell others how to live.

Noble's account witnesses to the world the existence—and explosive growth—of the Church Behind Barbed Wire. Prisoners of every ethnic, religious and cultural extraction found themselves desperate to worship together in secret without deference to denomination or tradition. Miracles were worked and people were saved even as they died. Orthodox priests served communion to prisoners with water standing in place of wine, and hoarded crumbs of bread for the body of Christ. Nuns who refused to do work for the devil through atheistic communism frightened their captors with their miraculous survival of torture and exposure to the Siberian cold. Lutherans shared their memorization of the Word. Baptists evangelized bringing revival. The Church Behind Barbed Wire had such a powerful testimony that even as the Soviet guards seized the smuggled Bibles—they hoarded them— hungry to read the Word of God themselves. 

Wherever you are is not an accident.

 It is a commission. 

In the midst of suffering, it is easy to wonder about the goodness of God for allowing it. It is more difficult to regard yourself as an agent of light sent undercover into darkness. But that is the truth. God purposefully places His people behind enemy lines to be agents of His Kingdom;

  “…to proclaim freedom for the captives and the release from darkness for the prisoners…” (Isaiah 61:2) 

Milk and Honey

The following article appeared in the Sept/Oct issue of live magazine. 

When I was a child my parents fought the good fight for Family Time. After supper while the mostly empty dishes sat unwashed and the mostly full water glasses sat sweating on the corner of each placemat, my mom would pull out the increasingly dog-eared copy of the One Year Bible and embark on the daily reading. We were soon behind the prescribed day and one year eventually stretched to five as we slowed to a plod through Numbers and Deuteronomy and my siblings and I grew languid in our chairs as so-and-so begat such-and-such. I picked at the stray grains of rice that stuck to the blue quilted placemats my grandmother had made and listened with varying degrees of willingness. Some nights there was a lot of grumbling. Whether it was the Children of Israel or the children of David and Sylvia, it’s hard to say with much certainty.

But it was during Family Time that I first became aware of God’s way with words; His power of description. We were in Exodus and His promise to take the Israelites into a land flowing with milk and honey caught my attention. I wasn’t a literally-minded child, so I didn’t imagine rivers of sticky gold flowing down from the hills of Canaan or milk bursting forth in a geyser of rich abundance. But it did arrest my imagination, this phrase—a land flowing with milk and honey—and I let it roll around on my tongue like dessert.

The goodness of God is like milk and honey. Unexpectedly rich, delectably sweet; ingredients hidden in everything. But neither milk, nor honey come without time and effort. They are both the product of creation fulfilling its purpose in time to the glory of God. Milk is rich and nourishing. Honey is sweet and potent. It’s a strange and beautiful pitch,  ‘flowing with milk and honey’,  God’s own description of His intended goodness to His people.

This goodness of God’s is flowing everywhere—is always being made in unexpected pockets all over my life— if I have eyes to perceive it. If I keep my vision clear through humility and thankfulness. If I’m not watching that metaphorical clock with the mocking expression on its face and silently accusing God of abandonment. It is in the waiting and the pain that God’s goodness becomes rich and sweet. Where it is made memorable and sustaining instead of quickly consumed and quickly forgotten. Time is essential for refining my focus, for revealing what needs to be treated; for making honey sweet and milk rich in nourishment. It was the passage of time that made a word from an abashed stranger—who sheepishly approached to tell me that God wanted me to know that my unravelled engagement was not a waste—a nourishing balm to my wounded thoughts. God saw the whole picture painted in years and He said that it wasn’t a waste. The sweetness of that message lingers still through the revolving seasons of a life that didn’t unfold as planned. 

God allows time to compound His goodness; intensifying it to an unfathomable sweetness that can only be tasted at the kairos of His will. Such as when my staunchly atheist grandfather suddenly proclaimed the power of the cross from his death bed to the utter astonishment of all. Generations had prayed for his salvation—from his own aged father on his knees beside his own hospital bed pleading for the soul of his son, to his great grand-children praying unprompted for ‘Great Grandpa Wolf to love Jesus’;— honey and milk made sweet and precious in the making, flowing over a century of yearning prayer for one self-made man who was unmade by his saviour in the twilight weeks of his earthly life. 

God’s goodness is so much better than anything I could dream up. Moments so sweet and rich that they practically take your breath away like some careful confection of honey-sweetened cream. Answers from God made richer by time bringing them forth in the proper season. 

Art Revealing Truth: We like free stuff

"It takes a lot of guts to have nothing at your age! Yeah, most people would be ashamed! But you've got the courage to just say, 'The hell with it! I'd rather have nothing than settle for less." 

(Elaine May, Ishtar)

Cover Art by Cody Andreasen. Still the greatest.

For the next couple of days the Kindle version of my novel Altruism in Gophers is available for free download on Amazon. How silly would you be if you didn't download it and tell all your friends to do the same? (So silly, it's embarrassing. Don't let that happen to you. Go download it. Seriously. I'll wait.)

 Since I published the novel a year ago, I've received wonderful messages and phone calls from readers letting me know their thoughts about it. I'm humbled by how many people of disparate ages and situations have told me how much they related to dear Winston in his loveable loser-ness and how they were rooting for his success. Such conversations thrill me. I love talking about the ideas presented in stories. I love that a story will reveal, often unintentionally, a greater truth.  It is especially gratifying when others find the stories that I have written worth talking about. My love tank over-floweth in such conversations.  So, to all who have taken the time to reach out and let me know your thoughts--even if it was only to object to a certain conclusion,--I appreciate it.

 One question that I am often asked is, "So, how long did it take you to write it?"

Then it is my turn to feel embarrassed at how slow I am at getting my thoughts together; at solving the imaginary problems that I created.
"Depends on how you count," I answer, stalling for time. "Just writing? I have no idea. Probably not too terribly long. Since I first had the idea? Since I first started? Years and years." I used to feel ashamed about this. I would see how prolific some writers can be and I would feel like I wasn't working hard enough. (And certainly, there are days when that is the case.) But I have come to learn some things since I inadvertently began this craft.  Paramount among them is this: It takes as long as it takes. Does it frustrate me that the graphic novel project I wrote in an afternoon and submitted without editing was picked up for publication, whereas the other graphic series project that I spent years upon, yet languishes? You know it does. But I am less cranky about it than I used to be because I am less insecure.

There is a fickleness to the creative process because art is revelatory. Like a painstaking archeological dig, it is exposes to view what is hidden and buried.  It connects humanity through our shared recognition of experience.  A good book, a brilliant film, a beautiful painting or a powerful song have the ability take our internal insular experience and connect us to others who have felt the same things. Art makes connections between people where no obvious connections exist. Some writers have the ability to do this swiftly while others--like myself--do not.

 Altruism in Gophers took a long time to come together because, like its protagonist, it is a late bloomer.  But the occasionally barren and often lengthy nature of my creative process is not your problem. This is a fast-paced culture, after all. You can download the kindle version of Altruism in Gophers and be reading it before the current minute runs out. You, dear reader, were not the one with the ideas hanging out in the recesses of your mind for years and years. You just get to enjoy the finished product. (Free! Free! Free! in this limited time offer...) Go to Amazon and check it out.

The Drowsiness of Evil

"Now my beauties, something with poison in it, I think, with poison in it. But attractive to the eye and soothing to the smell. Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep. Now they'll sleep..." 

-The Wicked Witch of the West

There is a scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and her friends must cross a field of poppies in order to reach the Emerald City which lies within their sight on the horizon. The poppies are beautiful and seemingly harmless, and the path ahead looks pleasant and easy. Dorothy and co. enter the field without trepidation. They do not know that the poppies have been enchanted by their enemy, the Wicked Witch of the West. As they wade into the field of flowers, an unnatural exhaustion begins to overwhelm them so that they lie down and go to sleep.

It is easy for Christians living in the wealth and comfort of the Western world to regard persecution as something that other Christians experience. Missionaries tell us their stories. The news (sometimes) reports the suffering and violent hardships experienced by Christians in other parts of the world and we look at our own pain and think that nothing we’ve experienced qualifies as persecution on that scale. We aren’t being martyred. No one is bursting into our homes to slaughter us lest we renounce Christ. We aren’t second class citizens. We don’t have to pay a special tax because we’re believers. Occasionally, we get mocked on television or sidelined politically. But when we compare ourselves to Christians elsewhere, we might think we’ve got nothing to either worry about or show for ourselves.

When we believe this, we are in danger of placing our suffering and experience somewhere beyond the context of Scripture and risk being deceived. The book of Job reveals the role that the spiritual realm plays in human suffering. Job was persecuted by Satan for his righteousness. While his family, his livelihood and his health all suffered, his anguish was spiritual and psychological in nature. The kind of persecution experienced by Christians in the wealthy and comfortable nations of the world is less overt than the outright violence experienced by some of our fellow believers. It is subtler, easier for us miss. The Wicked Witch of the West’s bewitching of the environment was no less a snare to Dorothy and her friends than the flying monkeys sent to harass and them on other parts of their journey. Sleepiness was arguably the most effective tactic. It was the one they didn’t recognize; making it just as deadly to Dorothy’s purpose of reaching the Emerald City as outright attack.

Christians are also looking to reach a glittering city on the horizon. And while it may look like we’re just crossing a field of flowers, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a deadly enemy lurking nearby.

“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” (1 Peter 5:8)

Hearing God When You Can't Hear

People get nervous when you tell them that God spoke to you in a dream. I get that. There is no way to fact-check a dream. Dreams are purely individual experiences and so their interpretation is utterly subjective. The divide between ‘delusional’ and ‘spiritual’ is a little too hazy to be comfortable for anyone. Even so—God speaks in dreams. There’s a multitude of examples throughout the Bible. As such, we cannot ignore dreams—at least—we should not ignore certain dreams. I had one the other night. A dream so vivid, so unsettling, that I awoke certain of the fact that it was not one of the usual half-forgotten dreams that generally populate the night. This dream made me uneasy because while it seemed to be a spiritual dream, it wasn’t pretty. It was disgusting, actually. It is the only dream in which I can ever remember smelling anything. Visually, too, it was assaulting. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure my theology had totally prepared me for God speaking to me in a dream about horrifying plumbing problems. 

It is a good reminder: God isn’t particularly concerned about our notions of propriety.

The dream stayed with me as I went about my morning routine. I didn’t understand it, but I wanted to. As I prayed—asking God if there was something there for me—the meaning of the dream fell into my mind like life-saving supplies air dropped behind enemy lines. God was telling me that I had placed certain hopes in the wrong place of priority in my life and it was making a huge disgusting mess of where I live. 

This was a transcendent revelation, but it was not the kind of revelation I was expecting. I wanted an answer as to why my hopes didn’t seem to be coming to fruition and when I might expect a little light on the horizon, so to speak. Instead, God told me I was wrong. My hopes weren’t wrong or sinful, but rather what I had unknowingly done with them. I didn’t mean to let these hopes—represented in my dream as carefully wrapped bundles of white gauze—block the drain and back everything up to the point of contamination. I thought I was doing well.  I thought I had everything in order. I thought I was right according to God and everyone. 

But I wasn’t.

Here’s the stark reality: It is pride that keeps us from hearing from God. We can call it other things; mask it with the appearance of different problems. Nevertheless, deep down at its root, it is pride that hinders our ability to hear what He is saying. Pride forms the impenetrable earplugs that block out everything but our own assessments. Pride is coming up with alternate explanations to avoid surrendering our plans and judgements to God because it feels like it would be the death of us to do so. Pride doesn’t always look haughty, sometimes it looks perfectly reasonable. Pride doesn’t know it is proud. It just thinks it is right.

“The source of revelation-knowledge is found as you fall down in surrender before the Lord. Don’t expect to see Shekinah-glory until the Lord sees your sincere humility.” (Proverbs 16:33 TPT)

God never lies. He will not participate with you in a fallacy. Whether it is in disordered hopes or a false view of our own importance or insight. He is always speaking exactly what we need to hear. If we aren’t hearing Him, then we know that somewhere pride has gotten in the way. And, perhaps, if you are like me and a subversive pride has so stopped your ears without your being aware of it, the mercy of God might just drop a dream into your head to wake you up.

(A version of this article was published in the March/April 2019 edition of live magazine. Check them out. )

A word from an "Everyday (fill in your appropriate citizenship)":

“It’s all about fear and greed.”

Back when I was first trying my hand at the stock market —and losing— that’s the perspective that my father gave me.

“It’s all about fear and greed.”

You sell your position because you are afraid the stock will go down and you will lose money. You buy because you think the stock will go up and you will make money. Fear prompts one decision. Greed, the other. 

This extends beyond the market to politics. Particularly, in election season, we ‘Everyday’ citizens get a chance to hear each party’s pitch on what exactly we should be afraid of, and what we can hope to get our grubby little hands upon if we just put our vote on their right group. 

Fear and greed—the basis of every sales pitch. Whether it is the #lifegoals marketing on Instagram—selling a filtered, imaginary world where every bit of reality’s clutter is pushed out of the frame; or political candidates calling your views ‘deplorable’ or ‘knuckle-dragging’, or some equally friendly phraseology. You hear that and think, " I don’t want to be lumped in with such unpopular folks, I’d better toe the party line. What is it these days?”

It’s all about fear and greed.

Here’s what I want from my government: Get out of the way. Get out of the way of business. (They are the only ones creating jobs.) Get out of the way of the economy. Don’t grandstand your virtue by running down the economic engine of one part of the country in order to buy votes in another.  Don’t tax us into the ground so that you can send money to other countries, participate in meaningless international agreements, pay for the high priced hookers of foreign despots you court for sweetheart deals. Don’t hamper the healthcare market and then tell me its too expensive not to let the government run it. Don’t subsidize some industries and kneecap others.  Don’t tell us what we can earn. Don’t tell us how to raise our kids. Don’t tell us who we are. 

We know who we are. And, we know who you are, too.

Get out of the way. 

Don’t try to get me to trade my personal autonomy for free stuff. Don’t tell me that if I don’t give up my freedom, I’ll be sorry. Don’t threaten me. Don’t try to make me vote for you by telling me to be afraid. Don’t try to turn voters into prostitutes—even those high priced ones— who sell their autonomy for money.

I don’t want the government to be my dad. I don’t want the government to be my pastor or God. 

Get out of the way.

Promise me that and maybe we can come to some kind of an understanding.