Category: Personal (Page 2 of 7)

If You Are Willing, You Can

February 27, 2018 / Allan Babcock

News about him spread all over Syria,
And people brought to him
all who were ill with various diseases,
those suffering severe pain, the demon-possessed,
those having seizures, and the paralyzed,
and he healed them (Matthew 4:24).

Then Jesus said to the centurion,
“Go! It will be done just as you believed it would”.
And his servant was healed
at that very hour (Matthew 8:13).

When evening came,
many who were demon-possessed were brought to him,
and he drove out the spirits with a word
and healed all the sick (Matthew 8:16).

Jesus turned and saw her.
“Take heart, daughter,” he said,
“your faith has healed you”.
And the woman was healed
from that moment (Matthew 9:22).

Aware of [the Pharisees’ plot],
Jesus withdrew from that place.
Many followed him,
and he healed all their sick (Matthew 12:15).

Then they brought him
a demon-possessed man
who was blind and mute,
and Jesus healed him,
so that he could both talk and see
(Matthew 12:22).

When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd,
he had compassion on them
and healed their sick (Matthew 14:14).

. . . the people . . . brought all who were sick to him,
And all who touched [the fringe of his cloak]
were healed (Matthew 14:35,36).

Then Jesus answered,
“Woman, you have great faith!
Your request is granted”.
And her daughter was healed
from that very hour (Matthew 15:28).

Great crowds came to him,
bringing the lame, the blind,
the crippled, the mute and many others,
and laid them at his feet;
and he healed them (Matthew 15:30).

Jesus rebuked the demon,
and it came out of the boy,
and he was healed from that moment
(Matthew 17:18).

Large crowds followed him,
and he healed them there
(Matthew 19:2).

The blind and the lame
came to him at the temple,
and he healed them
(Matthew 21:14).

I see Jesus,
walking through Galilee.
In his wake the hopelessly sick
are joyously well.
And, Jesus is the same
yesterday, today and forever.

I know Jesus healed the sick
to reveal his kingdom,
where all the sick will be always well.
But he healed out of compassion, too.
So I plead his compassion now.

A verse from 1 John intrudes:
“And this is the boldness
we have in him,
that if we ask anything
according to his will,
he hears us.
And if we know that he hears us
in whatever we ask,
we know that we have obtained
the request made of him.”

I say “intrudes”,
because his will trumps all.
So, a leper kneeling begged Jesus,
“’If you are willing, you can make me clean.’
Filled with compassion,
Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man.
‘I am willing,’ he said. ‘Be clean!’”

What, I wonder, made Jesus willing?
Compassion? Faith?
Either answer, he didn’t heal everyone.
Nor does he today.
Healing is a miracle.
And miracles, by definition, are rare.

Listing those healing verses above,
I want to shout: “Let faith arise!”
–as if he will always give me good health,
as if illness can always be conquered by faith.
All things are possible;
at his command disease must flee.

I must have faith, but I can’t claim what I want,
as if healing were a prize,
and I held the winning ticket.
Healing is a mystery,
wrapped in the hiddenness of Jesus’ will.

So, I must kneel, humbly, like the leper and pray,
“If you are willing,
You can make me well.”

Your Prayers

January 10, 2018 / Allan Babcock

Through the endless desert,
from oasis to oasis,
Moses led the Israelites.
Freed slaves seeking their Promised Land.
They dragged into Rephidim parched for water.
But Rephidim was desert-dry.
They raged at Moses;
He bore the brunt of their blame.

Amidst the furor fury came from outside.
Warring Amalekites attacked to destroy weaker Israelites.
Moses called Joshua to lead the fight
While he, Aaron and Hur retreated to a nearby hill.
With him, Moses carried the staff of the Lord,
The same staff with which he’d commanded the Sea to part.
He raised it now, over the battle below;
It was the Lord’s war
So long as the staff was held high.

But Moses grew weak
Arms, shoulders, wrists strained
Until the Lord’s staff was barely above ground
And then the Amalekites prevailed.

On either side of Moses, Aaron and Hur stood
Unsure what to do, afraid of the old man’s reaction.
Israel’s fate, though, now laid in their arms.
Quietly, simultaneously, they grasped the old man’s weakened arms
And hoisted them high, the staff ruling over the fight.
Below the battle changed, almost imperceptibly at first
But now, now it was clear
The outmatched former slaves were putting warrior Amalek to flight.

I’ve thought often of that battle in Exodus 17. It reminds me that the Lord rules, even over those battles we seem to be losing. Like Moses, I grow weary. My faith weakens as my symptoms grow worse. I can’t fight alone.

You are Aaron and Hur to me. Your prayers hold up my faith. I’ve read your comments on my blog and on Facebook and email: “We’re praying for you.” Thank you. Thank you for standing alongside. Thank you for sharing your strength in my weakness. Thank you for believing with me that the Lord is sovereign. And he wins even the battles we seem to be losing.

Fingers dug into clay, searching for edges to grasp.
Slowly the stubborn roof yielded, the hole widened.
A rooftop for cool summer sleeping
Was becoming a doorway to healing.

The four friends had carted the paralytic on his mat
Across town to Jesus.
The house bulged with listeners, friend and foe alike.
They stood five deep outside
But the four would not be denied.
Their friend had been prisoner to his mat.
Day after day, night after night
He gazed at the clouds–and wondered why the Lord was silent.
His friends, too, lost hope
Until they heard Jesus was near,
Jesus who cleansed a leper
Could surely make a cripple walk!

Sweating and grunting they had dragged their friend up,
Determined, believing they dug the roof open
Until debris fell inside and arms-shielded eyes looked up.
Then hands reached up to lower a mat and its prisoner.
And the paralytic lay before the Healer.
But Jesus saw more than a cripple, more than a broken roof.
He saw four friends’ faith:
“Son, your sins are forgiven.”
Pharisees present fumed, only God can forgive sins.
“So you know that I can”, he said to the paralytic,
“Get up, take your mat and go home.”

Silence fell, for a full moment,
Spectators waiting, wondering,
The paralytic unsure he could,
Then he rose, his legs restored.
He grabbed the mat he no longer needed
And with a glance of gratitude up at his friends
He went home.

Thank you for being my friends. Thank you for carrying me to Jesus with prayers.

No Surgery

January 7, 2018 / Allan Babcock

No cancer surgery. No excision of the 3-inch square of melanoma on my bald head. That’s what I’ve decided.

Surgery would be same-day. Wound recover (head excision and chest skin graft) would heal in two weeks. Return to “normal” in a month. Without surgery the doctor predicts the cancer will spread within a year.

So why no surgery? Here are my reasons in random order . . .

Doctors, however skilled and sincere, don’t know what will happen.
My primary lateral sclerosis is weakening me more week-by-week. Recovery would be a prolonged nightmare. Throw the surgeon’s recovery projections out the window. I don’t know how I’d even have the strength to get in the truck after surgery. I’m barely strong enough to transfer from wheelchair to bed and back.
What follow-up treatment would be necessary? Would I have to go for regular chemo or immunology treatments in my weakened condition?
Will the cancer reappear on my head or elsewhere? Is it the start of ongoing battles with cancer until it wins anyway?
Can I trust “God’s Word”? In August this suddenly appeared in my mind: “I will not die but live, and proclaim the works of the Lord.” Where’d it come from? It sounded like Scripture, but where? My Bible software found it—Psalm 118:17. The psalmist is celebrating a military victory over his enemies, who surely would triumph. But, no, the LORD had saved the psalmist’s life. Hence, “I will not die but live, and proclaim the works of the Lord.” My situation in no way matched his. Yet I felt the Lord impressing it on me for me. “I will not die but live, and proclaim the works of the Lord.” The Lord would spare my life for a time, so that, in my little blog, I could tell of all his works to whomever would read. Pretty subjective, huh. I know. But I do believe the Holy Spirit still does that sort of thing. I’ve chosen to cling to that word.
And to acknowledge another one. In Psalm 31, David seeks refuge in the LORD. The LORD is his rock and fortress. He acknowledges his distress—“my strength fails because of my misery” (31:10b). His adversaries scorn him. “But I trust in you, O LORD. I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hands” (31:9-15). The New Jerusalem Bible translates—“every moment of my life is in your hands”. The New Living Translation—“My future is in your hands”. I take that to mean that my life is under that Lord’s sovereign control. PLS or melanoma don’t determine its length; the Lord does. Surgery may extend my life or not. But ultimately “my times are in [his] hands.”
I read the following from Ken Gire (Intense Moments with the Savior) . . .

“I know I will wrestle with circumstances beyond my control . . .
some sort of suffering will pin me to the cold, hard ground.
When that happens, Lord Jesus, help me to realize . . .
that my strength is not found in how courageously I struggle
but in how completely I surrender.”

I told my daughter, “If I don’t do surgery, I feel like I’m not fighting back, as if I’m just giving in to the cancer”. But I’ve had a change of heart. I’m at the point in my life (74 years old, 2 major back surgeries, 1 minimally invasive surgery, countless tests and probes, growing weakness plus multiple other PLS symptoms) where I can’t “fight back” using doctors. Instead, I have to surrender to whatever the Lord wants. My strength is found there.
Suppose someone sought my counsel. “Pastor, given all the circumstances, what should I do?” I’d lead him through reasons and risks of not doing surgery. I’d ask him what he thought the Lord was leading him to do. We’d pray. Finally, I’d ask him what he thought he should do. I’d support him either way. But surely I wouldn’t quench any leading he sensed from the Lord.

This cancer is in the Lord’s hands. He can let it spread until it eventually takes my life. He can slow the spread, so I’m “safe” for years. Or he can stop the spread altogether. And, of course, he can heal me. (I’ve made it clear to him this is what I prefer.) He knows my end from my beginning. My times are in his hands.

Do I sound foolish? Or a coward for shunning surgery? Or a spiritual giant for just trusting the Lord (literally) with my life? I don’t think I’m a fool or a coward. And I know I’m no spiritual giant. I’m just an old man beaten down by disease trying to surrender in faith to whatever the Lord wants.

I appreciate your prayers.

I Am He

January 6, 2018 / Allan Babcock

The woman lugged her empty water jar to the well, as the relentless noonday Samaritan sun beat down on her. Her heart was as empty as her jar. A line of five former husbands crowded her mind. No matter who was at fault. Each marriage ended. And the man she now had promised no happier ending.

Noon was the hottest part of the day to fetch water. But it protected her from the wagging tongues of the town’s women. So she came when they wouldn’t.

She, a Samaritan, was surprised to find a weary Jew at the well.

“Will you give me a drink?”

Even more surprising that a Jew would ask a favor of a Samaritan. For Jews didn’t associate with Samaritans.

“How can you ask me for a drink?”

“If you knew the gift of God, and who it is who asks you for a drink, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

She wondered aloud how he could draw water from the deep well. From where he would get this “living water”, if he thought himself greater than father Jacob who gave them this well.

“Every one who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up into eternal life.”

She wanted this water. Forever-thirst-quenching-water meant no more struggling, stealthy trips to the well.

“Go, call your husband and come back.”

His command perplexed her. She hesitated. Then claimed to have no husband.

Shockingly, the weary Jew peered down the sad years of her life and agreed. She’d had five husbands and her current man wasn’t her husband.

“Sir, I perceive you are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews claim we must worship in Jerusalem.”

“Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem . . . a time is coming and now is when true worshipers will worship in Spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks.”

“I know that Messiah is coming. When he does, he will explain everything to us.”

“I who speak to you am he.”

* * *

I read that encounter in my devotions this morning. “I who speak to you am he” stopped me in my tracks.

I’d read it dozens of times. From verse 1 I knew what the Samaritan women didn’t—that the weary Jew who met her was the Messiah. It no longer startled me that he was weary and dusty. No longer startled me that he had arranged to travel through Samaria at noon and sent his disciples away for food. No longer startled me that he chose to give his most profound teaching on worship to a sad, sinful, Samaritan woman under a hot noon sun.

This is what startled me: “I who speak to you am he.”

For this is whose words I was reading. This was who I was praying to. This was whose presence I was seeking. This was the One whom the prophets had promised. This was God’s “Yes” and “Amen”—the One who will fulfill everything God had promised.

“I who speak to you am he.”

It struck me how easily and often I forget. I sit before him as if he were . . . well, I don’t know what. Someone less. Imaginary almost.

The One whose words I “hear” on the sacred page, the One whose presence I seek to enjoy, the One to whom I make my familiar petitions—is Messiah.

Do I even realize the miracle? The majesty? The marvel? The wonderful mystery?

As I’ve said before, my prayers inevitably are, “Heal me.” The plea is a frustrated, weary, faith mixed with tiny expectation. “Heal me; but I’ll be surprised (wonderfully) if you do.” (I’m not crass enough to say that; but the words hide in my heart.)

“I who speak to you am he.”

The Samaritan woman never asked the Messiah-claiming Jew for anything. So excited over him, she ran to tell the town’s women (from whom she had hidden) whom she had found.

“Jesus, Messiah. Catch me up today in the wonder of who you are who speaks to me. Who seeks me out in my emptiness. Who comes to me. Who offers me living water—a well springing up to eternal life. Reignite my excitement in you. Renew my wonder over you. Open my ears to hear you say to me: “I who speak to you am he.”

Steadfast Heart

December 9, 2017 / Allan Babcock

Praying is hard these days. Because of my illness. Like water streaming down to a mud puddle, so goes my mind. Almost uncontrollably, I find myself praying for healing, asking for grace, and arguing my sad case with the Lord. All good things. But this prayer focused on my illness so dominates my praying that it often leaves me feeling worse than when I started.

In this struggling prayer life, I’ve been reading the Psalms. They are, of course, a magnificent collection of prayers in which a man (often David) opens his heart to the Lord. So I read passionate praises, heart-felt thanksgivings, heart-breaking laments. Many I identify with. Like Psalm 57 I read the other day . . .

“Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me, for in you my soul takes refuge; in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge, until the destroying storms pass by. I cry to God Most High, to God who fulfills his purpose for me. He will send from heaven and save me, he will put to shame those who trample on me. God will send forth his steadfast love and his faithfulness. I lie down among lions that greedily devour human prey; their teeth are spears and arrows, their tongues sharp swords” (57:1-4).

According to the superscription, this psalm comes from David “when he fled from Saul, in the cave”. If so, “those who trample on me” and “lions that greedily devour me” are Saul and his men pursuing David to kill him. I make them my illness and its symptoms. Then I sit in my wheelchair feeling safe in my Refuge, waiting–“until the destroying storms pass by”. (I pray they will and the “calm” of good health will return.)

“Be exalted, O God, above the heavens. Let your glory be over all the earth. They set a net for my steps; my soul was bowed down. They dug a pit in my path, but they have fallen into it themselves” (57:5,6).

I worship God. I pray his glory will fill the earth. And I pray that the symptoms of my illness (or Satan who may have sent it) will somehow destroy themselves instead of me.

So, you see, the psalm helps me not to wallow in my illness. Instead, to bring it to God. But it’s these closing lines that especially reach my heart . . .

“My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast. I will sing and make melody. Awake, my soul! Awake, O harp and lyre! I will awake the dawn. I will give thanks to you, O Lord, among the peoples; I will sing praises to you among the nations. For your steadfast love is as high as the heavens; your faithfulness extends to the clouds. Be exalted, O God, above the heavens. Let your glory be over all the earth” (57:7-11).

I want to fight back against my illness. Not give up. Not even just ask God for healing and grace (which is good, but seems sort of passive). I want to take positive steps in this battle. To advance.

This is one of those “forward march” kind of steps: to steadfastly, day after day awaken my soul with thanksgiving and praises to the Lord. I would say, “I will sing and make melody”, but PLS has weakened my voice, so I can’t speak normal volume, to say nothing of singing. (One of my greatest regrets is being unable to sing in worship to the Lord.)

From a resolutely firm and unwavering heart, I will declare, ” . . . your steadfast love is as high as the heavens; your faithfulness extends to the clouds.”

Is that just using the power of positive thinking to negate wallowing in my symptoms? No! It’s declaring truth! I have PLS. And now melanoma. But God’s love remains steadfast, “as high as the heavens”. And God is still cloud-high faithful.

My prayer, then, becomes for God’s exaltation “above the heavens.” And for his glory to be a white-bright cloud “over all the earth.”

Being steadfast to awaken my soul to praise the Lord isn’t a pill that takes away symptoms. It’s a weapon in this fight of faith. But not one always easily taken up. Many mornings, before I speak steadfastly, I have to pray for a steadfast heart. Because many mornings, I don’t feel resolute. And the weapon of praise too heavy to pick up.

So, I ask the Lord to give me a heart from which I can speak steadfastly. And, then, I speak in faith (whether I feel it or not): “Awake, my soul! I give you thanks, O Lord. I speak praises to you . . . ”

Given the scope of the battle, all this doesn’t seem like much. I’m still captive in my wheelchair. Still marked with an almost 3 by 3 inch patch of melanoma on my head.

But I’m resolute. A little old warrior standing (sitting) his ground proclaiming the glory of God’s steadfast love. Not celebrating victory. But steadfastly fighting the battle that transcends my illness and extends to my faith in my God . . .

Being Renewed

November 13, 2017 / Allan Babcock

“Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16b).

I’ve pondered this verse, because my outer nature is wasting away. The Greek, diathiero, is used of a moth slowly consuming clothing (Luke 12:33). And here of my body becoming increasingly weak. I loathe it, of course. It always rages in my mind. I’m facing death, however far off it may be. And the thought of leaving my beloved Lois and my family behind makes me sob with sorrow.

But I want to think about my “inner nature”. Paul says it is “being renewed day by day.” The Greek is anakaino-o, referring to causing something to be made new and better.

Paul uses it in Romans 12:2—“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God — what is good and acceptable and perfect.” Again in Colossians 3:9.10—”Do not lie to one another, seeing that you have stripped off the old self with its practices and have clothed yourselves with the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator.” And in Ephesians 4:22,23—”You were taught to put away your former way of life, your old self, corrupt and deluded by its lusts, and to be renewed in the spirit of your minds . . . “

In each case “renewed” is passive. Being made new and better on the inside is something done to us. One can argue that we are not passive, that we participate—and I won’t disagree. But Paul implies that the force doing it is greater than both our participation and the wasting away of our outer nature.

“For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:17,18).

We’re familiar with Paul’s affliction, most of it the result of his preaching the gospel (both persecution and travel-dangers), some of it physical illness. To call it “light” seems a gross understatement; but he’s comparing it with eternal glory (“I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us”—Romans 8:18).

What’s incredible about his statement here is this: light, momentary affliction “is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory”. The Greek is katergaomy—“producing, achieving, accomplishing”.

God the Holy Spirit is actually using our affliction to produce for us an exceedingly great eternal weight of glory.

Does Paul mean the greater the affliction the greater the weight of glory? That’s unclear. But this much is certain: not one hour of affliction is to be wasted; God will use all of it in the renewing process toward glory.

And this production-process is occurring right now! “ . . . our inner nature is being renewed day by day.”

“ . . . . while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen . . . “The Greek says only, “looking not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen.” Paul isn’t saying our looking makes the inner renewal happen, but that the inner renewal makes the looking happen. Day by day the Holy Spirit is turning my eyes off my outer wasting away and onto my inner renewal working toward an eternal weight of glory.

Of course, I can (and do at times) resist. He tenderly takes my chin and lifts my head toward the unseen—and I force my eyes back. Down instead of up. Outer instead of inner. Seen instead of unseen. Light, momentary affliction instead of eternal glory.

Nevertheless, the inner renewal process continues unabated . “And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

Of course, it’s to my benefit to look at “the things which are not seen”. Fixing my eyes on my weakening body is depressing, even frightening. But fixing my eyes on inner renewal is hopeful, even comforting and joyful.

So, it’s to that, by God’s grace, I will look. Not so much to the “eternal weight of glory”. For that is more than I can see, beyond what my mind can take in. Even as my body wastes away a bit more, I will look today to my “inner nature being renewed”. I can’t really grasp that either. But to know God is actually at work in me, creating something new and better–well, that’s exciting and full-of-wonder.

How great is God’s grace! Even while I’m complaining about my body growing weaker, he’s making me new and better on the inside. And someday that process will climax in an “explosion” of an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure!

So, old man, smile! You’re being made new right now!

Angry at God?

November 9, 2017 / Allan Babcock

Tuesday I lay on a narrow strip of table inside a PET Scan machine. In I slid. I was in this tube because last week the dermatologist’s nurse phoned with my biopsy result: “Malignant melanoma”.

Not what I wanted to hear. I’ve had a spot on my bald head for years. A decade and a-half ago, another dermatologist told me it was an “age spot”. In the last month, a small bump formed. The dermatologist removed it for biopsy. Melanoma.

Besides the extent of cancer (which we won’t know until Monday), the PET Scan tested my endurance. Ninety minutes. In a tube with my nose almost touching the top. Lying still. Every five minutes the table slid out–six inches. I counted minutes. Prayed. Tried to sleep (nope). Fantasized about food (only 2 eggs at six a.m. and it was noon). Thankfully I was in feet-first, so my head escaped first. Then came a brief (thankfully) CT Scan.

The PET Scan will show the cancer’s extent. At this point, to me, all outcomes seem bad. Only if the test shows nothing (because the Lord drove out the caner), will it be good.

But, why was I on that table at all? I’m a child of the King!

Honestly? Some days I feel like I’m left to suffer like an orphan.

To make matters worse, “cancer” has suddenly shown up everywhere–in books, on TV shows, on the Internet and in conversations. For example, among the books I’m reading is, Same Kind of Different as Me. It’s an entertaining read until the husband’s wife dies of cancer at a young age. After the funeral and burial, he writes . . .

“My fear gave way to anger, and I had plenty to go around. But as I fired arrows of blame—at the doctors, the pharmaceutical industry, cancer researchers–clearly the bull’s eye was God. It was he who ripped a gaping and irreparable hole in my heart. Without a gun or mask he robbed me of my wife and stole my children’s mother and my grandchildren’s grandmother. I had trusted him, and he failed me.

“How do you forgive that?” (p. 203).

I identified. I’ve found anger rising in me. After all, isn’t Primary Lateral Sclerosis, with all its rotten symptoms, enough? Now melanoma. Like husband, Ron, “I had trusted [God], and he failed me.” Angry? I’m ashamed to admit it.

Some say it’s a sin, like John Piper . . .

“ . . . being angry at God is never right. It is wrong – always wrong – to disapprove of God for what he does and permits. “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do what is just?” (Genesis 18:25). It is arrogant for finite, sinful creatures to disapprove of God for what he does and permits. We may weep over the pain. We may be angry at sin and Satan. But God does only what is right. “Yes, O Lord God, the Almighty, true and righteous are Your judgments” (Revelation 16:7).

I add to that Paul’s rebuke quoted in my last blog . . .

“But who are you, O man, to talk back to God? ‘Shall what is formed say to him who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?'” {20 Isaiah 29:16; 45:9}

Okay. Disapproving of “what God does and permits “, “talking back to God”, is arrogant. But what about my feelings? Should I pretend I’m content when I’m shaking my fist? And what about the psalmists? I always assumed their “why” questions came from desperation. But, couldn’t they be expressing anger?

“Why, O LORD, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?” (Psalm 10:1).

“How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? How long will my enemy be exalted over me?” (Psalm 13:1,2).

“Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep? Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever. Why do you hide your face and forget our misery and oppression?” (Psalm 44:23,24).

“Why have you rejected us forever, O God? Why does your anger smolder against the sheep of your pasture?” (Psalm 74:1).

“Why, O LORD, do you reject me and hide your face from me?” (Psalm 88:14).

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the psalmists are just despondent. Maybe the psalms’ contexts rule out anger. It’s still hard for me to think that, when boldly expressing emotions in suffering, these psalmists don’t have a bit of anger mixed in.

In any case, there are days when my anger rises. Piper tells me what to do with it . . .

“But if we do experience the sinful emotion of anger at God, what then? Shall we add the sin of hypocrisy to the sin of anger? No. If we feel it, we should confess it to God. He knows it anyway. He sees our hearts. If anger at God is in our heart, we may as well tell him so, and then tell him we are sorry, and ask him to help us put it away by faith in his goodness and wisdom.”

So: that’s what I’ve got to do. Tell God I’m angry at him for allowing another affliction. Then tell him I’m sorry and ask his help to get rid of anger by faith in his goodness and wisdom

By the way, Tuesday, for this old body, was a wearying one. But I had my beautiful wife and daughter, Missy, with me. They brought smiles and laughter and support. They helped get me into and out of our truck, out of my wheelchair and onto the narrow PET Scan table, off that and back into my wheelchair, out onto the CT Scan table and back into my wheelchair, and finally out of the chair and into the house! A herculean task when I have no strength in my legs!

And the Holy Spirit’s presence surrounded me though it all.

Plus, my stomach outweighed (no pun intended) my weariness: after the test ordeal, we stopped at Cracker Barrel for a meal I long-wanted–“Momma’s French Toast Breakfast.” We often stopped at a Cracker Barrel on vacation trips; so it brought back warm memories (and momentarily alleviated my anger). But this prayer is still needed . . .

“Lord, cancer is too much on top of PLS. How could you allow it? I confess I’m angry.. And I’m sorry for it. Please help me get rid of it by faith in your goodness and wisdom, which has always blessed my life. Amen.”

Bruised Pride, Bound to Christ

October 28, 2017 / Allan Babcock

“After conversion we need bruising so that reeds may know themselves to be reeds, and not oaks. Even reeds need bruising, by reason of the remainder of pride in our nature, and to let us see that we live by mercy” (p. 5). (The Bruised Reed, Richard Sibbes, one of the most influential figures in the Puritan movement during the earlier years of the 17^th century).

Early in reading this book, I came upon that passage. I thought, “Okay, I’m a reed, not an oak—and, yeah, a bruised one.” But I was moved to ponderthese words: “Even reeds need bruising, by reason of the remainder of pride in our nature, and to let us see that we live by mercy.”

By know you know well I have primary lateral sclerosis (and you’re probably weary of hearing about it!)—an incurable, degenerative neurological disease that has put me in a wheelchair, keeps everything below my waste from working right and leaves me increasingly weak all over.

Has the sovereign God—our Father in heaven—allowed this, at least partly, because pride in my nature must be rooted out? Is God humbling me? Is that what this is about?

Okay, I admit it: I find pride in my heart. I’m surprised. But pride must be there, because I’m humbled by my condition. I’m humbled at how I look. At what I can’t do. At what has to be done for me. I loathe the humbling process, when I suppose I should be welcoming it as a good thing from our Father.

But I don’t. I resist it. I pray for it to be gone. I don’t pray, “Your will be done.” Is that pride? Pride that I want to walk for myself, that I want to look as well as a 73-year-old can, that I want to do for myself and not have to be done for, that I want to care for my wife instead of her taking care of me?

Ah, what to do? Pray for healing and pray for contentment with God until it comes? I’ve tried that. And, honestly, I pray a lot more fervently for healing than contentment. I pray for healing as something I really want and contentment as something I should want.

Sibbes wrote another line that stands out …

“The heroic deeds of those great worthies do not comfort the church so much as their falls and bruises do” (p. 5).

He refers to David and Paul. “Great worthies”. I’m not so much comforted by David’s defeat of Goliath as I am his sin with Bathsheba. Not that I’m tempted to have sex with another man’s wife. But I’m comforted knowing “the man after God’s own heart” faced strong sexual temptations. And Paul. I’m not comforted by his too-much-for-words heavenly vision, but by his thorn in the flesh. God didn’t deliver him, but promised him the power of grace–“My grace is sufficient for you; for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

Sibbes explains “bruising” is necessary for two reasons . . .

One, I must “see that [I] live by mercy. I deserve no good thing I have. I’ve merited nothing. All is mercy, beginning with new life through the crucified and resurrected Christ. And his mercies are new every morning. I should look for them—and give thanks for them.

Two, “There must be a conformity to our head, Christ, who was ‘bruised for us’ (Isaiah 53:5) that we may know how much we are bound unto him” (p. 5).

I must be conformed to Christ. That’s God’s goal . . .

“We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified” (Romans 8:28-30).

“ . . . he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son . . . ” “There must be conformity to our head, Christ . . . ”

So pride (which I thought I didn’t have) must be rooted out and replaced with humility—a humility (like Christ) by which I’m willing to take a lower place. I must be “bruised”. Why? “ . . . that we may know how much we are bound unto him.”

I may be confused about how to pray. Healing? Grace? Both?

But this I must know.

This “bruising”–this illness–doesn’t mean Christ abandoned me..

This “bruising” shows how tightly I’m bound to him.

Happy Anniversary

October 27, 2017 / Allan Babcock

Fifty-five years ago today, I stood at the front of Bethany Church in Paterson, N.J. I was looking over the heads of the congregation to the back doors of the sanctuary. An angel in white, my beautiful bride, appeared there. As music played, she walked slowly toward me and almost took my breath away.

We were 19 years old. I didn’t know what I was getting into. Had I known, I would have been breathless. How can I now possibly describe over half-a-century of love?

I was quite immature when Lois married me. Didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. For five years bumped from job to job, heading nowhere, while Lois was a rock. At the end of those five years, when I told her I believed the Lord was calling me into ministry, she didn’t blink an eye. It meant a life she hadn’t signed up for. It meant leaving our apartment, putting our furniture in storage, leaving our families and heading off to an unknown future, from Bible college halfway across the country to three pastorates in N.J. and Florida.

She felt inadequate because she couldn’t play the piano. (In the Assemblies of God, way back then, most pastor’s wives played.) She was far from inadequate. Piano? No. But pastor’s wife? Yes. She was always an assistant pastor without the title. She loved people graciously. Prayed and taught and encouraged. Spoke words of wisdom to the pastor. Looking back over 44 years of ministry, whatever “success” we enjoyed, it was because we served together.

Our marriage had some ups and downs. But the downs were not so low (most downs my fault), and we always wanted our marriage to be model for other couples. We didn’t set out deliberately to do that. We just wanted how we loved each other to influence others. Only heaven will reveal how much we succeeded.

We’re both retired now. Pastoral ministry is history. I’m wheelchair-bound. Lois has a few wrinkles. But we still love each other. No, wait. That’s not right. We don’t still love each other: we love each other more. How can that be?

Well, I wonder how she can love me more, since I’m far from the dashing young specimen I once was. But she says she loves me more, and I know I love her more. How is that possible? True love weathers. It’s like a tree on a high mountain–beaten back over the years by winds, but toughened by them, still standing, stronger than ever. Maybe that’ s not so romantic an image, but a good one. We’re a bit bent. But we’re still standing (me, metaphorically), arm in arm, heart to heart deeper in love for the years together and the adverse winds.

Couples who don’t survive decades together, for whatever reason, never have this kind of love to treasure. In our culture, young love is exciting. Old love is, well, old. Don’t get me wrong. If we could be young lovers again, I’d jump at the chance. (Not too high.) True, this old love may not be as exciting, but it runs deep and strong. Nothing can dim it. Nothing can wound it. It’s sweet and tender, but it’s also tough.

That’s because our love has always been grounded in Christ. We were married before God. We pledged ourselves to each other in his presence. We never considered not being together, because he made the two one.

Honey, as we celebrate yet another anniversary, I want you to know . . .

“You are so beautiful to me,
Can’t you see?
You’re everything I hoped for
Everything I need
You are so beautiful to me.”
https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-adk-adk_sbnt&hsimp=yhs-adk_sbnt&hspart=adk&p=you+are+so+beautiful#id=1&vid=cda8d4d87378f31dc2fc2a4844b9892c&action=view

That old Joe Cocker song isn’t Christ-centered, but every so often (like today) I play it for Lois–and I cry because the simple lyrics say what my heart says and the moving chords pull at my heart’s strings.

I wish I could sing it to you, honey. But know that, when I play the video. I’m singing to you in my heart. At 55 years, you’re my more-beautiful than ever bride. I love you. Happy Anniversary.

Allan

P.S. Excuse any errors. I didn’t want my proofreader to see this.

Follow Me

October 19, 2017 / Allan Babcock

I’ve always seen Matthew 9:9 as a simple, yet profound picture of Jesus’ call and our response . . .

“As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him.”

Matthew must have understood Jesus’ call as the summons of a rabbi to a student. He was to learn all the rabbi would teach him. And the final result would be, not a head full of theology, but a life like the rabbi.

“A student is not above his teacher, but everyone who is fully trained will be like his teacher” (Luke 6:40).

Matthew couldn’t have known what we know: that to be “fully trained” would entail inner transformation by the Holy Spirit. Jesus, however, knew it was enough at that point for Matthew to understand “fully trained” to be ultimately “like his teacher.”

Matthew 9:9 first impressed me when I was a young pastor. Life was simpler then. I had a loving wife (as I do now) and one child (a son). I was pastoring a small church in southern New Jersey. I wanted to see that church revived and reformed as Jesus would have it. I expected the Holy Spirit to work in us and among us. The future was bright. I was full of faith and hope.

“Follow me” meant “keep learning from me and do what I would do in your place.” Simple. Well, not always. There were problems, to be sure. But I was doing the Lord’s work. It was a high and holy calling. I plunged ahead, practicing what I’d been taught in Bible college and trusting the Lord to guide me where no classes did. I was following him in my family, in my ministry, in my personal life.

Today I’ve thought of Matthew 9:9 again. Was it the Holy Spirit? Probably, because this is a down day. My list of limitations due to illness is long. I’m depressed about what I can no longer do. And then here comes Jesus walking up to me at my pity booth. He says to me, “Follow me.”

Simple, huh? Well, not quite. Unlike Matthew, I can’t get up and follow Jesus. My legs don’t work anymore; I’m wheelchair-bound.

So what does, “Follow me”, mean now? It still means, “Learn from me. Give heed to my training, so you can become like me.” It even means, “When you struggle with your immobile body to crawl out of bed in the morning and shakily slide into your wheelchair, do it as I would do it.”

Wait. Jesus in a wheelchair? Wouldn’t he just speak the authoritative word and walk? Maybe not. When they nailed him to a cross, he didn’t call ten thousand angels to set him free.

But his death was redemptive. There’s nothing redemptive about primary lateral sclerosis. Or, is there? Is Jesus working some good in me I can’t see?

If I can’t see (and I can’t), that’s up to him.

My part, all these years later in a body that’s falling apart, is still to hear him say, “Follow me”—and to get up into my wheelchair and follow him.