Category: The Man (Page 1 of 4)

The Silence of God

September 14, 2018 / Allan Babcock

The silence of God.
Deafening.
Devastating.
All my life I’ve prayed.
Answers never came dramatically.
But I always had the sense that God was there and in control,
through circumstances providing,
answering.

But now, silence.

Not me alone, I learn.

Joseph.
Sold by his brothers to traders,
who caravaned him to Egypt.
Camel clopping hoofs,
traders laughing.
Though the narrative says nothing,
surely in those frightening hours,
torn from home,
Joseph surely prayed.
But God’s response was . . . silence.

David.
The Psalms give glimpses
of his struggles with God’s silence,
as 1 & 2 Samuel tell the history–
a fugitive in the wilderness from Saul’s fury,
a dethroned king running for his life from his son.

” O my God, I cry out by day,
but you do not answer” (Psalm 22:2a).

“To you I call, O LORD my Rock;
do not turn a deaf ear to me.
For if you remain silent,
I will be like those who have gone down to the pit”
(Psalm 28:1).

“O LORD, you have seen this;
be not silent.
Do not be far from me, O Lord”
(Psalm 35:22).

“O God, whom I praise, do not remain silent . . . ” (Psalm 109:1).

So David prayed repeatedly to a silent God.
And all Israel chanted his prayers in worship.
Israel, God’s chosen, often heard God’s silence.

Asaph, of whom we know little:
“O God, do not keep silent;
be not quiet, O God,
be not still” (Psalm 83:1).

Of course, Job–
his suffering most heart-wrenching.
Family crushed
wealth robbed,
health gone,
helplessly dying in the dirt,
surrounded by three friends,
who searched for sin that caused such suffering.
From them an endless chain of words.
From God, silence.
” , , ,there was a time when God answered my prayers” (Job 12:4).
Not now.

And me.
The silence of God surrounds me.
I cup my ear to hear a word.
Squint my eyes to see his hand.
With David I pray,
“O God, whom I praise,
do not remain silent.”

What am I to do?
Not be silent.
Pray.
Trust.
Both are hard,
when God stays silent,
when he remains hidden,
when I feel he’s a father,
giving a stone, not bread.

But, listen,
I hear Joseph whisper,
“It was God who sent me to Egypt,
to save many lives.”
But Joseph knew only much later
that God’s silence was not for suffering,
but salvation.

And David:
“Blessed be the Lord,
for he has head the sound of my pleading . . .
So I am helped,
and my heart rejoices.”

I hold Asapah’s words,
and hear him as he writes in faith,
“Our God comes and will not be silent;
a fire devours before him
and around him a tempest rages” (Psalm 50:3).

And Job, whom the Lord reproved
out of the whirlwind:
“Who is this
that darkens counsel without knowledge?” (Job 38:2).

When I don’t humbly pray,
when I don’t persevere in trust through silence,
when I don’t credit God with being at work,
I’m a presumptuous fool.
The end will show the good of God.
His triumphant voice will shatter the silence.
‘Til then, I must seek to hear his voice
In creation, in the Gospel, in his Son.

Despite my deafness,
Francis Schaeffer’s words
are always wise and true:

“He is There,
and He Is Not Silent”.

Me? Job?

August 28, 2018 / Allan Babcock

I dismissed any comparison with Job.
His sufferings dwarf mine.
But over time my condition’s worsened.
Now I dare compare.
Not with the whole of his sufferings
or his encounter with the sovereign God.
Just the scene Job didn’t see.

Satan proposes a cosmic contest to God.
“Does Job fear you for nothing?
Stretch out your hand,
strike his bone and flesh
and he’ll curse you to your face.”
“You’re on, ” God replies.

I wonder:
Did Satan offer that deal to God over me?
“Does Allan fear you for nothing?
Stretch out your hand,
take away his health
and he’ll curse you to your face.”
Am I presumptuous to think
Satan singles me out as a target?
And that God risks his honor over me?

I dare think it possible,
because over 150,000 people in the world
die each day–
a great mass of humanity
swept away in death.
Psalm 90 echoes its depression .

“You [Lord] sweep men away in the sleep of death;
they are like the new grass of the morning–
though in the morning it springs up new,
by evening it is dry and withered.
We are consumed by your anger and
terrified by your indignation.
You have set our iniquities before you,
our secret sins in the light of your presence.
All our days pass away under your wrath;
we finish our years with a moan” (Psalm 90:5-9).

Such death is “normal”.
A man ages, gets ill,
and becomes a faceless statistic,
part of the moaners.
I know Jesus has turned the psalm on its head.
But that’s not my point here.
My point is this:
I don’t want to see
my PLS and melanoma
as just a normal part of growing old,
making me part of the mob that dies daily.

I don’t want to merely be that mob’s member.
But I fear I’m becoming one.
Ten years–surgeries, tests, another illness,
new symptoms added to the old.
I fear I’m finishing like all the rest–
with a moan.

I want to play a role
in that cosmic contest.
Satan has gone to God:
“Does Allan fear you for nothing?
Stretch out your hand,
take away his health
and he’ll curse you to your face.”
God says, “You’re on.”

If so, how I deal with disease and dying
matters in the heavenly realms.
Trusting God, praising God
upholds God’s honor.
Loving God for who he is,
not only for what he gives,
proves God’s worth–
and leaves my heel marks on Satan’s neck.

Dare I believe
that I’m part of this?
Ephesians 3:10,Paul wrote,
“[God’s] intent was now through the church,
the manifold wisdom of God should be made known
to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly realms . . . “

I’m part of Christ’s church,
one through whom God makes known
his wisdom to the rulers in the heavenly realms.
A cosmic contest rages, a war–
I’m a warrior in it.
My faith, my praise, my love for God
turns the tide,
makes Satan a loser
and God exalted.

What I really want?
To wake up tomorrow,
put my feet on the floor,
and walk.
To look in the mirror
and see my head clear,
baby skin instead of an ugly patch
of melanoma.
If that can’t be, let me fight the fight of faith.

One thing hardest to bear in old age
is insignificance,
life passing by
while you sit and watch.
Is that pride?
Is Jesus teaching me humility?
That only he is truly significant?

Maybe.
But my bearing old-age insignificance
isn’t a longing for the praise of people.
It’s assurance that my life counts
for the sake of Christ’s kingdom.

It counts if I trust him even without understanding.
It counts if I worship him even in suffering.
It counts if I pray even without answers.
It counts if I stand on his Word’s promises,
even if sight makes his promises foolish.
It counts if I love, even when I’m hurting.

And if it counts, Satan loses.
And if Satan loses,
God wins.
And if God wins . . .

with my little frail life,
in the heavenly realms,
I’ve exalted the name of the Lord.

Ken Gire (The North Face of God) writes,
“We can sheath our swords in retreat.
We can lay down our swords in surrender.
We can fall on our swords in despair.
Or we can, with the brave who’ve gone before us,
draw our swords and ride with full fury into the enemies’ ranks.
A day may come when our courage will fail.
But it will not be this day.
This day we fight.”

Satan and God are watching.

How Shall We Live With No Answer?

August 16, 2018 / Allan Babcock

At some time or another
each of us will stand at the same crevasse
where the Psalm 119 psalmist stood.
Shriveled like a wine skin, exhausted,
and waiting for an answer from God.
He may answer dramatically, out of a whirlwind,
as he did Job.
Or he may answer demurely, in a still small voice,
as he did Elijah.
Or he might not answer at all,
as David apparently experienced
in Psalm 119.

In that case we must wait
for the day the answer comes.
But even if the answer doesn’t come,
we must still live today.
The question is how?
“How shall we live today?”
Will we live by faith,
trusting God’s Word that he’ll not forsake us?
Or will we live by sight,
trusting the appearance that God has forsaken us?

I took the above from The North Face of God,
by Ken Gire.

The questions confront me.
Not because I feel God has forsaken me.
But because they paint the conflict
in stark black and white.
With no answer for healing yet,
the question is, “How will I live today?”

I look like God has forsaken me.
It feels that way.
But how will I live under heaven’s silence?
By sight? By what appears to be?
Or by faith in God’s promises?

I question God . . .
Why have you allowed these illnesses?
Why no answer when so many pray for my healing?
Then I remember Jesus’ parable in Luke 18.
A poor widow repeatedly begs a judge for justice.
Finally, worn down the judge rules in her favor.
The lesson Jesus draws is not persist in prayer.
The lesson is a question:
When the Son returns,
how many will he find who have faith?

I’m so busy asking him my questions,
I don’t hear what he’s asking me.
And his question
paints my predicament
in stark black and white.
Under heaven’s silence,
will I live today by what appears to be?
Or will I live today
by faith, trusting his Word?

I don’t understand what God is doing.
I don’t like what God is doing.
But my battle is part of a bigger war,
a war against unbelief,
a war in which warriors are called to live by faith,
and thereby glorify Christ.
Who knows what God is doing?
Who knows how my part plays in the whole?
But my little part is important.
I either add to Christ’s honor in the heavenly realms,
or diminish it.

Under heaven’s silence,
how will I live today.
Not by what appears to be,
though appearance is weighty,
and I’m tempted to “wisely” live by it.
Of course, God has forsaken little me.
Of course, the answer will never come.
Of course, I should curse God and die.
NO!

By God’s grace, I will live today by faith
trusting his promises,
even though I can’t see them kept.
I will win the battle,
and I will pray that when the Son comes,
he will find my faith on earth.

Hospital

July 23, 2018 / Allan Babcock

I spent three days in the hospital last week.

It all started when coughing woke me 4:45 a.m. I fought to breathe. Lois phoned 911. Paramedics, despite my misgivings, loaded me onto a gurney and slid me in an ambulance. What followed was the roughest ride I’ve ever had. Don’t they put shocks on these things?

At Bayonet Point Hospital, I was rolled to the ER where they put a huge oxygen mask on me. I sounded like Darth Vader. My great primary doctor appeared with assuring words. They probably did tests; but I don’t remember. I do remember being wheeled to a room. Admitted.

So started a series of tests and treatments that continued all hours day and night—blood tests, breathing treatments, temperature, blood pressure, oxygen tests. The first night (Tuesday) I didn’t get to sleep until 3:30 a.m. I was given a “better” bed (it was) at about 2:30 a.m.—which meant four nurses dumping me from the less-good to the “better” bed. I woke weary about 6 a.m. Pill time.

The second night was slightly better. I slept five hours, interrupted by more tests. I again woke weary at 6. By now, I was crazy to go home.

But the staff was wonderful. Genuinely caring. Personable. Professional. Friendly. Warm. I give them an A+. My primary doctor too. He visited every day, and took charge of my care. In my book, he’s one in a million. Knowledgeable. Professional. Putting the patient’s needs above traditional protocol. His diagnosis: pneumonia. Even though an x-ray showed little improvement after three days of IV antibiotics, he recognized hospitalization was counter-productive, surrendered to my nagging, and released me.

A muscular CNA shifted me to a wheelchair and bear-hugged me into our daughter Missy’s car. Free at last! I dropped from her car into my wheelchair for the ride into the house. How happy I was to see our dog Scooby Girl! I think she was happy to have me home too.

I’m still weak. Need oxygen. And Lois uses a Hoyer Lift to transfer me from bed to wheelchair. A big sack of potatoes being hauled around!

What does the future hold? Hopefully I’ll regain some strength. My legs are like wet noodles. Hopefully, too, antibiotic pills will break up congestion in my lungs.

That’s my health report. Not good. Now, my God report. I thank him I’m back home. I thank him for my constant-companion wife and supportive family. I thank him for my caring and pro-active primary doctor. I thank him for every one who prays for me. And I thank him for the wonderful hospital staff.

But I wonder what God is doing. I’ve prayed repeatedly for healing. But the Lord’s been silent. Should I keep asking, because those who keep asking receive? Or is the Lord saying no–“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness”? Instead of taking my weakness away, does he want to give me power to endure with faith and joy and praise for his honor? I haven’t “heard” a no yet, but there it is in 2 Corinthians. Maybe I just can’t accept that these closing months/years of my life here must be lived this way. Am I believing or just stubborn?

Almost daily I recall Jesus’ promise . . .

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened. Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him” (Matthew 7:7-11)!

Honestly? It feels like the Father is giving me a stone, not bread.

Then I remember God is sovereign . . .

In Him also we have obtained an inheritance, being predestined according to the purpose of Him who works all things according to the counsel of His will, that we who first trusted in Christ should be to the praise of His glory” (Ephesians 1:11,12).

He “works all things according to the counsel of his will . . . that we should be to the praise of his glory”.

And he works all things for our good . . .

“And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28).

I guess that all means the “good gifts” he promises to give may not look or feel good, but ultimately are. So I’m left hanging by finger nails onto his promises, trusting this is all good and, that if I fall, underneath are the everlasting arms (Deuteronomy 33:27).

Thank you for praying.

But If Not

June 12, 2018 / Allan Babcock

“The Lord is strong enough to rescue me
if he chooses.
But if not, I will not give in to sin.
My God is able to heal me
if he decides it best.
But if not, I will not forsake my confession of faith.
My God can undo this disability
if he but speaks the word.
But if not, I will trust in the God
who will raise me from the dead.”

Those faith-defiant words
belong to Greg Morse
in a desiringgod.org blog
(https://www.facebook.com/1595029729/posts/
10214939297667998/)
my younger daughter sent me.

They’re easier said than said.

“I will pray, oh, will I pray,
‘Lord, deliver me from evil.’
I will pray, ‘Father, let this cup pass from me.’
I will pray, ‘O my God, let me not be put to shame;
let not my enemies exult over me.’
I also will pray,
‘But not my will, but yours, be done’.”

Easier said than said.

(Morse asks) “Do you see him sympathizing with you?
Do you see him suffer for you? As all else fails,
is he enough for you?
Do you believe his promise
that soon you will suffer no more?
Do you see him with you?
Do you know the depths of his love for you?
Do you know he is strengthening you,
even in this, even now?
Are his scarred hands holding yours
as he whispers of glory to come?”

I’m fighting the biggest faith-fight of my life.
But I’m not forsaking my confession of faith.
I’m still trusting God—who else do I have?
I believe I will “wake to see his face in glory”.

But that’s just it.
(Dare I publish this?)
My desire is not
to depart and be with Christ.
I believe as Paul wrote
that it’s better by far.
But I want to stay here longer.
I don’t want this cancer to kill me.
Don’t want this PLS to deaden my legs.
I want to help carry Lois’s burdens.
Want to celebrate my children and grandchildren.
Want to serve through this blog.
Want to walk again.
O Lord, make it so!
But if this cancer spreads and PLS persists, what then?

I will take courageous faith
from Morse’s blog.
I will pray for power
to hold to my confession of faith
and trust my Lord.

And to the very end I will pray,
“Lord, stop this cancer-spread.
Reverse my PLS symptoms.
Just a word from you,
and it will be done.
Then I will enjoy great good,
and from me you will receive great glory.”

O, but I’m bargaining.
Trying to convince him
it’s in his best interests to heal me.
A fox-hole “Christian”:
“God, get me out of this
and I’ll serve you forever.”

No, I’m not above bargaining.
But, only briefly.
Again and again I come back to:
“If you’re willing,
you can make me well”.

But that’s too little, isn’t it.

I have to end with this defiance:
“But if not, I will cling to my faith-confession
and trust you, my Lord.”

Easier said than said.

So, also, in my sinfulness,
I will pray for sufficient grace.
And in my weakness,
I will pray for his power
to be perfected in my weakness
that even “if not”
he will be glorified in me.

My Glory

May 18, 2018 / Allan Babcock

” . . . my glory,”
and the one who lifts my head.”

Memorable words from King David to the Lord.
In this dark psalm
he flees from his son, Absalom.

Absalom conspired
to steal the kingdom.
He turned the Israelite’s hearts.
David fled before escape was blocked.
“So the king left,
followed by all his household . . . ” ( 2 Samuel 15).

“O LORD, how many are my foes!
How many rise up against me!
Many are saying of me, ‘God will not deliver him.’
But you are a shield around me, O LORD;
you’re my glory and the lifter of my head” (Psalm 3:1-3).

David had slain the giant Goliath.
But he doesn’t stand his throne like a warrior.
Instead he sadly, slowly slinks away in weakness.
His ears hear onlookers’ gossip:
“God will not deliver him.”

He whispers– in faith–to the LORD,
” . . . you are a shield around me;
I find my glory just in serving you;
you raise my head high.”
Outwardly, David is defeated, humiliated;
inwardly, he’s rushing to the LORD his refuge.

Not only so; he prays,
“Rise up, O LORD! Deliver me, O my God!”
It’s a prayer of hope
in depressing, degrading circumstances.
The LORD will restore him.
David expects to recover the throne.

Our kingdom hasn’t been usurped.
We’re not slinking out the city,
hearing God’s-gone-gossip,
humiliated, disgraced, disowned.
Even so, today we may trudge along,
much of what we once were gone.
Life was good,
under control.
Now, like David, our steps are heavy,
kingdom lost, God gone.

But dare we repeat David’s wonderful words?
Can we rightly claim them as ours too?
“But you are a shield around me, O LORD;
you’re my glory and the lifter of my head.”
Is the LORD to us who he was to King David?

David repeats what he hears:
“Many are saying to me,
‘There is no help for you in God’.”
So came mockers to Jesus’ cross:
“He trusts in God; let God deliver him now.”
The Son of David heard the same cruel words.
Of course, unlike David, God didn’t deliver him
–just let him die.
But God was Jesus’ glory, as he was David’s,
the One who lifted his head.
On the third day he raised Jesus to life.

The psalm applies to Christ,
so it applies to us who are in Christ.
The LORD is a shield around us.
He is our glory.
He is the lifter of our head.
We can sing it to him in worship,
and find it is so . . .

Asaph’s Slippery Feet

May 12, 2018 / Allan Babcock

Asaph was a temple choir worship leader.
In Psalm 73 he admits,
“My feet had almost slipped”.

What did he mean?
He envied the prosperous with their healthy, strong bodies.
Their wealth freed them from common burdens.
They flaunted their arrogance–
and God stayed silent.
Injustice made Asaph conclude,
“Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure;
. . . I have been punished every morning”.

I, too, envy.
I envy the man who can walk,
the man not imprisoned in a wheelchair,
the man not threatened by spreading cancer,
the old man with strength remaining,
the old man not a burden to his wife.
I don’t begrudge them;
I just want what they have.

I pray for healing–at least some—
but the enthroned God sits silent,
while I I grow weaker.
I know Scriptures’ reasons.
But instead of faith growing stronger;
instead of endurance, character, hope;
instead of satisfaction with God;
like my body, my faith, weakens.
I still believe with my mind,
but, I think, not with my heart.
A fight is raging; I’m losing.

Having confessed his slippery foothold,
Asaph writes,
“If I had said, ‘I will speak thus,’
I would have betrayed your children”.
Instead of passing on the faith;
instead of leading the next generation
to walk in trust in Yahweh;
he would have tainted them with doubt
and troubled their faith with unbelief.
But he did “speak thus”.
This psalm is his confession,
read by generations.

I don’t want to betray God’s children.
I want to be a paragon of faith
for the next generation and beyond.
So I hesitate to write my “confession”.
I want to weigh down no one.

But at times God is silent.
And we’re left only with promises on a page.
Occasionally I long to feel God’s nearness.
Instead, I’m left with only words,
“I will never leave you”.
I want–I think I need–more.
I read of sufferers suddenly surrounded
by a sense of God’s presence.
Or feeling bathed in love from above.
“Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure”.
But I haven’t.
I’ve entertained sinful thoughts.
I’ve doubted God’s love.
I’ve questioned Jesus’ Father,
who knows how to give good gifts to his children.
I’ve complained about a stone instead of bread.

Asaph, feet slipping, declared,
” . . . till I entered the sanctuary of God;
then I understood their final destiny”.
God will sweep away the carefree unbeliever,
but take the believer into eternal glory.

Years ago, when I read this psalm
and came to “then I understood their final destiny”,
I’d smile with self-satisfied wisdom
and agree.
Of course, final destiny makes the difference.
And I’d be content with little wealth or poor health,
because in the end God would be more than just–forever.

Now for me the end comes near.
I can’t walk. I ache. I have cancer. I can’t see well.
I think of 70-somethings who walk, even run.
Their aches are minimal. Cancer-free. Good vision.
I envy them.

Tell me of others who suffer far worse.
Tell me I’ve outlived my father and brother.
Still, envy rears its head.
And, final destiny, seems less good.
How can that be?
Final destiny means, not only justice,
but Jesus.

Yet, these are my honest feelings.
the emotions I sometimes wrestle with.
I want to walk now.
I want to be well now.
I want cancer gone now.
Honestly.

I decide that in the end,
Christianity comes down to the end,
to the final destiny.
Only then we know its truth.
Only then, as we used to sing, we’ll know
“It will be worth it all when we see Jesus”.

Today I’m weak again.
My vision is poor.
I struggle to write this.
But I do because I imagine
this may help a fellow-believer in his struggles
and to prepare others for what may lie ahead.

And I write with this prayer:
“Lord, give me eyes to see life
from the place of final destiny.
So that, with Asaph,
my feet do not slip
and I do not lose my foothold.”

Longing to Die to Be with Christ

April 19, 2018 / Allan Babcock

Theologians call it “the intermediate state”. It’s that temporary time between our dying and Jesus’ Second Coming.

That’s what I started writing about–about what that intermediate state is like. Then I read one of the few texts telling about that time. And it pulled me in a different direction.

Before looking at that text, let me explain my interest in the intermediate state: simply, if we’re Jesus-believers and we die before he comes again, that’s where we’re going. So I want to know what it’s like. Now if I were God, I’d provide photos in the back of our Bibles. Instead, all we have are slim texts from which to infer a picture. I started with the one below–and it pulled me away. Maybe blew me away is more accurate.

” 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. For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labor for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far . . . ” (Philippians 1:20-23).

The writer is Paul. He’s in a Rome house, chained 24/7 to a Roman guard, awaiting trial before Caesar. Here’s what Paul reveals about the intermediate state.

1. Wen we enter the intermediate state through death’s door, we gain. It’s “better by far”. Unnormal thinking! I sit here musing on what I’ll lose– my wife, my children, my grandchildren, other significant relationships, and a thousand things I’ve enjoyed here. But Paul, on the other hand, looks ahead, forward to the gain that awaits.

2. When we pass through death’s door, we believers are immediately with Christ. Anthony A. Hoekema (20th century professor of Systematic Theology at Calvin Theological Seminary) explained: “Analysai (to depart) is an aorist infinitive, depicting the momentary experience of death. Linked to analysai by a single article is the present infinite einai (to be). The single article ties the two infinitives together, so that the actions depicted by these two infinitives are to be considered two aspects of the same thing, like two sides of the same coin” (The Bible and the Future, p. 104). Depart and be with Christ.

3. “[W]ith Christ” is what makes dying gain. “Christ” makes the intermediate state “better by far”. Christ is such gain that Paul admits, “I desire to depart and be with Christ . . .” Paul longs to die to be with Christ.

This is where I’m pulled away. Think. What fuels Paul’s longing? What makes him count dying gain? “For to me, to live is Christ.” Dr. Gordon Fee writes, ” . .. since Damascus [Road), Christ became the singular pursuit of his life. Christ–crucified, exalted Lord, present by the Spirit, coming King; Christ, the name that sums up for Paul the whole range of his new relationship to God: personal devotion, commitment, service, the gospel, ministry, communion, inspiration, everything.”

Paul himself expounds on this . . .

“But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ– the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus” (Philippians3:7-14).

Again, Fee comments: “Thus if Paul is released as he expects, he will continue (now as always) in full pursuit of knowing Christ and making him known. Likewise, if he is executed, the goal of living has thus been reached: he will finally have gained Christ.”

Can you see why I was pulled? I started to search for a picture of what the immediate state is like. I ended up with a picture of what my life should be now.

I admit I’ve been pursuing healing more than Christ. Somehow, by God’s grace, by the empowering of his Spirit, I have to change my aim. I can still pray for healing. (At this point, I can’t not.) But pursuit? That must be singular. That must be Christ.

And for that I need no photos of the intermediate state.

Cup

March 7, 2018 / Allan Babcock

“Father, everything is possible for you.
Take this cup from me.”
The words poured from Jesus’ lips,
a plea from the soul-mourning Son.
The dark of Gethsemane’s olive trees
hid him from foes—for a time.
The same black branches
reached to accost him in secret.
The night was dark; evil marched.

He had come, from Passover Supper, to pray,
bringing the Twelve, then three only, to watch.
Soon they slept while he went alone
deeper among the trees, deeper into the night.

His soul grieved unto death.
(Who can grasp his sorrow? His desolation?)
His mourning became a bodily weight,
crumpling him to the ground in prayer.

He knew the cup that lay ahead.
He could see it, taste it–
the cup of suffering beyond bearing,
crucifixion—
the weight of the Father’s wrath
against the world’s sin.
From trembling lips, he prayed.
He didn’t want to bear it.

My cup can’t compare,
as different as day from night.
Yet my suffering persists, years now,
wheelchair- and weakness-bound,
cancer, too, that will surely spread,
unless stayed by the Voice that stopped the sea.
So I pray, “Take this cup from me.”

Apostle James, (against reason?), urges,
“Count it all joy, when you meet trials of any kind,
because you know this tests your faith;
your endurance makes you mature and complete.”
James, I welcome your word;
it reveals God’s good in suffering.
But, I detest the cup;
I grieve at it and long that it be gone.

And, later, James invites the ill:
“Is any one of you sick?
He should call the church elders
to pray over him
and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord.
And the faith-prayer will make the sick well;
the Lord will raise him up.”

James would have me welcome trials with joy
and have church elders pray that the Lord remove them.
(Latter done, still working on the former.)

Apostle John adds a condition:
“ . . . if we ask anything according to his will,
he hears us . . . and we know that we have
what we asked of him.”
The Father, then, will give us only what he wants;
his (good) will be done.
But it’s against all in me
to stop pleading,
“Take this cup.”

Surely Jesus fell silent after asking.
Surely he waited for the Father
to hear his cry and carry off the cup.
But heaven stayed still.

“Yet not my will, but yours be done.”
The words came in surrender.
Resolute surrender.
Granite-faced surrender. Unfaltering.
(I presume to know what lay ahead for him,
what he endured starting that dawn.
I read Gospel reports, try to imagine.
But I can’t comprehend.
Crucifixion. Sin- and wrath-bearing.
Beyond my grasp.)

“Yet not my will, but yours be done.”
To drink the cup; it was his Father’s will.
Is it, too, for me? For my cup?

Shall this be my prayer?
Shall I, too, surrender?
Father, take this cup from me.
In the Resurrection a new body?
Yes, I believe.
In this life healing?
Yes, my heart still pleads.

But this I must pray:
“Yet, not as I will; but your will be done.”

A story is told of two women
Both ill for years, both praying healing prayers.
The first, a missionary.
After eight years she gave up,
surrendered to God’s will.
Shortly after, he made her well.

The second, Catherine Marshall.
Tuberculosis—she prayed long.
Finally: “I handed over to God
every last vestige of self-will,
even my intense desire for whole health.
‘Lord,’ I said, ‘I understand none of this,
but if you want me an invalid—
well, it’s up to you.
I place myself in your hands,
for better or for worse.
I ask only to serve you.’”
That same night,
Jesus appeared and healed her.

This Prayer of Relinquishment
(coined by Catherine)
mustn’t be manipulation,
but full-blown, white-flag surrender,
a laying down of “please, heal me” prayers,
a true, “Thy will be done”.
To resist is mad—he will do as he wills
without my will opposing.
So what’s to be lost by losing control?
No thing.

And what’s to be gained by giving in?
Relief. Peace. Intimacy.
If I plead only, “Take this cup”,
do I make him merely means?

I must also pray: “Your will be done”
. . .and fall into his arms.

Storm

March 2, 2018 / Allan Babcock

Peter fought to keep his feet
in the wind and wave-whipped boat.
With John and James,
he’d managed to pull down the sail.
But the sudden squall was furious,
venting its temper from all sides,
threatening to swamp the boat,
and swallow them in its water.

Over the sides waves broke,
creating a flood of sea water,
already more than ankle-deep.
Disciples frantically bailed.
James fought the oars.
The wind roared.
The waves attacked.
The men grasped the mast,
the sides—
anything to stay safe
from the hungry waves.

Storms flared often on this small sea.
Cool, dry air from surrounding mountains
mixed with warm, moist air below,
firing frequent storms.
Fishermen were familiar with them.
But this one, this one was hell-bent
on swamping their boat
and sucking them under.

How could Jesus sleep?
He lay cushioned in the stern.
Drifted off early on,
soon after leaving Capernaum
on calm sea with whispering breeze.
But now day was black,
sea and wind furious.
The fishermen fought for their lives.

“Master, Master!” they screamed him awake.
“Save us! We’re going to drown!
“Don’t you care?”
Words tumbled from their mouths,
grown men unashamed to beg,
like little children fearing a monster.

“You of little faith,” said Jesus wearily,
shouting above the storm.
“Why are you so afraid?”
Then he pushed himself up the tossing boat,
struggling against wind and wave.
“Quiet! Be still!”
A stern rebuke,
as if to noisy, unruly children.

The wind blew less still less,
returning to a gentle breeze.
The sea calmed to tiny ripples.
Then all was still.
The sea glass, the air at peace.
As if a sanctified place.

Amazed, the disciples stood still,
staring into silence.
Then, terrified, they mumbled,
“Who is this man?
Even winds and waves obey him!”

Our family once had a boat.
We clamored aboard.
sped to a nearby sandbar
where we played and sunned.
Not once did a storm strike.
So I can’t imagine this one.

But other storm-forms do.
I bear a 3-inch melanoma square
on my head.
Too weak, I opted out of surgery.
If spreading is to stop,
Jesus must get up
and still my storm.

“Master, don’t you care?”
“Oh, you of little faith.”
Yes, yes, my faith is small,
no more than a mustard seed.
“But little is enough, Master,
so you said.”

I wait for him to speak,
and for my storm to stop.