Monday brings The Week in Words at Breath of Life. Though I fear I’ve already over-quoted from George MacDonald’s Unspoken Sermons this week, I can’t resist offering these wise words from “Man’s Difficulty Concerning Prayer”:
Perhaps, indeed, the better the gift we pray for, the more time is necessary to its arrival. To give us the spiritual gift we desire, God may have to begin far back in our spirit, in regions unknown to us, and do much work that we can be aware of only in the results; for our consciousness is to the extent of our being but as the flame of the volcano to the world-gulf whence it issues: in the gulf of our unknown being God works behind our consciousness. With his holy influence, with his own presence, the one thing for which most earnestly we cry, he may be approaching our consciousness from behind, coming forward through regions of our darkness into our light, long before we begin to be aware that he is answering our request — has answered it, and is visiting his child.
These sermons force me to slow down and ponder. I can’t imagine them spoken rather than written; 75% of the content would blow right by me while I work to grasp his first preliminary point. I can’t help but recognize how often I read over difficult sentences, faltering a little, but proceeding full steam ahead in the faith that ensuing sentences will restore firm and easy ground underfoot. How many jewels do I miss with this kind of reading?
The thing about MacDonald is that difficult sentences aren’t very often followed by easy ones. He invariably builds on the difficult, and there’s no going on until I’ve stopped and wrestled.
Anyway, it’s worth it — very encouraging. For more quotable gems, head over to Breath of Life.
I learned on the Writer’s Almanac that today is Laura Ingalls Wilder’s birthday. She was born 143 years ago, and received her 6 gentle birthday spankings from Pa 137 years ago today.
My mother read the series to us when we took our trip across the country in 1978. There were five of us in the 1973 Plymouth Satellite station wagon, packed to the hilt with camping supplies (we tent-camped from New York to California), but with nary an ipod, a cd-player or headphones, or even a tape player in the car. It was AM radio, and the Little House books, and we were all in it together.
Now my daughters have listened to the series from the Big Woods through These Happy Golden Years. I’ve enjoyed revisiting the tales as an adult and learning more about Laura through John E. Miller’s biography. Certain ideals we value have been clarified in her books: contentment with little in the way of material possessions, valuing what you have, love and security no matter how unstable your outward circumstances, and personal resourcefulness.
There’s a Today Show interview with Melissa Gilbert, who played Laura on the television series and now plays Ma in a stage adaptation, here. My reflections on the Little House books are here and here; my review of John E. Miller’s Becoming Laura Ingalls Wilder is here.
Happy birthday, Half Pint. Your decision to share your life experiences was a great gift to us all.
Recently, my husband read Neil Anderson’s Victory Over the Darkness. It’s about our identity in Christ, and it’s been an extremely influential book for him.
I read it a few years ago, and somewhere — I think at our former church — I picked up a bookmark that lists the various lies we believe about who we are, each one paired with the Scriptural passage that counteracts it. It’s a great resource that gathers so much truth in one place. Tozer wrote, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.” It’s at least partly because how we see ourselves is deeply interwoven with our view of God.
To me, George MacDonald offers a wonderful picture of fallen, yet redeemable, human nature in “Man’s Difficulty Concerning Prayer” (from Unspoken Sermons). It’s an antidote to the stew pot of doctrinal influences and deep hopelessness that can drain the vitality from my ability to dwell by faith in my true spiritual identity before God:
Certainly no evil is, or ever could be, of the essential being and nature of the creature God made! The thing that is not good, however associated with our being, is against that being, not of it — is its enemy, on which we need to be avenged.
Here, MacDonald is following up a discussion of prayers for revenge. I’ve heard the Psalmist’s invocation of God’s vengeance on enemies discussed as an example of honesty before God, but beyond that I don’t remember hearing anyone who really knows what to do with it. MacDonald plunges in:
God will never punish according to the abstract abomination of sin, as if men knew what they were doing. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ he says: with a right understanding of it, we might as well pray for God’s vengeance as for his forgiveness; that vengeance is, to destroy the sin — to make the sinner abjure and hate it; nor is there any satisfaction in a vengeance that seeks or effects less. The man himself must turn against himself, and so be for himself. If nothing else will do, then hell-fire; if less will do, whatever brings repentance and self-repudiation, is God’s payment.
Friends, if any prayers are offered against us; if the vengeance of God be cried out for, because of some wrong you or I have done, God grant us his vengeance!
Even the vengeance of God is holy, and for our good. Unlike human anger that lashes out and destroys, the vengeance of God is as precise as a scalpel in the skilled hand of divine love. It targets sin; rather than destroy, it frees and invigorates life.
This morning I thought about how different this view is than Jonathon Edwards’ notion of “sinners in the hands of an angry God“! For Edwards, it’s not sin, but the people God himself has created, that
are now the objects of that very same anger and wrath of God, that is expressed in the torments of hell. And the reason why they do not go down to hell at each moment, is not because God, in whose power they are, is not then very angry with them; as he is with many miserable creatures now tormented in hell, who there feel and bear the fierceness of his wrath. Yea, God is a great deal more angry with great numbers that are now on earth: yea, doubtless, with many that are now in this congregation, who it may be are at ease, than he is with many of those who are now in the flames of hell.
Some who like this sermon say that God’s grace is its dominant theme. I don’t see it — not here, and not later, when Edwards paints this vivid picture:
The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. You have offended him infinitely more than ever a stubborn rebel did his prince; and yet it is nothing but his hand that holds you from falling into the fire every moment.
Why would a God given over to rage like this redeem the world?
We may not talk in these terms, but I think vestiges of this view are deeply rooted in our collective consciousness. They show up in bumper stickers like, “I’m not perfect, I’m just forgiven.” They show up in the cliche that we are “sinners saved by grace.” In fact, the New Testament refers to believers saved by grace as saints, not sinners. As Neil Anderson puts it, once we put our faith in Christ, “Our relationship with sin is over.”
I not only vastly prefer MacDonald’s view of the relationship between God and fallen human nature. I think it’s more deeply true, biblically. And I would ask God to remove all vestiges of an unworthy and defeating view of him, who Jesus said “so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son.” May he give me grace to learn how to pray
together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.
Westmark was published in 1981, but it’s a new Lloyd Alexander find for me. I’ve read the Prydain Chronicles, but hadn’t ever delved into this author’s other books. There are quite a few, and perhaps I didn’t know where to begin.
Westmark has some of the same qualities I loved about the Prydain Chronicles:
a flawed but true boy/young man for its main character
a quest for identity
fast-paced adventure
a fictional realm that (apparently) gets developed in the rest of the series
exuberance and wit at every turn
I found Westmark more philosophical, though. The effects of propoganda, war, and corrupt governance all figure into the story, as does the question of whether killing is ever justified or right.
The king of Westmark, grieving the mysterious loss of his only daughter, is all too willing to surrender the bulk of kingdom-running to his scheming chief minister Cabbarus. (I quoted him here.) Theo, an apprentice to a printer who has been destroyed by Cabbarus’ oppressive policies, is left to fend for himself. In his travels he meets a good-natured con-man and his dwarf assistant, an orphaned street girl, and a band of high-minded rebels led by a disillusioned aristocrat named Florian who thinks the monarchy should be abolished entirely.
Theo, especially, wrestles with moral questions. He asks Florian,
I have to understand… Killing is wrong. I believed that. I still do. But now I wonder. Do I believe it because I want to be a decent man? Or — because I’m a coward?… Who decides what’s right?
Which group of seemingly good people should he ally himself with, and to what extent? In the moment of crisis, what should be his response to an evil person? How responsible is he for his friends? Some of these types of questions, as I recall, are raised in Taran’s adventures in Prydain. But there’s something, not less lively, but less quirky, about their treatment in Westmark. I think I liked it a little better, much though I like Prydain. It’s one of those “children’s books” that packs a punch for readers of all ages.
I’m glad Sherry mentioned this title in her recognition of Lloyd Alexander’s birthday, and I may go back and pick up the others in the series.
The photo GretchenJoanna posted of her early morning visitor inspired me to recommend this story — and then, of course, to pick it up and read it again with the girls. It’s kind of a twist on the theme of hospitality, of entertaining angels unawares — but in this case, the “angel” is a raccoon.
I loved this tale as a child, and still have our old copy. In real life, my father was in continual combat with raccoons, perfecting the bungy-cord-like straps and springs that eventually kept the garbage can lids in place when the raccoons tipped them over in the night. But in the story, Mrs. McGinnis leaves a piece of bread out every night for her resident raccoon, and he returns the favor with interest. I sympathized with my Dad, but my heart was more in tune with Mrs. McGinnis toward all things furry and roly-poly.
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That one was pure pleasure. For school, we’ve toured a number of books about the Revolutionary War era:
Boston Tea Party, in which a group of mice scurrying across the bottom of each page, discussing the content, enlivened the history unfolding on center stage;
George Did It, about our reluctant first president who nevertheless rose to the occasion and did his duty in all things;
Paul Revere’s Ride, the memorable Longfellow poem, wonderfully illustrated by Ted Rand. We read the library copy, but I’d love to have one to keep.
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Last but not least, I have to mention Jama Kim Rattigan’s Truman’s Aunt Farm. I’ve gotten to know Jama a little bit through her blog thanks to Poetry Friday, but this is my first of her books. What’s held me back? It’s not lack of interest. It’s more the same reluctance I feel when a relative gives me some of their original poems to read: “I really like them: what if I don’t like their writing?”
I needn’t have worried! If you haven’t read this tale about a boy who sends away for an ant farm and finds aunts arriving on his doorstep instead, wait no longer. All of us loved the wordplay, the fun of being drawn into Truman’s dilemma, and his good-humored and humane response. Older Daughter is 8 and snatched the book before I had a chance to read it aloud. When I asked her what it was about, a slow smile spread over her face and she said, “That is a very funny book…” I notice that it’s included in volume 3 of 5 In a Row. Here are some ideas for activities related to the story — along with Jama’s explanation of where it came from.
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That’s the cream skimmed off the top. What have you been reading? Visit Hope Is the Word to read others’ posts or share your own.
I find George MacDonald’s “Word of Jesus on Prayer,” from Unspoken Sermons, very encouraging. The text he’s starting from is the parable of the persistent widow. Here are a few morsels:
If, instead of speculation, we gave ourselves to obedience, what a difference would soon be seen in the world! Oh, the multitude of so-called religious questions which the Lord would answer with, ’strive to enter at the strait gate’! Many eat and drink and talk and eat in his presence; few do the things he says to them! Obedience is the one key of life.
So easy to talk about things that are difficult. So much easier to go read a book about prayer than to pray. But MacDonald is interested in practical obedience:
I would meet difficulties, not answer objections; I would remove stumbling blocks from the path of him who would pray; I would help him pray.
I like what MacDonald has to say about the idea that if we just get enough people to petition God for a particular thing, he’ll have to grant it. I remember a church I once attended that developed a “strategic prayer” ministry, and it bothered me because it implied that we could somehow direct God’s energies to our own ends through “strategy.” So these sentences are music to my ears:
A God that should fail to hear, receive, attend to one single prayer, the feeblest or the worst, I cannot believe in; but a God that would grant every request of every man or every company of men, would be an evil God — that is no God, but a demon. That God should hang in the thought-atmosphere like a windmill, waiting till men enough should combine and send out prayer in sufficient force to turn his outspread arms, is an idea too absurd. God waits to be gracious not tempted. A man capable of proposing such a test, could have in his mind no worthy representative idea of a God, and might well disbelieve in any: it is better to disbelieve than believe in a God unworthy.
God as a windmill waiting for us to send some wind! Such a picture.
But I think my favorite theme in this sermon is the idea that we pray not out of our need for things, but out of our need for God:
But if God is so good as you represent him, and if he knows all that we need, and better far than ourselves, why should it be necessary to ask him for anything?
I answer, What if he knows prayer to be the thing we need first and most? What if the main object in God’s idea of prayer be the supplying of our great, our endless need — the need of himself? What if the good of all our smaller and lower needs lies in this, that they help to drive us to God? Hunger may drive the runaway child home, and he may or may not be fed at once, but he needs his mother more than his dinner. Communion with God is the one need of the soul beyond all other need; prayer is the beginning of that communion, and some need is the motive of that prayer.
There’s more to it, but these were some highpoints for me — food for thought and, better yet from MacDonald’s perspective, inspiration to “enter at the strait gate.”
I really need to dust my dresser. But there’s a problem:
It’s covered with offerings: clay creations, pictures, coloring pages, Valentines from days gone by. There are these “pennywhickers,” as my daughter calls them — horses small as pennies, representing an afternoon’s craftsmanship one day and presented to me as a decoration:
There’s this drawing from Younger Daughter, made when the Errol Flynn version of Robin Hood became too stressful for her. It’s a picture of a brave girl swashbuckling through the woods, and it’s titled, “From [her name] too Janit”:
There’s even a spontaneous grammar illustration, up there beside the various homemade necklaces draped over the mirror:
In a way, it’s my altar: I surrender the neat, bare surface to art work and confirm my daughters’ creative drive.
But mostly, it’s their altar, I realized last night. As you can see, these first fruits cover over all reflective surfaces — both the mirror and the potentially gleaming wood. I look at my dresser, and instead of seeing my solitary face reflected back to me, I see my daughters and their love for me.
Mark Shields: “All great revolutions are led by aristocrats. That is the reality of history.”
David Brooks: “Populism and elitism are the same thing. They are class prejudices, crude class prejudices that so-and-so, because they are uneducated, is less worthy, or so-and-so, because they are richer or more educated, is unworthy.”
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Then there’s this, a description of a woman’s feelings about how she’s aging, taken from a book I’ve actually abandoned for now called While I Was Gone by Sue Miller:
I examined myself objectively, clinically now. I saw a nice-looking middle-aged person, someone you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed her on the street. And I’d never been beautiful, in fact. I’d been attractive…
Now, though, when my face was in repose, I looked tired. The downcurving lines at the corners of my mouth made me seem judgmental and stern… Sometimes my receptionist, Beattie, a woman I’d known and loved for twenty years, would ask me — out of the blue, from my perspective — “What’s wrong?” and I’d realize my face had fallen into those lines again. “Nothing,” I’d say. And then consciously try to open my face, to make it pleasant. To make it, I suppose, younger.
I had to laugh. I don’t think I have lines around my mouth, but I do have a distressing one between my eyebrows. It’s either a scowling wrinkle, or a thinking wrinkle. Why don’t we all agree that it’s the latter, shall we?
And as far as looking stern, alas, it’s haunted me all my life. A few weeks ago, my husband and daughter both commented that I looked unusually serious while playing the piano in church on Sunday. These days I feel tired and kind of weighed down, but I don’t know that I can blame it on that. I remember my second grade gym teacher literally chasing me around the gym, trying to get me to smile. It made me furious, and deepened my frown immeasurably. (And there goes our agreement about thinking vs. scowling…)
But seriously, who wants an on-demand smile? Real ones are better. I’m happy (sort of) to confess that I also have my share of crow’s feet settling in, proving that I do in fact smile on occasion. But back to the quote, I guess it’s obvious that I could relate to this speaker’s awareness of aging, and others’ reactions to it.
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I’ve been struggling to read George MacDonald’s Unspoken Sermons. They come highly recommended by minds as diverse as C.S. Lewis and Mark Twain, but I seem to be drawn to lighter fare lately. Well, maybe it also has to do with the fact that the text looks like this:
Very dense with print and thought, and I have an undisciplined mind. But this essay on prayer got my attention right at the start with this passage:
Everything difficult indicates something more than our theory of life yet embraces, checks some tendency to abandon the strait path, leaving open only the way ahead. But there is a reality of being in which all things are easy and plain — oneness, that is, with the Lord of Life; to pray for this is the first thing; and to the point of this prayer every difficulty hedges and directs us.
I love that, especially the first clause. I love the idea of prayer as an enterprise that enlarges our theory of life. It combats the mundane struggle I have with bothering to articulate things to God when he already knows everything.
Thanks to Amy, I’m aware of this new weekly carnival at Breath of Life. It involves sharing some words from your reading. Melissa explains,
“Playing along is simple, just write a post of the quote(s) that spoke to you during the week (attributed, of course) and link back here. They can be from any written source, i.e. magazine, newspaper, blog, book. The only requirement is that they be words you read.”
Here’s a paragraph from Lloyd Alexander’s Westmark, which I learned of at Semicolon. The speaker is Cabbarus, chief minister of the realm of Westmark, and he’s reading about the most recent government attempts to shut down pamphleteers and printing presses:
“The subjects of His Majesty,” he was saying, “require the firmest guidance. The people yearn for it, without even realizing what it is they yearn for. These scribblers cause nothing but unrest. Their deaths, beyond question, will serve a higher purpose than their lives: the good of the kingdom. I bear them no personal animosity, but I would fail in my duty if I did otherwise. They will, at least, be spared the needless humiliation of a public trial.”
Chuckle, chuckle. Couldn’t help but picture certain public figures speaking about health care. Or the frequency with which we hear “lack of understanding” bemoaned as the reason some policies meet with opposition (as though there could be no real disagreement). Or the plain rudeness in some quarters about our “nation of dodos.”
Long live “the scribblers,” and may they forever frustrate Cabbarus and his ilk.
What have you been reading? Visit Breath of Life to read or participate!
Charles Wesley wrote a whole collection of earthquake hymns in response to two such events in London. (Hat tip to Ruth.) I’ve been reading them, and find them to be stern going. As the introduction notes,
the Wesley brothers shared the common assumption of their time that earthquakes, major storms, disease epidemic and similar events were more than just “accidents of nature.” They were considered to be providential acts—sometimes as expressions of divine protection (thwarting the French fleet) or punishment, but more often (particularly in mild cases like this) as portents to awaken complacent humanity to our spiritual failures and duties.
I may be missing something, but I don’t see anything in the New Testament to confirm that natural disasters are anything other than an expression of the fallenness that has beset the earth since Adam and Eve made their fateful choice.
Today, I feel more like hearing this Christmas song that proclaims, “Hallelujah! The King is here.” All around us, in so many ways, we see evidence of the fallenness of this world. But there is hope. The King is here. I don’t always understand what that means for this hour, but I take profound comfort in it.
There is a strain of something — sentimental? — in this song. When my daughter listens to the line that says, “Baby Jesus, do you know you’ll die for all our sin? Don’t be afraid,” she responds, “I don’t think he was afraid.”
I think I agree. But I take that line as addressed to me. I am afraid sometimes. But the King is here, the one who has suffered and endured all the weakness of human frailty, all the devastation of pain and loss and injustice, all the worst of seeming pointlessness. Now he sits at the right hand of God, yet offers us his very Spirit as an ever-present help in time of trouble, a friend that sticks closer than a brother.
was published in 1981, but it’s a new Lloyd Alexander find for me. I’ve read the Prydain Chronicles, but hadn’t ever delved into this author’s other books. There are 
Boston Tea Party
Last but not least, I have to mention Jama Kim Rattigan’s 
I had to laugh. I don’t think I have lines around my mouth, but I do have a distressing one between my eyebrows. It’s either a scowling wrinkle, or a thinking wrinkle. Why don’t we all agree that it’s the latter, shall we?
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