IVP - Strangely Dim - September 2008 Archives

What We Notice

For those of you who think donkeys are so Old Testament, think again: they were just as hip in the New. Today's Donkey Tale is based on Luke 13:10-17.

Have you ever noticed that we notice what we want to notice--the things we're interested in, inclined toward, involved in? Artists notice color and texture in a room. Mechanics notice the rattling of car parts. Counselors notice body language. These aren't bad things at all. These are natural "noticings" that show our individual interests and gifts.

Like any good thing in this fallen world, though, noticing can go awry, causing us to judge others or lose perspective and, as they say, miss the forest for the trees. Being a proofreader, I notice spelling and grammar mistakes wherever I go: restaurant menus, church bulletins, PowerPoint slides, advertisements. At a concert a few weeks ago my sister (who's also in publishing) and I had to smile at the emcee's hopes that we would "leave different than how we came." I turned to her in mock dismay and said, "But I don't want to walk home! I want to drive home, the same way we came!" Noticing these errors is all in good fun, of course--until it distracts me from truly worshiping in a church service or causes me to look down on a person or business for their lack of spelling-savvy. At that point I've lost perspective on what really matters. Eyes and minds can very easily become too narrowly focused--and lead us to sin.

Take the synagogue ruler in Luke 13. On the Sabbath, Jesus is teaching in the synagogue when he notices a woman who has been crippled by a spirit for eighteen years and can't stand up straight. (These, of course, are the kinds of people Jesus always notices.) He tells her to come forward and, laying his hands on her, he heals her.

Imagine her shock and joy and amazement. What starts out as a typical, difficult day for her becomes truly miraculous: she is healed and free.

And imagine being an observer of this miracle. Who wouldn't be in awe of Jesus and overjoyed for this woman?

The synagogue ruler, for one. A woman is freed, yet he's indignant because he only notices that Jesus has broken the law by healing on the Sabbath. He's also too afraid to rebuke Jesus directly, so he chooses instead to sternly address everyone gathered there: "There are six days for work. So come and be healed on those days, not on the Sabbath."

Notice what he didn't notice in his huffy state: the fact that Jesus did the initiating, not the woman; Jesus picked her out and called her up, yet the synagogue ruler seems to place some of the blame for this Sabbath healing on the woman. Furthermore, the ruler clearly hasn't noticed that fact that he himself most likely breaks the Sabbath every week in the same way Jesus just did:

The Lord [said to] him, "You hypocrites! Doesn't each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or donkey from the stall and lead it out to give it water? Then should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?"

The synagogue ruler would free his donkey but not a person on the Sabbath because he only noticed the law, not the reason behind the law. Most days I'm not much different from him. I might notice and dwell on the fact that someone in another car gave me an angry look on my way to work and completely miss the fact that a coworker looks upset. I'll notice a friend's encouragement and kindness but miss the even broader picture of the goodness of God the friend reflects.

We're going to notice what we notice based on our background, training, interest. So keep untying your donkey on the Sabbath. But don't miss the hurting people, the Creator who made the sunrise, the kingdom of God that's coming and that's here and that we're meant to participate in. How do we do that? We take what we notice to God, and ask him about it. And we ask him to open our eyes and minds so that we might see, touch, listen, notice the way Jesus does.

Misplaced

This post continues our Fortnight of Donkey Tales with a look at Saul in 1 Samuel 9.

I've never really understood Saul--not the Old Testament king Saul but the idea of that Old Testament king. Here's a person who by almost all accounts seems misplaced--he doesn't want to be king, he doesn't make good decisions as king, he actively subverts the movement of God to prepare his replacement as king. His anointer Samuel, his son Benjamin, whole crowds of his people and in some cases even God and even Saul himself seem to think that his being king is a bad idea. And yet, in 1 Samuel 9, God tells Samuel to be ready to make someone king, and when Samuel sees Saul, God tells him, "This is the man I spoke to you about."

When Samuel found Saul, Saul was looking for his father's lost donkeys, and in fact Saul had been traipsing across the countryside trying to find these donkeys for several days. Saul's inability to find a few donkeys doesn't speak well of his capacity to lead twelve tribes as one great people. In fact, Saul's qualifications to be king seem to be limited to his looks: "an impressive young man without equal among the Israelites--a head taller than any of the others."

Speaking as a relatively short person (a friend refers to people like us as "fun-sized"), let me just say that there's much more to a person than height. Saul's impressive build notwithstanding, he shows a clear lack of leadership throughout the passage that reveals him as Israel's first king: a meandering search for a bunch of donkeys; a failure to lead even a servant who was obligated to follow him; a failure to prepare adequately for his journey or provide for a necessary audience with a seer; a denial of the strong words of commendation from the seer he sought an audience with. I could go on, but I'm not mean; I'm just short.

The important thing to notice is that Saul failed at two tasks: he didn't find the donkeys or the seer. The donkeys made their way home without his help; and the seer found him while he was still wandering aimlessly. And yet God made Saul king anyway, because God's plans for us proceed independent of our impressiveness or lack thereof. In the activity of God we are never misplaced, for even when we are lost, God finds us and commissions us and sends us forward.

Beast of Burden

IVP author and friend of Likewise, Mark Eddy Smith, gives us a brief breather in the Fortnight of Donkey Tales by allowing us to post his "The Lion & the Donkey," inspired by 1 Kings 13.

"Hildiah," said the LORD, "There comes a man I want you to kill." God was a snow-white lamb, such as Hildiah loved to eat. He wondered, half-seriously, if the LORD would mind being eaten. Hildiah had been lying in the shade of a vine when the lamb had approached him and curled up fearlessly between his great tawny forepaws. Reclining his head upon Hildiah's chest, the LORD nuzzled his mane.

"My Lord?" said Hildiah, recognizing the lightning-brightness of the wool.

"There comes a man," repeated the lamb, "who is great in my kingdom. Him I want you to kill; even this very day."

Hildiah's strength bristled within him; his chest surged with wounded pride. "Just one, my Lord?" With a single swipe of his paw Hildiah could cave in the side of a bull's head. One man would provide no challenge at all. He wanted to be like Phrygeon, who had killed five hundred hyenas even though he was the runt of the litter. He wanted his deeds to be remembered for all time. With great effort he managed to put away his disappointment. "Thy will be done, my Lord," he said.

"This man," said God, scratching the top of his head against Hildiah's chin, "has been sent by me to prophecy death to the priests of the altars, whom Jeroboam has appointed from among the people, for verily their bones shall be burnt on the very altars at which they sacrifice. For I am the LORD. They shall have no other gods before me."

"Amen," said Hildiah, "Lord have mercy."

"I have further instructed him not to eat or drink anything in this place, nor to return by the way he came, for I am the LORD."

"Amen," said Hildiah, "Lord have mercy."

"Nevertheless, he has been deceived by another who bears my name, and is even now at sup with him. For this reason, he will never be buried with his ancestors but will die in Israel, though he belongs to Judah."

"Amen," said Hildiah, "er--"

The LORD stood up and stretched his tender frame. "Here he comes now."

"Lord," said Hildiah, "What is his name?"

"That," said the Lord Most High, "is a secret, and will remain so until the end."

The lamb kissed Hildiah on the muzzle, then walked slowly away.

Hildiah stood also and shook his mane. Just at that moment, from over a ridge, appeared the man of whom the LORD had spoken. He was riding on a donkey who, at the sight of Hildiah, paused and seemed to sag. A terrible suffering was in its eyes, and Hildiah was moved. What had the LORD told the donkey? Did it know that its master would be killed today, from right off its back? The man himself seemed lost in thought, not caring whether he was moving or not, or in which direction.

He had always admired donkeys, ever since hearing the story of Balaam's ass, the one who refused to carry his master forward when it saw the angel of death lying in wait up ahead. Three times it had turned aside, courageously enduring its master's whip. Would this donkey turn aside also? His eyes dark with uncertainty, Hildiah crouched beside the vine and waited.

With a sigh that was loud enough for Hildiah to hear, though it was still some distance away, the donkey resumed its walking, bearing the man forward. Hildiah's stomach growled, followed by his throat, as he allowed his hunting instinct to take over, erasing all doubts and uncertainties. A feast lay before him, and the LORD had ordained it. He would do as the LORD had commanded.

He sensed the donkey watching him, though his own eyes were on the man. He began his charge. Still the man seemed oblivious to everything around him. Would he not even look up, to face the doom the LORD had prepared for him? He gathered himself for a leap and in that same instant the man did look up, just as if he had expected Hildiah to choose that moment to pounce. In the instant before Hildiah's paw crushed his cheek, the man mouthed words. Hildiah had no understanding of human speech, but he was almost sure the words meant "sorry". The man even managed a sad smile before Hildiah's paw connected. His leap took him clear over the donkey, and he was so shocked by the man's demeanor that his chin smashed into the road. He stood up slowly, shaking his head, his vision filled with the man's gentle smile and calm, sad eyes. He turned, and saw the donkey standing over the man, weeping bitterly. Hildiah moved quietly to the donkey's side, and together the two kept silent vigil until evening fell, and another man, and another donkey, came to bear the man of God away.

While the other man dismounted and knelt beside the crumpled body, the other donkey continued toward the lion and the first donkey, and for a moment the three of them nuzzled each other in mute and mutual sorrow, until Hildiah's emotions overwhelmed him, and he loped away. For the rest of his life Hildiah could never look at a donkey without experiencing an overwhelming sense of grief, and he never again wished for deeds that would be remembered.

Copyright 1996 by Mark Eddy Smith. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Jesus' Type

Today's Donkey Tale takes us on a wild ride with some unexpected twists.

Quick question: Who rides on a donkey, washes people's feet and takes on the responsibility of other people's sins? Wrong. It's Abigail.

Well, not "wrong," exactly. These three things are true of Jesus as well. It's just that they're also true of Abigail, wife of King David.

Jesus is our presumed first response in all things Christian. That's the old Sunday school joke: the teacher asks, "What has a long furry tail, climbs trees and collects nuts for the winter?" and the student responds, "I know the answer is supposed to be Jesus, but it sure sounds like a squirrel to me."

But in some cases, Jesus is not the answer. Sometimes the answer is "a squirrel." Or, as in today's donkey tale, the answer is Abigail.

Abigail was not first the wife of David, nor was she the first wife of David. She's also not--in case you're tempted to scan the genealogies in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke--a direct ancestor of Jesus. When we first meet Abigail she is married to Nabal, a cantankerous land baron in the hills of Judea, and she's about to get into deep trouble for it.

Nabal is portrayed in 1 Samuel 25 as almost entirely repugnant. He's a drunkard, a misanthrope, a greedy gus. After enjoying the protection of David's troops over his vast property for some time, he responds to a simple request for food with insults and rejection. He calls David--the secretly anointed though currently homeless king of Israel--a nobody from nowhere, a renegade servant. He makes David mad.

Enter Abigail, and as she enters, pay attention. Abigail approaches David in a similar way to how Jacob approaches Esau in their moment of reconciliation--sending a wealth of gifts before her as a symbol of her shame over her husband's offense. She saddles up a donkey and descends from her lofty estate into a mountain ravine, taking a long, sober ride to face judgment. She comes down from her donkey and presents herself humbly before her judge, asking him to "let the blame be on me alone." And then she says, in effect, "Come, let us reason together."

In so doing she satisfies the wrath of the king and restores her people into his good graces, delivering them all from certain death. And in an unexpected turn of events, she is herself exalted to the right hand of the king, where she defines her newfound power by humble service: "Here is your maidservant, ready to serve you and wash the feet of my master's servants."

So Abigail, it seems, is a "type" of Christ. That's a technical term; it means that she is described in such a way as to offer clues about the coming Messiah. She's also a type of Jacob, a bit of Mary the mother of Jesus and even a dash of Moses and Isaiah for good measure. We don't see much of Abigail after this scene, but we see her shadow, and we know that she is blessed.

Christians tend to look through the Old Testament for hints of Jesus as the occasional reward for otherwise laborious reading of ancient rites and rules and oddly pronounced names. But when David meets Abigail, whole chunks of the book of Psalms have yet to be written. The Proverbs and the Prophets do not yet exist. The trivial details of messianic prophecy that so excite us--he'll be born in Bethlehem, he won't be much to look at--are still out in front of Abigail.

Still, Abigail is Jesus' type, because when she encounters trouble she seeks a solution, and she commits herself to it regardless of personal cost. She sees clearly enough to know that Nabal is a wicked fool and David is a righteous hothead, and she thinks clearly enough to determine how to satisfy the one and save the other. And though she has significant power as a woman of wealth, the wife of first a land baron and then a king, she chooses first and last to serve. Just the way Jesus might. 

In prophecies such as Zechariah 9:9--"See, your king comes to you, gentle and riding on a donkey"--we get a superficial clue for recognizing Jesus when he comes. But in Abigail we get a different kind of clue, an insight into the character of Christ, which is meant to be the character of the people of God.

***

My thanks to Stewart Pattison, my pastor, for pointing out the parallels between Abigail and Jesus to me.

An Ass and His Grass

How much can be learned from a donkey? Plenty. Here's Donkey Tale #5 as we near the halfway point in our Fortnight.

My sister and I have been slowly making our way through the DVDs of the Planet Earth documentary series created by the BBC. First aired on television in 2006, it won an Emmy for its phenomenal footage, some of which has never been caught on video before. If you haven't seen any of the series, you should rent it or borrow it. Today, if possible. (It is, after all, Friday. What else do you have to do this weekend??)

Even if you're not usually into documentaries, especially ones about nature, you should give it a try. It's fascinating, beautiful, awe-inspiring, incredible. I have an even deeper sense of awe and worship for a God who is able to think up and create animals, plants, climates, ecosystems, surviving together in a delicate balance, dependent on each other, and each with just the right characteristics to help them survive and thrive in the place they live.

Now, granted, according to the Bible, we were created above the animals. After God created humans--in his own image--he said, "Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground" (Gen 1:28 TNIV). We certainly have abilities and capacities that animals can't imagine (imagination most likely being one of them!). And yet, because God is almighty and all-powerful and all-wise, plants and animals are pretty darn complex. In fact, we can learn from them, as scientists and lovers of nature and the producers of Planet Earth know well.

Job knew this too. In some ways, it's surprising that Job thought he needed to learn from anything or anyone. He was, after all, "the greatest man among all the people of the East" (Job 1:3). Yet verse one fleshes out "greatest": he was "blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil."

So it seems that, though Job was extraordinarily wealthy, he was also humble. He didn't take what he had for granted. And he had a lot: "seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen and five hundred donkeys" (1:3).

Verse 3 also says that Job had a lot of servants, so while I'm sure Job himself didn't care for his animals, I'm guessing he knew quite a bit about what was happening with them. I imagine him taking walking tours of his vast property, checking in with servants and shepherds, meeting with his managers to see how flocks and herds are doing, what food is needed, how many new animals were born, etc. The sheer numbers of his animals make me inclined to say he was an expert in his time on sheep, camels, oxen and, of course, donkeys.

With that many animals around, it's only natural that Job would have them on the brain. So it's only natural that, when Job's "friend" Eliphaz (give me a donkey any day over a friend like this) starts judging and accusing Job of sin as the cause of his misfortune, Job uses animals as an analogy to illustrate his innocence:

Does a wild donkey bray when it has grass,

or an ox bellow when it has fodder? (Job 6:5)

The answer, of course, is no. And I'm guessing that Job's "domesticated" donkeys were always well-fed, always well taken care of, so they just might have been the quietest donkeys in Uz--no complaints, no obnoxious braying for no good reason.

And Job, as we know from the beginning of his story, took a hint: he lived in gratitude for what he had, recognizing it as a blessing from the Lord--no complaints, no obnoxious whining that he didn't have six hundred donkeys instead of only five hundred.

Eliphaz either didn't know donkeys or just simply was a lousy friend, because he didn't appreciate Job's line of reasoning. Or maybe he's a lot like me and went through most of his days moaning about what he didn't have instead of being grateful for what he did, not knowing his needs from his wants, not recognizing all the good gifts in his life.

It's true, Job didn't have much to complain about at the beginning of his story. Yet, if you'll remember, he still blessed God's name after he lost it all. And in American culture today, I suspect that "more" does not usually bring gratitude; often it seems to bring only more desire for more.

So take a hint from wild donkeys with their grass: stop your complaining. Then use your human capabilities to actually notice the good gifts you have--spiritual blessings, relationships, provision of food and shelter--and actually stop and give thanks. I'll work at doing the same. And maybe, eventually, instead of being people who think the grass is always greener in someone else's yard, we'll become people characterized by gratitude.

What Do We Do with a Donkey or Two?

The next installment in our Fortnight of Donkey Tales . . .

We're nearing the end of our first week of Donkey Tales, so I feel it's time we had a heart-to-heart about an important topic: meat.

I've noticed that people have strong and varying opinions about this these days; some of you are drooling on your forks already, while others of you are starting your "Eat More Vegetables" chant and grabbing your picket signs from the corners of your kitchen. Here's where I stand on this delicate topic: I do eat meat but--before you vegetable-purists stop reading--not that often.

I have, on and off, considered giving up meat altogether. For one thing, it's expensive. Especially out here in the Chicago area. Not only is there no such thing as a free lunch; here there's not even any such thing as a cheap chicken. Furthermore, I know that massive consumption of meat taxes national and international resources. And, though "Saving the Animals" is not on the top of my list as far as urgent world needs--I do care about the chickens and turkeys. I don't want poor, harmless poultry to suffer so that I can have a nice dinner.

With that said, I haven't yet said "Goodbye turkey, hello tofu," because the truth is, I really like chicken and turkey. Especially turkey, and especially at Thanksgiving, or wrapped up with mustard, cheese and apple slices. Mmmmmm. And the rest of the truth is, I haven't gotten around to acquiring the taste for tofu yet (though I'm still open to trying). So although I almost always take a veggie burger to a barbecue, I'm still firmly planted in the meat-eater category.

I much prefer white meat to red meat, but throughout my life I've tried a number of different kinds of meat, fixed a number of different ways: sausage, ham, pork, beef, chicken, lamb, reindeer, Canadian bacon and, in rare instances, an undeterminable meat. But to my knowledge, I've never eaten donkey. It seems there are some things our Likewise mascot just isn't generally good for.

It was true in the Israelites' day too. The donkey, while certainly useful, was not good for everything. Here are the instructions Moses gave the Israelites from the Lord just after the Passover in Egypt:

After the LORD brings you into the land of the Canaanites and gives it to you, as he promised on oath to you and your forefathers, you are to give over to the LORD the first offspring of every womb. All the firstborn males of your livestock belong to the LORD. Redeem with a lamb every firstborn donkey, but if you do not redeem it, break its neck. Redeem every firstborn among your sons. (Exodus 13:11-13)

 

According to this passage, the donkey seems to be the only animal the Israelites could own but not sacrifice. (There were, of course, a list of "unclean" animals that they weren't allowed to own or touch, much less sacrifice. See Leviticus for details.) Why would that be?

Old Testament scholars aren't sure. Alan Cole, in the Tyndale Old Testament Commentary on Exodus, speculates a few possibilities. One is simply that the stench of burning donkey meat and milk might have been considered offensive. (I will not be attempting to prove or disprove his theory on that one.) The other possibilities, however, all have to do with other cultures' views of donkeys at the time. Some other people groups did sacrifice donkeys. Others viewed them as sacred. Still others revered the donkey specifically as a symbol of fertility.

Though the Lord's reason for singling out the donkey is unclear, his message was clear: don't burn the donkey. Substitute a lamb or break the colt's neck.

It all sounds a little odd to us today, but see what comes next in Exodus 13:

In days to come, when your son asks you, "What does this mean?" say to him, "With a mighty hand the LORD brought us out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. When Pharaoh stubbornly refused to let us go, the LORD killed every firstborn in Egypt, both man and animal. This is why I sacrifice to the LORD the first male offspring of every womb and redeem each of my firstborn sons. And it will be like a sign on your hand and a symbol on your forehead that the LORD brought us out of Egypt with his mighty hand." (vv. 14-16)

 

The Lord's instructions were intentional and specific because he wanted the Israelites' very way of life--their everyday activities--to help them remember what he had done for them and to help them be holy. By saving them, he set them apart as his people, called to glorify his name to all the nations. And part of the "glorify God" plan was living distinctly, differently from the nations around them: sacrificing to one God, eating and not eating certain foods, celebrating particular festivals, and using what they had--including donkeys--in different ways than others did, all to show how great the one true God is.

Today, thankfully, we don't have to sacrifice our meat; we can simply choose to grill the beef or fight for the cows. But as Christians, we're still a people set apart. We're still called to do different things than others with what we have--donkeys, dollars, dinners, whatever--that we might continually remember what God has rescued us from and show others who he is and how great he is.

Whether or not you're a meat-eater, I don't advise eating donkey. I don't recommend burning it or breaking its neck either. But whatever you do with your "donkeys," seek to use them in a way that displays God's goodness and grace.

(NOTE: No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog.)

Get Along, Little Donkeys

Continuing our Fortnight of Donkey Tales, the following devotional is based on Exodus 23.

The attention given to donkeys in the Mosaic Law is an indication of how integral they were in ancient Israelite culture. A donkey was a family's transport--carrying, for example, Moses' family from the desert of Midian back to Egypt when he liberated his people. A donkey was a family's farm implement--how the work got done on whatever plot of land they maintained. A donkey was a pet of sorts; some biblical characters even had prolonged conversations with this long-eared member of the family.

And so, donkey tales in the Bible, even the most seemingly innocuous of them, are intensely personal. A person who sent his donkey somewhere with a message was going all in; a family who lost track of their donkey knew that their livelihood was at stake. Which leads us to today's donkey tale:

If you come across your enemy's ox or donkey wandering off, be sure to take it back to him. If you see the donkey of someone who hates you fallen down under its load, do not leave it there; be sure you help him with it. (Exodus 23:4-5)

The text presumes two things: (1) you probably have enemies and (2) they'll probably have their share of troubles.

Now, enemies is an uncomfortable term; enemies are the enemy of a capitalist economy and a democratic society. The current political climate is a good example, as candidates for the most powerful position in the world choose their words carefully to acknowledge the dignity of their opponent while simultaneously leading listeners to the inevitable conclusion that their opponent is the antichrist. Meanwhile, champions of the free market look for ways of defending the notion of a near-trillion-dollar governmental bailout so that companies that are "too big to fail" rapidly approach failure.

The frankness of this passage is refreshing in such an age of spin and nuance, an age where we express our outrage loudly while subverting our opponents quietly. Say what you will about the Scriptures, but at least they cut to the chase.

The author of Exodus acknowledges, at least tacitly, that to be human is to have enemies, probably because to be human is to be morally compromised--finite and fallible, quick to judge and slow to repent. To be human is also to have trouble, however, as this passage is also quick to assume. Jesus even says it directly: "In this world you will have trouble" (John 16:33)--probably in part because to be human is to have enemies, and to be human is to be finite and fallible, quick on the draw but slow on the uptake.

But the law here doesn't address the enemy or the troubled; the law here addresses the onlooker. Seeing our enemy in trouble is an ethical trilemma: Will we indulge the temptation to celebrate our enemy's trouble? Will we shrug off what we've witnessed and mind our own business? Or will we indulge the still, small voice that invites us to offer a hand? The law here reminds us that to be human is to have a guiding ethic--and, given our finiteness and fallibility, to seek after a guided ethic, something that the God of the Bible is happy to provide. 

Mark Twain is said to have defined an ethical person as "a Christian holding four aces." The statement presumes two things: (1) there are others at the table and (2) there are no aces to spare. When we find ourselves holding all the cards, when we have the upper hand in the presence of our enemies, then we find ourselves at table with people without hope. And here the Bible is frustratingly, persistently clear: Let us lay down our cards and take up our cross. Let us love, for love comes from God.

Sometimes You're the Dude, Sometimes You're the Donkey

Continuing our Fortnight of Donkey Tales, the following devotional is based on Genesis 49.

The logo for Likewise Books, proud not-for-profit parent of Strangely Dim, features a silhouette of a man pulling a donkey behind him. Inevitably the questions pour forth: Am I supposed to identify with the dude or the donkey? What does it mean?

Never ask a designer questions like that. It only ticks them off.

Besides, the answer ultimately, unavoidably, lies within. If you intuitively identify with one or the other, no amount of deconstruction on the part of a third party, even the creator of the image, is going to convince you otherwise. In fact, particularly if you identify with the dude, any suggestion to the contrary is as likely as not to cause you to snort and bray in defiance.

No, the answer ultimately, unavoidably, lies within, and as such it serves as a good barometer of your life-satisfaction index, a kind of Rorschach test for how you're currently perceiving yourself and your prospects. Do you pin your face on the dude, or the donkey? And how then should you live?

Of course, pinning stuff on donkeys is usually done blindfolded, under the watchful eye of a more mature observer, such as a parent. That's what happens in Genesis 49, as a matter of fact, as patriarch Israel tells the various unwitting patriarchs of twelve tribes-to-be what he really, really thinks of them and their prospects. Look closely and you'll see that Jacob sees one of them as the dude, and one of them as the donkey.

The part of the dude was played by Judah, of whom Israel had plenty to say, all of it good. Judah's brothers would praise him, bow down to him. His enemies would submit to him. Judah would hold the throne of Israel in trust until Messiah came to claim it. Judah would have dark eyes and white teeth, more wine than he knew what to do with, and the best parking place in the kingdom of God, where he would tether his donkey to a gilded branch. Judah would be the dude-ah.

That was lame. I apologize. But it's true-da. (Oops. I did it again.) The world, according to Israel, would be Judah's oyster, and prosperity, symbolized by the donkey and all its trimmings, would follow him wherever he went.

Not so with Issachar, I'm afraid. Issachar, according to Israel, is "one tough donkey," according to The Message, "couching down between two burdens," according to King James. Issachar would learn the joy of comfort and easy living, and would crave it so much that he would sell and even break his body to attain it. Issachar, in other words, would be a lazy idiot. So said Israel as he offered his children his blessings.

This wasn't just Israel being a bad parent; this was Israel prophesying the future of his family, his people. It bears out as the Old Testament unfolds: the tribe of Issachar barely distinguishes itself among the tribes of Israel, mentioned only in lists that nobody but a tenured Old Testament scholar would bother reading and as the parent-tribe of only one of a long list of wicked kings of Israel.

The tribe of Issachar comes to nearly nothing as the Old Testament unfolds, even as the tribe of Judah produces skilled artisans such as Bezalel, military giants such as Caleb and great kings such as David and Solomon. Ultimately, the tribe of Judah would yield the Messiah, Jesus, to claim the throne of the kingdom of God.

Yep, sometimes you're the dude, and sometimes you're the donkey. But Judah wasn't flawless; plenty of wickedness came through his tribal ranks. And for all that it had going against it in its birthright, the tribe of Issachar is also remembered for supporting the work of deliverance led by Deborah (Judg 5) and for understanding the times and knowing what Israel should do (1 Chron 12:32). And interestingly enough, in Deuteronomy 27 Judah and Issachar were selected together to be among the tribes that declared God's blessings on his people.

So whether you're seeing yourself today as the donkey or the dude, your future is still wide open, because your future is as yet unwritten. It's worth picking up the Rorschach test that is our Likewise logo again and again every so often, and even more important, following that self-assessment with a critical question: How then shall I live?

A Fortnight of Donkey Tales

It's long been a dream of mine--ever since the launch of Likewise Books, actually--to compile a set of readings based on Bible passages that feature donkeys. The donkey has quite literally become an icon of the Likewise line, with authors and readers and employees alike trying to draw meaning from it, to identify themselves in it. It makes sense, therefore, that readings of donkey adventures in Scripture from a particularly Likewise-y angle would profit many.

Sadly, to date only Lisa has shared my vision. And then it occurred to me that Lisa and I share this vision, and we share this bully pulpit called Strangely Dim. It makes sense, therefore, that we do whatever we want, not the least of which being to write scads of meditations having to do with donkeys.

Especially since the Bible is filled with scads of stories having to do with donkeys. My exhaustive concordance lists a column and a half of verses that include some variant of donkey, and the word ass adds another half-column (not to mention a veritable parthenon of giggles). This is a devotional that demands to be written.

Which leads us to this, the latest in our intermittent series of themed fortnights. To date we've celebrated a fortnight of odes and a fortnight of cliches, each of which was stimulating creatively for us and, we imagine at least, entertaining for our audience of dozens. Now we hope to branch out into edification--or sanctitainment, if I may coin a term.

So steel yourselves as we make a--ahem, I mean fools--of ourselves poring over the Bible in search of donkeys with truth to share. Some stories, inevitably, will be so familiar as to sit comfortably alongside the archives to our fortnight of cliches. But some, we hope, will catch all of us off guard and, I daresay, lead us to go and do in ways we hadn't considered before.

If you'd like to try your hand, feel free to contact us by e-mail; we'd be happy to let you join in the fun. In the meantime, here's the line description that accompanies each Likewise book to the printer, just to warm us up:

A man comes across an ancient enemy, beaten and left for dead. He lifts the wounded man onto the back of a donkey and takes him to an inn to tend to the man's recovery. Jesus tells this story and instructs those who are listening to "go and do likewise."

 

Likewise books explore a compassionate, active faith lived out in real time. When we're skeptical about the status quo, Likewise books challenge us to create culture responsibly. When we're confused about who we are and what we're supposed to be doing, Likewise books help us listen for God's voice. When we're discouraged by the troubled world we've inherited, Likewise books help us hold onto hope.

 

In this life we will face challenges that demand our response. Likewise books face those challenges with us so we can act on faith.

Posted by Dave Zimmerman at 6:07 AM

Periods They Work

There's a church by my house that has created quite a stir--at least among area churches with streetside signboards. They've started using letters that are twice the size of every other church's lettering, and they now even occasionally add a dash of color (red) for emphasis. I'm sure they're attracting new members by the thousands.

As a consequence of this larger font strategy I take much more immediate notice of what that church has to say. Good thing they're situated on the corner of an intersection with a four-way stop; otherwise I'm sure they'd be causing traffic accidents by the thousands. They don't change their messages any more often than they used to, but what they do have to say is like a shout from the rooftops. And this month they're saying "Pray it works."

I think they mean "Pray. It works." Maybe they don't have giant periods yet.

Of course, they may actually mean "Pray it works," but we're left to imagine what we're praying for. It's been raining a lot; maybe they're praying that the roof holds out. It's been really muggy with all the humidity; maybe they'd like us to lay hands on their air conditioner. Maybe they're taking the youth group to some camp in Wisconsin and are worried that their ancient, repainted school bus won't survive the trip.

Who knows? Not me. I'm praying that the next time I drive by they'll have added an antecedent. Or a couple of giant periods--maybe even red ones.

The Great Wrong Song

Last week several of us around Likewise Books participated in a little experiment, inspired by the fine folks at Word Made Flesh. Each of us would pick a song that we would listen to exclusively for an entire workday and then blog about the experience. Intriguing, right? Well, I should tell you first that I didn't pick the perfect song for our mini music marathon. But the imperfection of it might be the point.

The sweet sounds drifting out of my cubicle last Tuesday were Over the Rhine's "The Trumpet Child." I picked the song for two simple reasons: (1) I like it musically and (2) I needed a hopeful song.

Don't get me wrong--I love melancholy music. Especially when it's raining. Or when it's sunny and I'm tired. Or on cool fall days. Or in the winter, when I'm sitting in my living room with a steaming mug of chai. Or when I'm doing dishes in the summer. But I was afraid that listening to, say, "Rain" by Patty Griffin all day would seriously affect my long-term perspective on life or, at the very least, had me weeping all over my keyboard. And, again, I really like the people I work with and near, so why put them through that?

So I went with the hopeful song. That part of my choice was perfect. The combination of the lyrics and the music reminds us of the kind of hope we have as followers of Christ: not trite, paste-a-smile-on-your-face-because-you're-going-to-heaven hope, but the real, solid reality of full redemption of people and the earth. The song does have an almost mournful tune that seems to be acknowledging the sinfulness of this world, but it's converted into longing for the deliverance that's surely coming.

Unfortunately, though I listened to the song all day at work, I didn't actually hear much. There are two reasons for this. (1) Muscially, much of the song is, surprisingly, muted. The piano starts out softly, with lead singer Karin Detweiler's rich, soulful voice entering in a way that very much contradicts the opening verse: "The trumpet child will blow his horn / Will blast the sky till it's reborn." The gentle yet urgent piano notes and Karin's powerful, dripping vocals--which are so beautiful you do sometimes want to cry to express your gratitude that God gave someone that voice--continue somewhat subdued, until two verses where the music swells to an appropriately passionate level and drums join the piano as Karin belts out "The trumpet child will banquet here / . . . A thousand days, a thousand years / Nobody knows for sure how long" and "His final aim to fill with joy / The earth that man all but destroyed."

Those are the two parts I actually heard, over and over again. The song then ends quietly, with the trumpet finally making its entry into the music, but not at all with a blast. Rather, it tapers off into silence. I kept the volume low so that the louder parts wouldn't disturb those around me, but this meant that I mostly missed all the quieter parts. Which, of course, is most of the song.

Which leads to the second reason I didn't hear much: (2) I wasn't willing to do the work required to hear the quieter parts (turning up the volume, then turning it down where the music builds, then turning it up, then down, then up). Call me crazy and lazy, but I didn't need to hear it that badly. Oh--and I was at work to, well, work.

So, to be honest, after noticing that same small section of the song over and over for most of the day, I found myself eager to turn it off. A small sense of relief actually went through me when I did. And I didn't listen to any music on my drive home; I savored the silence.

Hear me out here: "The Trumpet Child" is a great song. Listen to it in your car. Turn it up loud when you're home alone and you can hear the rain drumming against the windows. Put it on repeat (although don't miss out on the rest of The Trumpet Child CD). But if you find yourself participating in an experiment that involves playing a song over and over in a cubicle next to busy neighbors, do yourself a favor and pick a different song. It was just the wrong song for the experiment. As I've reflected on it though, the incompleteness of my experience and my own flawed choosing has reinforced the point, because incompleteness is actually the point.

In this imperfect world, we see glimpses of the full redemption that's coming and long for it, but the glimpses we see are such a small piece, and the noise of the world is so loud and the sin is so messy and the work we have to put in to hear the music of redemption feels like too much some days. We get frustrated by how small that glimpse is. We get tired of not seeing the whole picture. The hope of Christ's banquet here becomes more like a song playing in the background that I don't notice most of the time, something that I can't grasp, can't wrap my hands around, can't feel around me when I cry.

Those glimpses we do see are impossible to ignore though. We have to notice. I have to notice. Because they're so much more passionate and beautiful and utterly different from the rest of what's here that we can't help but notice them, over and over again. And they keep telling me what a perfect world is like: "The rich forget about their gold / The meek and mild are strangely bold / A lion lies beside a lamb / And licks a murderer's outstretched hand." They keep reminding me what God is like: "The trumpet child will lift a glass / His bride now leaning in at last / His final aim to fill with joy."

So even the small taste that I got of the wistful lament and solid hope of "The Trumpet Child" was enough to remind me what's true about what's here and what's true about hope. It's a song I hope my life reflects: mourning over sin, but even more, noticeable, powerful glimpses of the kingdom that's coming in fullness and that's here in pieces now, for those who have ears to hear.

What Color Is Your Experiment?

Last week several of us around Likewise Books participated in a little experiment, inspired by the fine folks at Word Made Flesh. Each of us would pick a song that we would listen to exclusively for an entire workday. Then we would blog about the experience--what, if anything, we discovered about the song, our workplace, our coworkers or ourselves. Keep an eye out here for those posts. This one is Stacey's.

When Dave sent around the challenge to listen to the same song for eight hours, I thought, Sure, I want to be part of the cool kids Likewise crowd. Why not? I quickly told Dave that I was in.

 

Then the panic set in. What could I possibly listen to all day without going insane? A quick perusal through my iTunes gave me an answer. The one album that has consistently stayed in my collection for years without growing tiresome is Rich Mullins's A Liturgy, A Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band. My favorite song from the album is "The Color Green."

 

Why does this album never grow old to me? Perhaps it's because Mullins was an incredible musician and a Christian writer who actually understood poetry and never used tired biblical phrases. Perhaps it's because during Rich's last two years of life, I lived thirty miles away from him on the Navajo reservation. His album sustained me through long lonely drives across the red desert, reminding me that God really was good and not abandoning me in a thirsty land.

 

So I expected that listening to "The Color Green" all day would be an uplifting spiritual experience. And the first couple of listens were. The song starts with a sustained note on the keyboard and Rich's voice hauntingly floating in saying:

 

And the moon is a sliver of silver

Like a shaving that fell on the floor of a Carpenter's shop

Every house must have its builder

And I awoke in the house of God.

 

From there the song builds into a jig and a dancing chorus praising God for the beauty of his creation, and asking him to "look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that you have made/ blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise." Every time I hear those phrases (and I mean every one of the 125 times I listened to them this last week), they make my heart sing and dance. I feel warmth at being in the Lord's workshop, and I see the cornfields of Indiana where Rich Mullins grew up (right next to where I live now).

 

However, as the day went on, I developed an incredible ability not to notice that the song was playing. At the risk of overspiritualizing, it struck me that I'm often like that in respect to my spiritual life. It's horribly easy to simply tune out the music of my Lord and go about the business of my day-to-day tasks. But the poetry of those phrases caught me periodically for just a moment and reminded me to wonder and lift up my "arms in a blessing for being born again." (Really, the lyrics are amazing.)

 

While I started to be barely cognizant of the song playing on my computer, I had several coworkers float in and out of my office. It seemed to be a challenging, emotional day for several of them, and I found myself offering to pray with them on the spot. That isn't something I usually do in my workday; I might say I will pray but am rarely prompted to do it immediately. I finally had to attribute it to the fact that I was being bathed in music that was causing my heart to be softened and moldable and ready to enter into the dance of the penny whistle and bodhran of "The Color Green."

I Got the Music in Me

Last week several of us around Likewise Books participated in a little experiment, inspired by the fine folks at Word Made Flesh. Each of us would pick a song that we would listen to exclusively for an entire workday. Then we would blog about the experience--what, if anything, we discovered about the song, our workplace, our coworkers or ourselves. Keep an eye out here for those posts. This one is mine.

I chose the song "The Transfiguration," from the album Seven Swans by Sufjan Stevens. I've come to think of myself, culturally if not doctrinally, as a "Sufjangelical," a term which I'm proud to say appears only once (probably now twice) on the entire Internet. Sufjan, you're welcome; please drop the restraining order now.

A Sufjangelical, as I define it, is an otherwise orthodox Christian who likes his or her faith the same way avant-garde pop musician Sufjan Stevens likes his music: quirky, multi-textured, playful yet melancholy. An example of Sufjan's complexity shrouded in simplicity comes from the song "Kasmir Pulaski Day": "Tuesday night at the Bible study, we lift our hands and pray over your body. But nothing ever happens." One- or two-syllable words paint a simple picture that evokes sadness and perplexity, disillusionment and yet hope. And that doesn't even take into account the music.

But that song is not this song. In "The Transfiguration" Sufjan is more arcane, more ethereal, as he recounts the story of "when [Jesus] took the two disciples to the mountainside to pray; his countenance was modified, his clothing was aflame." This scene from the Gospels is a seminal moment in Jesus' earthly ministry, when the curtain was pulled all the way back and Christ revealed his glory and the fulfillment of the Scriptures that was taking place in him. The disciples were dumbstruck and comforted only when the transfiguration ended. Then they went down the mountain and everything, for a time at least, returned to normal.

But that story is not this story. "The Transfiguration" is captivating, a fitting song to listen to for eight hours straight. It's a simple rhythm--cyclical, really--that builds by instrumentation and voice as the story progresses. The melody has no real resting point, so that the end blends nicely into the beginning; the first word, when, sung on the third tone of the scale, carries the feel of an interruption, something overheard unexpectedly.

The song is in a waltz rhythm, strummed on a banjo at the start as an indication of an everyman out for an everywalk with a couple of everyfriends. Gradually, as the mystical event unfolds, voices and instruments are added, all of which carry a youthful, minstrel quality. One tinny horn plays a repeated riff; several childlike voices sing along in a unison chorus that dances back and forth between lyrics: "Lost in the cloud, a voice [a sign]: Have no fear! Turn your ear [we draw near]!" Jesus is identified in the chorus as Son of Man, Son of God, Lamb of God, in case the onlookers and overhearers weren't aware of his identity.

The song is like a dance, and--especially when played in an eight-hour loop--the song is like an eternity. Often we hear or even sing the words of "Amazing Grace"--"When we've been there ten-thousand years bright shining as the sun, we've no less days to sing God's praise than when we'd first begun"--and the faintest hint of a distressing thought might creep into our consciousness: Oh, I hope not! That sounds dreadful! But when we overhear eternity sung, when we look on while mourning is turned into dancing, the thought of ceaseless praise starts to make sense and even entice the imagination.  

I hereby apologize to my coworkers for repeating the same 3-4 minutes of music some 135 times last week. Fortunately for them, "The Transfiguration" is not a whistling song, or someone might have lost it. This song won a friend and (now former) colleague of mine over to Sufjangelicalism when he first heard it, and he now counts it among the quintessential examples of what Christian music ought to resemble, and for good reason: here is theology faithfully presented, grounded in Scripture, presented in story, intended for dance. Here is a moment in time that transcended time, some two thousand years later set to a rhythm that doesn't constrain it but sets it free. Eight hours later, I still love it, and I still love Jesus. Not bad for a banjo, a tinny horn and some quirky musicians.

Rabbit!

As is our custom, we celebrate the beginning of each month by racing one another to be the first to say "Rabbit." If you're reading this, you lost. Ha ha.

Congratulations to Dan, who couldn't sleep and so beat everyone to the Rabbit Uber Alles group on Facebook. Better luck next month, everybody!