Life Lessons from Pedro the Wise

Allow me to introduce you, most cordially, to the individual whose intense focus and exemplary perspective on life we will be here admiring in this most concise treatise. He is undeniably adored by all members of his large social group (except, perhaps, the mailman). Though outside these circles of relationship he is, admittedly, unknown, I do believe we all have a great deal to learn from his polished life philosophy and his enduring thoughts on many other matters, particularly the subject of joy.

His name, my dear friends, is Pedro. His wisdom, as I am sure you can see, is quickly evident in his regal features. Kindness and joy emanate from his dark eyes, and you would greatly cherish his quick kisses and almost endlessly wagging tail if you were to meet him in person. In addition to the brilliance in perspective which you will soon witness, his other skills include running, climbing mountains, serving as the house Sergeant, catching spiders, and even, it has been reported by his owners, engaging in intercessory prayer. Maybe not. But his paws have been said to smell like potato chips, so that's pretty cool.

Anyways. You will find below five basic principles of our esteemed friend's philosophy. These are, of course, summaries of his thought, gathered from my own observations of his daily habits. This, I am sure, you will appreciate, as the grammar of his actual speeches and writings is quite—er—complex...Yeah... So, as you relish the warm feelings surely ignited by this elaborate introduction (or, more likely, roll your eyes at my wordiness and relish the warm feelings actually brought about by Pedro's picture), join with me in a refreshing dive into his beautiful wisdom.

1. Food is always exciting. Also, walks are always exciting. And so is being pet. And riding in the car. And food. Did I mention food? Food is always exciting.

This was the first thing I noticed about Pedro. Every dog seems to have about the same perspective, but it was Pedro whose undying excitement made me think I had something to learn. You see, it doesn't matter how many times you ask him; he's always excited to do his favorite things. And his favorite things don't seem to be the things he gets to do on occasion. They're the simple things he just relentlessly enjoys every day. He loves breakfast and dinner and his daily walk—and he'll love them just as much tomorrow as he did today and has done every day before that. He finds unending pleasure in what we might call the monotony of daily life.

Two questions from here. The first: What if we did this? What if we chose to take joy in the humdrum of the hoedown—the little, professedly boring parts of the dance of life? What if we decided to really enjoy our oatmeal in the morning and our meanderings through the grocery store and our coffee and that day-end satisfaction of finishing our work? Can we slow down enough to delight in the everyday, monotonous habits of life? Part of me thinks that that's where much of life is found. Jesus seemed to find it there, anyway. He enjoyed the Transfiguration, I'm sure, but He also found apparently relentless satisfaction in another meal, another healing, another conversation, another day.

And that leads me to my second question: Do we realize that God does this? I'm serious. He still paints a sunrise every morning even if none of us happens to be awake to see it. He put tiny spots on ladybugs and wove together all sorts of cells to make us—intricate details that seem to delight Him over and over again. He never tires of creating day after day, of taking care of one more sparrow, or of picking us up after another fall. He delights in the monotony of life. He delights in life. We get so bogged down in worry and fear and all sorts of other things that we miss what I think seems to be the rhythm of all the rest of His creation and of His own heart: joy. Maybe Pedro—or that bird chirping outside your window—can encourage you to discover the beauty in the monotony, the humor in the habits, the joy in daily life.

2. I can pee on that bush. And that other bush. And that pole. And the fire hydrant. And, just for the heck of it, on that grass too. And, don't worry, I still have more for that other bush.

Honestly, I think there is a lot we can learn from this one. But here's what I'd like to pull from it, mostly because it's something I wrestle with often. It comes in another question (okay, a series of questions): How confident are we about leaving our "scent" on other people? How "okay" are we with letting people taste the real "us" and be impacted by that? How ready are we to purposefully leave a lasting touch on those with whom we come in contact—or even to admit that our presence will probably do that whether we realize it or not?

Sometimes, I struggle with the idea that my presence has an impact. I'll wish that I could walk about without being heard, watch and learn without being seen, or exist without touching anyone. I used to wish I didn't exist at all. The idea that my presence affects those around me has been known to irritate me immensely. 

But I'm learning something—not just from Pedro but from the truly freeing love of my church community and of Christ. Yes, our presence always has an effect. That's inevitable. And, beautifully, it is in this leaving of a "scent" that some of the most surprising glimpses of true humanity and also sublime connections between humanity and divinity happen. You see, when our presence touches others, they see our humanity. When we are touched by others, we see theirs. And when this happens among Christians, we see Jesus. 

Paul puts it this way: "But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life" (II Corinthians 2:14-16a, ESV).

Maybe we should be a bit more bold about spreading this fragrance, passing on this aroma everywhere we go, regardless of how it's received. Pedro has no fear of peeing on every bush. He makes every place his territory. And he makes a special point to leave his scent in places where other dogs had done the same; he covers over their mark with his own and repeatedly claims the spot as his. 

Perhaps, like Pedro, we should be in the business of fearlessly letting our presence have an impact. We should be ready to be used by Christ to touch His people, excited to share with our very selves His fragrance over and over again—especially to those who are burdened by the lies of so many other scents from false authorities. We can remind by our scent who really owns the block. Let's not fear to let our lights shine before men.

3. Walks are, of course, never about the destination. Every bush is important.

That's life, friends. With Christ, our destination is sure. So let's not worry about it. Let's be more concerned with the journey, more intent on valuing each person we meet. We'll get home when it's time.

4. 'Tis important to always watch the house. You never know what the mailman—or those mischievous doves—might be up to.

Paul has told us to be alert and to put on the armor of God in its entirety. John told us to test the spirits. Jesus told us to keep watch. The Christian life is a battle; we've got to pay attention. We must be careful about what we let into our house (our mind, our heart, our body). And just as Pedro must listen to his owners when they tell him the "intruder" is actually a friend or that the doves are perfectly allowed to peruse the yard, we must be attentive and obedient to the leading of the Holy Spirit. He knows what's what. Let's stop our barking if He's trying to let in a friend.

5. Daddy is my favorite. 

Pedro seems to love pretty much everyone (save that poor mailman), but there's something pretty special about his reaction to his daddy. He just gets so excited to be with his master. He'll go with him anywhere, and he'll only let his eyes close if his daddy's the one saying, "Nighty night."

I think the connection here is pretty obvious. We should love everyone—but our Abba should be our favorite. Our Heavenly Father should be our first love. He, after all, is the One who'll lead us to green pastures and quiet waters, and it is His gentle voice that allows us to rest.

In summary? Pedro's advice is this: Lighten up a bit. Enjoy the breakfasts and dinners and walks. Don't be afraid to leave your scent on the bushes. Watch your house. And, most of all, make Abba your favorite.

Like a Fetter

"Look on him, beloved, and love him," said the first [eldil]. "He is indeed but breathing dust and a careless touch would unmake him. And in his best thoughts there are such things mingled as, if we thought them, our light would perish. But he is in the body of Maleldil and his sins are forgiven."

A curious quote, I am sure, for any of you who have not read C.S. Lewis' Perelandra. But the context of that grand story is not required to grasp my writing here. Just know that an eldil is a being quite beyond man whose closest parallel in the Christian worldview would be an angel, and Maleldil is Lewis' name in that story for Jesus Christ, God incarnate.

With this understanding, embrace the eldil's words again: "He [man, that is] is indeed but breathing dust and a careless touch would unmake him. And in his best thoughts there are such things mingled as, if we thought them, our light would perish. But he is in the body of Maleldil and his sins are forgiven."

Breathing dust. Fragile, delicate flickers of life, as faint as mist. One careless touch—no matter its origin—can unmake us. A little word, a thoughtless nudge. It could be all over in a second. And as if that wasn't enough, our threadlike existence isn't just fragile; it's flawed. We're as vulnerable as a butterfly—but we've lost a great deal of our color. Our thoughts are flimsy, and our spirits are faint. We're weak and riddled with sin. Our state seems hopeless.

Yet the eldil continues: "But he is in the body of Maleldil and his sins are forgiven."

It would be a vast understatement to say that my mind is blown to think that the God of the universe is so gentle and loving towards us. He could, if He wanted to, wipe us out in an instant. And, really, He has good reason to do that. We haven't honored Him like we should have.

But He doesn't squash us. "He remembers that we are dust" (Ps. 103:14, ESV). He decides to deal gently with us.

More than that, He decides to forgive us. He makes us part of His body and says we are clean. And nobody can argue with Him.

Sometimes life can make our heads spin, stretch us out until we feel like we might tear, frustrate us until we think we might lose it. Sometimes we do those things to ourselves. But the terrors and trials aren't the end of the story.

In the twists and turns of my own time on this planet, I've become absolutely convinced of something. I want to share it with you, for you can be anchored in it, too.

Look back on your life for a second. Where have you been? Has your Lord not been there with you? What have you been through? Did He not carry you? Where are you right now? Is He not there too? What's making your heart beat? Surely, it's He. Is there peace in a hurricane? He put it there. Did the sun rise today? It's because He drew it up. Is the earth still spinning? It's in the palm of His hand. Is there breath in your lungs? It was never your own. Your story only has one Author; you only have one Maker. There's One holding the universe together and sustaining your life. Has He not always been gentle with you? Has He not always been kind and abounding in steadfast love, even in discipline? Has He not cherished you and held you? Gathered every one of your tears in hands scarred with love? Is it remotely possible to deny that the Lord is good?

He has been gentle with us. He has been—and always is—good to us. As the psalmist says, "He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His steadfast love toward those who fear Him; as far as the east is from the west, so far does He remove our transgressions from us" (Ps. 103:10-12, ESV).

By the blood of Jesus, we are forgiven and clean.

I don't know where you are right now or what you're thinking about your God. But would you take a deep breath and remember something? YHWH is good. Our Lord is good. He is good.

It doesn't matter what sorts of things are spinning around you right now. The breath in your lungs should be enough to convince you that He is still holding you, right in the eye of the storm, right in the heart of His peace. Draw near to Him. Rejoice and be refreshed in His undying love. And, with the saints of ages past, ask Him to just keep you right there, to tie you to His goodness so that you never, ever forget it.

Oh, Father. Let this be the prayer of our hearts.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount, I'm fixed upon it—mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer, hither by Thy help I come.
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God.
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood.

Oh, to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be.
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart, Lord. Take and seal it. Seal it for Thy courts above.

Here's my heart, Lord. Take and seal it. Seal it for Thy courts above.

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Hymn lyrics are from the traditional hymn, “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” written in 1758 by Robert Robinson and altered in 1760 by Martin Madan. Public domain. Emphasis mine.

Never the Same

Yeshua. The son of the carpenter. I'd heard his name before. Ha, of course I'd heard his name before. Who hasn't around here? Though uneducated by all formal standards, though claiming a stunningly uncomplimentary origin from no less than Nazareth, though relatively unnoticeable in outward appearance, this man has made quite a name for himself. He is a teacher, a healer, a great speaker. Crowds and crowds of people have gone to listen to him for hours on end. The blind and the sick have been healed; the outcasts have been accepted. He's really got a great thing going on.

The interesting thing about teachers and healers, though, is that sometimes the idea of going to see one sounds far better the first time your friends suggest it than it does in your solitary reflections afterwards. You see, initially, I agreed to go and hear him when I first heard he was in town—but now, as we make our way there, I'm not so sure. Won't he know? They said he has eyes that seep into every part of your soul—dark depths of brown fire that see and love and heal all at once. I wanted to see them at first, but now...Oh, won't he know? Won't he see right through me? All the dirt, all the grime, all the messy, muddy filth—the deep, dark sins that have made me who I am? 

I know he'll see it. I know he will. It's not like I can mask myself—when every part of me reeks with sin and shame. There's no way a man of any insight will be able to look at me and miss it all. Envy burns within my heart. Anger seethes through my veins. Why? Why can't I just...

My thoughts are penetrated for a minute by the soft touch of my brother, who walks by my side. His calloused fingers brush across my forehead, carefully wiping the beads of sweat that had formed there as my soul tumbled in agony within me. He looks into my eyes with a gaze so gentle that my insides writhe in shame. He squeezes my hand and whispers, "We're almost there."

The others are silent. They've been pretty silent the whole time. It's a serious journey. They're probably praying. They're probably praying for me. Why? Why waste their time?...

I stop thinking for a moment and raise my gaze to the sky. Two clumsy puffs of cloud hang in the blue expanse, drooping as if they are as hot and exhausted as I am. I stare at them for some time, half-observing, as I do so, that my thoughts have been drifting in some strange tension between wanting, desperately, to see Jesus and thinking, painfully, that I really don't deserve his time. I'm a sinner. I'm a mess. My whole being is a wretched testimony of my mistakes. This thought is almost overwhelming. Ah, if only I hadn't agreed to come!

My musings are interrupted again, this time by the distant ringing of a deeply gentle but strikingly authoritative voice. I look at my brother. His eyes don't meet mine; they are fixed instead in the direction of the voice, and they burn with longing and, somehow, hope and joy. I look up to the sky again, my mind racing. We're here. That's him—the Teacher, the Rabbi. Oh, how I wish I could run! 

My companions dutifully usher me closer and closer to the sound, gradually pressing up against the many cloaked figures that make up the edge of the quivering crowd. My brother looks at me again, a twinge of angst flickering across his gaze. "There are too many," he says. "We can't get through."

A disgusting relief surges through me as I hear his analysis of the situation. I part my lips, hoping that I can somehow eek out some sort of advice on leaving quickly and trying again another day—you know, another day on which I won't be coming. Before a sound leaves my mouth, however, I find my companions nodding to one another and shuffling away with me towards the side of the house.

Oh no. I shut my eyes as tightly as I can, clenching my teeth and wishing—oh, I've never wished harder—that I could be somewhere else. No, no. I know what they're thinking. No. Don't—No. No!

Silence. I am too ashamed to even cry. I keep my eyes closed, crumbling in embarrassment. Oh, why...?

"Son."

I catch my breath. I open my eyes. There he is. Every thought fades from my mind as I hold his gaze. For the first time—really, for the first time in my life, I feel...hope. I can do nothing but stare into his face. He stares—so gently—into mine.

"Son," he says, a soft smile turning up the corner of his mouth, "Your sins are forgiven."

Sheer joy rushes through me. Peace ripples through my mind. I continue to stare into his eyes, feeling those words drive out the self-contempt, the shame, the fear. He keeps looking at me, that gentle smile stretching farther and farther across his face.

Then, suddenly, he looks away from me and into the crowd, as if responding to something—though I myself had not heard anyone speak. The smile evaporates from his face. He calls out, "Why do you question in your hearts?"

I follow his gaze for a moment. The Pharisees. Part of me wants to flinch. If they condemn me, I—I—would this Teacher's words mean anything then? But the Rabbi's peace calms my heart, holds me in the tension. He continues to speak. "Which is easier, to say, 'Your sins are forgiven you,' or to say, 'Rise and walk'?"

They're speechless, but I can see their jaws tighten. 

"But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins—"

Suddenly the Teacher turns to me again, stretching out his hand.

"I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home."

His words seem to hit my chest with a force that—wait. My chest? Since when...? Then I notice a peculiar weight. I look down. Limbs. I can...I can feel them. I can...I can move them. They're heavy because they're there! I jump to my feet. My whole body quivers with excitement, relishing in this new feeling. Standing! I'm standing! I look at my brother, words escaping me as I face him, for the first time, on my feet. His grin is gigantic, and he wraps me in a great hug, kissing my cheek as tears roll down his worn face. I look back at the Rabbi, the Healer. Words are, um...I know not what to say.

He smiles at me again, so gently. His quiet joy calms my heart and reminds me of his command. I reach down, pick up my bed, and make my way through the astonished crowd. They part for me as I exit. I'm not sure what they are thinking. I don't care. As I close my eyes and smile, I can feel the Rabbi's warm gaze on my back. He healed me. I am forgiven.

Yeshua. I've heard that name before. "Yahweh saves." Mmm. That he does.

They were right about those eyes, you see. Dark depths of brown fire—they do see. They see everything. Hm. And they love. They heal. I am forgiven.

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Quotations from Scripture are pulled from Mark 2:1-12 and Luke 5:17-26, ESV. This narrative was originally written for and performed (by me) as a dramatic reading during a Lenten service at Faith Worship Community, Costa Mesa, CA (2016).

The Eyeglass this Christmas

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears. 

Cold hands, cramped feet, relentless noise, and nothing to see. He fingers the soft blanket beneath his weary body, listening sadly to the deep rumbling of his stomach. They told me the blanket was gray. I wish I knew what they meant. He hasn't had much heart to cry out this morning. That happens sometimes when you've been crying for days, for months, for years. He lifts his hands up to his face and covers his eyes, wishing, as he has done so many times before, that maybe, when he removes them, he will, by some miracle, be able to see.

He sits with his face covered for some time, allowing his mind to be distracted by the busy pattering of the many sandaled feet before him, the deep echoes of the voices of their owners, and the other usual sounds of the street. He has grown far too accustomed to these sounds. He has been sitting here for so long.

He lowers his hands to the dirt below him, placing his palms on its cold surface and stretching out his fingers, half-delighted by the curious roughness of the little granules of dust that sift through his fingers and rub against his skin. At least one part of his body could sense a bit of the world. He drags his hands back and forth in the dirt. Oh, this dust. Oh, will I ever, ever be able to see?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadow put to flight.

She wraps her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, hugging herself—but not from the cold. It's the people—the crowds—you see. They are too close and...and...it's just hard to be with so many people all at once, especially when you're hurting. She knows pain well—and shame, too. For twelve years, she has suffered; for twelve years, the bleeding hasn't stopped. Yes, she's tried the doctors—she's been to the best ones in the land. No treatment has helped, and now her stomach growls too. I've no money for food today. My body aches. My head is spinning. Is there hope anywhere? Relief from this pain? this shame? Oh, will I ever, ever be free?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Desire of Nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind.
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease
And be Thyself our King of Peace.

He settles himself down on the chilly, wet grass, crossing his legs neatly and breathing in the crisp night air. It feels like the biggest breath he has taken in a month. It is a still night—no wind, and even the sheep seem quiet. He looks up to the dark sky, his heart heavy. Is there any way to even relate the pain? Family troubles sometimes hurt too much to even put them into words. He lies on his back, raising his arms to tuck his hands behind his neck. He draws more air into his lungs. As he lets it out, a single tear—hot and sticky—makes its way down his dusty cheek. He lets it fall. He knows the others aren't paying attention. He knows the sheep won't care.

One more breath, another glance at the sky. Man, that star sure is bright. A lamb wanders over to him, fumbling and shuffling through the grass in its exhaustion. His lips twist into the tiniest smile and he reaches out his hand to the little creature. It buries its nose in his palm, its warm breath tickling his wrist. He wants to smile, but his mouth can't seem to lift his heart this time. Another tear flickers down his face as he gently pets the lamb. He raises his gaze to the sky once more. Oh, is there hope? Will this ever, ever stop?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appears.

Dropping his pencil onto his tattered note-page, he sits back in his old chair. He slips his fingers underneath his glasses and rubs his tired eyes. His shoulders ache. He's barely staying awake. He fixes his glasses and tries once more to look at his paper. So many scribbles, half-started thoughts that look better, he thinks, with a line straight through them. Circles, arrows, x's, eraser shavings—and, still, the sermon hasn't hardly a skeleton. What do I do? What do I tell them?

He thinks of the people who will be listening to him shortly after the sun stretches its rays across the sky the next morning, forcing the darkness away with its happy glow. He knows each face in his congregation. Will there be enough in that sun to help them hang on another day? He picks up the Bible that has been lying on his desk for hours and reads again the passage on which he is supposed to be preaching. Oh, this world. Will we ever, ever make it?

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

*****

Four stories. Four people. Four broken, bleeding hearts. Four aching souls. Four parched tongues. They're waiting, longing desperately for the smallest hint of hope. The world doesn't seem to offer that much, does it?

But a man spit into the dirt which had been beneath the blind man's cold hands. In a touch that was, perhaps, more loving than any that that face had ever felt before, the Rabbi covered the poor fellow's eyes with mud and sent him to Siloam.

He saw.

The woman, bundled up against the crowd, thought that maybe one touch might do it. Maybe, just maybe, if she managed to get one finger on the hem of his cloak...

She was freed.

The shepherd was right about that star. It was a bright one, wasn't it?

And the pastor? You're right. That one's not in the Bible. That one's our story, and that one's not quite over yet.

But you know what? Our story's going to end just like the others did. Our King is coming. He'll drive out the night, ransom the captive nation, draw us into His heart, wipe our tears. We might ache with all the pains of the blind man, the bleeding woman, the lonely shepherd, and the burdened pastor—but, one day soon, there will be joy, sight, freedom, beauty.

We come to Christmas with a lot on our minds. We wonder; we worry; we wait. But, in it all, may we rest in the truth of what this day really means. Emmanuel—God with us—has come. And He's coming again. We have hope.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.