Throwing down my coat
Onto the foot-worn path,
Hoping for a second or two
The donkey he’s riding on
Might step onto it instead
Of the dirty road underneath,
Just a second or two, a gentle
Step, the prized hoof print
Marking the coat,
Forever marred and blessed,
Then scurrying to pick it up
Following him as far
As I can, the sounds of blessings
And hosannas echoing in time,
A connection early in the week
Before he went
where no one else
would, could go.
They say You loved the outcast soul,
The disabled, prostitute, and tax collector,
But what a strange sort of friend You were,
Rebuking even your companions as sinners.
They say You healed and fed the poor,
And condemned the religious leader,
Yet You commanded them to eat the bread of Your flesh,
Proclaiming Yourself the only way to the Father.
They say that those who seek will find,
That we must leave all else to follow You,
But I am tired and burdened with cares,
And I’m too distracted to read Your truth.
They say we must pray that Your kingdom come,
That Your will be done on earth as in heaven,
But I have been building my own little kingdom,
And loving the god of my imagination.
They say You came to bear our sins,
That You died to take our place,
But these words pass my lips so flippantly
And I scarcely feel my need for grace.
They say You had all power in heaven
To lift Yourself off of that tree,
And yet You chose to stay there,
Second by second, in unimaginable agony.
They say You were crucified and came to life the third day,
Though not in some pitiable myth in our hearts,
But in Your very body You walked and You ate.
They say that Thomas doubted that You were truly raised,
But do I believe that I, too, will be raised,
And with my own fingers Your wounds I will trace?
Just who do You say You are,
Prophet, Priest, and King?
Son of David, yet David’s Lord,
Messiah, yet it is Your death that sets us free?
You’re the second Adam, yet eternally begotten Son,
Submissive to the Father, but given all authority on earth.
You are God and also man,
A friend, and yet an offense—
Your jagged edges cut me, and yet Your love hems me in.
Who are You, Jesus, and what do You want of me?
Everything, that is all.
My LORD, my GOD, my risen KING.
I was pretty much a city boy, and growing up in a military officer’s home, I lived in places such as Whidbey Island, Norfolk, Alameda and San Diego. But now, as a new seminary grad, my wife, Lois, and I were in our first church, and I was becoming acquainted with things like pheasant hunting, calf pulling and almond harvesting. To tell you the truth, at the time, I couldn’t tell a pistachio orchard from a walnut orchard from a prune orchard from an almond orchard.
But all that was about to change and, as it did, I learned something very important about the Christian life.
Every time I hurtled down orchard-lined Highway 32 between Orland and Chico in Northern California, I noticed a curious brown line on each tree trunk and would wonder why the trees had those dark lines. The best answer I came up with was, “there must have been a flood here at one time and it discolored the bark on the lower part of the trees.” Wrong.
When I shared my hypothesis with a rancher friend of mine, he laughed out loud and called out to his wife, “Margie, come hear what our pastor just said.” I knew I was about to get a lesson in Agriculture 101. I did.
That mysterious “line” was really the demarcation between two different types of walnuts grafted together to make one tree. The Paradox walnut is used for the root stock, as it has the best root system for absorbing water and nutrients from the soil. The Chandler walnut is used for the scion, the shoot grafted into the root stock when the tree is still young, as it is superior for bearing nuts on its branches.
Clever these ranchers are, getting the best of all possible worlds.
One day I knelt in the dirt on a cherry orchard and watched an arborist carefully grafting some trees. He made a slit in the root stock with the sharp blade of his knife, cutting at an angle through the outer bark into the heart of the young tree. Then with a flick of his wrist he made a similar cut in the scion. He carefully joined the two exposed flaps of the root stock and scion, added some gluey pitch and wrapped them in tape. It was all done in less than one minute. On to the next tree.
“That will never work,” I muttered to myself. “Two pieces of wood held together by glue and tape?” But it did. A few years later, I stood in that same orchard as my friend Bob watched truckloads of his cherries head down Interstate 5 to the Stockton shipyards. Those cherries, the first to ripen in the United States, fetched an amazing price when they landed in Japan within 24 hours.
Grafting: “a horticultural technique whereby tissues of plants are joined so as to continue their growth together.” Defined by Wikipedia. Invented by God. Used by ranchers world-wide.
Three lessons. First, security. If you are a Christian, God has grafted you into Jesus Christ. Through the miracle of repentance and faith, a small slit was cut into your soul and you were joined to Jesus in a living union. His life is now in us. We are “hidden with Christ in God,” (Colossians 3:3) “joined to the Lord” so that we are “one spirit with him.” (1 Corinthians 6:17) Because we are “in Christ” (the Apostle Paul’s favorite description for believers), “neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38, 39) We are secure, knowing that in the right hands, grafting works.
Second, expectancy. Farmers expect their grafted trees to produce fruit. So should we. “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you. Abide in my love.” (John 15:7-9) We are expectant, knowing that as we live in trusting, loving dependence on Jesus, we will bear fruit.
Third, humility. God in his mercy has joined us, Gentiles, into the rootstock of his covenant promises to Abraham. That should keep all of us humble. “But if some of the branches were broken off, and you, although a wild olive shoot, were grafted in among the others and now share in the nourishing root of the olive tree, do not be arrogant toward the branches. If you are, remember it is not you who support the root, but the root that supports you. . . .They were broken off because of their unbelief, but you stand fast through faith. So do not become proud, but fear.” (Romans 11:17, 18, 20) We are humble, recognizing that God in his mercy has included us in something way beyond what we deserve.
A few weeks ago, I returned to visit friends in Northern California. Traveling down Highway 32 brought back many memories. But when I drove past that old familiar walnut orchard and saw the familiar lines on the trees, I wasn’t wondering if an imaginary flood had made the lines.
Instead, I prayed, “Thank you, Father, for grafting me into your Son”—my heart filled with security, expectancy and humility.
Steve is a College Church missionary with Training Leaders International, teaching and equipping pastors globally. Steve and Lois live in West Chicago and are involved in a variety of ministries at College Church.
About 15 years ago I gave my wife, Elsa, a pink dogwood tree for Mother’s Day. The kids and I planted the tiny tree in the front yard and waited impatiently for gorgeous flowers to bloom.
One year passed, then two, then three. Still no flowers. We wondered if the spindly little dogwood would ever grow and blossom. A few times I was tempted to cut it down.
But one spring we saw some blossoms, and more in the springs after that. As time passed, the trunk thickened, branches expanded, and an ever-widening array of pink petals spread among the leaves. Truly our pink dogwood was coming into its own.
Our experience with the dogwood tree reminds me of our attitude toward ministry sometimes. We invest our prayers and efforts in helping a friend or family member grow in their faith.
But if we aren’t seeing results, we are tempted to give up and move on to someone or something else.
If that is you right now, just keep on “watering the tree” and wait for God to work.
For Instance, I’m involved in a ministry of equipping Christian writers and publishers around the world. We come alongside a man or woman with gifting for Christian writing or publishing. We nourish that talent through training, encouragement and prayer. Sometimes we wonder if, or when, all that hard work will bear fruit in a finished book or established publishing ministry.
Then that writer’s book does get published, that publisher does makes real progress toward growth, that trainee does becomes a trainer of other writers and publishers. And we remember that it takes time for a growing Christian communicator to take root and blossom.
Last summer our little dogwood tree had one more surprise for us. There on a branch just three or four feet off the ground rested a bird’s nest. Inside sat a mama robin alongside her baby, beak open and expectant for food. We could hardly believe it.
Seeing the bird family, I was even more relieved that we hadn’t given up and removed the tree from our front yard. Not only was the dogwood providing beauty, it was giving shelter to new life, as it were.
It was a fitting conclusion to this parable of the dogwood tree….coming full circle to illustrate how God’s Word is working even when we can’t see it at first.
“What shall we say the kingdom of God is like…..? It is like a mustard seed…when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds of the air can perch in its shade” (Mark 4:30-31).
Do not eat of the tree. The warning is clear. Yet we run in our Sunday shoes and dress clothes. My two older brothers, ten and eight, and tag-a-long me at age six. Out we gallop to the ten foot cement wall between the mission home and the neighbor’s tree. My brothers shed ties and dress shirts while I am stuck in a dress. Shoes and socks are quickly removed. Carrying the stepladder together, climbing the last few feet of cement and scrambling to the top of the wall, we are met by glass shards stuck in the cement pointing menacingly upwards to keep thieves off the mission grounds where we live. We cut our feet immediately on the glass, but not enough to stop ourselves. The succulent guavas we have been told not to eat enticingly draw us. The rule to not eat of the tree is ours; given for our protection.
We reach and grab a few guavas. They are unripe and inedible. We wince, chew and want more, but can’t reach; so we jump onto the branches closest to the wall, swinging wildly and clambering deeply into the tree. Eating more unripe guavas, after a few minutes we feel queasy and very itchy. Jumping back over the wall our bare feet suffer more cuts. My calf is bleeding, but I want to be included on future brotherly expeditions so I do not cry when I want to cry. Washing the blood flowing from our feet with water from the yard pump, we jump and shake off the green caterpillars crawling all over us. My brothers button their shirts, attach their clip ties into place and run their hands through their hair. I notice a rip in my dress as I disentangle caterpillars caught in my own mass of hair along with twigs and leaves. We hastily pull on socks and shoes knowing we have played around too long; the yard near the house is quiet. We try to outrun our misdeeds and get to church.
Instructions to go help Dad set things in place for morning worship had been given to us earlier. He won’t be pleased to see us now. We trot along holding our aching bellies. Mother is walking back and forth in front of the church scanning the horizon searching for us. As we approach, she sizes us up: alive but askew. We know we are had, guilty and caught. What have we done? We were told to come straight to church. Where were we hiding? We caused great worry. They were about to send out a search party to find us. We cannot mask the guilty stains of bark on our hands, and bloody scratches on my calf trickle down into the white lace of my sock. Scratching uneasily at our itchy skin, red bumps form where caterpillars trail over our faces, arms and necks. Nausea has given us pinched faces as green as the guavas’ skins. We are marched straight home by Mom and Mama Benson, a loyal church member with twelve children of her own and functions as resident doctor, restaurateur and grocery store owner. Mama Benson’s doctoring bag is full of everything we dread: injections, bitter pills and stinging Merthiolate.
We confess where we have been and what we have done and are reminded it’s The Lord’s Day we have desecrated. I have disobeyed, torn my dress and broken the additional commandments of coveting, stealing and not honoring my father and mother. The boys are sharply reprimanded on every count; their offenses include blatantly leading me into a life of crime.
Our feet and other cuts are soaked in hot water, scrubbed with disinfectant and examined. The Merthiolate is poured on our raw broken skin and a smelly salve is rubbed into our wandering feet which are wrapped in clean white cotton bandages. Thermometers register elevated temperatures and our bellies are poked and squeezed. Tetanus shots administered all around have our thin arms screaming with regret. Spankings and loss of privileges come later when Dad gets home. Once the weeping ceases, we are led to pray and ask God to forgive us. Then Dad talks to us about restitution.
Restitution is something we must pay to the neighbor because we have sinned against him. We must go ask his forgiveness and give him something of value. Something precious of our own that he will hopefully accept as payment for the guavas we ate belonging to him. At six, and not a woman of much property, I am stumped. I would like to offer siblings, the twins a few years younger often in my care, who plague me by falling into open sewers and cause a whole lot of trouble, but that is not allowed. I own three things: two kittens I consider my furry sisters Sunset and Midnight and a favorite chicken, Henny Penny. I cannot give up something I love. Not a beloved animal. Surely not any one of them. It is not fair.
There is no getting out of it. The price must be paid for restitution. Henny Penny does not appreciate being carried by her betrayer and deals nervous pecks to my hands and arms as I limp out of our gate following my brothers over to the house next door. The boys have to give their prized bolo knives which will surely end their glorious days of trailblazing like Daniel Boone. I sob for their heavy losses. We stand contrite and ashamed for what we have done, knocking on the neighbor’s metal gate calling out a greeting.
When the gate opens, we ask to speak to the master of the house. The owner comes and looks quizzically as three tear stained, freckle faced children so sorry for sins against him, offer up an angry chicken and two bolo knives. He has a guava tree? He does not know he has a guava tree. His servant nods and points in the direction of the tree back by the wall. Our neighbor does not miss the guavas, and has no need for the chicken or the knives. He shakes his head, “Thank you, thank you. No please, you keep . . . you are good keeds,” He smiles. He doesn’t know we are naughty “keeds.” We are surprised by his grace.
The boys grateful for this undeserving turn of kindness are ready to go, but I am afraid to return home with Henny Penny. Having received a spanking for disobeying, I know from experience that a second spanking may be earned if the first one doesn’t take. I set Henny Penny down at our neighbor’s feet and she lifts her wings to run only to be quickly retrieved by the servant standing nearby. Our neighbor and his servant walk us back home. The neighbor shakes Dad’s hand, and they talk for a short while. Henny Penny is released and runs to freedom. The neighbor nods and smiles reassuringly and returns home with his servant.
We stand waiting as Dad shakes his head and hopes we have learned our lesson. Squirming as he looks us over, we wonder if we are still in trouble? We learn that while we are forgiven, we will not be trusted to run quite so freely for many days as we will be doing extra chores. “Get to work,” Dad tells us. “You are little stinkers, you do not deserve it, but we still love you. Be glad and be good.”
Exchanging of vows
Nancy, I love you.
Before God our Father and these witnesses I, Roland Spence Tally,
Understanding the instructions given in the Holy Scriptures,
That I should love you as Christ loved the church
And love you as much as I love my own body,
And to treat you with the care that a precious vessel requires:
Wishing to be obedient to these instructions found in the scriptures
So that Christ my Savior may be glorified
I promise you, Nancy Carol Seymour
That I will never abandon you
spiritually, emotionally, intellectually, or physically,
I dedicate my total being to meet your every need as God,
through His Holy Spirit enables me to.
Until death separate us or until our Lord and Savior comes again.
Before God our Father and these witnesses I publicly declare that
I, Nancy Carol Seymour, have chosen you, Roland Spence Tally to be my lawfully wedded husband, the one to whom I will be united and
spend the rest of my life till God takes one of us home.
Having talked with God our Father, and knowing His words
I am convinced that we are in his will and that
He alone has brought us together.
I am but a child in God’s family, but by the provision Christ has made for me, and by the power of the Holy Spirit who has come to dwell in me;
I will respond properly to you my husband.
By properly I mean I shall Help You. Love You,
Submit to Your Authority, and Obey You.
I chose to grow in grace and in the knowledge of God, and along with you, be made by God, more like His Son everyday.
Unfortunately, Roland’s words have been lost in the passage of time.
Roland , may this ring remind you that I am secure in the circle of your love,
And that I willingly bring to you my own love.
I pray that our circle of love will expand to enclose others and that our friendship, trust and love for each other will never cease to deepen.
Roland at this time I thee wed and give to you my life.
Commitment to Concepts
Love is a verb and therefore a choice.
What ever the difficulty was if love is gone it is because one or both of us decided to stop acting in love.
Divorce is not an option.
No matter what, neither of us has the right
to split asunder what God had joined together.
That left us with two options:
Continue to refuse to choose to be loving and stay miserable
Chose to love the other again.
Warning: the pain you inflicted on your spouse my take years of your loving them with no visible sign of their healing or returning your care.
But when God breaks through the restoration of mutual love and warmth of relationship will be worth all the work.
I was thinking the other day of where the hearts of people are today. Are their hearts in the holiday of Valentine’s and the beautiful cards that Hallmark has printed for the season? Or are they in the type of candy, flowers, or yummy Valentine desserts that are all for sale at this time of year?
Where was your heart this Valentine season? Was it emotionally tired? Was it tired of how unkind people seem to be these days? How it’s okay for others to have their opinion of anything and everything, but you are not allowed to have yours? When did our hearts become so cold?
Thinking about all of this reminded me of my younger days:
Do you remember when you where young and your Mom came home with red, pink and white construction paper? Plus glue, pens, and if you were really lucky doilies to make your homemade cards really special for that one person you wanted to impress. It was such a joyous time as you and your siblings sat around the table, folded the construction paper in half, drew a half-shaped heart on one side, and then cut the heart out, unfold it to its big heart size and begin your decorating. This just wasn’t paper, glue, and doilies to you. This was a moment when you thought really hard about who this heart was going to. Would it be met with a smile? Would it be met with embarrassment? Would it be met with kindness? The trauma and turmoil that went into preparing those hearts for the special people in your life. It was so personal, and done with so much love. Fast forward to today’s cards our children give to their classmates. Purchased in a box of other cards, and signed “From”. It’s so impersonal. Everyone gets one. There’s no special time spent with scissors cutting out construction paper and doilies. There’s no real feeling, other than to count how many you received. How can we expect attachment, or real heart felt feelings when nothing has really gone into the giving?
So back to my original question: Where was your heart this Valentine season?
Mine was in thinking about being a more effective witness, more than being just a good example, more than purchasing what the media makes of Valentine.
Mine was in letting friends and family know that becoming a Christian is as close as your own lips and heart. That if we believe in our heart and say with our mouth that Christ is the Risen Lord, we will be saved (Romans 10: 10-12).
Now that’s a Valentine gift I can live with forever.