Salts of the Earth by Wil Triggs

The Lord Jesus said it. We are the salt of the earth.

And then he warned that we do not lose our saltiness and become good for nothing—left to be thrown out with the bread that’s gone moldy or the empty cans of diced tomatoes, dog food and tuna fish.
 
Salt of the earth serves as a preservative, to help stave off rot and keep the world from going bad, to help us keep the world if not fresh, at least unspoiled for a while. Maybe we are even called to be a sort of irritant, astringent, to be the salt that stings a wound but helps it heal. Ouch. That hurt, but it’s going to be good for me in the long run. These Christians can annoy but they help balance out the rest of heathen humanity and slow our slide toward hell on earth, not to mention the more eternal version.
 
Like the varied types, colors and grains of salt, so are the people of God. So indulge me and let's go some different directions.
 
Table salt is the salt we’ve all grown up with—the one in the round blue box and the umbrella holding girl. It’s always there in the cupboard, waiting to be noticed.
 
One man I know feels most comfortable with the down and out, with the mentally ill. He has the ability to understand and care for them. He relates to them without discomfort or alarm after many years of being with them. He points them to Jesus when he can. He sees God’s Creator hand on them. Salt goes to the common places.
 
Kosher salt is what I use when I want to turn cucumbers into pickles.
 
Another man I know is starting to visit men in jails and hopes to tell them about Jesus and how he can turn shattered hearts into new creations.
 
Pink Himalayan salt is pink. It is saltier than regular table salt. We have a lamp made from it. I think you can pay money to sit in a room where the walls are lined with it, not sure what that's supposed to do but this kind of salt is a thing.
 
Another friend had hip replacement surgery. The day afterwards, she climbed up the stairs of her home. She did not pass out. That was all she could do that day. The next day, she brought art to show in our upcoming art gallery. I won't name her, but if you come to the new show, she's the one with the photograph of all the deer in the snow and no, it's not PhotoShopped.
 
Grey salt, or celtic sea salt is thought to help with blood pressure. I’m not sure if I believe it.
 
One of our STARS writes out a book of the Bible by hand. A whole book. If he makes a mistake, he stars over from the beginning of the book. Imagine the sense of accomplishment when he reaches the end. What a refreshing interaction with God’s Word.
 
Flake salt is big and crunchy, an especially welcome addition to a salad or a sweet where a pinch of salt and texture might add another element.
 
One missionary friend of mine wrote this week to say that some of his colleagues are fleeing or trapped in areas with active airstrikes from fighter jets and regular artillery shelling. One city is seeing particularly heavy fighting, but the situation around the country is changing daily. Northern Shan State, where this recent wave of battles began, has also seen widespread fighting. There seems to be a higher level of active fighting in all of the ethnic minority areas.
 
I don’t know what to say about fleur de sel (flower of the salt). It is somehow harvested from the ocean. It might be called the ultimate flake salt. For most of us, salt is salt, but this one is a finishing salt. When sprinkled on a cookie or a cooked egg, it brings its own flavor to the food. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never tried it. Too expensive and hard to find, I've never experienced this one.

So many salts, such a big world. May God bless us and use us today.
 
Present at creation, Jesus knows his salt. He’s made every kind of salt there is, from the common to the expensive. As his salt of the earth, he wants to shake us out to flavor the world with grace and truth.  

Bulk Buying by Lorraine Triggs

You never know what you’ll discover at Costco. One week it’s fall bulbs packaged in bags of 50; the next week, 425 Clorox wipes. And who knew that you needed 4.6 pounds of Walker’s shortbread if it were not for Costco. Such a service-oriented company.

My latest Costco discovery wasn’t in-store or online, but in print in its membership magazine. My discovery? World Kindness Week begins on Monday. Apparently, World Kindness Week came about when several humanitarian organizations came together on November 13, 1997, to promote “kindness in society.” The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation (yes, it’s a real thing) has its own ideas of promoting kindness—uplifting texts, buying coffee for a stranger or even yourself or letting the other driver merge into traffic with a friendly wave.

It’s a sad commentary on society that we need to promote kindness.

It’s an even sadder commentary on society that we seem to promote meanness instead, be it in posts, protests or in person. Too bad I can’t just make a Costco run and buy kindness in bulk, or hand it out like a free sample. I’d even make one of the bright yellow demo arrows: “Sampling today—kindness.”

Last Sunday, kindness didn’t come in bulk to me. It came by way of five-year-old Annabelle.

During large group time, I typically sit in a grown-up chair that provides an excellent view of wiggles and wayward feet pushing the person’s chair in front of them. This past Sunday, my grown-up chair and I were the only ones in my row.

Enter Annabelle. “Mrs. Triggs, can I sit with you?”

I took a quick glance at the girls she was leaving, but, no, everyone was fine. “Why of course, Annabelle, just bring your chair over.”

Annabelle settled in next to me, and we happily sang together and then listened to the Bible story teaching. I was no longer the only one in my row.

When Annabelle’s mother picked her up, I told her about Annabelle’s kindness and how fun it was to sit with her, but this sweet little story goes deeper than that. The next day, Annabelle’s father told me that she thought Mrs. Triggs looked lonely so she decided to sit with me.

World Kindness Week has nothing on tenderhearted Annabelle—and less than nothing on the kindness and tenderness of Jesus. Kindness, according to the prophet Isaiah, that would not break a bruised reed or quench a faintly burning wick (see Isaiah 42:20). Both bruised reed and faintly burning wick are barely holding on, barely noticeable . . . except by Jesus.

It makes gospel sense that Matthew is the one who recorded that Jesus fulfilled this prophecy of Isaiah’s (see Matthew 12). Matthew who lived life on the outside, and probably wasn’t the recipient of much kindness from God’s people. Then Jesus noticed him, maybe Matthew looked lonely.

Matthew took up Jesus’ invitation to follow him back to his house with other tax collectors and sinners. He took up Jesus' offer to follow him to the cross, the grave, the skies, because Jesus’ kindness—his mercy—transformed Matthew forever.

Gospel kindness will do that to a heart, making it tender to bruised reeds and flickering lights, outsiders and the lonely. And instead of offering a once-a-year sampling of kindness, it offers an invitation to a feast, an invitation to taste and see that the Lord is good.

Empty Jars by Wil Triggs

Our church has its share of widows and widowers. You might not realize it because some of them have remarried, and others are such vibrant servers of Jesus and College Church that widowhood gets forgotten. But a loss that deep is never forgotten—no matter how well adjusted to this new life or even a new spouse. Some of the people I most admire in our church are people in such a circumstance.
 
It’s not only our church, but the Bible itself that has a good number of people who have lost spouses. Think Ruth, Abigail, Tamar, the widow at Zarapheth, Anna, the widow who dropped all her coins in the offering box.
 
When my mother became a widow, she moved out of our house into an apartment that didn’t remind her of my dad. There were things ahead for my mom, but she felt she had to move out.
 
Think of the nameless widow of 2 Kings 4. Her husband, a prophet, died leaving her with two children and a mountain of debt she could not pay. She told Elisha. They talked. She explained to him that she had only one jar of oil in her home. So, Elisha gave her something to do. He said to her:
 
“Go outside, borrow vessels from all your neighbors, empty vessels and not too few. Then go in and shut the door behind yourself and your sons and pour into all these vessels. And when one is full, set it aside.” (vv. 3b-4)
 
This became a family project. She and her sons collecting empty jars from their community. What did the people think she was up to? Let’s go ahead and give her the empty jars. Some surely acted from pity. That crazy old widow. Just give her the jars. The debt collectors will soon be at her door, so let’s give her what she wants and be done with it.
 
And the widow? She was doing what Elisha had instructed her to do. And when she and her boys had exhausted all their neighborhood resources and gathered them all, they closed the doors of their home and got to work.
 
It was then that the oil flowed. I imagine a little assembly line—a son brings an empty jar, she fills it, he or his brother brings another empty jar, she fills it, he brings another. Until every last jar was filled. Somehow, she filled every one of the jars with oil, but it wasn’t her. It was God.
 
What next?
 
“Go, sell the oil and pay your debts, and you and your sons can live on the rest,” Elisha directed her.
 
God saw her, and he sees each one of us. We think our jars are full, but really without him, they are empty and dry, and we don’t have enough of them to do any good anyway. Or maybe because of circumstances, we see emptiness. Sometimes, even with him, our jars can be empty. Losing someone opens our eyes to the emptiness we sometimes face.
 
Only God fills emptiness with oil or water with wine or a lunch multiplied to feed thousands. I think of all the friends who live with great loss. I stand with them. I see God’s hand caring for and sustaining them and using me and others in the church to stand with them.
 
James reminds us that "religion that is pure and undefiled before God the Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world." (James 1:27) And then this comes across my desk from Voice of the Martyrs about a Christian woman in Laos.
 
Widowed Christian Threatened with Loss of Home
La and her husband became Christians while seeking a cure for his illness. Though he died three months later, they remained faithful due to the love and care they received from their brothers and sisters in Christ. In 2020, her daughter married a nonbeliever, and her son-in-law moved into her house. He practices animism, making offerings to spirits and trying to force his mother-in-law to do the same. He threw away La’s Bible and tries to keep her from practicing her Christian faith. In June, La’s son-in-law and daughter told her they would kick her out of the house if she continued to follow Christ. La continues to listen to Christian radio and receives encouragement from the church.

She asks for prayer for her current situation. “No matter what will happen to me . . .I will not leave God. I have hope that one day I could meet my husband again in the kingdom of God, and I will meet my God, too.”
 
Let our prayers be the empty jars we give to our sister La. Every day with Jesus is a miracle. She knows that and will not turn away. May our faith be like hers. Comfort comes from the God of all comfort. Rescue or not. We are the family of La.
 
Search for all the empty jars, all that you can gather and find. And then, you, Lord, fill them with stone-pressed oil that we might live and know. Fill the jars with water so fine, you will turn it into the finest wine.
 
Sing the triumph of the empty jars
borrowed from neighbors next door.
Filled to the top with precious oil
to feed, to soothe and calm,
oil fashioned into anointing balm,
oil to cook, some to infuse,
somehow there is no dross.
We marvel at this heavenly sauce;
we marvel at your created cross,
sweet mingling of love and loss.
From your shadow we will not hide,
ever always you do not forget;
you always see,
always provide,
always cover every debt.

Sin and Sensibility by Lorraine Triggs

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As we cleaned out our mother’s house, my two sisters and I were delighted to discover that our mom kept our kindergarten artwork, in triplicate because we had the same teacher, Mrs. Compton.

My oldest sib’s drawing of the circus tent was probably an exact copy of Mrs. Compton—that oldest sibling thing and all. At the bottom of her drawing, my sister printed neatly, “The circus.”

My middle sister’s drawing of the circus tent reflected the future nurse in her: evenly spaced stripes and precise colors. Her caption: “The circus.” No mistaking it for anything else.

Then there was me. If our mother squinted hard enough, she could make out “The cirgus” her creative and future editor daughter drew and captioned. We also admired the two “The Christmas Angel” drawings, and the one “Christmas Angle.”  No need to give credit where credit is due.

Such are the true confessions of an editor—I am not a good speller. I don’t trust myself or even spellcheck. I do have, however, a sense of when a word doesn’t look right to me, and I turn to the experts and their online dictionaries.

There are times I wish had a better sense of my sins or, more accurately, enough sense not to attribute sin to a mistake or burnout or a lapse in judgment.

It’s too late for Anaias and Sapphira to wish they had a better sense of their sin such as “Stop. What are we thinking? Don’t bury the proceeds. Don't lie about it to look better than you are."” Instead, Ananias and Sapphira stand in stark contrast to Barnabas’ generosity. Act 4 closes with Barnabas who sold “a field that belonged to him and laid it at the apostles’ feet,” and Acts 5 opens with a deadly property transaction.

It’s astonishing and sobering how quickly we can become de-sensitized to sin, and while it still doesn’t look right, it also doesn’t lookthatwrong. I go on my merry way, gossiping, grumbling, excluding, or excusing any number of okay sins. In a weird way, I am like Ananias and Sapphira, in that I bury some of my sins rather than unearth them and lay them at Jesus’ feet.

When I do consult the expert’s Word, I am overwhelmed (as always) with the beautiful paradox of God’s grace and my sins. It’s this paradox the psalmist sings about in Psalm 130, “If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared. . . O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption.” (verses 3, 7)

It’s when I have the good sense not to bury my sin, but dump it all—good, bad and indifferent—at Jesus’ feet, that I am forgiven. After all, it was Christ who died, was buried and rose again, holding nothing back to redeem a lost world, a lost me.

The Dog Ate My Novel by Wil Triggs

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In May of 1936, John Steinbeck wrote his agent Elizabeth Otis: "My setter pup, left alone one night, made confetti of about half of my manuscript book. Two months work to do over again. It set me back. There was no other draft.”
 
As both an aspiring writer and a dog lover, I really enjoy this story. I can only imagine the frustration. My dogs have gotten into a lot of my stuff over the years, but never have either of them eaten my writing. Of course, I’m typing this on my laptop, so there is no paper manuscript to chew. My dogs have preferred slippers or shoes or socks, the occasional pork chop (bone-in), my winter hat from Russia, Christmas candy, hardbound cookbooks, birthday cake, crayons. It’s a fairly long list and that’s just off the top of my head.
 
Still, my imagination was piqued. Imagine months of work chewed up, and no computer backup. Steinbeck didn’t have a hard drive. He wrote longhand on paper. It doesn’t say he was finished with the manuscript, but he must have been pretty close.
 
Things happen to us. Months of work, years even, can get washed away by the salivating mouth that is this crazy life or my distracted brain or my misguided heart. God’s doing a good work and then the good work itself, me, does something stupid. How to handle a setback like that?

“I was pretty mad but the poor little fellow may have been acting critically,” Steinbeck wrote in his letter to his agent. “I didn’t want to ruin a good dog for a ms [manuscript]. I’m not sure it is good at all. He only got an ordinary spanking with his punishment flyswatter. But there’s the work to do over from the start.”

God is cooler about these things than Steinbeck. It’s not as if he doesn’t know already whatever way it is that we are going to mess up. John Steinbeck was surprised when his novel went to shreds, but when Jesus found me having destroyed what others might consider a thing of beauty, he was not the least bit surprised.

“I’m not sure Toby didn’t know what he was doing when he ate the first draft,” Steinbeck continued. “I have promoted Toby-dog to be a lieutenant-colonel in charge of literature. But as for the unpredictable literary enthusiasms of this country, I have little faith in them.”

In the spiritual realm, I’m more often dog than Nobel laureate. God is doing something good, and then I set my teeth on the good works of the Lord and the manuscript goes to pieces. I think of them more as something to play with or gnaw into pieces than a message to the world around me.

But the transformed life, my transformed life, is not really mine at all. The dog didn’t write the novel; the dog’s master wrote it.

Steinbeck had to start over on Of Mice and Men, completing the new draft by August of that year, just about three months later. It’s a short novel, but to turn it around again in just three months impresses me. Besides the book, it’s a story that has been produced as a stage play and in the movies. All of that would have been lost if Steinbeck hadn't persevered.
 
My setup is not God’s. Jesus is always starting over with me like Steinback did on his manuscript. Jesus doesn’t give up. He both loves and likes me. He enjoys me. He has a story for me, and he won’t let me ruin the telling or doing of it.

I am both the dog who ate the novel and the novel itself, a work that seemingly will never get finished, but really will because Jesus has promised to bring to completion the work he has begun. It will be finished. Even I can’t mess that up. The Apostle Paul wrote about this In one of his manuscripts: "And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work In you will bring It to completion at the day of Jesus Christ." (Philippians 1:6)
 
The dog ate the novel when his master was away. My Master is never far away, and he gives me the best words ever to eat, words that can change everything. 
 
Your words were found, and I ate them,
    and your words became to me a joy
    and the delight of my heart,
for I am called by your name,
    O Lord, God of hosts.
Jeremiah 15:16
 
The photo of the soon-to-be-auctioned fragment reminded me of photos I’ve seen of Scripture portions unearthed after centuries. Except the words are English and for some reason, the Steinbeck family or estate chose to hold onto it. How unlike God. Over millenniums of time and the work of many people and especially the Holy Spirit, God’s Word comes to us, not through an auction but through the free and amazing work of God.
 
We naturally think of this dog as a naughty pup. But in a way, he is a positive example for us. We have only to eat the manuscript of God. As people, we can delight in it, taste it, fully ingest it into the body of our souls. Let it shape our lives, even this Saturday, in every way.

"Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God. and whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him."
Colossians 3:16-17
 
Endnote: The Steinbeck fragment goes up for auction October 25. If you want to bid on it or just see the fragment, here is the link.

Out To Save the World by Lorraine Triggs

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Actor David McCallum died last month. For the uninitiated, McCallum played Russian Illya Kuryakin, a secret agent in the TV show, “Man from U.N.C.L.E.” Illya was sidekick to Secret Agent Napoleon Solo, and together these two good guys outwitted the evil agents from THRUSH. 
 
McCallum’s death transported me back to Miss Miller’s fifth-grade classroom, where a small group of friends and I re-enacted this popular 1960’s TV show. Susan, Becky and I were the good guys from U.N.C.L.E. (eventually there was a spinoff, “The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.,” but we were trending at the time.) Kurt and Richard were the bad guys with THRUSH. We played mainly at recess, and occasionally in the classroom, using ball point pens to shoot messages across the room to each other or tapping out code on the desk. 
 
Like Solo and Kuryakin, we always outwitted THRUSH, making the world a safer place. As a fifth-grader also enamored with Emma Peel (Diana Rigg in “The Avengers”) and Nancy Drew, I was thoroughly convinced that collectively, we could save the world and make it a safer place. It was an interesting twist of the Cold War days that the television writers had a Russian and an American working together to vanquish the real bad guys.
 
One would think that by now, I’ve put away these childish things, but rest assured, my inner Kuryakin-Peel-Drew is alive and well. And given all the conflicts and wars and persecutions going on in the world today, the desire to make things right is stronger than ever.
 
On many levels making the world a safe place is a proper instinct. We work hard to create (or re-create) safe places to live, to work, to attend school, to worship, to be accepted and respected. We don’t want outsiders to intrude, and if they do, we’ll fight like my childhood heroes to beat them back.
 
The problem with self-made safe spaces is the intruders still get in. Some might chip away at the foundations of our safe places till we feel like giving up. While other intruders creep in with the darkness of disease, unemployment, divorce, wayward loved ones, failure, dementia, rejection, reminding us that our safe places aren’t safe after all.
 
The end of our manufactured safe places isn’t a call to despair and moan about how awful things are, rather it’s a call to hope and gladness. A call to hope in the Lord’s steadfast love, in his faithfulness, his deliverance, a call for gladness “because we trust in his holy name” writes the psalmist in Psalms 33:21.
 
And that goal to save the world has its fatal flaw—we can’t save ourselves, let alone the world. As the psalmist wrote earlier in Psalm 33: “The king is not saved by his great army; a warrior is not delivered by his great strength. The war horse is a false hope for salvation, and by its great might it cannot rescue.” (vv. 16, 17)
 
That’s very good news for you and me because the burden to save us was placed on another’s back, scarred and wounded as it was for our salvation, and not only ours but also the whole world.

We can still be about making the world a safe place and saving it as we point intruders to Jesus, the only hope for rescue and rest. and as we witness global tragedies, even as we seek proper responses we can fall before God in prayer and plead with him to work in ways we cannot apart from him.