The Twins by Wil Triggs

My dad was a twin. I don’t know if they were identical. I never met his twin. That uncle died before I came along. Aunt Alberta was a storyteller, and she enraptured me with stories of growing up in Nebraska cornfields. When she came to town for Dad’s funeral, she told us of how Dad had saved her from harm. She stepped into a milking jar and couldn’t get out. She was terrified. My dad figured out a way to free her. He saved her, she said.

She also recalled that it was a big deal for their little town that twins were born into the community. Back then people thought that there was a good twin and a bad twin. We know that this is not true. Everyone is born in sin, but also capable of good. So there is no good twin/bad twin syndrome. Did my dad believe that he was the bad twin? Did he carry that fear and that question with him throughout his life? Did such thinking adversely affect their relationship or how each one of them thought about themselves?

There is another kind of good/bad twin syndrome that we each carry all the time. We face twin responses, one is good, the other not so much in all kinds of situations.

Turning the other cheek or smacking the other guy in the face.

Respecting your boss or giving him a piece of your mind.

Belief or unbelief.

It isn’t doubleminded to struggle in this way; there’s always a choice.

The gospel writer Mark tells of a father who believed enough to bring his son to Jesus. He watched the disciples and saw that other people were being healed. But when they came to this man and his son, nothing.

Then there was a dispute among the crowd. There are no details, but I imagine people were telling the father to give up and go home—make room for others. Give up.

He didn’t leave. There was enough belief to stay. Jesus came and they talked the situation over.

“If you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us,” the father said.
Jesus responded, “If you can. All things are possible for the one who believes.”
To which the father confessed, “I believe; help my unbelief.” There it is. The warring twins of belief and unbelief.

Soon Jesus would speak to and cast out the demon. He did what even the disciples could not do.

At one time or another, life steps into a milk jar and we can't get out. We think of such times: a broken relationship, an enraged daughter, a mentally ill son, a lost job, a besetting sin, a terminal diagnosis, a bond crushed. At times like those, we can’t just give up and go home. The disciples might not know what to do. But there is One who knows.

Cling to Jesus. Have faith. Tell him, “I believe; help my unbelief.” He will not send you away.

Even Bigger, Even Better by Lorraine Triggs

The idea behind the once popular Bigger and Better Scavenger Hunts was to go from house to house and trade-up items. The best thing my son brought home from his youth group Bigger and Better Scavenger hunt was a clunky 1980s style bread machine that worked. I was excited about the trade up. Obviously, I have a low bar for trade ups.

When I went off to college and opened the door to my dorm room, I exclaimed to my sisters, “Look, I only have to share a room with one other person.” Like I said, a low bar.

The bar did rise considerably when I traded up my cat for my husband and his allergies—the only trade-up that has gotten better and better with each year.

Other than my trade-up of cat for husband, we typically trade up when we don’t think something is enough and want something more valuable, more expensive, bigger and better than a clunky bread machine.

Every now and then posts pop up on my social feeds that declare Jesus is enough. I understand that these posts want to communicate that all we need is Jesus, but something seems off-kilter to me, especially if I am always on the hunt for something bigger and better in my life.

The hunt makes it easy to be tempted, not to trade in Jesus, put to trade up to Jesus plus XYZ, ever-so subtly equating XYZ with Jesus, and that’s enough, for now. Or we put God right there at the top of our list, with family and country a close second and third. An honest look at the list, however, would make us realize that the One is not like the others.

Jesus isn't at the top of my list. He made the list and he made me and saved me. There is no one other than him. He is the list, beginning, middle and end God does not have equals or second or third place competitors. He is all—period, full stop.

Leland Ryken’s book The Heart in Pilgrimagelives up to its subtitle: “A Treasury of Classic Devotionals on the Christian Life.” One of these treasures is the selection of reflections by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Jonathan Edwards and Thomas Watson (pp. 87-89).

Says Ryken: “The genre of the three selections is known aspanegyric—a composition that praises a person or thing in superlative terms,” and points out that they “use a vocabulary ofmoreandmostandrichestanddearerandbetterand such like. The effect is to elevate Christ above everything else.”

As Thomas Watson wrote, “Christ must be dearer to us than all. He must weigh heavier than relations in the balance of our affections. . .” 

Let us praise him in all things.

Colossians 1:15-20, the Christ hymn, was sung in the ancient church. Perhaps it’s time to start singing again: “He is the beginning, the first born from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (vv.18-19) as we look forward to dwelling in the fullness forever. 

Period. Full stop.

Active Listening by Wil Triggs

As I was telling the story of missionary Adoniram Judson and his journey to Burma (now Myanmar) in Bible school last week, I had some competition. No disrespect to the teacher, but many of the kids needed to tell something or show something to the person sitting next to them. A missing tooth. A birthday. A new toy. A new baby brother or sister. My biting problem. I have to go potty.

“Wait,” I said, looking at some of the culprits. “We can’t all talk at once and it’s my turn to talk right now.” Three claps of the hand sometimes work.

We teachers act like grown-ups always listen when they’re supposed to. But we’re lying.

How many times a day am I only halfway there? “Wait. Say that again,” trying to make it seem like I was listening when I was thinking about an essay I just read, or how much the visit to the auto mechanic was going to set me back. What’s my next meeting? How many messages are waiting for me? Should I pull out my phone and look at the screen? Oh, now, what was that you were saying? I’m right there with the Kindergarteners in the front, middle or back row, halfway hearing the missionary story or the Bible story.

We aren’t very good at listening to what other people say.

Jesus kept telling people to listen. Let those with ears hear.

While we have a hard time listening, God never turns a deaf ear to us. I can always do better at listening, but I find solace in the truth that God actively listens, knows, always hears. I don’t think we really believe that’s true. We live like our sin is stronger than God’s Son. Ultimately, though, God’s listening atones for everything.

Give ear, give ear, I feel the need to complain, to pour out the words of my Easter Saturday sadness and pain. Spring, summer, autumn, I wonder, do you hear me? Perhaps I don’t even think about you. Do you know and care? Are you really there? Even more to the point: if you should answer, do I hear you?

Where can I go that you cannot hear? What words can I think that you do not see? If I wonder where you were when my best friend died, your listening ear is not stopped; it does not hide. Right there, that’s where. Even if I wander down the street of my grand illusion of want, or the anger or shame of my ghostly haunt, still you hear without being called. When I ask the world why, I’m talking to you. Eyes to hear, ears to see.

Into your hands I commit my words. You hear even the words I cannot speak, the ones I don’t even know I have.

With you there is only nearness, shear nearness; even and ever, you are here, not over there but right here, closer than my imagination dreams. 

Incline your ear to me;
    rescue me speedily!
Be a rock of refuge for me,
    a strong fortress to save me!

For you are my rock and my fortress;
    and for your name's sake you lead me and guide me;
 you take me out of the net they have hidden for me,
    for you are my refuge.
Into your hand I commit my spirit;
    you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God.

Psalm 32:2-5

The Making Time Count Equation by Lorraine Triggs

Author and journalist Oliver Burkeman might be making a fortune off our finitude. He’s the author of Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals. In another book he scales back the four thousand weeks to four: Meditations for Mortals: Four Weeks to Embrace Limitations and Make Time for What Counts. Burkeman is no fan of multi-tasking and prefers we mortals focus on being finite.

I wonder what Burkeman thinks about Jesus’ time management skills. Would he applaud Jesus' reaolve in setting his face toward Jerusalem, while reminding him, "You can't serve everyone, right?" Actually wrong. A lot happened when the Infinite One became flesh and dwelt among the finite ones.

On that road to Jerusalem, where the religious leaders were lying in wait to kill him, we see Jesus making time for what counts. The road was cluttered with crowds, Pharisees, children, a rich young man, arguing disciples and one Blind Bartimaeus. Jesus taught the crowds, exposed the Pharisees, welcomed the children, loved a rich young man and settled an argument among his disciples.

But how does Blind Bartimaeus off to the side of the road, apart from the crowd, fit into the make-time-for-what-counts equation? He’s blind. He’s a beggar. He’s loud, obnoxious even. As soon as he hears Jesus was there “he began to cry out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.'" (Mark 10:47) Many “rebuked” him, telling him to be quiet. I can imagine these people, devices in hand, making sure Jesus was on message and sticking to his agenda. Dealing with a beggar, let alone a blind beggar, was not on plan.

Jesus, however, was sticking to his agenda: to seek and to save that which was lost, so he stopped and told his followers to call Blind Bartimaeus. Their words to the blind man were graced words: “They called to the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart. Get up; he is calling you.’ And throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus.” (Mark 10:49-50) And there on the road between Jericho and Jerusalem, the one now formerly known as Blind Bartimaeus was dazzled by eternal light and followed Jesus.

These are graced words to us this Easter. Take heart. Get up. He is calling you. Because the Infinite One took on finitude, he understands our weariness and sympathizes with our weakness. Take heart. Because the Infinite One took on the form of a servant and humbled himself to the point of death on a cross, there is no need to sit in the darkness of sin. So, get up from the side of the road and follow Jesus.

On Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, that road was cluttered with cloaks and palm branches, but not Bartimaeus’ cloak. That had been discarded and forgotten, as he waited to put on new clothes that would be washed on Friday and ready to wear for infinity on Sunday.

Hosanna! The Lord saves.

Missing Lunch by Wil Triggs

Long, long ago, airfares dropped between Chicago and London so that it actually cost less to fly to London than Los Angeles. So once again, we found ourselves in London on holiday.

When we travel, we like to be both spontaneous and in control. We made a list of places we wanted to see and things we wanted to do. Sunday afternoon was assigned a specific place, but first was Sunday morning. That meant church.

We went to All Souls Church. Back then, that meant John Stott. We got there on time and had a seat. We could see that there was some community life in this church, that it was a lot more than just the church where John Stott preached. We felt more or less at home. This happens in other parts of the world, too, so it’s not just an English-speaking thing. Even if we don’t understand the language of the church where we're worshiping, we’re at home.

At the end of the service, as we walked toward the back, we started talking to a man. He was a regular attender. He showed interest in us. We answered his questions, and he seemed especially keen on our missions background. We got to talking and it was hard to stop. We didn’t want to stop talking and neither did he.

Then, he invited us to his home for lunch. What were we to do with this unexpected invitation? We were on holiday, and Sunday morning may have meant church, but Sunday afternoon, well, that meant a museum or a gallery or a park. We explained that we had our plans. He understood and wished us well. We parted ways and went on to the expected part of our day.

Looking back, I don’t recall what places we visited that Sunday after church. What I do remember is that kind man's invitation and feel a sadness about what that Sunday lunch may have held for us. We will never know. I like to think that I am different nowadays—choosing the family of God over the art, artifacts and trinkets of human achievement.

Jesus didn’t hesitate to accept dinner invitations from tax collectors, sinners or Pharisees, and he always brought the unexpected to the table. In Luke 14, Jesus was dining with a ruler of the Pharisees. It almost sounds as if the Pharisees were anticipating the unexpected from Jesus as they carefully watched him (Luke 14:1), and Jesus didn’t disappoint them. After calling out the Pharisees for their hypocrisy and pride of place, he turns to his host with a guest list for his next dinner or fancy banquet: “When you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the just.” (Luke 14:13-14)

One day we will sit down with that man from All Souls. Jesus opens the door and invites us in. He serves a feast, lamb seasoned with spices and placed on a table with freshly washed and neatly folded linens. He is risen.

Sign Me Up By Lorraine Triggs

We recently watched the Netflix documentary “Don’t Die: The Man Who Wants to Live Forever.” It was about tech millionaire Bryan Johnson, who according to the Netflix promo, is the man who wants to live forever—well, at least extend his life by 200 years.

There was something oddly fascinating about watching Bryan down a gazillion supplements (okay, it was just a mere 91), eat meals that didn’t resemble anything we cook or save from the New York Times Cooking app, work outad nauseam, hook up to machines for all sorts of read-outs, undergo light therapy and sleep for precisely eight hours a night.

On the Netflix Tudum site, an article promoting the movie asks, “If given the chance, would you want to live forever?” I wonder how many people, after watching the documentary, said, “Sign me up for forever.”

In a post on X, Johnson claims he is building a religion and that his “Don’t Die” movement will “save the human race” and usher in “an existence more spectacular than we can imagine.” Johnson boasts on his website, “Blueprint,” that he is the healthiest person on earth. He says that he is “asking the question, 'Are we the first generation that won’t die?’”  

I hate to break the news to Bryan Johnson (actually, I don’t hate to break the news), but that question has already been asked and answered by the invader of paradise who assured its newly created residents, “You will not surely die.” It’s the same ancient lie no matter how you dress it up or swallow it down.

In the inspired irony of Scripture, Jesus shatters the “Don’t Die” myth. When his disciples walk up the stairs to the upper room, their dusty sandals leaving footprints on the stairs, he knows the hour of his death has come. And what does he do? Figure out an algorithm to live forever? Since the Father already had that planned, Jesus takes off his outer garments, picks up a basin and towel and washes twenty-four dusty feet. He doesn't reassure his followers that no one is going to die, but he loves his own to the end—his end. Instead of supplements, he gives bread. Here, take eat, “This is my body, which is given for you.” He hands them the cup. Here, drink, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.” In the darkness of a garden, Jesus looks into the cup swirling with the sins of the world and cries, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will but yours, be done.” (Luke 22:42) He looks again, knowing he alone is the worthy Lamb sacrificed for our sins, so that we may live forever.

We love our life, we lose it. We hate our life in this world and keep it for eternal life (John 12:25). We eat Living Bread and are satisfied. We drink Living Water and never thirst again. We die and live forever because the Son of Man has come to seek and to save the lost, the sick, the poor and hungry. He has come to save the Bryan Johnsons of the world with the promise that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life—something more spectacular than we can imagine.

I Give Up By Wil Triggs

A good friend of mine posted something on Facebook that upset me. I do my best to not look at Facebook or X or Instagram or whatever. But let’s face it: I end up scrolling just to see what’s going on. I almost never comment because I don’t want to enter the fray. Honestly, I feel embarrassed at what people post or their comments under the posts of others.
 
Anyway, this particular post wasn’t about me, but about something close to my heart. And ouch. That hurt. So, I decided to tell him. By text, which is also not the best way for me to communicate to someone.
 
He explained that this post was his way of finding truth.
 
A few minutes later, he sent another text and said he was sorry and that friendship was more important than social media. He actually apologized. He was telling me that I mattered to him more than the truth he was looking for on social media posts. This felt surprisingly good.
 
He said that he was going to give up social media for Lent.
 
This is one of the nicest things a person has said to me or done for me in a long time; what I’m about to say isn’t about that or him. But what he said prompted me to think about giving up things.
 
Pagan religions bring sacrifices to their altars or temples. All the ancients had some form of it. People sacrifice to appease their gods, even and especially the false ones.
 
Maybe we deny ourselves to fulfill ourselves. But often as I hear people talking about their denials, it can feel a little more like the path to a pagan temple than a horrifying forever life-changing road to calvary.

To give up something for Lent is not to be rid of it for good. Because Easter is coming. Then, all the things folks give up come back, probably and most often, with a vengeance. Why not? There’s a time limit; that’s the idea. We fallen humans can’t sacrifice like God did. It’s impossible. We can’t really atone or intercede for anyone, ourselves included. And the finished work of Jesus means we don’t have to.
 
My friend's apology was better than his sacrifice, to me at least. God doesn’t want our sacrifices. He wants our hearts.
 
People give up coffee or chocolate or television or social media. But for me, I’m giving up on giving up. When people give up, does God have their hearts?
 
Perhaps I’m going to take hold of something new instead of giving up some old pleasure or habit.
 
Maybe I’m going to take hold of prayer. I’ll pray to God out loud, in private—just him and me and, ok, well, maybe my dog—but out loud. It’s a prayer that’s learning to talk in a new way. Speak to God audibly when no one else is around to hear.
 
Face-to-face church means that this Sunday, I’m going to make eye contact. Listen. Sing. No other day will ever be a repeat of this day. Someone is waiting for another person to say hello, listen, pray together, be the messenger. Help me find that person and not look away.
 
Life is the anti-Groundhog Day. Every day is new. There are no repeats. Grab hold of each one. Hold my hand, look into my eyes and see. Find the unique in every day.
 
Yet nothing I do can add to the splendorous horror of what Jesus has done by giving everything—no, more than everything—dying when he didn’t have to and, from my limited point of view, never should have had to—"Get behind me evil one.” Instead, “Yes, die, servant king and wash my feet.”
 
Still, I don’t understand. What is the word I’m trying to find? As I give up giving up, my heart battered head-throbbing soul cries out: Be on the lookout for adding more Jesus today. Let him explain himself along the way, at least as much as you or I can fathom. There’s a word for what he does, for who he is. An ewe lamb lost, found, me drinking cool water from the water running still, me eating like one who has not eaten in forever, a taste of food so new, lapping up like water or bloody meat from the lowest manger. There’s a word for that. Only one.
 
I do not yet know what I will do, but I will not give up on him who has taken it all on completely to the utmost—not giving up but taking hold. . .drinking the cup that only he could hold. . .grasping the chalice only he could shape, mold, drink—swallowing it all to the point of death, the dregs to the very last breath and then folding the linen graveclothes when he was done with them forever. I long to see him, recognize him again, hear the not-me word when he breaks the bread, remeber how he was not in the room with us and then there he was in our midst like he had never gone because he never had and never will, still he is here, word, flesh, always and ever nearer than near.

O my love, not mine but ours, wondrous to behold, yet beyond me even me in his grasp. Down he reaches beyond the farthest to find farther fathoms further down, down he bends. He travels on foot beyond the very last bend.
 
Take my hand, my dear ones, we’ve a wedding to attend.

My Favorite Stuffies By Lorraine Triggs

Typically, at the start of the school year, stuffies (short for stuffed animals for the uninitiated) show up to Kindergarten Bible school. Though not registered for Kids’ Harbor, we never turn away stuffies of any color, critter or costume.

I understand this attachment to stuffies. When my son was young, his treasured Winnie-the-Pooh stuffie came along for a family weekend in Chicago. And then it happened. We had checked out of the hotel and were hurrying to catch the train out of the city, when our son wailed, “I left Pooh Bear in the room. I need him.”

In a matter of seconds, the concierge and the front desk and housekeeping staff became involved in our family drama to retrieve Winnie the Pooh. When the concierge announced that Pooh Bear has been reunited with his family, the entire front desk broke out in applause.

I thought of stuffies the other week as I read 2 Chronicles 13 for Women’s Bible Study. Abijah, king of Judah, and Jeroboam, king of Israel were at war when Abijah stood up on Mount Zemariam and jarred Israel’s collective memory regarding to whom God gave the kingdom, and questioned Jeroboam’s battle plan: “And now you think to withstand the kingdom of the Lord in the hand of the sons of David, because you are a great multitude and have with you the golden calves that Jeroboam made you for gods.”

It probably comes from hanging out with Kindergarteners every Sunday, but I started to laugh as I imagined Jeroboam’s 800,000 “chosen mighty warriors” tucking their little golden calf stuffies under their arms—too attached to leave them behind during the battle.

I wish I could laugh at the stuffies in my life, but like the mighty warriors, I am too attached to them to leave them behind. One of my favorite stuffies is Creature Comfort. Then there’s the twin stuffies Achievement and Accolade. The coolest stuffie talks, and her name is Miss Opinion. When paired with Bluetooth, she can come with me anywhere and anytime. Oh, how I love Miss Opinion.

Your stuffie collection might be different from mine, but not our shared attachment to them. It’s the attachment that tethers us to the here and now, to what we can see and to what we think we control. Our gaze is distinctly horizontal, looking for a human savior to rescue us.

In his bookThe Heart in Pilgrimage: A Treasury of Classic Devotionals on the Christian Life, Leland Ryken has a devotional by Richard Baxter, “The Saints’ Everlasting Rest.” Stuffies probably weren’t at the forefront of Baxter's mind when he wrote this devotional, but he did offer a solution for our attachment to them: look up to our eternal rest. Baxter wrote, “take one walk every day in the new Jerusalem.” He calls to mind Daniel, who “in his captivity, daily opened his window toward Jerusalem, though far out of sight, he went to God in his devotions; so may the believing soul, in this captivity of the flesh, look towards Jerusalem which is above.”
 
It’s Lent—the season of preparation for Good Friday sorrow and Easter joy. Perhaps the best way to prepare for resurrection—both Christ’s and our promised one—is to open our windows in captivity or in a den filled with real lions (not stuffed ones) or in our creature comforts and take that daily walk in the New Jerusalem.