Entitlements are the biggest government programs in the US.  In 2016, the Social Security program cost $916 billion, Medicare $595 billion, Medicaid an estimated $651 billion and all other welfare programs an estimated $433 billion.  What began as an almost negligible part of the national debt in 1900 is now an estimated 17% of all national spending.

              When did this happen?  The largest jump in entitlement spending occurred during the Great Society programs of 1964-65, but most people trace the root back to the Depression and Roosevelt's New Deal programs.  Just to have a date, the Social Security Act was passed January 17, 1935, with the creation of the original "Welfare", AFDC, and the relief programs we have today.  At that time "relief" was $18 per month for one child and $12 per additional child.

              Entitlement programs are not necessarily bad.   When a man has had his wages taxed his whole life, I see little wrong with his picking up a Social Security check.  He is, theoretically, just getting his money back, money he loaned to the government for their use and which they are returning.  But entitlement in general has become a bad word.  To most of us it means "the belief that one is inherently deserving of special treatment," and not because it is earned.

              I wish I had a nickel for every conservative politician, even every Christian, I’ve heard complaining about people who have entitlement issues.  The ones who act like the world owes them a living; like they should never have to reap the consequences of their sown wild oats; who think that having money or, interestingly enough, NOT having money, makes them exempt from the laws of the land.  While I find myself agreeing with most of those opinions, I also see this:  every one of them, politician and Christian alike, has an entitlement issue of his own.

              First there is the husband who wants everything done in a certain way, even if it is a lot more work for his wife; who demands certain foods cooked a certain way and served with certain other foods or he refuses to eat it; who requires every item of clothing pressed, even if they are permanent press and no one else will know the difference; who wants his big boy toys because he’s “worked hard and earned it,” even if it means others in the family will do without needs.  After all, he is the head of the house.

              Then there is the wife who wants everything the neighbors have, even if the neighbor makes a lot more money; who thinks she must have plenty of time and money allotted for preening; who considers sacrificing for her family a kind of torture; who believes that life is for recreation and begrudges every minute she must spend caring for the children or keeping the house or cooking meals; who recites her list of woes to anyone who will listen every time she has the opportunity so she can be properly pitied and praised for dealing with them.  After all no one should have to go without a new pair of shoes for every outfit.

              And don’t forget the children these two raise:  selfish, materialistic whiners who are never satisfied; who think that their parents owe them every new electronic gizmo the world creates; and who never once utter the word, “Thank you,” much less actually treat their parents with enough respect and courtesy to even look up from their phones and carry on a civil conversation.  After all, they didn’t ask to be born so they deserve everything they want to make up for it.

              Do you think these attitudes hasn’t invaded the church?  Where do you think we get those members who refuse to do as they are asked for the sake of visitors from the community?  Why, no one can have my perfect parking place (under the shade tree) or my perfect seat (in the rear).  Why do you think we have people who treat their precious opinions like the first principles of Christianity—basic and undeniable, and shame on anyone who isn’t as enlightened as I am?  Where do they come from, the people who will raise an argument about the trivial just to show their smarts and regardless of who may need the larger point being made?  Or the ones who, when they suffer, raise their fists at God and complain, “I’ve served you all my life.  Why me?” as if they could have ever earned any blessing at all?

              And why do you think we have such a hard time overcoming a single besetting sin?  “That’s just the way I am,” we think, as if the Lord should count Himself blessed to have us and overlook it.

              Yes, we are all guilty.  And what does Jesus have to say about that when he hears us pontificating about “those people” with entitlement issues?

Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye, Matt 7:3-5.

              Be careful the next time you rant about entitlement.
 
Dene Ward

We had headed out on our trip to Apalachicola in the middle of the week, in late October.  Since Keith retired we have discovered the best times for traveling are any time but the week-end.  Less traffic, fewer tourists vying for the same sights, food, and lodging.  And our own Inn was less expensive midweek, so our gift certificate went further.

              We had decided to take US 98 west along the coast.  As a born and bred Florida girl it seemed a shame that I had never in my life made that trip, winding around on two lane roads bordering the Gulf, watching the waves through and beneath the stilted beach houses, swaying sea oats, and sand dunes.  We prepared ourselves to be relaxed and patient and enjoy the brand new scenery despite miles and miles of bumper to bumper tourist traffic.

              So we headed out early, stopping in Branford, a small town on the Suwannee River with a café featuring an excellent breakfast, including the biggest, fluffiest, tastiest biscuits I had eaten in any café anywhere—the Branford Gathering, if you care to know.  We took our time there, as well, chatting up the waitress about their lunch and evening meals, asking her favorite dish and the best times to eat each of those meals—just in case.

              Then we crossed that fabled river and headed through "Old Florida," not the glitzy Florida of amusement parks, tourist traps, and high end hotels.  This was more like the Florida I grew up in, though decidedly more wooded than central Florida.  The sun flashed metronomically through pencil thin pine forests.  Logging trucks sat rumbling by the side of the road in deep muddy ruts awaiting their load of logs before pulling out on the two lane blacktop.  Pickups passed going the opposite direction, some pulling horse trailers, some boats, and others farm equipment.  Up ahead we would see a green sign telling us we were entering a town—Cabbage Grove, Scanlon, Newport--only to find a convenience store or a gas station, and little else.

              Finally we turned south toward the Gulf, wondering when the traffic would begin.  We wondered that for mile after mile, even after we gained sight of the water.  We kept trundling along at the speed limit, on cruise control, in fact, never once having to hit the brakes for another vehicle.  Somewhere around Carabelle we picked up a car or two ahead of us, but it was probably Eastpoint before we really had any traffic.  As a result we arrived about two hours earlier than we expected, and had absolutely no trouble finding our inn.  We came across the bridge at the mouth of the Apalachicola River and there it stood.

              Apalachicola is a slow, lazy, Southern town.  Diagonal street parking, a lone blinking yellow light, more pedestrians than vehicles and not that many of them.  After finding our room and unpacking, we went for a hike and quickly found the Visitors' Center.  We were the only visitors there.  And that may be the first place we came across the nickname of that area of Florida's Big Bend—the Forgotten Coast.

              You may be thinking, especially if you are not a Floridian, "Forgotten?  Who ever heard of it in the first place?"  As it turns out, Apalachicola was once a very important place.  Between 1840 and 1860 it was the third busiest cotton port on the Gulf, after New Orleans and Mobile.  By 1860 the population was nearly 2000.  And now?  The population in 2010 was still just over 2200.  The railroad no longer runs from Columbus, Georgia, with its tons of cotton, and Apalachicola is suddenly not as important as it used to be.  Shrimpers and oystermen still work the waters, supplying 90% of the oysters consumed in the state.  But without the railroad, the cotton, and the ships offshore waiting for those bales, the town, even the whole coast, never continued growing.  It has become "Forgotten."

              When something is no longer an important part of our lives, we tend to "forget" it.  Not that we really cannot remember it happening, just that we seldom think about it, and certainly never plan our lives around it.  That's what happened to God.  His people "forgot" him.

              God warned them that might happen.  And when the LORD your God brings you into the land that he swore to your fathers, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, to give you—with great and good cities that you did not build, and houses full of all good things that you did not fill, and cisterns that you did not dig, and vineyards and olive trees that you did not plant—and when you eat and are full, then take care lest you forget the LORD, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. (Deut 6:10-12)

              And sure enough, even that warning did them no good.  But I am the LORD your God from the land of Egypt; you know no God but me, and besides me there is no savior. ​It was I who knew you in the wilderness, in the land of drought; ​but when they had grazed, they became full, they were filled, and their heart was lifted up; therefore they forgot me. (Hos 13:4-6)

              I wonder if we don't need the same warning.  We live in prosperous times.  Most of us are so wealthy we don't even realize it.  "Busyness" has become a status symbol in itself.  And so our extra classes die on the vine because no one attends, the older men who offer their help in study sit alone and waiting for all the ones who never show up, and our children complain because doing a Bible lesson is "boring."  A very few good women take care of every need among the saints while others have their families, or their careers, or their "me time."

              Do we realize how dangerous this is?  My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge; because you have rejected knowledge, I reject you from being a priest to me. And since you have forgotten the law of your God, I also will forget your children. (Hos 4:6)  When God is no longer the center of our lives, when pleasing him is no longer our purpose, when knowing more and more about him and his Word so we can serve him even better is considered extraneous, when serving his people is the last thing on our lists and therefore usually undone, we are forgetting God just as those people did so long ago.

              A God whom the Old Testament describes as one whose "lovingkindness endures forever" again and again, eventually ran out of patience with a people who no longer valued him or his law.  Don't think his patience won't run out on us.
 
I will scatter you like chaff driven by the wind from the desert. ​This is your lot, the portion I have measured out to you, declares the LORD, because you have forgotten me…(Jer 13:24-25)
 
Dene Ward

We recently spent a few lovely days in Apalachicola.  Our children pooled their resources and gave us an anniversary gift certificate for a turn of the 20th century inn, Florida cracker style with large windows and wrap-around verandas and white wooden rockers, antique furniture, narrow, steep stairways (no elevators!), and a widow's walk.  Our room had a four poster bed with bars for mosquito netting, wooden-slat blinds, a chamber pot (just for decor), a clawfoot iron tub and a pedestal sink.  The floors were all original long leaf pine and black cypress, complete with creaks!  Despite the authenticity, it was completely comfortable, well, except maybe for Keith having to carry our suitcases up three flights of stairs.

              Located in the center of this small fishing town, we were able to park at the inn and simply walk everywhere.  One day we went to the Orman house, an old home originally owned by the man who practically put Apalachicola on the map.  It is now a "state park" and the ranger was our guide.  This place is not just his job, it is his life.  He has written books on it, and he knows it like it is his own childhood home.  We saw all the furniture, dishes, and even clothes from the original family, up three stories all the way to the locked entrance to the widow's walk. As nice as this home must have been in the 1800s, it amazed us more to find out that it had been the guest house.  When the family's main home was destroyed they had moved into this one.  Being this family's guests was a privilege indeed.

              After we left the house, we began our walk back to the center of town down the residential streets.  Most of the houses were beautiful old frame homes in the same style as the inn—large windows, high ceilings, wrap around porches, and widow's walks, with professionally landscaped lawns. Before long we were taking pictures of ordinary peoples' homes instead of those in the historic district.

              After a few blocks we came upon the Chestnut Street Cemetery.  The cemetery is the oldest burial ground in the town.  It is said to have 560 marked graves as well as many unmarked ones.  Certainly it appeared full to me as we walked around what looked like a haphazard layout on a rough, uneven path shaded by old live oaks.  We had been given a map but it was almost impossible to find some of the graves.  It was equally impossible to read some of the gravestones because they were so old.  We found at least one grave of a woman born in 1700s. 

              Our wandering showed us the final resting sites of people who died in their 60s, 50s, 40s, and even 20s and teens.  We found Confederate soldiers and Union sympathizers lying not 50 yards apart.   We found large plots where the remains of wealthy family members all rested together, and small insignificant stones marking the graves of the poor, among them a marker reading "Rose, a Faithful Servant."  Then, not far from another large family enclave, we found the grave of a woman who had cut her husband's throat—and then her own. 

             We found many, many tiny stones marking the graves of infants, often several from the same family.  In one spot we found three names on one marker, a 40 year old father, his 2 year old child, and 6 month old baby, all victims the same year of a yellow fever epidemic.

             All this reminded me of the fourth Lamentation.  The whole focus of that psalm of lament seems to be that the destruction of Jerusalem did something no reformer ever could—it made all the people equal. 

Her princes were purer than snow, whiter than milk; their bodies were more ruddy than coral, the beauty of their form was like sapphire. Now their face is blacker than soot; they are not recognized in the streets; their skin has shriveled on their bones; it has become as dry as wood. (Lam 4:7-8).  The wealthy among them, who neglected and even mistreated the poor, now looked no different and suffered no differently than the poor they had once looked down upon.

              Death does the same thing.  The large, ornate markers over the graves we saw were just as difficult to read due to age as the smaller plain markers, and the bodies beneath them would not have looked one bit better had they been dug up. 

            But death does do this:  it separates the righteous from the unrighteous.  The final destination of the former is far better than that of the latter.  In that they are not equal.  And if anything can finally make us realize that all these things we spend our lives on are pointless unless our work and service is directed toward God, perhaps it is that.  Unfortunately, too many of us learn this a little bit too late.

               If you can find the Chestnut Street cemetery, or one like it, maybe it would do you a world of good to walk through it soon.
 
One dies in his full vigor, being wholly at ease and secure, his pails full of milk and the marrow of his bones moist. Another dies in bitterness of soul, never having tasted of prosperity. They lie down alike in the dust, and the worms cover them. (Job 21:23-26)
 
Dene Ward

“They didn’t come see me when I was sick.”

              You’d think by now I’d be used to it.  I’ve heard it everywhere I’ve been, but it still amazes me that people who have been Christians for decades still view suffering the wrong way.  Yes, we suffer in this life.  All of us suffer in one way or the other.  So why do those few think that the reason for their suffering is so they can be “Queen for a Day?” 

              Probably only a few of you remember that show.  I was very young myself.  Originally it aired on a local radio show in LA, but it was picked up for national broadcast by NBC on January 3, 1956.  It has been called the first “reality show” and it was roundly criticized even in its day.  It went like this:  three or four women showed up to tell their stories of woe and suffering and the audience voted on who was suffering the most and that one “lucky” woman received a robe, a crown, a bouquet of roses, and several prizes, in effect being treated like a queen for one day.  A contest to see who is suffering the most?  Really?  But isn’t that what so many in the church do?  “I deserve more attention than so-and-so because I have more problems than she does.”

              People who constantly complain about not getting enough attention are giving themselves away for, as Jesus says, “Out of the heart the mouth speaks,” Matt 15:18.  Indeed, if my suffering were as severe as my “Woe is me!” attitude, I wouldn’t be thinking about the attention I do or don’t get, but about the trial itself.  But all that is beside the point.  Suffering is not about being served.

              Peter tells us that suffering refines us, makes us pure and stronger (1 Pet 1:6-9).  James seems to indicate that suffering brings wisdom (Jas 1:2-6).  But I think that even those things don’t reach the ultimate reason we suffer.  Suffering is about discipleship.  A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone when he is fully trained will be like his teacher, Luke 6:40.  Why do we think we can be a disciple of a suffering servant and never suffer like he did?

              So why did Jesus have to suffer?  Hebrews tells us that because he suffered he is able to help those who also suffer (2:18), and that as a high priest he is able to sympathize with us (4:15.).  He learned obedience by the things he suffered “with loud cries and tears,” (5:8).  Yes, he really suffered and the whole purpose of his suffering was so he could help others who are suffering the same way.

              So why do I suffer?  Doesn’t it make sense that as a disciple of Christ, I am suffering for the same reason he did, so I can accomplish the same thing he accomplished?  We neither suffer so we can be the center of attention nor so we can stand as judge over others who give that attention.  We suffer so that we can better serve those who are suffering similar things.  Even the purity, strength, and wisdom that come from suffering helps us accomplish those ends.  As with everything else in a Christian’s life, my suffering is not about me, it is about others. 

              Have you been forsaken by an unfaithful spouse?  Be willing to talk openly to those who are going through the same things.  You may well be the only one who understands the thoughts that go through one’s head, the looks you get from others, the ordeal of custody battles and the instant poverty that sometimes accompanies this betrayal.

              Have you survived cancer?  Look for new victims who feel the constant pressure of wondering not if it will return, but when.  Look for still others, not just cancer victims, but anyone with a bleak prognosis.  No one understands the axe hanging over their heads like you do.

              Have you been the victim of violent crime?  No one understands the constant terror that one lives with after that, the burden of overcoming paranoia—seeing a boogeyman behind every face in a parking lot, in a grocery aisle, passing you in a car as you walk to get the mail.  No one else can understand the embarrassment of once again becoming a little child who is afraid of the dark.

              Have you lost a child?  Have you lost a child to the world?  Have you faced financial ruin?  Have you lost everything to a fire, a hurricane, a tornado?  Are you facing disability or the caregiving of a spouse who no longer knows who you are?  Everyone has faced something, and God expects you to use that experience, and the strength and wisdom you have gained from it, to help someone else.  You are the Lord’s agent on this earth.  Don’t let all your pain go to waste.

              None of this can be accomplished if I am still whining about a loss that occurred years ago.  No one can be helped if I am still expecting everyone to pat me on the back for every little thing that comes along.  At some point God expects me to not get over it—that may never happen—but to get past it, to no longer be paralyzed by grief but ready to serve.  Some afflictions are more difficult than others.  Some trials need a longer recovery period, but mature Christians eventually grow beyond the selfish need for attention. 

              We don’t suffer so we can be “Queen for a Day.”  On the contrary, suffering makes us both eligible and obligated to help others.  God expects me to search out those who need my special experiences and serve.  Just when has He ever expected anything less of His people?
 
So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go to him outside the camp and bear the reproach he endured. Hebrews 13:12-13
 
Dene Ward

On September 25, 1789, Congressed proposed 12 amendments to the Constitution and sent them to the various state legislatures.  On December 15, 1791, ten of those amendments, numbers 3 through 12, were ratified.  (The two amendments not ratified dealt with the number of representatives and with the payment of both senators and representatives.)  Written by James Madison, those ten rights were strongly based on England's Magna Carta of 1215, which protected subjects from royal abuse of power.  The original Constitution faced strong opposition until those ten rights were ratified.  Many of us learned to recite them in history class.
                 As Americans we are proud of our type of government—democracy.  Our patriotism makes us salute the flag, sing the national anthem with gusto, and stand ever ready to recite our rights when we feel they are being violated.
              Christians should be careful about those “rights.”  Christians are servants of the Lord, of each other, and of everyone else too.  …in lowliness of mind each counting the other as better than himself, Phil 2:3.  As an American your instant reaction is, “All men are created equal—no one is better than I am.”  That is a difficult thing to overcome because it is a whole lot more satisfying in this world, in this life.
              The Corinthians had a problem with this too.  When disputes arose among them, they took each other to law.  Paul said, in effect, “Shame on you!” in I Cor 6:1-6.  Then he added, Why not rather take wrong?  Why not rather be defrauded? (v 7).  But that’s not fair!  I have my rights!
              No, you don’t.  Not if you are a Christian.  Christians ought to love the cause of Christ more than their own personal interests.  They should be more horrified at the idea of injuring His mission than in losing dollars or taking a personal insult.  Any time the way we act hurts the body of Christ or its mission we are wrong, whether it goes against our “rights” as Americans or not. 
              My opinion doesn’t matter if it hurts my brother.  My preferences do not matter if they keep the church from being able to better accomplish its goal to save the lost.  My “right” to function in the body of Christ doesn’t matter if someone else can better edify the group.  Any time I push my rights, I have lost the essence of Christianity—humility and service to one another and to Christ. 
              Any time things don’t go our way, it is almost automatic for us to think, “But I have my rights!”  That is ingrained in us from the time we hit grade school and memorize the Bill of Rights.  Christians do not have a Bill of Rights.  Be very glad of that.  The only thing we have a right to is Hell.  Instead, God became man and made it possible for us to have something we could never possibly have a right to—Heaven.  It’s time to stop thinking about “rights” and start praising Him for “grace” instead.
 
Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God.  For what credit is it if, when you sin and are beaten for it, you endure?  But if when you do good and suffer for it you endure, this is a gracious thing in the sight of God.  For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in his steps.  When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued trusting himself to him who judges justly, 1 Pet 2:16,20,21,23.
 
Dene Ward
 
 

Beethoven is considered by most music historians a transition composer.  Born in 1770 at the height of the Classical Era, he began composing during a time when the rules were everything.  All forms of art were about balance and order.  The Classical Sonata had a definite form, as did the symphonies of the time.  Beethoven's earlier works followed those rules.  It was obvious to many that he was a budding genius—in spite of keeping rules.

In the early 19th century the rules began to lose their luster.  Artists, composers and other creative people began to bend them and as time went on, completely break them.  By the late 1800s, the Romantic Era was in full bloom.  For Beethoven it came a little earlier.  He died in 1827, but by 1801 he had written the Sonata in C# Minor—known to most as the Moonlight Sonata—as far removed from pure sonata-allegro form as one got in those days.  Some people didn't know whether to applaud or not. 

But breaking the rules of an artistic movement did not mean he no longer respected that previous era.  It didn't mean he didn't know the rules.  As one of my astute nieces pointed out to me—you have to know them to break them. 

Beethoven had his first lesson with Franz Josef Haydn on December 12, 1792.  Haydn had been making an excellent living writing music, usually on demand, in the Classical forms.  The number of compositions he wrote is staggering:  108 symphonies, 68 string quartets, 32 divertimenti, 126 trios for baryton, viola, and cello, 29 trios for piano, violin, and cello, 21 trios for 2 violins and viola, 47 piano sonatas, 20 operas, 14 masses, 6 oratorios, and 2 celli concerti.  How can anyone say this man was not a successful and talented musician just because he followed the rules?  His piano sonatas are, in fact, some of my favorite to play.  They are often just plain fun.

Beethoven, even though his heart eventually followed closer to Romantic ideals of art and music, still respected his teacher.  He asked his opinion on his works, especially his late trios.  Haydn's opinion mattered to him, even though, irascible as he was, he didn't take well to any criticism.  Even after a less than enthusiastic review for one set, Beethoven still dedicated his next set of piano sonatas to his old mentor.  He considered Haydn an equal to Mozart and Bach, and attended his funeral in 1809. 

Contrast that to artists, writers, and musicians today who look down on anyone who thinks that principles of proportion and contrast, grammar and punctuation, or harmony and melody will stunt their creativity. Mozart, who followed the rules of the Classical Era religiously, still wrote some of the most creative, beautiful, and intellectually stimulating music ever composed.  A Mozart Andante will take your breath away.  His Rondos will leave you chuckling.  If you think that principles stunt your artistic creativity, maybe you don't have as much of it as you think you do.

As in the arts, people try to get creative with their religious observances.  Rules don't matter; authority doesn't matter; patterns don't matter; all that matters to God is me pouring out my heart in whatever way suits me best. 

That statement has one immediate problem that ought to be obvious to anyone:  "whatever suits me."  I thought we were talking about worshipping God.  Sounds more like we are talking about God worshipping me. 

"There are no rules," someone else wants to say.  I can find in at least five places in the New Testament words similar to "as we teach in every church."  Evidently there were some things they were expected to do in the same manner everywhere, even as far back as the first century.

I can find the Greek word often translated "pattern" 15 times in the New Testament, referring to everything from the pattern of baptism to the pattern of living a godly life.  If one is binding so are the others.  Even the Pharisees recognized the need for religious authority (Matt 20) and Jesus used that recognition to prove yet more about his authority.  And finally, right before his ascension he reminded his disciples who has the authority to tell them where to go and what to teach and how to live.  Deny it at your own risk.

If you think rules stifle your service to God, you have a hard lesson coming someday.  Anyone can joyfully do what he wants to do.  Only a loyal servant can do what the Master wants him to do with the same passion, the passion He deserves.
 
And whatever you do, in word or in deed, do everything in the name of [by the authority of] the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him. (Col 3:17)
 
Dene Ward

Boundary disputes once helped win an American presidential election. 

              In 1818, we signed a treaty with Great Britain agreeing to joint ownership of the Oregon Territory.  Citizens from both countries had settled there.  They eventually agreed to a boundary between America and Canada at the 49th parallel.  Then they both got greedy.  The British claimed anything north of the 42nd parallel.  Along came American expansionists who were willing to go to war in order to claim the disputed area up to the 54th 40 parallel for America. 

               Franklin Polk ran on the expansionist platform with the slogan "Fifty-four forty or fight," referring to what is now the southern border of Oregon, fifty four degrees, forty minutes north latitude.  On Dec 4, 1844, after an election that had run since November 1, he won the presidency.  However, he abandoned the fight and left the Oregon Territory boundary at the original line of agreement, the 49th parallel, where it still is today.

             We've had some boundary issues ourselves.  When we first moved onto this land, no one else lived on the parcels anywhere around us.  Everyone else bought for the investment and planned to sell later, and with the titles unclear (except for ours) the plots remained empty for a long time.  With no fences in place, the boys literally had their own version of the Hundred Acre Woods to play in. 

              When the first hard rains showed us how the land around here drained, and that we would soon be washed away if something weren’t done, the owners to the north of us plowed a ditch along that side to help us out.  It was required by law, but they were compliant and even stopped to make sure we were satisfied before their rented equipment went back to the store.  Yes, we were.  The ditch worked fine and we stayed dry.

              We assumed the ditch ran right along the northern edge of the property and used all the land up to it for our garden, for our yard, for flower beds, even for a post to hold guywires for our antenna.  When the land around us began to sell and people moved in, we finally had to put up a fence.  Imagine our surprise when we discovered that we had been using as much as five feet more land along the north boundary than was actually ours.  But of course, the surveyors were correct.  They had sighted along the boundary markers, white posts set on all four corners of our five plus acres.  I even had to dig up half of a lily bed one morning and transplant them elsewhere so they could put the fence along the correct line.

              The Israelites were aware of boundaries and the landmarks that outlined them.  “You shall not move your neighbor's landmark, which the men of old have set, in the inheritance that you will hold in the land that the LORD your God is giving you to possess. Deut 19:14.  It was a matter of honesty and integrity.  “‘Cursed be anyone who moves his neighbor's landmark.’ And all the people shall say, ‘Amen.’ Deut 27:17.  And this is just talking about land.  Imagine if someone moved a landmark that showed something even more important than that.

              The princes of Judah have become like those who move the landmark… Hos 5:10.  The wicked kings of God’s people had blurred the lines between right and wrong, between good and evil.  The standard became which will make me wealthier or more important among my peers, rather than which is right in the eyes of God?  Which is more convenient, which is easier, which do I like the best, which appeals to my lusts?  All of these have been used to move the boundaries of right and wrong in people’s lives for thousands of years.  When the government does it too, we have an instant excuse.  After all, it’s not against the law, is it?

              Do you think it hasn’t happened to us?  What do you accept now that you would never have accepted thirty years ago because you knew that the Bible said it was wrong?  Now people come along and tell you the Bible is a book of myths or the Bible only means what you want it to mean.  They have moved the landmark, and many have accepted it.

              God does not move landmarks.  What He says goes—then and now.  He may have changed the rituals we perform in each dispensation, but basic morality—right and wrong--has not and will not change.  Even Jesus used the argument, “But from the beginning it was not so…” (Matt 19:8). 

              We can move the landmarks all we want, but we will still wind up on the Devil’s property, and God will know the difference, whether we accept it or not.
 
​Do not move an ancient landmark or enter the fields of the fatherless, for their Redeemer is strong; he will plead their cause against you. Prov 23:10-11
 
Dene Ward

On November 4, 1863, Dr. John Braxton Hicks delivered an address to the Obstetrical Society of London, advocating a new method of cephalic version (turning an unborn infant) in cases of placenta previa.  The older methods waited until the latter stages of delivery and were extremely painful.  His method, however, was pretty much shelved by the physicians who listened to his lecture.  It took years for them to acknowledge him and his genius as an obstetrician.  Having been pregnant, his name is not unfamiliar to me, but for an entirely different, and relatively minor, reason.

               I was the typical first timer, scared to death that I would not know what labor was when it actually hit me.  All I had ever seen were television and movie versions of labor where the woman grabs her rounded abdomen and gasps, so that is what I expected.  Turns out I was right to worry.

            About twelve days before my due date I suddenly began having contractions.  This was surely it, I thought.  I told Keith and we waited it out for a couple of hours as they gradually faded, never having hurt at all.  Yes, they were the old Braxton Hicks contractions, so named for that English doctor, who finally figured them out.  Some people call them “practice labor,” but that practice did not help me a bit.

              Four nights later I sat at the table trying to finish up a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle.  We lived in Illinois and I had been stuck inside most of the winter because I did not have a coat that would fit around me, so I wiled away some of the long hours with puzzles. 

               I had come close to finishing that night, when about 10 pm I noticed a little twinge in my back.  Pregnant women have backaches all the time so I thought nothing of it.  But about 2:00, when I had still not been able to get to sleep, that twinge suddenly became stronger.  “But this can’t be labor,” I thought.  “It’s just a bad backache.” Then my water broke.  Good thing because that was my only clue that it was indeed labor, a labor that, counting the time from 10:00, only lasted six and a half hours, and never found its way around front.  I might not have made it to the hospital on time if I had not suddenly found myself awash with the evidence.  At 4:45, I had a posterior birth, sunny-side-up the nurses call it, a nine plus pounder, twenty two inches long who, because of my anatomy and his size, could not make the final turn.  When that happens you get “back labor,” which is why I did not recognize it. 

               Two years and one week later, a day before my due date, I was in the front yard weeding my flowers.  We were in South Carolina this time so that early in May my plants were already blooming.  Suddenly I felt a little twinge in my back.  This time, because of my previous experience, I paid attention.  A half hour later I felt another.  Five hours later another sunny-side-up nine plus pounder entered the world.  This time I was ready for it because I could now tell the difference between false labor, a pregnant backache, and back labor.

              The Hebrew writer tells us, But solid food is for fullgrown men, those who by reason of use have their senses exercised to discern good and evil, 5:14.  That tells me that sometimes deciding what I need to do in a given situation is not always a simple matter.  Just like I had to learn from experience what was and wasn’t labor, sometimes I need to “discern” the Word to decide between good and evil, or maybe between good and better.  In fact, “discern” is translated “decide” in 1 Cor 6:5 ASV, “weigh what is said” in 1 Cor 14:29 ESV, and determining what makes things “differ” in 1 Cor 4:7 ASV.  God gives us guidelines and we must determine the best course of action, always following those guidelines. 

              The Pharisees had a difficult time with this.  They took the easy way out and simply followed a set of rules without weighing the circumstances, and where there were no rules, they made some up.  Their guideline was often their own best interests.  “Instead of taking care of your aging parents, you must dedicate your money to the Temple treasury,” they preached, Mark 7:11.  In other words, God always trumps people.  And even if that money never was given, as long as it was declared “dedicated to God” (Corban) they could keep it for their own use and not be counted guilty for not honoring their parents.

              Though it was told as a story, one can easily imagine the priest and the Levite saying, “Going to the temple services is more important than stopping to help this poor man because God must always come first,” in Jesus’ narrative of the Good Samaritan.  It perfectly fit their little formula for how to determine the “right” course of action.  What they forgot was that serving his children is one way we serve God—“inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these my brethren you have done it unto me.”  They would pull their oxen out of the ditch, but castigate our Lord for healing on the Sabbath.  Their pious formula, “God trumps people” was an out that served only to make him angry, Mark 3:5.

             Jesus said, Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye tithe mint and anise and cummin, and have left undone the weightier matters of the law, justice, and mercy, and faith: but these ye ought to have done, and not to have left the other undone, Matt 23:23.  They had forgotten the obligation to “discern,” to “weigh things out,” and make a decision based on years of experience with God.  And maybe that is our problem, too—we don’t have enough experience with God in his word.  We still think a Braxton Hicks contraction is the real thing.

              Over and over Jesus reminded those people that it was not simply a matter of a rote following of the Law. Sometimes you have to think, “What is the greater good here?”  That “good” must always be lawful, which should go without saying or it would not be “good,” but when our decisions always ignore grace and mercy, we are forgetting the very thing that caused our Savior to die for us.  How can we possibly think we will receive those things from him?
 
And if you had known what this means, 'I desire mercy, and not sacrifice,' you would not have condemned the guiltless, Matt 12:7.
 
Dene Ward

Marvel Comics was founded by Martin Goodman in 1939.  Its first publication in October of that year featured an android superhero called the Human Torch and a mutant anti-hero called Namor the Sub-Mariner.  In March 1941 they introduced Captain America.  But after the Depression and the war years, comic books went out of fashion.  It took Stan Lee about 15 years later to breathe new life into them.

              On November 1, 1961, Marvel introduced the Fantastic Four.  Other heroes followed in rapid succession.  These superheroes were more like real people. They complained and argued among themselves.  They were moody.  Many were freaks or misfits, and some resembled monsters more than heroes—can you say Incredible Hulk?  Spider-Man's world was a dark one; Dr Strange's was bizarre.  They were victims of accidents and injuries that gave them their superpowers, or they were born with a deformity of some sort.  The comics tried to make their superheroes approachable.  Funny how we make the heroes of the Bible just the opposite. 

             Sometimes you read a passage of scripture for years without seeing what it really says.  I suppose it was only seven or eight years ago that I really saw Gen 21:11.  Sarah had had enough of Hagar’s attitude, and Ishmael she viewed as nothing but a competitor to Isaac.  She wanted to send them both away.  And the thing was grievous in the sight of Abraham because of his son. 

              “…because of his son.”  For the first time ever it dawned on me that Abraham loved Ishmael.  Of course he did.  This was his son!  In fact, when God backed up Sarah’s wish with a command of his own, he said, Let it not be grievous in your sight because of the lad and because of your handmaid, v 22.  Hagar had been his wife, (16:3) for eighteen to twenty years, depending upon Isaac’s age of weaning.  A relationship had to be broken, two in fact. 

              Now look at Abraham as he sends the two of them away, particularly his oldest son.  Do you have a child?  Can you imagine knowing you will never see that child again, and how it must have felt as Abraham saw their departing figures recede into the heat waves of the Palestinian landscape? 

              Too many times we look at Bible people with our “super hero glasses” on.  We fail to see them as real people with real emotions.  Of course they could do as God asked.  They were “heroes of faith.”  When we do that, we insult them.  We demean the effort it took for them to do what was right.  We diminish the sacrifices they made and the pain they went through.  And we lessen the example they set for us.

              That may be the worst thing we do.  By looking at them as if they were “super” in any way at all, we remove the encouragement to persevere that we could have gained.  “There is no way I could do that.  I am not as strong as they were.  I’m not a Bible super hero.”  If you aren’t, it’s only because you choose not to be. 

             Those people were just like you.  They had strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures.  They had problems with family, with temptations, and with fear of the unknown.  You have everything to work with that they did. In fact, you have one thing the Old Testament people didn’t have—a Savior who came and took on the same human weaknesses we all have (Heb 2:17; 4:15), yet still showed the way.  For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in his steps, 1 Pet 2:21.  If you belittle the accomplishments of those people as impossible for you to copy, you belittle His too.

              Take off the glasses that distort your view.  Instead, see clearly the models of faith and virtue God has set before us as real people, warts and all.  They weren’t perfect, but they managed to endure.  Seeing them any other way is just an excuse not to be as good as we can be.
 
Brethren, be imitators together of me, and mark them that so walk even as you have us for an ensample, Phil 3:17.
 
Dene Ward

Otto Wichterle was born on October 27, 1913 in Prostejov, Moravia.  Because he did not want to work at his father's machinery factory, he went on to study chemistry and became interested in plastics.  He was jailed for a while by the Gestapo, but eventually released and became a professor and textbook author at the Czech Technical University.  Over the years he made many discoveries and in December 1961 created the first soft contact lens with a child's erector set and a phonograph motor.  Sounds a little like MacGyver to me.  Leonardo da Vinci, who had first imagined contact lenses, would have been proud.

              Not quite that far back a young doctor decided to try contact lenses on my nanophthalmic (one 15 and the other 16 mm), hyperopic/aphakic (scrip +17.25), steep-cornea-ed, corrugated, football-shaped eyeballs.  Everyone told him he was crazy, that it was impossible.  Somehow, amid all the discouraging words, he managed to make it work.  For the first time in my life I could see more than the fish-eyed tunnel in front of me. 

              These were the original hard contact lenses.  He had sat me down and told me that the only way I could possibly wear them in my “special” eyes was to want to wear them.  I did not realize till much later how wise he had been.  They were incredibly uncomfortable, especially on my deformed eyeballs, but I saw so much more that I knew I would never give them up, regardless the pain.

              Seven years later rigid gas-permeable lenses became available through overseas channels.  They were a tiny bit more comfortable, but more important, they kept my eyes healthier.  I wore those for thirty-five years.  Finally a type of soft lens has been developed that I can actually wear with no ill-effects.  Not only that, but they cause no strange visual effects either—no starbursts, no fish-eyes, no distortions at all.  It seems ironic that they have come now when my vision is failing and when only one eye can tolerate wearing one, but I am not complaining.

              I have had to learn different methods of insertion, removal, and overnight care.  This thing is so much more comfortable that sometimes I am not certain it is in.  The many surgeries I have had have changed me from hyperopic to myopic, and my vision, even with the lens, is far from perfect.  That is why I did not realize for about an hour that I did not have the lens in my eye the other morning. 

              At first, when the usual blur did not clear up right away, I thought it was just one of those days when I was not going to see well.  They happen often enough.  Finally I put my finger to my eyeball and touched only eyeball—I knew the lens had not made it into my eye.  So where was it?

              I ran back to the bathroom, got on my hands and knees and felt across the floor from the door to the vanity cabinet, the only way I could possibly find it down there.  No lens.  At least I knew I wasn’t going to step on it.  So I stood up and I felt across the entire vanity countertop.  No lens. 

              Finally I took the hand towel off the rack.  I always open the lens case over a towel because of the fluid in it.  I felt one side of the towel and then turned it over.  Still no lens, but when I picked up the towel again, there was the lens under it, finally having fallen off the towel with a tiny little “clink.” It was as solid as one of my old hard lenses.  That nice soft lens material had dried up even in the humid bathroom air.

              I soaked it in saline a couple of hours and it came back to life.  Finally I could see again, at least as well as I ever do these days.

              I came across a passage the other day. The light of the wicked shall be put out, and the spark of his fire shall not shine. His strength shall be hunger-bitten, and calamity shall be ready at his side. His roots shall be dried up beneath, and above shall his branch be cut off. His remembrance shall perish from the earth, and he shall have no name in the street, Job 18:5, 12, 18, and 19.

              Trying to live your life without Christ will dry you up.  I do not understand how people who do not have the hope He offers can handle life’s problems, and especially how they can handle dying.  They have nothing to live for, and certainly nothing to die for.

              We have said it over and over.  The grace of God not only gives you salvation, it helps you overcome temptation, bear tragedies, and face death.  If I turn into a dried up, bitter old woman, it is because somewhere along the line I refused to make use of that grace. 

              I wince, thinking about the pain I would have felt if I had tried to put that desiccated contact lens into my eye.  We sometimes go about with pain that we needn’t bear.  A good long soak in the grace and goodness of God makes it possible to live this life to the fullest and look forward to the one to come.
 
Jesus stood and cried, saying, If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink. He that believes on me, as the scripture has said, from within him shall flow rivers of living water, John 7:37,38.
 
Dene Ward