Category: Bible

Regaining your bearings when your kingdom crumbles

Published by Daniel on December 18, 2022

I tend to get into Christmas.

I mean really get into Christmas.

I am Clark Griswold. If I could cover my house in thousands of lights, I would risk my well-being to string them up. If I could find a tree too big for my living room, I would cut it down and figure out a way. I am proud of that identity. I own it. I have no inhibitions.

However, this Christmas feels a little more subdued. I still “don me now my gay apparel” (Oh, how I wish the original meaning of that word hadn’t been hijacked): Christmas tee-shirts, and neckties, and an over-the-top Santa hat. I watch Christmas movies like A Christmas Story, Christmas Vacation, and Die Hard (and, yes, it is a Christmas movie). I play carols incessantly without hesitation or shame (and those who constantly complain about Christmas music, I don’t care).

This year feels a bit different, more laid back. I still feel excited for the holiday. However, I felt I entered into this Christmas season more emotionally exhausted than anything else. I felt mentally spent, spiritually stressed out and tired.

The last few months were tough. Nearly everything in and around my house seemed to be falling apart. Our finances became frightfully stretched.

Years ago, the events of these previous months might have sent me into a meltdown.

My kingdom felt like it was crumbling.

However, thankfully, perhaps from experiencing the grace of God in my previous crises, as stressful as these months were, this time I never felt God had abandoned me.

I did not see my litany of mishaps as an absence of God or even as a divine punishment.

I can’t say I looked up at heaven from my pit bathed in a heavenly glow. The struggle with my flesh was present. However, I was able remember and believe that this was not my kingdom to begin with.

Further, at several points—even as late as last week–God wonderfully reminded my wife and I that he still sees us.

And that gave us peace.

This is how I entered into this Christmas season: with an odd mixture of exhaustion and peace.

The angels’ message to the shepherds also seemed meant for me: “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger” (Luke 2:10-12).

Do not be afraid. I bring you good news. The king has come.

When angels appear, they always start all their proclamations with “Do not be afraid.” It is these mighty beings who come to Mary and the lowly shepherds to announce the coming of the Prince of Peace. I find the angel’s assurance to not be afraid more than a little ironic. Angels are not adorable, chubby little infants, with rosy, red cheeks and dressed in diapers and wings. Try to imagine the angel guarding the east gate of the Garden of Eden with a flaming sword flashing back and forth as an adorable little two-year-old. It doesn’t jive. No, angels are powerful, intimidating and warrior-like entities whose presence evokes fear in those they encounter.

Yet their message is anything but threatening.

The angels are there to proclaim the arrival of the King of kings.

I have nothing to fear because in the middle of my own fragile, crumbling kingdom, Emmanuel has come to set up one that will never end. That is good news. It is reassuring to us in the midst of struggle.

This good news gave me the freedom not to wildly celebrate his arrival, but to rest in it. It’s like the angels said, specifically to me. “Do not be afraid. I bring good news. God sees you and has stepped into your crumbling kingdom and in doing so, brings peace. Now rest.”

Decompress.

Regain my bearings.

Rest.

Rest in the knowledge God’s got this. Rest in the fact that no matter how big our problems, he has no equal. Rest in the assurance that, whether some miraculous miracle drops fire from heaven for Elijah or I wind up on the ash heap like Job, God is here, with us.

Here.

Present.

Sometimes we celebrate the arrival of Christmas with wild passion and joy. I have seasons like that.

But sometimes we just need to celebrate its arrival with the peace to rest.

Let Emmanuel—God With Us—wrap you in his arms and whisper in your ear: Do not be afraid. I am here.

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When Another Receives the Blessing, I Need the Grace

Published by Daniel on November 20, 2022

On a recent frigid afternoon, I had completed my weekly grocery run and headed for the parking lot exit. It was a cold, snowy Saturday in November, and I felt chilly on the outside and pretty frosty on the inside too.

I was irritable because I was downright exhausted.

The preceding week had been one of those “perfect storms.” It was just a long week. Every night was a late night. There was no time to turn off my introverted brain before it was time to wake up from a restless night to start the whole thing over again.

By my Saturday morning grocery run, I was what doctors might call “brain dead.” It was solely by the grace of God that the mass between my ears could generate enough willpower to put one foot in front of the other.

And I had yet another commitment later that evening.

My filters were down, and it wouldn’t take much to set me off.

As I navigated my car toward the exit, I fell in behind a white SUV. When it came to the intersection, its windows came down so the passenger could hand some cash to a homeless person standing there with a sign. The sign promised divine blessing.

The homeless person trudged through the snow to collect the money from the vehicle, which sported a fish symbol and a sticker of two nails, intersecting to form a cross.

I was impatient to get home, but as a fellow Christ-follower, I felt I could cut the SUV’s occupants some slack because they were giving to “the least of these.”

We started moving again, but eventually came to a stop at a traffic light. Once again the SUV’s window went down and the passenger held out money for another individual holding another sign, again promising divine blessing.

And the light was green!

A green light is the perfect way to avoid both guilt and eye contact by looking left — you know, “to check for traffic.” Easy-peasy.

Whatever was left of my filters crumbled. The absolute audacity of these people to hold me up for a homeless person. Didn’t those do-gooders in the SUV realize that I had someplace to be?! Even though it was just to be home resting my exhausted brain?!

After making the right turn—carefully “checking for traffic” on my left—I fell in behind the SUV with a hearty scowl and a heart of venom, only then to spot the wide smile on the SUV passenger’s face.

The wind came out of my self-righteous sail.

She gave to “the least of these” in the name of Jesus—twice! She saw a need and responded the way Jesus would have. As a result, she experienced great blessing.

I, on the other hand, did not.

I was turned inward, withdrawn, and focused only on my own stresses. I thought only of my own needs and comforts.

I had a chance to do something for two individuals in need, and I did not. Instead, I complained inside about those who did. I felt horrible. I heard the condemnation of a thousand voices, taunting me in my failure—Satan’s default response when a Christ-follower blows it.

This did not help my day get any better.

Yet, through the cacophony of condemnation, one voice broke through. It was a soft, single voice—a whisper no less—uttering, “I love you.”

I love you.

I — who did nothing to help the least of these, and who clearly sinned by putting my own needs above others’ — had been reminded in that moment that I am loved.

Those in the SUV got a wonderful blessing, but I was the one who needed a reminder of grace.

At that specific moment, God knew I needed grace more than I needed blessing.

John 21 tells the story of the resurrected Jesus appearing to the disciples by the Sea of Galilee. Once Peter recognizes Jesus, he impulsively jumps from his boat and swims to shore.

Three times, Jesus asks Peter: “Do you love me?” Three times Peter answers, with growing frustration, “You know I love you.”

Then Jesus commands, “Go feed my sheep.”

Some days before this dialogue, on the night before Jesus was crucified, Peter had commited one of the most horrible acts of betrayal: three times, he had denied he even knew Jesus.

Peter basically commits the same atrocity as Judas, times three. Though the outcomes were different, Peter had to have felt the same sting of guilt as Judas.

Yet on that beach, Jesus faces Peter, suffering from the worst kind of guilt, and pours grace upon him, restoring him completely.

Jesus finds Peter and forgives him because at that moment, Peter needs grace more than he needs blessing.

Alone in my car that frigid Saturday afternoon, I experienced grace from a loving Savior who saw me in my self-centeredness and forgave me anyway.

Divine blessings are great, don’t get me wrong — but sometimes, being human, we just need a touch of grace.

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The safest place in a storm

Published by Daniel on April 2, 2020

On my office wall hangs a vivid photograph entitled, “Phares dans la Tempete, La Jument.[1]” It shows a lighthouse keeper at La Jument reef, standing in the door of his lighthouse just as a towering wave nearly engulfs the structure from behind.

Original photo by Jean Guichard, http://www.jean-guichard.com/

As retold later in Celtic Countries magazine,[2] the story of the shot goes as follows.

On December 21, 1989, a powerful storm smashed into the area, hitting the lighthouse with gale force winds and with waves reaching up to 30 meters (nearly 100 feet) high. During the night, the massive waves crashed through the lighthouse’s lower windows, flooding its living quarters and forcing the keeper to escape to the lantern room at the top of the lighthouse.

The next morning, despite dangerous flying conditions, a photographer named Jean Guichard hired a helicopter so he could photograph the dramatic storm from the air. The lighthouse keeper, Théodore Malgorn, heard the approaching helicopter and thought it was his rescuers. So he opened the door and stepped outside.

That was the moment the giant wave slammed into the lighthouse.

That was the moment Guichard took the shot.

Fortunately, the keeper was able to slip inside and shut the door, just before it was completely covered.

Original Photo by Jean Guichard, http://www.jean-guichard.com/

This famous picture of safety in the storm was given to me by my wife, shortly after life swept me into chaos. As I endured the greatest turmoil of my life, I took solace in looking at it, wondering what the lighthouse keeper felt that night. Did he shake with fear as the wind and waves whipped into a deadly frenzy, crashing again and again into his tiny stone tower? Did his heart pound in his chest as freezing water shattered his windows and poured into his home? Did he pray to God for survival as he fled to the lantern room—the very last refuge he had?

That night in the lighthouse, the keeper must have felt very unsure of his own safety. Yet in the whole vast ocean, the lighthouse was the safest place of all.

Like the lighthouse keeper, Jesus once faced a violent storm. After a day of ministry beside the Sea of Galilee, he and his disciples set out by boat to cross to the other side. But according to Mark 4:37-38:

“A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, ‘Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?’”

Note the sequence of the disciples’ reactions. Like most of us, first they panic; only later do they ask the God of the universe for help.

But Jesus does not punish them for this lapse by withholding that help; instead he immediately commands the elements to “Be still!”—and they obey. Only then does he turn to his disciples and ask, “’Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’” (v. 39-40).

The truth is, it is one thing to trust God when things go well. But it is another to trust him from the center of the storm, when our world is upended.

And our world is upended now. Every day during this surreal COVID-19 pandemic, we get hit by wave after wave as we lose travel autonomy, small businesses, and loved ones. Our lives will be changed for months, if not forever.

I have not yet been touched directly by the virus, nor by the escalating death rates, so I have not felt explicit fear—but I do feel unsettled and anxious in this storm of uncertainty, as I’m sure the lighthouse keeper did at La Jument.

When life is like this, we must take refuge in our Creator, who is far bigger than any virus, news reports, or ventilator shortages.

No matter what happens—even if we experience sickness or death—we are not spiraling helplessly through stormy seas. Instead, we are secure in our lighthouse as the storm rages around us. We are safe in the arms of Christ.

By Falken – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3503077

[1] This French phrase means “Lighthouse in the tempest [at] La Jument.” La Jument (“the mare”) is a treacherous reef near the isle of Ushant in the Iroise Sea, off the northwest coast of France.

[2] Celtic Countries magazine, January 18, 2011, https://celticcountries.com/culture/245-la-jument-brittany-most-famous-lighthouse.

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That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown

Published by Daniel on December 13, 2019

On November 30, 2015, the ABC television network aired the 50^th anniversary special of “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” This annual animated TV show, based on Charles Schultz’s comic strip “Peanuts,” has traditionally aired shortly following the Thanksgiving weekend to kick off the Christmas season. It tells the story of Charlie Brown’s depression and angst at Christmas as he tries to find the point of it all amidst the shallow emptiness of commercialism.

The show is a big deal for me—so big, in fact, that I consider it the start of my Advent season. My tradition is that my Christmas tree and lights must be up and glowing before the program airs.

I want to kick of my Christmas celebration with the whole Peanuts gang.

That year, in 2015, the 50th anniversary special included a message from then-President Barak Obama. He said that this beloved Christmas program teaches us that “tiny trees just need a little love and that on this holiday we celebrate peace on Earth and good will toward all.”[1]

“A Charlie Brown Christmas” is about a tiny tree? Did the President miss the part where Linus walks onstage and quotes Luke 2:8:14?

That moment was pretty hard to miss. After Charlie Brown laments the stress and anguish of the holidays while staging a disastrous Christmas play, he cries out for anyone to tell him what Christmas is really all about. His friend Linus responds matter-of-factly, “Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”

Linus walks onto the stage and quotes the gospel of Luke:

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not: for behold, I bring unto you good tiings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the City of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'”

He then returns to the stage wing and concludes, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

The bookends couldn’t be more clear. The speech starts with, “I can tell you what Christmas is all about” and ends with “That’s what Christmas is all about.” Further, Linus is on the stage by himself. A single spotlight shines down on him. The camera never cuts away from him. It’s as if Charles Shultz is saying directly to the audience: “Look here. Here is the message. Don’t miss this. Right here. This is the point I am making.”

Fifty years later, the President of the United States somehow managed to twist this into: No, it’s about a tree that needs love. One has to be impressed at the strength of the neck muscles required to resist the gravitational pull of the obvious.

It was a bizarre event, and a big letdown for me. (Still is—see, here I am still thinking about it four years later.)

What bothers me is that this is just another example of how we continue to misinterpret the clearest meaning of this season.

It’s about exchanging gifts, marketers say; but what if I can’t afford to give gifts, or my gifts are rejected by others, or I receive hurtful gifts or no gifts at all?

It’s about happy memories, friends, and family, society says; but what if all my memories are of family fights, abuse, and desertion, and I have no love or trust in my life?

It’s about peace on earth, the former President says; but what if we can’t make peace happen? Face it, look at the headlines—we’re light-years away from that elusive ideal.

Like Charlie Brown, without Christ I’d be depressed too. Truth is, as a kid I hated Christmas after my parents divorced—hated the feeling of being divided between them, hated that my mom and one sister weren’t around anymore, hated that we’d never be together as a family again.

But Christmas is about none of those things.

It’s about the birth of the One who came to save us. It’s not about “peace on earth,” but about the Prince of Peace who will finally make things right. It’s not about a tiny tree that needs love, but about a Savior’s love that heals his sin-broken creation. Ironically, a tree is what will later lift up that same Savior to die for that same sin.

Linus is absolutely correct: Christ is the meaning of Christmas, and he is the way out of our depression and darkness.

Your world, like mine, is broken. But I encourage you, during this cold, lonely month, to anticipate with joy the Savior who not only came to die for humanity, but will come again to “set right” all of creation.

Don’t let Christmas become a mere frenzy of gifts and activities—and don’t listen to the lie that it’s just a vague human wish for “world peace.”

Allow Christ to present himself to you this Christmas. Allow hope and anticipation of his arrival wash over you in the bleakness. Wait for him. Listen for him. Cry out for the Messiah—God in the flesh—to come and heal his people.

In the darkness of December, let the Light of the World enter your heart.

Then worship. Celebrate the coming of our King.

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A tale of two miracles

Published by Daniel on August 9, 2018

There are two occasions in the Bible when God miraculously parted the waters:[1] the more famous Exodus account (Exodus 14:21ff), and the lesser known Joshua account (Joshua 3:7ff).

The Exodus account gets all the acclaim, primarily because it was none other than Charlton Heston standing at the banks of the Red Sea majestically holding his staff over the water. Thus far, the best we have come up with to portray Joshua is a cucumber from Veggietales.

Still, both miracles fall into the category of “something that doesn’t happen every day.” Both go against the laws of physics, Both defy explanation. And both result in making a way for God’s people, sending them from the old into the new.

The Exodus account is dramatic, precariously sticking Moses and the Hebrews between the raging Red Sea and an approaching enemy superpower (Egypt) bent on revenge. So God places a fiery pillar between the two groups, holding the Egyptians at bay. Pretty amazing, but God is not yet finished. God then instructs Moses to lift his staff toward the sea, and amazingly the chaotic ocean separates into a path for the Hebrews to safely pass through.

In the Joshua account, while waiting at the banks of the flooded Jordan River, Joshua reminds the people that God is about to do great things on their behalf in the Promised Land. However, unlike Moses, Joshua does not raise his staff over the water. Instead, the priests are instructed carry the ark of the covenant directly into the river.

Imagine being one of the priests who hears that bit of information: Wait—you want us to do what?

But the command is clear. The priests’ feet are to get wet. They are to traverse the slippery rocks beneath a swift and swirling river. Only then, after getting their feet wet, do the waters part to make a way into the Promised Land.

I prefer the Exodus method whenever God wants to move me. It’s less ambiguous and more straightforward, an uber hardcore miracle—something we can definitely talk about during praise time on Sunday morning. Epic movies with big budgets would be made to tell our story. Even pompous scientists and militant atheists with no sense of awe or enchantment would attempt to insert themselves into the narrative by writing lengthy tomes hoping to invalidate it.

In contrast, no one writes about the Joshua account. Many Christians give it little more than a cursory glance. You won’t find a lot people sharing about how God tossed them into the water before anything happened. It’s not dramatic. It’s not cool.

Besides, Joshua’s account involves a river—a much smaller body of water than the Red Sea.

Yet in many ways, the Joshua method is scarier. The path forward doesn’t appear until you make the first move. In other words, with absolutely no guarantees, you must run the risk of getting swept away by the current before there is any sign that God is about to do something.

All you have to cling to is your faith that God is somehow present—and, you hope, a still, small voice telling you to go. The action could kill you instead of providing a way forward.

Why didn’t God simply part the waters and make a way for Joshua, as he did for Moses?

It’s a question we all ask at one time or another.

I think the answer is found in another tiny but important distinction: In Exodus the Hebrews were running from something—a vengeful army, a life of slavery, possibly even annihilation itself; in Joshua they were going to something—the land promised by God to the generations before them.

Recently I’ve felt forced to go through the Joshua method, asking myself whether I am running from something or to something. I am writing this from a hotel lobby, my temporary home until our prospective house closes. My wife and I are in a transition from Portland, Oregon to Helena, Montana—a transition that’s been bumpy, rough, and uncertain. In the past months, we have deliberated about this move. For over twenty years I have lived in Portland while eagerly hoping to return home to Montana. In Portland I felt on the outside of the culture, never fitting in and complaining ad nauseum, ad infinitum about my life in the city and about the city itself.

When I got a job offer in Montana, I had to ask myself: was this my chance to finally flee city life and return to a less stressful smaller town? Brush the dust from my shoes and leave Portland in my wake? Sayonara, Portland! I’m outta here.

A Moses-style “parting of the waters” would have been the perfect way to do that. All I needed God to do was to part the waters and let me pass.

But what if this move is not about fleeing from something as Moses did, but going toward something as Joshua did? What if this move is for my growth?

I suspect that a “parting of the waters” enabling me to flee Portland would not have been spiritually healthy for me, but would have allowed me to run away from the city with a hard heart and a suitcase full of bitterness.

Instead, I am beginning to believe that God wants me to see this transition as going toward something, a new chapter in the journey. I am going because God wants me to.

The Joshua-style river parting forced me to put my feet in the water before it parted, forced me to remember and appreciate this chapter closing in my life. I thought about the friends I have made in Portland, the people I grew to love there. I celebrated and memorialized the good moments (getting married, buying a house, publishing a book, and being a part of a wonderful church community) as well as my deepest heartaches (the loss of my teaching job and the doctoral degree, the deaths of my father- and mother-in-law, and years of spiritual darkness).

Portland has been a significant part of my story, and if I had left it by fleeing through a parted sea, I never would have grasped the good.

I believe God wants me to remember those years—the good, bad, and ugly—as years that he was working in my life. And to rejoice in what he has done there.

God forced me, like Joshua, to step into the water first, before it would part.

So, with feet clumsily planted on the slippery rocks, I move to a new chapter of my life—in Helena, Montana.

My feet are wet.

The rest of the adventure is up to God.

[1] Technically, there are three “partings of the water” if we count the third day of Creation when God separated the waters to make “land” (Genesis 1:9)—but I omitted this account since no one was around to see it except God.

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One day every knee shall bow…including Google’s

Published by Daniel on February 2, 2018

“Knowledge is power,” Sir Frances Bacon wrote in 1597. Three centuries later, English historian Lord John Acton added, “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men, even when they exercise influence and not authority.”

Hmm…

So, if “knowledge is power,” and “power corrupts,” then one might conclude: “Knowledge corrupts.”

Granted, this is a syllogism – not the most valid form of argument.

Still, the world seems hell-bent on proving it true.

Knowledge seems very squishy these days. Each of us considers our own perspective to be based on “facts,” and opposing perspectives on “alternative facts.” Even “fact-checking” has lost credibility—especially when it exposes the fact-checkers’ own biases. Yet most of us tend to find and believe “facts” that support our preferred narrative, with no further thought or research at all.

In today’s Information Age, whoever has the most control over information has the most power, redefining truth for the rest of us. Often with no accountability.

Enter the information giants—especially Google, Apple, and Amazon. (I’ll skip the social media giants as this blog is about academic / encyclopedic knowledge, more than popular knowledge.)

Google, the biggest information processor of all, has amassed unprecedented power by accumulating and distilling all available knowledge (“knowledge is power”). It has so much power that all internet researching is now called, generically, “googling.”

Recently Google released Google Home to compete with Amazon’s Echo (“Alexa”) and Apple’s HomePod (“Siri”). Like the others, this little device sits quietly in your kitchen, living room, or wherever, listening to your every word in case you want to ask it a question by saying, “OK, Google…” If you do, it then gives answers with a smooth authority that implies there’s no need to double-check them. And, in addition to listening to all of your conversations, it is also collecting data from them.

I am little creeped out by any company that performs 24/7 eavesdropping and data-mining, and then profits from the data. But I am also concerned by the actual responses to our queries and searches. Those responses are based on algorithms developed by humans. And those humans have power—power to slant the responses, intentionally or not, toward their own biases (“power corrupts”).

It’s been changed since, but recently I googled “fascism” to get a basic definition for one of my blogs. At the very top of the search results, above all of the dictionary results, Google provided its own definition so I wouldn’t have to look any further. But it defined fascism as a form of government that is right-wing only: “An authoritarian and nationalistic right-wing system of government and social organization…extreme right-wing, authoritarian, or intolerant views or practice.”

To some on the left, this was perfect. But any serious student of history or government knows this definition is wrong. A more accurate one is that fascism is simply extreme totalitarianism on either the right or the left. In fact, the list of left-wing fascist leaders is long and murderous, and has included Stalin and Lenin in Europe; Castro and Chavez in Latin America; and Mao, Pol Pot, and Kim Jong Un in Asia.

Then Google tried another twist: For users googling news sites, in the search results Google added a fact-check box beside conservative sites, labeling purported statements from those sites as “false.” But in many cases the so-called “false” statements either could not be refuted, or were never made by the site in question at all (http://dailycaller.com/2018/01/19/google-ends-fact-check/). Also, Google added no such fact-check box beside progressive sites.

After a public outcry against these clear and inaccurate biases, Google removed both the word definitions and the fact-checking boxes. It now includes word definitions provided by Merriam-Webster rather than by Google itself, and it has discontinued its “fact-checking.”

Yet examples still remain that “knowledge corrupts.”

Recently a woman posted a video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAX0q4huUyw) online. In it, she shows a list of names or words related to world religions, and then asks Google Home to define each one. As she goes down the list, Google Home gives lengthy definitions for Allah, Buddha, Brahman, and New Age, drawn from various sources. But for Jesus and Jesus Christ, Google responds with variations of, “Sorry, I’m not sure how to help” or “My apologies—I don’t understand.”

Even Wikipedia knows who Jesus Christ is.

Google doesn’t?

In response, Google tweeted this statement:

“The reason the Google Assistant didn’t respond with information about ‘Who is Jesus’ or ‘Who is Jesus Christ’ wasn’t out of disrespect but instead to ensure respect. Some of the Assistant’s spoken responses come from the web, and for certain topics, this content can be more vulnerable to vandalism and spam. If our systems detect such circumstances, the Assistant might not reply. If similar vulnerabilities were detected for other questions – including those about other religious leaders – the Assistant also wouldn’t respond. We’re exploring different solutions and temporarily disabling these responses for religious figures on the Assistant.” (https://twitter.com/searchliaison/status/956999768323969024/photo/1?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww1.cbn.com%2Fcbnnews%2Fus%2F2018%2Fjanuary%2Fgooge-home-devices-programmed-to-recognize-muhammad-and-buddha-but-not-jesus)

To be fair, this explanation does make some sense.

Still, as the saying goes: “Once is a mistake; twice is a trend.” With Google, perhaps one might add: “Three times is a bad habit.”

Google isn’t the only knowledge clearinghouse that won’t acknowledge Jesus. Not long ago, comedian Steven Crowder asked Amazon’s Echo, “Who is Jesus?” and Alexa replied: “Jesus is a fictional character.” Skeptics claim Crowder edited the video to get this answer, but others reported getting the same answer before Amazon changed it.

Google now holds power over “knowledge” by holding a near-monopoly on internet searching, which is today’s repository of knowledge. Google seems to be writing a new version of truth. And it possesses nearly unchecked power to do so.

Suddenly, my above syllogism – knowledge is power, and power leads to corruption, so knowledge leads to corruption – seems frighteningly real.

The Bible says there will come a day when, at the name of Jesus, every knee will bow “in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father” (Philippians 2:10-11, NIV).

For now, the tech gods of knowledge may try to redefine and minimize Jesus.

But one day, even they will kneel at Jesus’s feet.

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Battling demons and finding God on the ash heap

Published by Daniel on December 31, 2017

2017 finally comes to a close, and I am ringing in the new year firmly ensconced upon a pile of ashes.

This is definitely not the place others flock to when welcoming in a new year. Dusty, bleak, a place of exile and uncertainty. You don’t count down the final seconds of 2017 on the ash heap; instead, you wrestle with endless questions about how you got there with a God who seems more interested in the annual ball drop in Times Square. You wait, trying to understand the rationale of another who is infinitely above your pay-grade.

Kind of like Job after the Accuser chopped him off at the ankles. As part of what looks like a mysterious cosmic bet, Job loses his children, his livestock, his wealth, and eventually his health over a short period of time. He retreats to the mound of ashes where he sits quietly with friends, saying nothing for a week. Then the characters engage in a misguided debate about the cause of suffering and its relation to sin before God himself finally enters the discussion with one of the most beautiful and frustrating responses to humanity’s suffering in the entire Bible.

Most of the book of Job takes place on this gray, arid mountain of ash.

Admittedly, the events that brought me to my ash heap were nowhere near as dramatic as Job’s suffering. In most ways, my crisis pales to those others face. Shortly before the holidays my wife and I were informed that, due to cutbacks, our primary means of household income was coming to an end after a ten-year run. At our age, this can be especially disconcerting as Human Resource Departments seem more interested in terms like “fresh” and “new” over others like “skilled” and “experienced.”

So, at the start of 2018 our household sits upon an ash heap of uncertainty, caught in a strange vortex between the present and the not-yet. I am not sure what the next year will look like, or where. I can only be certain it will be different. Perhaps better, maybe worse, but definitely different.

Living in limbo is a life of distraction. It is difficult to concentrate on just about everything. We hold our breath, waiting to see if or how all those promises in the Bible will work out in our lives. Lacking focus or energy, everything seems on hold. The speed of life hits a wall. The world runs in slow motion. Nothing seems important.

Unfortunately, this includes even my writing, or more accurately, trying to maintain my fledging writing career. This has been my first attempt to write something since Thanksgiving. I’ve got all kinds of ideas swirling around in my head as my wife and I work our way through the uncertainty. But the words don’t come. My mind cannot generate more than a sentence or two before being distracted by the next shiny thing. Maybe it is simply because the heart is not there or anxiety crowds out the passion.

However, not only do I sit upon an ash heap of uncertainty but also one of self-condemnation. Questions about my lack of any marketable skills and abilities that haunted me years ago suddenly return with a fiery vengeance. The Accuser whispers in my ear words that reignite feelings of self-loathing that I had wrestled with a long time ago: worthlessness, failure, washout. At times, the Accuser’s words seem terribly convincing. Too convincing. My heart knows these words are untrue, but my head isn’t so sure.

It becomes yet another throw-down between my spirit and my flesh. My spirit reminds me that my value comes from God and his love for me. However, my flesh counters, nobody cares about that on a resume. God thinks I have worth isn’t a very marketable skill. My spirit won’t answer that point. Not because it has no answer, but because it stands solely on its initial premise and doesn’t see any need to repeat itself.

Finally, my ash heap is built on distrust. Not necessarily toward others, but specifically toward God. I want Jesus to come and move in my life, yet I also hopes he doesn’t. I never liked my life’s direction, but that doesn’t mean I would like to change it either. Then the realization hits me that even after decades of direct evidence to trust God, I still don’t really trust him. At times, I am not sure he has my back. Is he really looking out for me? Does he want what is best for me, or does he merely want to teach me yet another lesson I will never understand? Has my life used up its quota for miracles? Am I going to be truly thankful for the ending of my current ordeal?

Silly questions for a “mature” Christ-follower.

Oh how I wish I could be a Super-Christian. Heck, at this point, I would be happy just being Super-Christian’s clueless comic sidekick.

So, I watch the world’s new chapter from the dusty mountain of ashes. It’s a place of boredom and discomfort, of uncertainty and fear. It’s a place to battle my personal demons.

But it also seems to be the usual place for God to enter into my story. Like he did for Elijah in the wilderness (1 Kings 19). Or Jonah in the desert (Jonah 4). Or the shepherds in the chill of a night (Luke 2). Or Peter in the dungeon (Acts 5). Or Job on the ash heap (Job 38).

The ash heap—built upon uncertainty, self-condemnation, and distrust—is where my spirit battles my flesh, but it is also where I am sure God will once again enter into my story.

God’s objective is not to bless my household with wealth or certainty or even courage. He comes to the ash heap to remind me exactly who is in charge of the universe as well as who is really charge of, and thus responsible, for my life.

On the ash heap, God throws out a list of questions that point only to his power and sovereignty as the correct answer (Read those questions for yourself in Job 38-41 and see if you can answer them any differently). God’s objective is not to get me or my wife a good job. It is to get me to once again admit what is truly important.

So, as 2018 begins, I will find myself still ensconced on a pile of ashes.

However, this year also begins with Job’s final confession ringing in my ears and filling my mind and heart:

“I know that you can do all things;
no purpose of yours can be thwarted.
You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’
Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,
things too wonderful for me to know.
“You said, ‘Listen now, and I will speak;
I will question you, and you shall answer me.’
My ears had heard of you
but now my eyes have seen you.
Therefore I despise myself
and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:4-6)

I pray Job’s confession remains on my—as well as your—lips and heart all year long, whether in a new location or career or even while continuing to grieve on the pile of ashes. Whatever new challenges or chapters that come our way, God wants us to know that he is the one in control of the universe and that he is the one who controls our lives.

No what matter what ash heap we find ourselves on, that is the only outcome God wants.

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When the world rejects your prayers, pray anyway

Published by Daniel on October 4, 2017

It didn’t take long after the tragedy in Las Vegas for the bloviating and hyperbole to begin. While many expressed shock and sadness for both the victims and for the city itself, sadly others took the massacre as a call to arms to press their political agendas. In the name of compassion, this latter group rejected the compassion of a country that was shocked into momentary paralysis as though they even had right to reject it in the first place.

Armed with the principle of never letting a crisis go to waste, they insist, “No! Only action is compassion.” And so, they shame, guilt, and demand action even before the blood is dry.

This has always bothered me. While the nation is still doubled-over in shock, using intense grief to promote an agenda—no matter how sincere—seems to amount to little more than emotional abuse. Any grief or pastoral counselor will tell you, decisions made in the heat of emotion almost never turn out well. In seminary, I had a professor tell his class, “Never resign on a Monday.”

Nevertheless, the demands for action ring out. In the past, that tactic hasn’t worked. So, inevitably, the outraged turned up their rhetoric to include blame, hate, and even prayer-shaming.

The cry of “prayer is not enough” became the new catchphrase. Following other mass-shootings before Las Vegas, U.S. Representative Elizabeth Etsy once said, “A moment of silence or prayer is insufficient to the task.” Senator Chris Murphy once tweeted, “Having lived through Sandy Hook, I know that thoughts and prayers are important, but they’re not enough.” Then-President Barak Obama said, “Thoughts and prayers are not enough. It’s not enough. It does not capture the heartache and grief and anger that we should feel.”

Comments like these in the face of tragedy irritated me. They seemed condescending and elitist. However, in the days following the Las Vegas shooting, my perspective shifted a little. Why should I be irritated? It made complete sense that a non-believer or a worshiper of the secular culture would see prayer as nothing more than a platitude, a superstition, a symbolic ritual, or an empty gesture expressed by simpletons. They see no power behind prayer. Why would we expect them to believe anything different? They’re simply staying true to their belief system.

On the other hand, for the Christ-follower to say such a thing is more troubling. In her response to the tragedy, Christian writer Jen Hatmaker posted on her Facebook page that her “blood is boiling over and I want to run screaming into the streets. I feel like we are standing in the middle of a violent, endless nationwide crisis swirling all around us, and we keep ‘sending thoughts and prayers.’ I want to rip my hair out.”

To say prayer is not enough says a lot about that particular Christian’s view of prayer. Prayer is good, so long as it is not the holy-roller, chandelier-swinging variety, but it doesn’t truly have a power to make a difference in anything. It is something to say with children before tucking them in. It makes us feel good. It is merely an act of faith, something to hold onto. But in the face of evil, these prayer-shaming Christians seem to see little actual power in prayer.

It is not enough, they insist. Prayer is not enough. We must do something.

Because everyone knows that we humans are far better capable of solving the problem of evil than a God who created the universe and defeated death. Seek ye first the kingdom of government, and all these things shall be added unto you. Most certainly, the problem of evil can be fixed through congressional legislation, which is often brought about through manipulation, fear-mongering and compromise.

Rest easy, America.

And please ignore Paul’s words about the foolishness of God being wiser than the wisdom of humanity (1 Corinthians 1:25). Or that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 6:12). He certainly didn’t mean it that way. We must invoke action. We must do something. And we must do it in the moment when the world is rocked back on its heels.

Sarcasm aside, it is imperative that we ask ourselves exactly what is prayer. What happened in Las Vegas was the face of evil.

The very thing prayer-shamers reject is the very thing that can help.

However, before we get defensive and counter, we followers of Jesus must come to terms with prayer as well. Do we believe it? Is prayer a platitude, an exercise to say before dinner, or a symbolic act of ritual? Do we believe that in prayer we are seeking the face of Jesus against whom no evil can stand? Do we truly believe that invoking the name of Christ is an act in which the demons flee and the captives go free?

Prayer acknowledges humanity’s helplessness in the face of evil. It forces us to see our own powerlessness. Only through prayer will we ever understand the true nature of the battle.

So if politicians and media trolls want to shame Christ-followers for “merely” praying, let them. I would expect nothing different. Let them think they are doing something productive. Let them think that prayer isn’t enough. This has never intimidated God before. I would place my trust in a holy God that I cannot see over politicians who claim they have the wisdom to curb the power of evil when they don’t even have the know-how to overcome the NRA.

Besides, prayer-shamers—both within and outside of the body of Christ—should not be our focus. God should. Legislative acts will do nothing to stem the face of evil other than make the legislators feel good about themselves. That is, until the next evil act occurs after which the whole cycle repeats.

Finally, I would like to comment about what I believe is a legitimate point that prayer-shamers make: Prayer should never be used as an excuse for apathy. There is enough truth here that should challenge us Christ-followers and even make us feel uneasy if we realize that it in fact applies to us. If we say that we are praying for Las Vegas and we do not actually pray, then we are using prayer as an excuse for inaction. That truly is apathy.

Posting a picture of the Vegas skyline with the words “praying for Vegas” is not praying. Actually praying for Las Vegas is.

If all we do is share a “praying for Vegas” post on social media without any follow-through, then we indeed have reduced prayer to simply another form of hashtag activism—a narcissistic attempt to show the world we care while accomplishing nothing. Saying we’ll pray without actually praying is nothing more of an empty exercise than that of jumping up and down with outrage, pulling our hair out, demanding “now is the time” that we do something to fix evil.

Rest assured, we will get our just rewards, if patting yourself on the back is all the reward you desire.

Meanwhile, evil prevails and the suffering continues.

I challenge us Christ-followers to pray. Really pray. Don’t pray for show. Don’t pray to make yourself feel good or uber-spiritual. Pray from the position of helplessness. But pray truly believing the power of prayer. Pray with the full knowledge that we are seeking the face of a holy God.

In the face of mockery, when others reject the power of prayer, I want to encourage you to pray anyway.

Final thoughts: Jesus, his kingdom, and predicting the end of the world

Published by Daniel on September 22, 2017

Apparently, in a matter of hours, we’re all going to die.

Really.

According to a Christian Numerologist—whatever that is—September 23, 2017 is the day when an unseen planet known either as Planet X or Nibiru will come crashing to earth, creating tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, flooding, and—far worse—the widespread release of the movie mother! to a frantic public.

This will result in wide-spread panic, confusion, and other levels of mayhem.

There is already evidence of this: The Great Solar Eclipse, Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, and Maria, the flooding in Houston, and the Mexico City earthquake.

Even the Bible backs up this claim, Luke 21:25-26:

“There will be signs in sun and moon and stars, and on the earth dismay among nations, in perplexity at the roaring of the sea and the waves, men fainting from fear and the expectation of the things which are coming upon the world; for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

Clearly, if you omit the last total eclipse in 1999, the next one in 2024, the lunar eclipse/blood moon of 2015, the four blood moons, as well as Hurricanes Katrina, Hugo, Inike, Camille, Andrew, Ike, Patricia, etc., the tsunamis in Indonesia and Japan, the 1993 and ’27 Mississippi River floods, how can one not see these verses are referring specifically to September 23, 2017?

To my knowledge, the world ended in 2003, 2011, 2012, 2015, in addition to the coming apocalypse on Saturday. That’s just the twenty-first century. And who can remember all the times the world ended in the last? I am still suffering from the doomsday apocalypse of Y2K. And these are just the Christian predictions.

As I count down my final hours before Nibiru appears as a fiery sphere in the sky, a couple of thoughts come to mind. Why are we in Christ’s body so obsessed with the end of the world? And is all this effort within the body of Christ to predict the end of the world doing anything to further the kingdom of God?

Make no mistake, I believe that Jesus Christ will come again. I believe the prophecies of Revelation will happen, although I am unsure exactly what they will look like. But I also know that Jesus states that no one knows the day or the hour of his return (Matthew 24:36).

So why haven’t Jesus’s words stopped us from trying?

It would be easy to simply blame the writers, speakers, and promoters of popular eschatology (the study of the last days), taking advantage of a multi-million-dollar industry. Who wouldn’t want a cut of those profits? The cynic in me could just stop there.

But I think there is more to it. These end-time entrepreneurs wouldn’t have a market if we, the Christian body, weren’t so obsessed with it.

So why the obsession?

One wouldn’t have to look too far beyond the headlines for the answer. Every day for the last couple of months, there seems to be yet another catastrophic hurricane out in the Atlantic, another forest fire, another earthquake, another incident of mindless violence, another reminder of the deadly stare-down with North Korea, or another terrorist attack. Humans no longer talk to each other; we scream, degrade, and if those don’t work, kick the snot out of each other. It is overwhelming. In the words of singer Randy Stonehill: “It’s a great big stupid world, and I’m feeling kind of queasy as it spins around…”

What is most troubling is the realization that all of this is completely beyond our control. We simply don’t know how to fix the universe. We look to science, reason, and government to stop it but to no avail. There is simply nothing we can do. There are powers far greater than the human mind. These horrible events are daily reminders of our helplessness.

For us Christ-followers, we look beyond the natural for meaning to the chaos. We search the darkness for something to cling to. Obviously, we turn to Jesus. This is not a bad thing. In fact, I highly recommend it. He is, after all, “the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). He is the Savior of the world, the lighthouse in the storm, the loving shepherd and protector. Jesus is exactly to whom we should turn.

The problem comes when we turn our focus more on Jesus’s return than we do on the Jesus himself.

We don’t do this intentionally. We know that good wins over evil. The book of Revelation and the second coming point to an end of the suffering and chaos, an end which results in victory. And this focus brings relief. Knowing this, the next logical step is to turn our attention to when that will be. The when becomes the point of emphasis.

The when, however, is intentionally ambiguous. If the Son of Man doesn’t know, then how can we? Yet we continue to look at the Bible as a code, a numbers game, a treasure map. The Bible is the Word of God, the answer to all; therefore, the when just has to be in there somewhere. It is there simply for us to discover.

So, we scour the Bible for new clues. We read books that look to the sky claiming to have unlocked said clues. We attend seminars meshing current events to the Scriptures to understand.

I can’t help but to wonder if this is our attempt to run toward Jesus, to cling to someone bigger than ourselves.

The truth is, we are burning too much of our energy and resources trying to unlock the details about the end of the world. Instead, we should turn that energy to being the kingdom of God in the face of great suffering and chaos.

Whenever I see a headline of yet another Christian predicting the end of the world, I cringe. The truth is, end-time Christians who make bold, specific predictions about the end have never been right. After their predictions turn out wrong, they don’t reform themselves. They simply let enough time pass before they can figure out and write about the next celestial event that will most certainly spell the end.

But every time a failed prediction passes, the body of Christ loses a little more credibility. After all, if Christians are so wrong about predicting the end of the world, couldn’t they also be wrong about the deity of Jesus, the cross, and the resurrection? Why should the world accept the message of the cross when its followers get the end of the world so wrong so frequently? Why should we even be trusted?

These failed predictions do little more than affirm the world’s stereotypes that Christians are nothing more than superstitious buffoons. They put the Christian faith on the defensive and cheapen the message of grace the cross brings.

And the cross should always be our focus.

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When the world went strangely dim: God’s glory amidst suffering and hate

Published by Daniel on August 31, 2017

My wife and I traveled down to my sister’s house in Albany, Oregon to experience the great eclipse a couple of weeks ago. From Oregon to South Carolina, the moon blocked out the sun, casting a 70-mile-wide shadow across the United States. Albany happened to be in the path of totality. Portland would get a 99.2% showing of the eclipse.

But what a difference .8% makes.

My wife and I sat in my sister’s backyard and donned our dorky eclipse glasses.

For an hour, we watched the moon slide slowly across the surface of the sun. A show like one we have never seen was about to begin. About fifteen minutes out of totality, Albany grew darker—a strangely dim type of darkness, not quite twilight, not quite dusk. It was like looking through oddly-tinted sunglasses.

Then, in the final moments of totality, the sun went completely dark.

For a moment.

A ring of fire burst out from around the perimeter of the moon. Cheers erupted throughout the neighborhood. Dogs barked. I snapped some pictures and then watched in quiet awe. Words cannot describe the event. The only thing going through my mind were the words of the Psalmist: “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1).

For two minutes, a wondrous act of the Creator brought the nation to standstill. Suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about my life. I wasn’t worried about the upcoming semester of classes, or my anxieties, or even what I was going to each for lunch that day. Heck, I wasn’t even worried about the drive back to Portland—a normally ninety minute journey that would take almost seven hours. All that mattered at that moment was the dazzling display high up in the heavens.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.

The heavens declare the glory of God. Summer 2017 had been quite eventful, emotional, and one of great transition.

Early on, my wife and I planned a trip back to my home state of Montana. Originally, the plan was to attend two weddings only ten days but five hundred miles apart—one in Billings and the other in Spokane, Washington.

However, that simple plan quickly turned sideways. my grandfather had a massive stroke that took his life just a few days later. Then, my father’s gall bladder attacked him during our special Father’s Day dinner, sending him to the hospital. This, of course, was followed by emergency surgery. Then, if that wasn’t enough, my dachshund Copper decided to get in on the fun when his mouth unexpectedly swelled up, requiring an urgent visit to a vet. My wife and I bounced around Montana like a ball in a pinball machine—Helena to Coeur ‘d Alene, Idaho and back to Missoula, then Great Falls, then Billings for the first wedding, then the mega-metropolis of Savage, back to Missoula, and finally to Spokane for the second wedding.

All in three weeks.

When it was over, my car aged over 3200 hundred miles. I didn’t fare much better.

It was a strange blend of laughter, sadness, celebration, stress, adventure, and of course, transition. A niece on my wife’s side of the family and a nephew on my side transitioned into the world of marriage. For us who are merely uncles and aunts, our relationships with them would transition into something entirely new as they cling to their new spouses and start a new life. My grandfather transitioned into his heavenly home, and those of us left behind transitioned into an unknown life completely without him. My father’s health transitioned back and forth on a daily basis, and I transitioned into a new experience of dealing with an aging dad.

O soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s a light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free!

The heavens declare the glory of God. The last several months have seen an escalating in the great American Civil War—one that has been fought largely with stilted rhetoric. Then violence started to creep in, slowly—almost unnoticeably. All this violence didn’t have the impact on us as a nation.

Until a woman was run over and killed by a neo-Nazi in Charlottesville, Virginia.

I am afraid this rhetorical civil war is escalating into a violent one.

On August 26, a category three hurricane named Harvey pummeled Texas in one of the most violent displays of nature since, arguably, Hurricane Katrina. Watching the suffering and loss on TV, I couldn’t begin to fathom what is going on in the minds and hearts of people who lost everything. Also present were endless examples of people helping each other—lifting them out of harm’s way, providing financial resources, food, and lodging, and even encouragement.

Sadly, not to be outdone, brutality and malevolence found its way back into the trending headlines. In the days following, the devastation on the lives of countless Texans was eclipsed by sorry souls who have the heart of Swiss cheese—some of it is missing, and the parts that remain stink. The faces of Harvey were replaced with debates about climate change, whether or not Trump’s response to disaster was better than Obama’s, how Joel Osteen’s church responded or didn’t respond, and whether Melania Trump’s shoes were inappropriate. A professor tweeted the Harvey was karma on Texas for supporting Trump. Politico ran a cartoon mocking victims giving glory to God for their rescue while at the same time making government its own god. And the French satirical magazine Charlie Habdo, who twice was the victim of radical Islamic terrorists, published a cover with Nazi salutes coming out of the water and the headline: “God exists! He drowned all the neo-Nazis of Texas.”

I shake my head in sadness.

It’s almost hard to remember that between Charlottesville and Harvey, a great eclipse brought the United States—from sea to shining sea—to an halt. For two minutes, the nation’s eyes turned upward.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.

The heavens declare the glory of God. To the conservative and the liberal, to the believer and the atheist, to the oppressed and the oppressor, to the human of every race and even to the beast—we all looked in awe to the skies. No one worried about their lives. Political causes moved to the back burner. No one fought or called each other names. No one listened to beltway pundits and arrogant journalists flap their gums. We were all humans again. We were community. For two minutes, the heavens declared the glory of God.

Sure, some tried to turn our attention away from the wonder. One writer tried to argue that science is greater than God because predicting the path of the eclipse is somehow greater than actually creating it. Another tried to use the eclipse as a hook to discuss racism. Fortunately, those attempts got little to no traction. Majesty blurred human nature.

Two minutes later, it was done. Light returned.

“Normal” once again pushed out the “extraordinary.”

Even though the eclipse was only a few weeks ago, it already seems so distant. Allowing life and sin to overwhelm God’s glory is not at all difficult.

It is also sad when it happens.

Perhaps it is time to step away from our personal causes, our debates, our vindictiveness toward others, and our hatred toward those who don’t see things the way we do, and once again look up to the heavens. Everything that matters to us—no matter how important we may think it is—will, in the words of Helen Lemmel’s great hymn, “grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.”

Lyrics from the song “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” by Helen Lemmel, 1922.