Pointing to the Obvious

I love sitting in buildings that have stupendous architecture. As I sat in our enormous church yesterday, I was daydreaming during the sections that were convicting me about my hopeless character. I knew the punchline- yes, my heart is wicked...I have certainly seen that demonstrated often enough to not need to argue the point. But I also know that the miracle of God is that Jesus has washed me clean. I have hope that despite being guilty of pretty much every despicable sin there can be, I have (or will ultimately) overcome, not because of who I am but because of who God is. It is a major reason for Thanksgiving, but for some reason, maybe the little sleep over the past few days, I was focusing on the church architecture with one ear open to the Pastor.

Nearly every architectural line of this church is designed to draw your eye upward. The windows all end in upward triangles, the church itself has spires that point to heaven, all the pipes of the pipe organ are capped by upward wooden triangles, the balconies all ascend higher and higher, and on the ceiling itself, the Cross is lit and laid discretely against the roof. It took me a long time of searching to find the Cross in that church. It was like a spiritual, "Where's Waldo?" It's obvious if you look in the right place.

This is what church should be, I thought, as I squirmed at the list of character traits that Displease God. Church should convict us of sin. Too many of us accept our rottenness or rationalize it away. But if the church left us in that state, we would all leave church and drive off a cliff. The next major role of a good church is to point our focus, our hope, our gratitude upward- to God. And at the pinnacle of everything the church preaches, should be the Cross. Without the Cross, the Christian message is impossible. The entire Bible points to the cross, even more perfectly than the architecture of the magnificent church I sat in. The meaning of the Cross is so obvious, the need for the Cross so compelling, yet so many people miss it. I did too, to my great regret, for thirty years. But now that I know what to look for, I can't believe I didn't see it at first.

Proverbs 8:17
¹⁷ I love those who love me,
   and those who seek me find me.

1 Corinthians 1: 17-18

¹⁷ For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel—not with wisdom and eloquence, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power.hrist Crucified Is God’s Power and Wisdom
 ¹⁸ For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.

1 John 4: 9-10
⁹ This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. ¹⁰ This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.

My First Born Son

Defying certain death by sneezing til my nose completely severed from my face, I sat on the front porch, dusting aside the glaze of pollen. I could not resist. The azaleas were blooming, and I love to sit on the porch rocker and watch the bees make gluttons of themselves on those fragrant pink blossoms. Some flowers had been crushed and ripped from their moorings by hailstone the size of cannonballs the day before. The remaining hardy ones lifted their triumphant faces to the sun.

"Do you mind if I sit here with you?" I asked them.
 The pink blooms glanced at each other, shimmering gossamer petals in the wind. They didn't answer, so I took that as affirmation.
I sketched, in between sneezes... . and I realized that I rarely do whole pictures, whole objects, whole landscapes any more. Part of this is because I am drawing on an iPod with a 2x4 inch screen. The other part is that the older I get, the more I find significance in details. One would think that with a lifetime of experience, I would rather take in the whole picture. But instead, I sit and marvel at the thread-thin stripes of slightly darker magenta against the pink petals of the azalea. What a beautiful little added touch, as if the flower wasn't glorious enough!

My first born son entered this world 25 years ago today. I had no clue what one does with such a supremely perfect creature in one's care. I often focused on the whole picture- all that I would need to do to successfully launch him into a wide open sea of independent life. It was often overwhelming, and like all first borns, he suffered through my mistakes and ignorance. But he is now launched and fully on his own. He pays his own bills ( I presume...), goes to his own dentist ( I hope......) and prays on his own initiative (I desperately desire.....).  I got him through his years with us educating him, exposing him to a world of opportunities and experiences, pointing him to the God I cherish and believe in, and keeping the tally of broken bones to just one in his years with us in charge. But now, settling on the porch rocker of my memories, it is the seemingly inconsequential details that flood my mind.

Like once when I walked in his room, and he was just a small boy, lying on his back in his bed, with his eyes focused on another world.
"Mommy, I see angels."
"Angels?"
He smiled at the ceiling, "Sparkling everywhere."

Or the morning of departure from our first family vacation to the beach. He lay in bed, propped up against his pillow, his tiny face framed in tears.
"Anders! What's wrong?"
"It was such a nice vacation. I don't want it to end."

Or when as a 5 year old, attending a "Masters Class" in piano with highschool age kids, the instructor listened to him, and not wanting to condescend, barked out a rather harsh, and loud critique as though she were dealing with someone who was old enough to sift through the overbearing delivery and find the message without the tone.
When she finished, he looked at her and in his little man voice said, "OK."
The Master's face softened, and the entire classroom murmured, "Awwwww......"
Tears welled in my eyes for the little boy whose talent sometimes put him in a world of men perhaps too soon.

But my hardest job as a parent wasn't the 18 years of homeschooling him, or chauffeuring him to special piano and math contests and classes that fed his exceptional abilities, or finding a group that opened their arms to him and taught him to juggle, or feeding him healthy meals, or developing his college transcript.....all that pales to the job, the duty, the necessity of unclasping my hand from his, of letting him go.

I totally get the magnitude of God's love demonstrated by the sacrifice of His son. I don't think there is anything harder that any parent could ever be called upon to do. I struggled just to watch my son march off to a wonderful future a thousand miles away from me. I can't imagine watching a son march to the cross. At one time I thought that indicated how little God cared for His own son. But now I see how supremely God longs and cares for us...for me.

So I sit on the porch, looking at the fine lines of the beautiful azalea, and I remember those snippets of the brief time I was the one my boy most longed to sit with, rocking and listening to the bees hum as they gorged on the fragrant blossoms.

1 Samuel 1:10-12
¹¹ And she made a vow, saying, “LORD Almighty, if you will only look on your servant’s misery and remember me, and not forget your servant but give her a son, then I will give him to the LORD for all the days of his life