There is a place I like to climb
where beauty gives me pause to rhyme
as I look down on old Luzern
and play with words I love.
It is a place from which I gaze
at sights that prompt my heart to praise
the One who’s left His fingerprints
for those who dust to find.
This is a place in my Luzern
where I reflect on what I’ve learned
from times like these when I take time
to still my mind and see.
This week I reach a milestone. My birthday cake is entitled to seventy-two candles. But given our corporate concern for global warming, my wife will likely only light one solitary wax sentry. And that’s okay. Too many miniature flames make for too much light that in turn exposes too little hair and too many wrinkles.
Given a temporary work assignment in Switzerland, this is the first birthday in those seventy-two years in which I will celebrate outside of the United States. And truth be told, this opportunity to serve an English-speaking church in Luzern for three months is the best birthday present I could have asked for. Curiously, thirty-six years ago my wife and I found ourselves in a similar situation. I was asked to take a temporary assignment in Nome, Alaska. Taking a leave of absence from my congregation in California, I worked for a missionary radio station for a couple months.
Like my current assignment as interim pastor of the International Church of Luzern, working for KICY radio was an unforgettable opportunity to meet new people and explore new parts of God’s green earth for the very first time. And to think that our Alaskan adventure was almost exactly half my life ago! Where has the time gone? That summer assignment in Nome seems but a few short years ago. Mindboggling to be sure!
The Hebrew psalmist declares “Man is like a breath. His days are like a passing shadow.” (Psalm 144:4) St. James put it this way, “What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.” (James 4:14)
Like a summer day in the Pacific Northwest, 72 seems like the perfect number. Not too hot. Not too cold. It’s just about perfect. But for me it also comes with the candid realization that my days are numbered. If I live as long as my dad did, I only have ten years left. If I live to celebrate the same number of birthdays my mom had, I have just twenty years left.
Speaking of my precious little mom, when it came to birthdays and acknowledging how old she was, she had a signature saying for which she was known. “Age is just a number. And mine is unlisted!” Or like the poster I hung on the wall in my college dorm room “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” Wow! Was that really fifty-four years ago? As a freshman I wanted to make every day count. And all these years later, I still do.
Birthdays are an annual occasion to give yourself permission to take stock of the speed at which time flies. In other words, they are an opportunity for “give and take.” Give heed to choices that today offers and take time to evaluate which ones you will choose. Give up trying to undo the past and take control of your future. Give God thanks for achievements you’ve accomplished thus far on life’s journey and take a break to bask in His many blessings.
I’m blown away by the goodness of a Creator who allowed me over the past seventy-two years to meet such incredible people, travel to such fascinating places, do such a variety of jobs in addition to sharing my wonderful life with my beautiful wife for forty-two years and raising three amazing daughters. But I know I am not alone. As you look back on your life to date, you no doubt have blessings too numerous to number as well.
In the only psalm that Moses ever wrote, the Prince of Egypt poignantly prays “Lord, teach us to number our days that we might gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12) It doesn’t take a math major to count our blessings and number our days. It just takes someone who recognizes the bottom line of maximizing one’s life.
This weekend marks the 112th anniversary of the day that most famous of all ships carried 1,522 people to their watery graves. Did you know that the Titanic was three football fields long? She was 11 stories tall and 92 feet wide. The infamous ship tipped the scales at 46,000 tons.
At the time, she was the largest and most luxurious ship ever built. This vessel “fit for a king” could carry nearly 3,000 passengers and crew. She had her own swimming pools, suites, restaurants, Turkish baths and squash courts. There was even a Parisian sidewalk café complete with strolling musicians.
With sixteen water-tight compartments below sea level, the Titanic was deemed unsinkable. The 14,000 workers at Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders in Belfast spent thirty-six months assembling this beautiful craft. They took pride in the fact that she was the most sea-worthy vessel ever constructed.
The Titanic was the pride of the White Star Line. Perhaps it was the belief that this vessel was so seaworthy that there were less than half the number of recommended lifeboats installed. No one could imagine a situation in which every passenger and crew member would need one.
With a sense of his own pride, Captain Edward Smith was determined to complete the journey from England to New York in record time. Since the maiden voyage of the Titanic would be his last before retiring, he had this one last opportunity to achieve his desired legacy and line his pockets.
To achieve his goal, Captain Smith knew he would have to move his vessel at 26 knots day and night in order to arrive in New York’s harbor in six days. His pride trumped prudence.
On the evening of April 14, 1912, the Titanic struck an iceberg and was swallowed up in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. The ship “not even God could sink” sank. Only 706 lived to tell of the unthinkable nightmare.
One of those who perished was a thirty-nine year old British pastor by the name of John Harper. Reverend Harper was a widower enroute to Chicago to become the next pastor of the historic Moody Memorial Church. Traveling with his six-year-old daughter and his niece, Harper’s status as a parent and guardian entitled him to a seat on a lifeboat (on which his loved ones would eventually be rescued). But this man of faith willingly gave up his seat. His concern was sharing his faith with those for whom there would not be enough lifeboats.
A sailor, who was one of the last to be rescued from the sinking vessel, later attested to the fact that it was Harper who asked the band leader on the deck to play Nearer My God to Thee. While the musicians played a somber soundtrack to the real-life drama playing out on the Atlantic, Harper gathered a large group of people around him. He knelt in the center of the circle and prayed on behalf of those who were nearer to God than they ever imagined they would be when the ship left England. Soon they drowned.
The pride of the ship’s captain and the humility of the reverend is most noteworthy. The contrast was engraved in my heart some years ago when my eye caught sight of a little book in a thrift store. The beautiful volume contained illustrated lyrics to Nearer My God to Thee, a hymn that will always be associated with the sinking of the Titanic.
I carefully opened the fragile book. What I read gave me pause. This printed treasure was inscribed to a young man by the name of Francis Griset by his grandmother. The occasion was the boy’s 8th birthday. It was dated July 14, 1911. Amazing! The book was given exactly nine months before that hymn would be played as the ship was sinking.
This weekend while we ponder the tragic circumstances of the Titanic, why not reflect on the “icebergs” in your life that could capsize your dreams? As with Captain Smith, the lust for power, popularity and wealth puts us on a collision course with pride, arrogance and failure.
We might think we are unsinkable, but as a bumper sticker I once saw aptly suggests “Don’t believe everything you think!”
Some might call it a coincidence. I choose to call it a Godwink!
After the first of the year, my wife and I were contacted about possibly serving the International Church of Lucerne in Switzerland. Their pastor had just retired and they were looking for someone like to me to provide pastoral leadership for three months until the new pastor from The Netherlands would arrive.
The opportunity was too good to pass up. In addition to seeing a new part of the world, accepting the job would allow me to do what I love. Having recently retired, I was excited to be able to preach again. And on Easter Sunday no less. After all, Easter Sunday is my very favorite occasion to lead God’s people in worship. For me it’s the most important day in the Christian calendar.
About the time I accepted the invitation to go to this English-speaking congregation in the Alps, something else was happening I knew nothing about. The headmaster of Whittier Christian High School in Southern California was finalizing the itinerary of a study tour in Europe for his students, staff and parents.
When Carl Martinez learned from the travel agency that his group would be in Lucerne on Easter Sunday, he went on an internet search to see if there was an English-speaking congregation in the city. Upon discovering the International Church of Lucerne online, he contacted the church who extended a gracious invitation to join them.
As Wendy and I prepared to leave for Switzerland, the church chairman let me know that my third Sunday in Luzern would be a rather unusual one. She indicated that the size of the congregation would likely double with a school group from the United States attending ICL for Easter worship.
When I learned the name and location of the school that would be coming, I was immediately intrigued. My wife Wendy had taught at Whittier Christian School forty-eight years ago. What were the odds that a group like that would be worshipping with us during our short stay? I couldn’t help but wonder if one of the parents or faculty traveling with the group might have been a student in my wife’s third grade class back in 1976.
After landing in Switzerland, I began to work on the details for Easter Sunday at ICL. I decided to Facetime with the headmaster of the Whittier School. I expressed delight that his group would be joining us to celebrate Christ’s resurrection. I also indicated my wife’s connection to his school. Mr. Martinez told me that although the campus at which my wife had taught had closed some years ago, it was entirely possible that one of the parents or staff from his group might have attended Wendy’s school at the time.
I told Mr. Martinez that we were looking forward to having a group from Southern California with us. I related our family’s connection to the area. My wife’s ninety-three year old parents have lived in Orange County for over fifty years. Additionally, I told him that my wife’s brother lives in Yorba Linda, California and attends the Evangelical Free Church there.
“Wait!” Mr. Martinez interrupted. “Your brother-in-law is a member of the Free Church in Yorba Linda? That’s where I’ve attended for the past twenty years. What’s his name?”
When I told Mr. Martinez my wife’s brother was Dave Steven, he informed me they were part of the same men’s ministry. It was simply amazing! Of all the hundreds of churches there are in Southern California, how likely would it be that this headmaster who was bringing his school group to our church in Switzerland was part of my brother-in-law’s church?
Before we hang up the headmaster said, “Oh there’s one more thing, Pastor Greg. You might be interested in knowing that our original itinerary had us in Stuttgart on Easter. A recent change means we’ll be in Lucerne.”
Looking back, I discovered that the travel agent for the school group made the change in their itinerary about the time my wife and I were contacted about serving the congregation in Switzerland. He knew nothing about the church or the church’s interim pastor. And how appropriate! Easter is all about unexpected turns of events that find us scratching our heads in amazement.
Deserted. Forgotten.
Stood up. Let down.
“Forsaken, my God, by You. Why?”
A piercing cry from swollen lips
by one hung out to die.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
A shepherd king first complained these words while
being hunted,
being sure that God was on his side,
being sure he’d been anointed.
But confused and disappointed,
he hung his head.
He closed his eyes and prayed.
Drained of strength (too pained to sleep)
he smelled the scent of death. (His own).
He heard the sounds of enemies approaching:
the scoffing jeers,
the searing jokes of sneering folks.
The wounds of words were indistinguishable from
the agony of betrayal:
Betrayed by friends.
Betrayed by loyal subjects.
Betrayed by God?
Where was this God in whom the king had trusted?
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
This time the same cry is heard beneath a Roman cross.
Not from a shepherd who would be king,
but from a King who called Himself a Shepherd.
A Worker of wood.
A Worker of good.
A Worker of words.
A Worker of wonders.
A Worker who wonders,
“Where’s the One with Whom I’m one?”
Somehow, some way
the questioning cry of King David seemed appropriate
from his Son a thousand years thereafter.
A Man of Sorrows
acquainted with grief,
acquainted with alienation,
rejected by an innkeeper,
maligned by His own brothers,
misunderstood by “the righteous,”
forgotten by the five thousand miraculously fed,
framed by the fickle crowd
whose palms lay withered…dead.
In addition,
He was betrayed by one He had helped.
He was deserted by another who promised,
“Though all others flee, I always will stand true.”
Like David of old.
Like you and me.
He knew rejection’s pain.
But God forsaken?
Surely not!
Not One who came from heaven.
Not One who claimed God’s name.
All the same,
hear the words ascribed to Him
by those who heard Him speak.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Of all the pain inflicted…
the crown,
the whip,
the nails,
the loneliness of friendship failed,
the ridicule from those for whom He came.
Yet of all the pain inflicted,
the worst was when for one brief moment
God the Father turned away from His suffering Son
(agonizing for His Son)
He watched and wept for a while.
But a holy God could not allow Himself to gave upon
the cross,
the loss of innocence,
the sin of all people
of all places
of all time past, present and future
placed upon His perfect Son.
As in the day of David,
the crowd looked on
to watch and wag their heads.
But not the Father
who closed His eyes and turned His back
and heard His begotten pray…
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Yet forsaken not forever.
Amid the rumble of the thunder
and the darkness of the day,
the Son was heard to whisper words
which offered hope before He passed away…
“Father, into Your hands I commit my Spirit.”
He knew that God was there
strangely satisfied with what He’d seen
(and what He couldn’t see)
all present and accounted for.
The forsaken Son
(forsaken no longer)
with confidence looked up
and reached out
to you and me.
That lonely separation
(albeit all so brief
yet altogether all sufficient)
means that we never have to voice that ancient question
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
My Rhymes and Reasons 