I found a way.

It should be obvious by now that this hasn't turned out to be much of a blogspot… more of a fogspot (which describes my head most days). I can’t believe it has been two months, since I have been here. I will blame it on Latin, which must be finished by the end of the semester. O yeah, and that Van Til paper that isn’t likely to write itself.

At any rate, I have been trying to find a way to resurface here. Today, I am mapping out my sermon schedule on the parables of Jesus for the next few months. I am planning to have long-time friend and fellow Presbyter, Rev. Kevin Twit, preach for us one Sunday in the near future. Kevin is the RUF campus minister at Belmont here in Nashville. We have known each other for years, and he was a great encourager to me, as I was coming into the doctrines of grace, way back in 1989/90. I went to his website today, to see what he was up to, as well as, to e-mail him. The first thing that caught my attention, however, was this link http://homepage.mac.com/kevintwit/iMovieTheater33.html. It is a home-movie chronicling his family’s recent adoption of Amelia, a Chinese toddler girl.

So, click on over from my fogspot, and view this movie. Make sure your speakers are on. I love that picture of Kevin playing guitar for some Chinese girls. There is a note there indicating you will need a fast connection, as the movie is ten minutes long. You will need more than a fast connection. You will need about a half a box of Kleenex!

The obvious path from the images in this home-movie to Romans ch. 8 is both unavoidable and delightful. So, this is something of what it is like? Could it be that our Father gets the same gush when he sees all his adopted daughters and sons? Could it be that we are just as beautiful and irresistible to him? Could it be that our own “Biggest Brother,” Jesus, stands proudly by each new son and daughter, as we are drawn into his Father’s house?

Yeah, I think it must be.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow…

We have ants at our church!

My dear wife is no friend of insects, bugs, snakes, lizards - you get the picture. I am sure word has spread in the insect community to stay clear of the house on the corner of Farmington Place. Earlier this year, we found a stream of ants coming up through a spot on the floor, where the quarter-round was not exactly flush. She described it as "millions" of them. Knowing how what a softy I am for anything living, and that I was the last to turn to to eradicate this problem, she, in my absence, unleashed the fury of a can of some sort of bug spray. No more ants.

Ants are an impressive lot. They are such diligent, steady workers. That's why we read, "Go to the ant, O sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise" (Pr 6:6 ESV). I mean, you don't want one to crawl up your pants leg, but you have to be impressed with their industry. Did you know that the common ant is, for its size, the very strongest creature on God's earth? It can lift and carry up to twenty times its own weight. I would hate to tell you what twenty times my own weight would be. And, even though my son thinks I'm the strongest man alive, not even I could carry that much.

Similarly, there is no way I could do all the heavy lifting that a little church like ours involves without an army of ants. Greek-born Japanophile, Lafcadio Hearn (1850-1904), once remarked, "All good work is done the way ants do things, little by little." In a recent post, I bragged on the folks at GSPC, who selflessly give their time to have church with a group of elderly at an Alzheimer's residence, here in Bellevue. They deserve my boasting of the Lord's energy working mightily within them (Col 1:29).

But, no sooner had I composed that missive, than it dawned on me just how crucial to a ministry like that are the folks who are not regularly a part of that ministry. You see, each and every Sunday, a stream of worker-ants comes marching in at GSPC. Rebecca and Laura, for example, arrive early each Sunday to get their Sunday School classes in order before the children come. An eleven year-old, named Paul, has been coming early to get the bread and wine ready for communion every Sunday for well over a year. Teachers teach. Guys come to run the sound board. Musicians play. Families and singles rotate with set-up and tear-down and nursery privilege each Sunday. One young single lady gives part of her day off each week to help at the office. I could go on. The point is that even in a little, bitty church like ours, we need a steady stream of ants to come in and lift more than their share. And, that's what we have. If it weren't for that fact, we would not have two services each Sunday. We wouldn't even have one! The Elders coulnd't elder. The Deacons couldn't "deek." The preacher couldn't preach.

It has been said that work is love made visible. There's been a lot of love shown at our church. Helen Keller (1887-1968), whom Winston Churchill called, "the greatest woman of our age," said this, "I long to accomplish a great and noble task; but it is my chief duty to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble."

I see small tasks being done by the ants at our church with great and noble steadiness and willingness. I see love made visible. And so, I take this post whereby to unleash my gratitude upon you. May the ants keep marching.

Beautiful Absurdity

I had the privilege of lunch with Dr. Ray Ortland today. He had the privilege of me introducing him to U.S. Border Cantina here in Bellevue. There is no better salsa anywhere. I am sure it will be the food of the new heavens and hew earth. We talked about the call to gospel ministry. In the midst of our conversation, we found ourselves laughing with joyful puzzlement at the beautiful absurdity of the gospel, wherein Jesus calls us to endure the hardships of ministry, that we would see what blessedness there is in the journey and struggle. Ray brought up the fact that Jesus, in Mt 5, would have us embrace what lucky guys we are, us ministers. And, we laughed a laugh only the gospel could produce within us. Our Presbytery is blessed to have him.

As I ponder Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, it becomes apparent to me that everything he said, everything he did, all that he is, in some way, points to the beautiful absurdity of the gospel. By absurdity, I don't intend actual irrationality, but a reality that runs counter to what my sinful heart would deem reasonable. This beautiful absurdity calls me to deny myself, and be deeply satisfied in so doing. May I be swallowed up in the life of my Savior. May I know a little more of what Paul meant, when he said in Col 3:4 that Christ is my life. May I ever be susceptible to his charm.

If you are, by grace, a faithful minister of the gospel, then hold onto the sweetness of Jesus with everything you have and are. He is more precious than your failures are humiliating, more magnificent than your defeats are demoralizing, more tender than your insecurities are cold, more delighted in you than your nay-sayers are unimpressed.

Now this is a helpful magazine!

In that back issue of Christian History magazine on the American Puritans (Issue 41, Vol. XIII, No. 1) I recently made mine, there is an opening article, entitled "Did You Know" Little-known or remarkable facts about the American Puritans," by Cassandra Nemczyk. I find these two quite thought-provoking, as I consider revising my philosophy of ministry:

*In Puritan worship, a prayer could last an hour or more; a sermon, two hours. In a lifetime, Puritan might hear 15,000 hours of preaching.

*New England residents who failed to attend worship services on Sunday morning and afternoon were fined or put into stocks. Failing to glorify God for all his good gifts was a sacrilege.

Hmm, maybe things with ol' Pastor Dave aren't so bad, after all.

We have two services every Sunday.

Lately, I have been impressed with the privilege that has been mine to serve a church that has so well-served the Lord and a little, ever-changing flock. The shifting of this little flock they serve is not due to the consumer church-hop that plagues the local church today, but rather to the ravages of Alzheimer's Disease. You see, the members of Good Shepherd Presbyterian go to a local Alzheimer's nursing home each Sunday to minister to the residents. For two and a half years, now, her members have gone over to sing, pray, recite the 23rd Psalm, preach a little homily, hold and steady hands, listen, smile, hug, and promise that they will be back next Sunday.

It's not a sexy, glamorous kind of ministry, if you know what I mean. In fact, we are sworn to secrecy in respect of the privacy of the residents struggling with this disease that seeks to dehumanize. I know what I am saying - my Daddy had it, too. So, there will be no front-page spreads about the little church with the big heart. There needn't be. That suits her members just fine.

It is a sweet, glorious kind of ministry, if you know what I mean. No? You don't? Well, let me explain. Once a week, we have the privilege of coming into communion with believers, who may have forgotten their names, but someway, somehow, they remember Amazing Grace. We have the high calling of bringing a little, simple, clear gospel message. We tend to stick with a reminder of the comforts of Psalm 23, with which they love to play "memory." Or, sometimes, we will "preach" from Jn 10, and let them know they are the sheep, whose Good Shepherd will never lose. It is a high calling, because for many of them, we will be their last regular encounter with "beautiful feet" (Ro 10:15), their last hearing of the gospel, before they hear the Savior say, "Come home!" And, with perfect clarity of mind, they perpetuate the ever-changing nature of that little flock we serve.

How they love to sing! The same old gospel hymns and songs, we sing, Sunday in and Sunday out. Holy, Holy, Holy, Rock of Ages, Just a Closer Walk with Thee, Leaning on the Everlasting Arms, He's Got the Whole World in His Hands, and The Old Rugged Cross, just to name a few. They love to end with a barn-burner rendition of When the Saints Go Marching In. What an honor to help them find their pages. What a privilege to look at their faces, as they sing, often from memory, lyrics they have loved since childhood. I love to look at their faces and smile, as we sing - almost like we are gathered around at an old campfire hymnsing. One man, the singer of the bunch, loves for me to sing "at" him from time to time, almost like we are doing a duet for everyone else. It is bitter-sweet, when certain ones become your special friends.

Our service at GSPC is long and intensely corporate. It is involved. If you really participate, you are at once energized and spent by the time it is over. Some Sundays come after a long, hard week for my members. Yet, faithfully, diligently, they let God's grace take them down Bellevue Road, and on over to the nursing home for yet another hour, and they sing above their growling stomachs. O'Charley's will just have to wait today.

To Tom , Brian, Valerie, the Ferriss', the Joye's, the Stuart's, the Rhoades', my wife and children, the Goddard's, Brent, Al and Ruth, and any others past and present, never grow weary in well-doing (Heb 12:3). Yours is a high calling and an awesome privilege. Yours are the final God-appointed voices of gospel-truth and comfort for those, who have become the "least of these." You are conducting them in their last choir, before they join the chorus of the Church-triumphant in antiphony with the six-winged creatures, "Holy! Holy! Holy!"

The dictionary defines "boast," as "speaking too much in praise of one's self or one's possessions." Well, I will boast not of myself, but of my Savior, and his faithfulness in and through you, GSPC (1Co 1:31; 2Co 10:17). I will boast of our possession - the cross (Gal 6:14), for this is true ministry in the light of the shadow of the cross. And, if you will indulge me, I will just outright brag on you - two and a half years, and not a single Sunday missed!

With all we have been through, GSPC, who would have thought that we would be at a place where we could say that we have two services every Sunday - one at 10:00am, the other around noonish, both equally precious in the sight of our Lord? Go this coming Sunday, and be kings and priests to our God (Rev 5:10), where our aged friends sit in that familiar little circle of chairs, awaiting your arrival.

The Lord sees. The Lord sees his glory where we sometimes may not. May he give each of you eyes to see what he is doing in and through you.

Why didn't Jesus fight?

Today, I took Luke to Logos Bookstore. My copy of Tony Jones' The Sacred Way: Spiritual Practices for Everyday Life had arrived (I'll say more about it, as I make my way through it). As I was paying for my loot (the afore-mentioned book, a back issue of Christian History magazine on the American Puritans, and three little rubber crosses - one for Luke, two with which to surprise Mommy and Lydia), I noticed he was down on his knees looking at a large coffee-table book based on last year's movie, The Passion of the Christ. This was par for the course for him. He is fascinated by the story of the crucifixion (more, sadly, than I seem to be at times). So, I helped him look at some of the pictures (yes, I am Presbyterian), and we were on our way.

As we drove home, and I will never forget the question or the, at that moment, sacred spot (the intersection of Harding and Hwy. 70 in Bellemede), Luke asked, "Daddy, why didn't Jesus fight?" This came from a place in him, at once sincere and curious, and, if you will, innocent. It also came from his current fascination with his growing skills with the light sabre, and the many fights we have in the living room, as Luke "Skywalker" Filson leaves the evil Darth David defeated on the throw-rug. Boys must learn the valor of defending the galaxy against the bad guys.

I told him his was a very good question, and that Jesus didn't fight because he knew he had to let the bad guys kill him, so that he could pay for our sins. He responded by saying that Jesus must have really hurt. I assured him that he was hurt very badly, and that he had to hurt and die to take away our sins. Then, with the cadence I use as liturgist on Sunday mornings, I declared, "And, on the third day he rose again...," to which he promptly replied from his booster seat behind me, "According to the scriptures!" It confirmed for me what I have believed for years - worship is not something covenant children should have to grow up to do, but something they should grow up doing. And, his four and a half years of hearing that ancient creed in what I like to call, the "sacred sameness" of covenantal liturgy has made a deposit, deep and real, in his inmost being.

I am so thankful Jesus didn't fight, at least as far as Luke understands "fight." That's the way lambs led to slaughter are, the manner of sheep before their shearers (Isa 53:7). As years go by, however, Luke will wrap his heart more and more around the reality that Jesus did fight. By his silence and submission to the will of the Father (53:10) through the harshess of beastial Roman soldiers, Jesus fought a fight Luke could not, a fight he would not, because he, like his Daddy, is not so innocent, after all. He, like his Daddy, is a bad guy.

His theology will grow, just like his long legs. For now, I'm just trying to help him understand that his theory of Spider-Man having swung in to rescue Jesus from the cross is not actually in his Bible story book.

Sweet-sweetie, that he might defend you, Jesus didn't fight.

Back and Heavy-hearted

Well, I started off with great intentions to blog, blog, blog. However, the last couple of months I feel like I have been shot out of a canon. Where has the time gone? I have meant to get back into the blogsphere this week, I just didn't expect such sad impetus. For the past couple of weeks, I have been praying with my cogregation about the Terri Schiavo situation. I have e-mailed them my thoughts and prayer requests. Now, I share my latest here.

Dear Saints,

By now you know of my sorrow and anger over the court-appointed murder-by-starvation/dehydration of Terri Schiavo. I have experienced times of physical nausea over the past few days. Even now, my head hurts. Today marks the fifth day she has been denied water and nutrition. I am horrified at what savages gain the media spotlight, only to appear to be angels of mercy. Tom Rubino and I wached the TV coverage of the congressional debates the other night. After the vote, the news channel hosted callers to respond. One man, obviously aggitated that politicians would dare intrude on a private family matter shouted out that this was just all a bunch of anti-abortion politics at work. In his zeal to take a jab at pro-lifers, he missed his conundrum regarding the "private family matter." To which part of the family was he so self-righteousnly referring? Terri's estranged husband, or her desperate and heartbroken mother, father, and siblings? The very ones who are demanding that the tube not be reinserted, because we shouldn't impose on a private family matter, are the very ones helping to foster the very public anguish of the Schindler family. Shame... hypocrisy... injustice... murder... spurning of God's law - these are the marks of our times.

Lest any think that I should not use my position as a pastor to speak of these matters, let me lovingly explain my gospel-impetus (all Scriptures ESV):

Gen 1:27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

Exo 20:13 "You shall not murder."

Pro 31:8 Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute.

Pro 31:9 Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy.

Mic 6:8 He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

I don't know if, perhaps, Terri is a disciple of Jesus. Can someone find a tube of cold water in his name (Mt 10:42). Is it possible that she is a follower of Christ? Then, we must pray that someone will find a way to satiate the hunger and slate the thirst of the least of these, languishing on her death bed (Mt 25:31-46).

You all know that I am not your typical "politico." I do not spend very much time listening to conservative talk-radio, even though I am a conservative. The lion's share of my time, in terms of the life of my mind, is given to the Word, theology, matters of worship, etc. However, those things do not exist in a vacuum. God's law is not simply a curiosity for the theological collector. It endures. It penetrates. It demands. The mounts of Ex 19-20 and Mt 5 still command the horizon of human life. May God have mercy on Terri Schiavo and the Schindler family. May he have mercy on her estranged husband, working repentance in his life. And, may God have mercy on all of us in this great land, that we would learn to walk humbly with him.

Beloved, say a prayer.

I came across this blog today, and am copying it to my own. It is clarion in our day of spin-dizzy cacophony.

Schindlers' ListTopic: Current Events

Terri Schiavo's parents, the Schindlers, are continuing their desperate fight to save their daughter's life. This is a current Schindlers' List, but there is only one name on it. As the vigil and the appeals continue, here are just a few more scattered observations.

First, as Thomas Sowell observed, this whole fiasco shows exactly how the "right to die" rhetoric so easily morphs into the "right to kill." In all the debates over the right to die, how many times have we heard about safeguards, and the need for a living will, and so on? And where were these safeguards in this instance? Did Terri have a living will? No. How do we know that this was her desire? On the hearsay testimony of an interested party, a husband who is living with his mistress, having had two children by her, and who received a large cash settlement in order to take care of Terri Schiavo. The whole thing mystifies. Michael Schiavo does not need to kill her in order to be a jerk. He could divorce her and do that. Michael Schiavo taunted the president the other day by asking him what color Terri's eyes were. I am sure the president does not know, as most of those protesting on behalf of Terri's life do not. But neither do we know the color of his concubine's eyes. It is, as they say, beside the point.

Second, as I have already noted, food is not medicine. Yes, someone might answer, but the food is being administered to her. She cannot feed herself. Exactly, and note where this logic takes you. Babies cannot feed themselves either. There is nothing here that cannot serve equally well as an argument for starving an unacceptable infant. And if what constitutes "acceptable" or "unacceptable" is to be waved off as an "intensely private issue," just know that you have opened the door to starving people because they have Downs, a club foot, or simply because she is a daughter and not a son.

Third, in this day of medical technologies that can help your body do all sorts of things, a living will is a good idea. But that living will ought to be put together with the help of Christian doctors and attorneys who know, honor, and respect the law of God. These are difficult questions, but to allow ethical relativists and hemlockers into the debate turns the difficult questions into impossible questions. For Christians, a good place to start in working through issues of this nature is John Frame's very helpful book, Medical Ethics. But in short, that living will may not include things like "do not feed," or "do not give water."

We have to sort through these things with biblical wisdom, a common law approach, and a recognition that no two situations are identical. But in every situation, we are not God, and in every situation, those making the decisions have an obligation to recognize that God's law is to be honored as above all human authority. With that in mind, if a ninety-year-old man discovers that he has some form of inoperable cancer, and will die in six months, but that for $700,000 his life can be extended for three additional excruciating months, it is no sin for him to choose to go home to die. And if parents of a newborn refuse to put a baby on a ventilator for three days because they wanted a boy, they are guilty of murder.

Human life does not provide the standard. We must recognize God as God, and honor His law as the standard. This is the trap that many pro-lifers have fallen into, talking about the sanctity of human life. We ought to have been talking about the sanctity of God's law, and the consequent dignity of human life. If human life is sacred, then human life is the standard. But if God's law is the standard, then we must give ourselves to the study of it. We must do this because we are living in difficult times. We are living in a time when an attorney for a man like Michael Schiavo can get in front of the cameras and compare the actions of the U.S. Congress in this to the actions of Stalin -- and he is not immediately laughed off the public stage. Stalin, the man who starved millions in the Ukraine? Congress, for trying to prevent one starvation, is likened to one of history's great starvation masters? George Orwell, call your office.

But the pundits nod sagely, and end their television segment by saying that this is a difficult debate. Huh. There is nothing difficult about it. If Michael Schiavo's attorney got on camera and compared Typhoid Mary to Florence Nightengale, that wouldn't make it a complexity.Posted by Douglas Wilson - 3/23/2005 10:59:49 AM

Yours for the faith, with much love and affection,
Pastor David Owen Filson
Heb 6:19
We are not our own, but belong unto our faithful Savior, Jesus Christ...

There's chili, and there's chilly.

Well, as soon as I spoke of my notorious chili, then hurried off to tuck Luke and Lydia into bed, I found out that some 4,000 of us here in Bellevue, TN had been without gas heat since 4am that morning. So, dressed like Ebanezar Scrooge with my skullcap and scarf, we survived. Although, our just-shorn Cocker Spaniel, Cassie, kept me awake part of the night with her teeth chattering, even though she was snug under the covers with us.

At any rate, I am preaching tomorrow on Jude 17-23. One of my emphases will be the priority we must place on prayer, and I will invite my flock to join me in reading Matthew Henry's (1662-1714) A Method for Prayer over the next few weeks. I love what he says in his introductory comments to the reader:

A golden thread of heart-prayer must run through the web of the whole Christian life; we must be frequently addressing ourselves to God in short and sudden ejaculations, by which we must keep up our communion with God in providences and common actions, as well as in ordinances and religious servivces. Thus prayer must be sparsim - 'a sprinkling of it' in every duty, and our eyes must be ever toward the Lord.

May my heart, and the hearts of all my sheep spin much golden thread this year.

Profound Inaugural

I have never blogged before. I always thought that when I entered the blogsphere I would have something more impacting to say than this. But, I made my infamous chili for my students in Stockbridge Study Fellowship's Calvin's Institutes class. I had way too much of it for lunch today. Upon my recovery I will recommence. Plus, the children want Daddy to put them to bed tonight.