I have never been an evangelical Christian. I know that just writing those words in a public forum will cause many of my friends consternation. After all, I have been a member of the Church of the Nazarene for more than 60 years. And it is not anything if it is not evangelical. But I did not start my life in this denomination. I was born into a Congregational Christian Church in rural Indiana. Because our church was small and remote, our ministers, though approved by the region’s conference of the church, were not necessarily ordained in the Congregational Christian Church. They might be Baptists of various stripes or Evangelical or Free Methodists.

When I went to the altar when I was eight years old to confess my sins, ask Jesus into my life, and claim him as Lord and Savior, I do not know who was preaching. I don’t know whether it was the regular minister or an evangelist, nor do I know to what denomination the speaker belonged. I just knew it was time for me to confess my sins and profess myself to be a follower of Christ. No one asked me to be an evangelical; instead, with the words of the old invitational hymn “Softly and Tenderly” being sung, I was heeding the call: “Jesus, I come to thee.” And I have realized as the years have passed that someone had instilled in me some kind of assurance about my salvation; in my worst times, I never doubted God’s saving power in my life. It wasn’t the cliched “once saved, always saved” that we sometimes joke about. In fact, I knew someone who really believed that. She thought that her salvation gave her license to do anything she wanted, right or wrong. My assurance was much more in the realm of God’s grace that reaches to any depths, heights, or any other dimension that our soul could possibly imagine.

And thus began my life as a Christian. I don’t remember much about those early days, but I do know that my mother was my primary discipler; she read the Bible and prayed with me each night. It was from her that my motivation came to read the Bible in a year—for several year. She made sure that I knew I had been dedicated to the Lord for his service, just like Hannah had given Samuel to the Lord in thanksgiving that she had had her child. Of course, I also received instruction from Sunday School teachers and junior choir leaders and the loving congregation that took all of us children under its wing.

Because of that Evangelical Methodist minister in the church, however, we ended up leaving the Congregational Christian Church for the Church of the Nazarene. The minister had been preaching holiness and most of the congregation was up in arms. This daily lifestyle of holiness was a bit much for many of them at the time, but not for my determined mother, who had, early in her Christian life, found the “deeper walk with the Lord” that she would not forsake, regardless of what those around her might think.

Thus, just as I was reaching my teen years, we arrived at our small town’s Church of the Nazarene and a strong pastor who believed in cold call evangelism. My mother would do whatever the pastor thought best for us to do; therefore, even though both she and I were extremely reserved, quiet people, almost afraid of our own shadows, we signed up for Saturday morning calling. It was a horrible experience for me. I never saw the fruition of our labor, perhaps because we were doing our duty to be evangelical, rather than being enthusiastically evangelical. A bit later the evangelical world was caught up in the “four spiritual laws.” Although I could rattle them off, they held no life for me. I was not that kind of evangelical.

Perhaps this is the place for me to call on others to explain what “evangelical” means in today’s world. According to the online Britannica source, “The 18th-century religious revival that occurred” in Western Europe and the Americas “was generally referred to as the Evangelical revival. These movements emphasized conversion experiences, reliance on Scripture, and missionary work rather than the sacraments and traditions of the established churches” (“Evangelical Church”). Some of that definition fits me—I believe in conversion experiences, although I’m not sure that there is such a thing as “one size fits all” conversions; I rely on Scripture, but I also believe in the other tenets of the Wesleyan quadrilateral (tradition, experience, and reason); I believe in missionary work, otherwise I would not be our local NMI president. On the other hand, I could never deny the importance of the sacraments and traditions of the long-established churches. I wish our church adhered to some traditions more closely than what it does.

And I definitely am not a support of the newer versions of American evangelicalism that confuse patriotism with one’s religion, that condemn “the sin but not the sinner,” that profess a religion that seems more “form” than “life.” It saddens me to confess that such phrases fit many members of my denomination all too well. I do not want to be that kind of evangelical.

Finally, just this summer in a Sunday School lesson and a subsequent sermon, I was liberated from my anxiety over the fact that I have never been a “evangelical Christian.” The scripture we were studying was II Corinthians 5: 17-20:

¹⁷ Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! ¹⁸ All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: ¹⁹ that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. ²⁰ We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God (NIV).

Because of my reconciliation to God through Christ, I have “the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself through Christ, not counting people’s sins against them” (vs. 18-19). What kind of good news is that? No condemnation here, just reconciliation. We who are reconciled become Christ’s ambassadors to bring others to reconciliation. I don’t have to spit out four spiritual laws. I don’t have to do “cold call” evangelism. If God called me to that, then I would have to follow that call. But God has called me to be me in Christ. My ministry of reconciliation might look very different from someone else’s, but God, who made us unique, can use us uniquely. Most of my ministry of reconciliation has been through teaching—the teaching of literature—and through informal counseling—the listening to others and hearing what they are saying. Perhaps, too, sometimes these blogs are part of my ministry.

All I know is that I am a Christian who has a ministry—but it is not to be an “evangelical Christian” in the common form we often see it today. It is, instead to be an “evangelical” in the truest definition of the word—one who spreads the good news of Jesus Christ, by all means.  

Works Consulted

“II Corinthians 5: New International Version.”  Bible Gateway. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=2%20Corinthians%205&version=NIV

“Evangelical Church.” Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/topic/Evangelical-church-Protestantism

For seven of us, Wednesday was game day:  Pittsburgh Pirates vs. the Atlanta Braves. Jonathan had gotten us tickets just eight or nine rows up from Homeplate. What a great view in a great stadium. We could see the field perfectly, but we could also look up and see the Pittsburgh skyline in front of us. But after six innings in the 90-degree sun, we all decided to head up for snacks. Seventh inning, when the Braves took the lead for good (hooray!!), we were waiting in an ice cream line. The weather became threatening. As we looked over to the city, we could see the dark clouds rolling in quickly, along with flashes of lightning and thunder that grew ever louder. As we hurried to our seats, raindrops started splashing down on us, mingling with the ice cream that was dripping off our helmet sundaes onto the steps, our clothes, our hands, seemingly onto everything. As a rain delay was called, we headed up for seats under the overhang where we waited out the worst of the rain and the storm. Then we couldn’t stay longer because we had to pick up Jodi and Naomi at the Aviary, a bird museum where they had spent part of their time in Pittsburgh (Carrie and Henry had stayed in Wheeling where Cheryl treated them to an early lunch before Henry’s nap time).

The day ended with a great catered meal, as all the evening meals were, back at Sandscrest, with a bit of a birthday party for Clara, whose birthday would be at the end of the week, and Henry, whose birthday falls at the end of the month. The unicorn ice cream cake was a treat for all children, even those of an adult age. Henry was the star as he gobbled up his pieces of cake, made the sign for “more,” and said distinctly, “More cake, more cake.” That night all of us were too tired to play games; people began to fall like proverbial flies on any chair or couch or floor they could get to.

Thursday morning was to be “downtown Wheeling day,” exploring the old market area and the little boutiques and souvenir shops in the downtown market square. Despite our late hours the evening before, all of us were up and getting ready about on time, doing our usual routine of walking back and forth from the dining room, through the little door into the kitchen, and back into the area with the industrial size refrigerator. Glasses and bowls of whole milk, almond milk, orange juice, fruit smoothie squeeze bottles for the little ones, cups of coffee and tea from two coffee pots and one electric kettle, innumerable cereal boxes, breads, and fruits, spilled out onto the dining room table as the 11 of us hurried through breakfast, even though this was one day when we really didn’t have a goal as to when we would leave for Wheeling and the special restaurant that Marc and Cheryl had recommended for lunch.

By the time we started out, the rain had again begun in earnest, causing all of us to pull out hoodies and umbrellas and baseball caps. The restaurant told me it would be a 40-minute wait, just about right for us to take time to go in shops. But no way could 11 of us all fit into a shop! My sons stayed at an art gallery, I sent Sam off to an antique shop by himself, and I took the four grand-girls to a souvenir/dress shop. The little ones were beside themselves as they looked first at this little trinket and then another when I told them I would buy each of them one item.  At one point, little Miss Clara, with an item in each hand, said, “Can’t we have two things?”

“No, just one, this time. You’ll have to choose what you really want.”

I kept checking my phone for a text message from the restaurant. Marc, who was to join us, called me to say he was at the restaurant. I had totally forgotten that he was going to be there and had told him abut the delay, but about that time, some of the others showed up at the restaurant where the host said we would have another 45-minute wait. That was a bridge too far. We ended up at the local old fish market, ordering from a semi-fast-food menu. We had just finished ordering when someone said, “Where’s Geoffrey?” No one had counted noses or noticed that one of us was missing. Another shade of Home Alone fame! Fortunately, with cell phones and texting, he was just a few buildings away.

When the rain cleared away, and we were headed home, I thought we should make one more attempt at the ziplining experience that Jodi, Sophia, and Geoffrey, had expressed an interest in. I had reassured them that it wasn’t really “that bad,” since you went pillar to post, pillar to post. Off they went to experience ziplining West Virginia style: one long line about a third of a mile long with no pillars, no posts. In Geoffrey’s words, “The absolutely scariest thing I have ever done in my life.” But all three agree that they might try it again, especially the daredevil Sophia.

Hiking, puzzles, lounging, dinner, lawn games, and rocking made up our last evening together, along with, finally, the last hand of contract rummy. It’s the “do-or-die” round where one who has been ahead the whole game can either win big or lose miserably. Five decks of cards were needed for us all to keep track of the twelve-plus cards in our hands. About midnight, the winner was declared: David, who had been ahead the whole game, won. That might make a person wonder why we went through seven hands in three grueling late-night encounters. We could just have declared him the winner after the first hand!

Friday morning was bittersweet. Everyone was packing up and trying to separate belongings by family units. Breakfasts were, perhaps, shorter than usual. Goodbyes must be said, and last hugs must be given all around. Clara and Henry waved till they were out of sight.

What a marvelous gift it was for me to be in the presence of children and grandchildren from the one side of the family that had not seen each other all together since November 2019. My cancer was a topic of conversation, but it didn’t loom over us too much, except, perhaps, when I talked with Marc and Cheryl, who are just easy listeners and closer to my age than to my kids’ ages.

But, oh, the memories stored in these brains and hearts—we won’t forget our time together, the Home Alone sequences, the mis-adventures, the competition, the cooperation in getting all things done by everyone—all of those memories will keep us together in spirit till the next time we can be together.

“Mom, do you have my wallet?” Seven-year-old Naomi called up the stairway.

“Yes, it’s in my bag. Have you eaten breakfast yet?” Jodi answered from the upstairs landing.

“Carrie, do you have the sunscreen?” Jonathan yelled from down below.

“Yes, it’s in the bag with the diapers, “called Carrie, as she maneuvered two-year-old Henry through the hallway and guided him down the red-carpeted steps. He must walk the stairs himself, not be carried by any means.

Meanwhile, the one doorway downstairs between dining room and kitchen area was getting a workout. “Sorry” and “Excuse me” were heard over and over (and perhaps a few less polite phrases between siblings) as everyone collected lunch making materials to carry to the dining room table, where some of the 11 family members were still eating breakfast.

“If you want chips, grab a bag and remember what you’ve chosen,” said Grandma Becky, as she collected grapes and oranges for the fruit portion of the picnic lunch.

“Is Geoff up?” someone asked.

Thirteen-year-old Sophia said, “I don’t think so. His door was still closed when we came downstairs.”

“Okay, I’ll go talk to him first and then someone else can try,” Grandma Becky warned.

So went Monday morning, our second morning at Sandscrest, the Episcopal Retreat and Conference Center, located a few miles north of Wheeling, West Virginia. From that morning on, all of us adults—Jonathan, Carrie, David, Jodi, Geoffrey, and I—commented on how many times we were reminded of the Home Alone movies, with the large family trying to get ready to go on trips. Up and downstairs they would go, yelling out questions and commands, just as we were doing each time we prepared for an outing.

Do you know how much planning and preparing—and time—it takes to get 11 people out the door? Besides the six adults, we were joined by the children, my grandchildren: Sixteen-year-old Sam, Sophia, and Naomi, David and Jodi’s children, and five-year-old Clara and two-year-old Henry, Jonathan and Carrie’s children. And then there’s my youngest son, Geoffrey, whom his older brothers, Jonathan and David, and I all agree has always been difficult to get up in the morning. Geoffrey doesn’t deny it; he just says he has trouble waking up.

But after almost two years without being in the same space with each other, none of us really cared too much if we took time to get ready or had to wait for one or another who had forgotten something that required going up that long staircase to the second-floor bedroom suites. We were just glad that the pandemic was subsiding, and we could see each other in person instead of on Zoom. And whoever got ready and packed up first went to the front porch of the 1852 Southern-style mansion where we were staying, sat in one of the twenty or so rocking chairs and straight chairs on the porch that extended as far as the center portion of the house, and looked out over the green forested valley spread in front of us to the hills a few miles away. We were always entertained by bird songs, bull frog bellows, and insect hums, as we sat, rocked, and chatted in occasional bursts of talk in between the companionable human silences.

We had all gathered on Saturday evening and were greeted by my nephew Marc and my niece Cheryl, his wife, who is also the director of Sandscrest Center. We saw one or both of them everyday that we were there, a bonus to the family gathering. Sunday morning David and I accompanied them to the local parish church, enjoying the Sunday calm before the afternoon 4^th of July celebrations would begin. The first problem I encountered was after we returned from church. For some reason, many of us were just inside the front door when I tripped over Henry and down he went, close to the door frame. And Henry has a memory. If he had any trouble, such as falling, tripping, or being scared, he would slew his eyes in my direction in what I thought was an accusatory look. It was not until Thursday that he let me pull him up into my lap to rock him on one of the chairs with me. Thank goodness I was not a total failure as Grandma Becky, the one he had no clue about.

Sunday afternoon was interesting for seven of us: Jonathan, Geoffrey, and I, accompanied by Sam, Sophia, Naomi, and Clara, went to the local Kroger store for breakfast, lunch, and picnic items for our 4^th celebration. Jonathan and Clara went in one direction, Sam and Sophia with their carts in another, and Naomi and I with another cart in another. I had told the older two what to look for while we went looking for other things. Forty minutes and four carts later, we had everything on our list except for the vegetarian meat products Jonathan needed, and we had only duplicated two or three items. Remarkable! Geoffrey did his part by paying for one or two of the carts.

The day ended with hot dogs, potato salad, chips, s’mores, lawn darts, baseball catch, and tag before we all settled down to watch a few fireworks, play with sparklers, and string together light-up necklaces. A happy 4^th for all of us.

Monday, after we finally piled into cars and headed off to Oglebay Park’s splash and play and pool, we had other glitches, like losing Jonathan, Carrie, Clara, and Henry, when we changed our minds about the picnic area and then could not reach them by text or voice mail. Finally, we all caught up with one another. That night, the family tradition of playing a game of contract rummy began, with the addition of Sam and Sophia, who are now old enough to keep track of sets and straights (or alternatively three-of-a-kind and runs). Of course, the game could only begin when the little ones were fast asleep so that we would not disturb them.

Tuesday was children’s zoo day, the only day when I ran out of steam in the 90-degree weather in a terrain where everything ran uphill. I don’t know how West Virginia does it, but, yes, everything is uphill from where you happen to be! Jonathan stayed behind with the other car so that I could go back with Carrie, Clara, and Henry. For once, air conditioning was a blessing to me. The others came back shortly after Henry went to his bed for a nap because they, too, were exhausted by the heat, just as the animals had been as they hid in tree trunks, bushes, and other shaded shelters. Later in the day some of us played miniature golf. Carrie and I paired up, deciding not to keep score and, occasionally to give up on a hole. Obviously, we are not miniature golf stars, although several of my grandchildren did quite well. That evening Marc and Cheryl hosted us at their lovely home for desserts—tart cherry pie and pineapple cream dessert. A good—and filling—time was had by all. Second round of contract rummy got us through three more hands, one shy of a complete game—it would have to wait.

His parents were tiny folk. His mother was about 4’10,” and I never knew her to have anything but white, fluffy hair that framed her heart-shaped face. She made cookies that made all of us happier on the days we were lucky enough to be there on a baking day. His dad Elva was not much bigger than his wife, always thin and wiry; perhaps he topped out at 5’6.” He was a master wood worker: he could make all kinds of useful and decorative items. I have wooden bedside table lamps that he made for me.

The son, David E. Hollinger, affectionately known in the family by his unusual middle name Elvadore, was just an average-sized man, 5’7” and trim as a young man, but I remember him as rather “pudgy.” Pictures say he wasn’t that till later years. In his uniform he looked straight and tall and had the fine attributes of a soldier.

Elvadore became a veteran before he became husband to my sister Ramona. He was drafted to serve in the Korean conflict and was assigned to serve as a medical aide at a support hospital located in Japan. He had wanted to be in the auto mechanics’ pool, but his assignment was the hospital. Before he enlisted, he was known to faint at the sight of blood, so the assignment was a bit of a stretch, to be sure. For two years, he served his country well by tending to wounded soldiers and following “doctors’ orders.”

Already a couple, Elvadore and my sister remained in touch by writing letters, fanning the flame of their love for each other. He sent home gifts for all of us. Both my sister Judy and I were the recipients of pairs of Japanese wooden shoes, called Geta. Ours were not really for walking, since they were painted in black lacquer, decorated with painted flowers, and fitted with velvet thongs for the toes. Since the platform of the shoe was about two inches and had a metal plate on the toe, I had great fun strutting around in them, pretending I was grown up—I was six at the time. For Ramona, he had brought home a ceremonial kimono in deep royal blue with the large, square sleeves, lined inside with white silk, and embroidered everywhere in heavy gold silk thread. It was beautiful, and Ramona modeled it for all of us. I doubt she ever wore it except for the modeling sessions. When he returned, He was still trim and fit, a young man who stood straight, walked tall, and spoke softly.

They married In October the year following his return from the service, and they settled in to married life, first in an apartment, and then in a very small, compact house that he and his father built on property that they had purchased from my dad and uncle, a third of the Harshman land legacy. That first house, almost a square in shape and covered with green shingles was fascinating to me because it was new and fresh, and two young people in love had planned it and built it themselves. And I could go visit my big sister at any time since she was just about 100 feet away.

Those visits became even more important when their first daughter Melody was born, and I was just about old enough to count as a babysitter. And Melody was just about as much younger than I, as my sister was older: I nestled in between two of my favorite people. But as Ramona and Elvadore’s family grew with two boys, Scott and Stephen, joining the family, three things happened: I grew less interested in babysitting, the family outgrew the house, and Elvadore needed to supplement his factory income so that they could build a bigger house, also designed by the two of them, just by making the footprint of the original house much larger.

From his time in the service, Elvadore knew sick people and doctors. And he was good at dealing with patients. And he was a male who could do some things that a female aide could not do. His skills landed him a second-shift job in the local hospital, working as an orderly. Even though he had to go almost straight from one job to the other, he never complained about the long hours or the workload, probably because he loved working with the people there and they loved working with him. “David,” as they affectionately and accurately called him, was a favorite because of his cheerful demeanor and his willingness to do whatever he was called upon to do.

The years passed: another daughter Laura, their fourth and last child was born during the time they were working on the new version of the house. After it was finished, it was definitely lived in to its full capacity. Elvadore continued to work two jobs. My sister joined the work force as a part-time cafeteria worker at school when all the children were old enough to be enrolled in school. And Elvadore and Ramona, regardless of the financial struggles, knew that vacations were important to the life of the family. Elvadore, who had learned camping from his little parents, was a natural—he understood tents, sleeping bags, cooking stoves. At first, the family ventured to state parks in Indiana and Michigan, but their goal was Florida beach state parks. For years, the family could camp on the way to Florida’s camping areas and back again, a gift for all of them, even though it was a bit more work for all of them—pitching the tent, cooking the food, and cleaning up campsites.

More years passed. I grew up, moved away, married, had three boys, divorced, and found myself pulled back to my Indiana roots at least twice a year, at Christmas or Thanksgiving and sometime during the summer. This brother-in-law, 17 years older than I, became “Uncle Elvadore” to my sons. What an uncle he was—he showed them his word-working. He taught at least one of them to take apart a lawn mower, clean it, and put it together good as new. Between him and Ramona, they pitched tents in the back yard, let the boys have bonfires and wiener roasts and tell scary stories as long as they could stand their fears or sleep took over. He was a favorite uncle because of his ability to include and love all the boys—his sons, older now, my sons, his grandson who was about the same age as my boys, and the younger boys of my sister Judy.

Perhaps the serendipitous circumstance that kept Elvadore from serving in active combat also developed that love for others, in hospital or not, that made him the good uncle, father, and grandfather he was. He was a lover, not a hater; a reconciler, not a fighter; one who was inclusive, not one to exclude anyone; a man for all seasons, not one who chose the good ones over the bad. Finally, he was a hero for all the family, this average-sized man of the small parents. Being a veteran at one point in his life only added to that hero status.

You’ve read it, possibly memorized (or mismemorized it, as I have it), interpreted it or had it interpreted (or misinterpreted for you) more than once in your lifetime. I know some teachers begin to teach it in fourth grade, which seems a tad too early to try to teach a poem—or a life lesson, but yet the poem is “taught,” manhandled, if you will, over and over again.

The poem? Probably the most read and beloved in the American English language: “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost. The poem that begins, “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,/And sorry I could not travel both/And be one traveler long I stood/And looked down one as far as I could/To where it bent in the undergrowth.”

Remember? Don’t you always become one with this traveler? You are the one looking at this attractive path and deciding between it and another attractive path. Sometimes I imagine this little speck of humanity just standing stock still, bemused with having to make a choice between two good things. After all, this little speck is thinking well enough to recognize that the second path, the one he hadn’t looked down as far as he could, was “really [worn] about the same and both lay under “leaves no step had trodden black.”

Of course, some of us were led to believe that one choice was better—and safer—than the other. Some Christian teachers and leaders would put the spin on the paths—it’s important to take the right path in life. And down that pathway of thinking comes nothing but trouble. Once hearing that interpretation of the words, some have been paralyzed, agonizing over decisions never meant to be the causes of all that come with the choices we make. One path becomes the way to salvation; the other, to perdition. A difficult choice for anyone, but especially for the young person who is fed this interpretation.  

“Choices have consequences” says popular wisdom. “Of course,” says the sensible person, “am I to make no choices in order to avoid all consequences?” “Of course not,” says the next sensible person. Instead all of us, like this traveler, make the choice, sometimes considering one option for a long time before almost instantaneously choosing the other option with little or no thought. Frost knew his speck of humanity; he knew “how way leads on to way,” causing the traveler never to come back to this decision point again.

And, yet, sadness, or at least regret, permeates the last stanza as our traveler—us—says with a “sigh” that he took the road “less traveled by. . . [which] has made all the difference.” Silly speck of humanity! He had already acknowledged the roads were really about the same. The difference was not in the path, but in the choice. Our traveler does not say that the way he took was better or worse, but just that the choice made a difference. We all make choices that we later regret, looking back at that flashpoint of decision making and wishing we could take back our choice. Isn’t it better just to acknowledge that our little specks of humanity chose one way, a way that we can live with, knowing that we’re not ultimately in control, and as “way leads on to way,” we may find the road not taken just ahead of us.

Perhaps that road just ahead will lead to birches, the ones Frost describes in the poem “Birches.” The problem here is not choices between two paths, but not finding a path. The poor speaker in this poem says,”It’s when I’m weary of considerations,/And life is too much like a pathless wood/When your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs/Broken across it, and one eye is weeping/From a twig’s having lashed across it open,” that he wants to revert to a simpler time, perhaps an imaginary time, when he was a “swinger of birches.”

He has already recounted for us the “truth” about the ice that loads the branches so heavily that they bend, submissive beneath the weight, to the ground. He even shows us the beauty of the “crystal shells/Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust–/Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away/You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.” But he’s more interested in the boy (himself?) who lived too far out in the country to participate in baseball and who had to find his own “play” for himself alone. He learned to conquer the birches, one by one, discovering not to “launch[. . .]out too soon” so that he could be safely carried all the way to the ground.

This speaker, a world-weary adult, wants “to get away from earth awhile.” But he knows his earth and he knows his life, intoning the prayer, “May no fate willfully misunderstand me/And half grant what I wish and snatch me away/Not to return.” And he has such good reason for what he prays. He knows this: “Earth’s the right place for love:/I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.” This earth, this place that belongs to us, the tiny specks of humanity, who roam it, sometimes losing our way, sometimes making bad choices, is the place we’ve been given for loving—loving ourselves, loving others, loving the earth itself, and loving the One who gave us this earth.

I have loved these poems for almost all my life and have taught these poems for at least as long as I have taught university level, probably longer. I am always frustrated when I hear the machinations some people have gone through to push their interpretation onto Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” But I love “Birches” because I identify with the man: I may want to escape for a while, but I don’t want the Fates to snatch me up never to return. Earth’s the right place for love. I was reminded in a former student’s posting just recently that my crying during an oral reading of “Birches” showed him the power of literature to move us and the right we had to feel something spiritual in doing so. In twenty-two years of college teaching, I always warned my students that I would cry during the reading of the poem. It wasn’t a show; it was a demonstration of the visceral feeling I receive every time I read the words, rather like the jolt I had when being overwhelmed by the aura of Van Gogh’s yellow sunflowers when seeing it for the first time.

We are fortunate to be so loved by the Creator that we can experience love and the Spirit in so many ways. “One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.”

Works Cited

Frost, Robert. “Birches.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44260/birches

—. “The Road Not Taken.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/the-road-not-taken

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We walked down the ramp from the wide-bodied jet and spilled out into the gate area, which was right next to all the shopping corridors of the big airport. In a second it seemed, we spotted my friend Ruth who had just arrived from Kenya. The three of us, Ruth, my son Geoffrey, and I were going to spend the next six days or so exploring Johannesburg, South Africa, and Kruger National Park. Ruth had been teaching at Africa Nazarene University while I had been teaching at the University of Ouagadougou, and Geoffrey was “along for the ride.”

Except that really didn’t describe Geoffrey’s role: he was going to be the driver of the rental car, which meant he was going to drive “on the wrong side of the road” for the first time in his life. He was doing his best to look out for the right-hand turns, which, of course, were now the ones a person had to look out for, since a driver had to cross a lane or more of ongoing traffic going left to turn into the right-hand lane.  For the most part, Geoffrey did great, but I was a nervous wreck. Ruth was happily ensconced in the backseat of the compact car and didn’t seem too worried. We arrived at our destination, an empty apartment on the Nazarene compound, and were glad to get rid of the stress of the driving.

Ruth, who had been in Nairobi, was more or less used to a bustling city, but Geoffrey and I, who had been in the sleepy capital of Ouagadougou in the small all but forgotten country of Burkina Faso, were amazed at the city. Four and six lane highways, connected by what we would call interstates, laced through the residential areas. Huge shopping malls and theater complexes popped up in between those areas. Especially impressive was the twelve-story movie complex, with escalators linking one floor to another. We hadn’t seen an escalator since we had left home the previous September.

During that week, everything surprised us, from the huge building that housed a “traditional” medicine supply outlet to the Apartheid Museum. No one would have been so crude as to call the medicines “witch doctors’” concoctions, but that’s what all of us were thinking. I was surprised to see that it was a thriving business. But strolling just a few blocks down the crowded street, packed with cars and motorcycles, we arrived at the Apartheid Museum which was quite the experience; it made us forget all the paraphernalia we had seen at the medical supply outlet.

First, we were allowed to view a large South African flag, along with an explanation of the six colors in the flag that represent all the countries whose history had entwined with South Africa before it finally threw off the horrible cloak of apartheid, which separated the nation’s Whites, Blacks, Coloreds, and Indians into at least twelve different categories before its end in 1991. What was more surprising to us was that we were given a card when we walked through the door of the museum, which designated whether we were Black or White. We had to follow different paths throughout the museum based on our designation. The museum was informative, but, more than that, it was moving as we saw pictures depicting horrible practices that had been in place for far too many years.

The last day in Johannesburg before we headed to Kruger National Park for a safari, we made a mistake on one of the large highways. We were trying to find the township of Soweto, but we ended up on a road headed south that took us straight out of the city and into rolling fields. Feeling a little uneasy because we didn’t have a good map, we stopped at a service station to ask for directions. A strong, middle-aged Black man walked purposefully towards our car. He looked a little surprised to see us as we asked our question about where we had gone wrong on our way to Soweto. In a very stern tone, he said, “You need to get out of here as quickly as possible. This isn’t a safe place for White visitors who don’t know the countryside or the people. You see this road going off to the left? It’s a service road that will curve around and head north. You will find the signage you need in no time at all. But, please, go quickly.” And we did. The rest of the day was, thankfully, uneventful. That mistake was enough excitement for one day, and I have forever been grateful to that kind man who wanted us to be kept safe.

Safari: the very word stirs the blood in the veins, doesn’t it? We headed over to Kruger, perhaps a two-and-a-half-hour drive, arriving early afternoon. After being shown to our rooms, we decided that we should take advantage of the open-air restaurant with the thatched roof. It was quite a large space, and we gratefully took seats at a table under the shade of the thatched roof. The waiter asked us to look up. When we did, we saw black bundles all over the inside of the thatch. Bundles, did I say? They were no such thing; each bundle was a bat that was resting during the day, waiting for the evening when it would fly out with all the others into the open air. I will never understand why none of us decided that perhaps this was not the best place to eat; instead, we sat, ordered food, ate the food, and were perfectly content with those motionless bundles above us.

The bats might have been unusual to us, but they definitely did not count as part of a safari. We were privileged to go on both a daytime and a nighttime safari. The daytime one was great—a little frightening when a group of lions lazily walked right up to the caravan and our guide had to warn everyone to get their arms inside the open windows, but it was still all we had hoped for, seeing, besides the lions, monkeys, elephants, gazelles, giraffes, and unusual birds.

But the nighttime safari was spectacular. We were able to see animals, especially big cats, that roam freely in the dark, moist night air. The guide had told us that if we were lucky we might see a rare white leopard: “Be especially quiet and keep your eyes focused on the left side of the road where I saw him last night.” Suddenly, there he was. A beautiful large white leopard with gray spots deliberately crossed the road in front of our caravan, paused at the right-hand side of the road, and deliberately turned to look back at us. No other word but “stunning” can describe the magnificent animal before he noiselessly disappeared into the bush.

But I have failed to tell you about the biggest surprise of all. Geoffrey and I wanted to explore the big shopping mall that looked rather like a castle from the outside. We entered the mall to find a rabbit warren of paths that led to casinos, car lotteries, and restaurants that were “faux” Italian buildings. Then we hit the jackpot ourselves: right in front of us was a KFC sign. KFC! What if the food tasted like our own KFC food. We had eaten stringy, free-range chicken meat in Burkina for the past seven months, meat so tough that I had already lost two fillings from my molars. And I can’t complain; at least we had chicken to eat. Some of our friends and neighbors relied on the curled up small smoked fish for a staple in their stews. Chicken, even tough chicken, was much more palatable.

We ordered a typical meal, with two pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. Hardly waiting till we sat down at a little table, we tore into our first pieces of chicken. Both of us looked up at the same time, our faces wreathed in smiles that were dazzling enough to blind any people sitting at the neighboring tables. All the food tasted just like it would have if we had ordered it in Kankakee, Illinois. Starved for those familiar flavors and textures, we would probably have eaten anything that had an American name on it. But the chicken, the soft, plumb, original recipe fried chicken, surpassed all our hopes for a good meal. Fast food? Not at all. It was soul food to us and the best surprise of all!

Works Consulted

“Apartheid.” Wikipedia. Updated June 10, 2021.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apartheid

“Flag of South Africa.” Wikipedia. Updated June 3, 2021. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flag_of_South_Africa

Monday was a sunny, warm day in Chicago, and I was on my way to the Art Institute with my fellow book club members to view art in the Modern Wing. Of course, I’ve been there before, but this time would be special: we had just finished a book by Jonathan A. Anderson and William A. Dyrness called Modern Art and the Life of a Culture: The Religious Impulses of Modernism. It was a tough read for all of us, even for those of us who like art and research. But now we were on a mission to see the work of some of the artists highlighted in the book, to see what we could see.

In one of the first galleries, we saw two of Kandinsky’s . Our audio guide said that he liked to use bright, primary colors to draw the viewer into the painting with a hint to other senses. For example, the yellow was to represent the scent of lemons or the tinkling of a bell (?), and the blue to represent the heavens or rest and relaxation. I was disappointed that the yellow didn’t seem as bright as I wanted it to be, and the painting did not evoke lemons, bells, or the heavens, for that matter. 

Later, some of us saw two of Malevich’s works, the first abstract, called Painterly Realism of a Football Player—Color Masses in the 4th Dimension, was delightful to view and prodded all of us to consider seeing the football player. Others saw From Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism.  It is a black square that Malevich would place high up in a corner of a gallery as an abstract representation of the icon of Jesus or Mary that would adorn a high, inner, red-painted corner of a room in a house where  a Russian Orthodox family would worship in their home, according to our text. Sometimes it helps to know what the artist says he was doing when he was painting or sculpting abstractly.

Strangely enough, many of us were really attracted to a piece within the same time frame as all these abstract artists, such as Kandinsky, Malevich, Mondrian, Picasso, but which was not at all abstract. In fact, everything in the artwork was quite recognizable, and all of it showed the gritty side of life: a boy scooping up manure from the horses that were pulling a hearse; a policeman in uniform, so proud of himself that he was almost bursting his buttons; a butcher working in his shop, totally surrounded by pig carcasses and entrails; an old woman, lifting her skirts as she scurried to the outhouse; geese waddling down the road, taking their part out of the middle. Small town life in almost cartoonish clarity. Titled Small Town by Day, the artist Georg Scholz was one of a group of artists in the “New Objectivity” movement.

Another piece in the modern collection that always draws my attention is Marc Chagall’s White Crucifixion, which depicts a Jewish Christ, his loin wrapped in a prayer shawl and surrounded by all kinds of Jewish people who are fleeing, not from the crucifixion, but from the terrors of the Holocaust. The scene shows an overturned house, a chair thrown over in haste, children being pulled by their mothers, a menorah left on its own. The painting pulls together the horror of crucifixion and the horror of pre-World War II Europe for Jews.

From the modern collection, we hurried over to take our places in the queue for the special exhibit of “Monet and Chicago.” Monet never visited Chicago, but three major collectors from the 20s and 30s brought many of his works to their homes and later to the Art Institute. Those collectors are the reason the Institute owns so many Monets that we can view. And, for this collection, the Art Institute was able to borrow many Monets from private collections, works that none of us could ever see otherwise. For example, I viewed two paintings that Monet did of mountains in Norway. I had no idea he had painted in Norway. I think for all of our group, the Monet exhibit was a highlight of the day. It was such an extensive exhibit that covered everything from Monet’s early pen and ink and chalk portraitures to his landscapes to his famous bridges of London to his iconic haystacks in different seasons to his waterlilies painted over a period of his later years, illustrating how his painting changed as his eyesight failed.

But then I remembered another Monet exhibit, one that I did not see, and, most importantly, one that my son David did not see. He was a fifth grader and eligible to go on a field trip to see a traveling Monet exhibit. The only problem: he needed a signed permission slip from a parent. He forgot that part. I was already at work and, obviously, not easily reached in my classroom. He forged my name and, of course, was immediately found out. The organizers of the trip decided his punishment without my knowledge: he would not be allowed to go on the field trip. He was crushed; if there was one student who really was interested in art and Monet, it was David. He was already artistic and had so looked forward to the trip. When I found out his punishment, I pleaded with the leaders to find a different punishment so that he could go. I knew I did not have the money to take all four of our family to the exhibit. This field trip, at least at the time, seemed to be the only opportunity David would ever have to see a Monet painting. I was almost as crushed as he was. We submitted to his punishment.

Fortunately, David spent most of his college career here at Olivet Nazarene University and was able to visit the Art Institute more than once, both with college fine arts classes and with the family. Later, he was able to visit the Louvre in Paris—I hope he saw some Monets there. He has also traveled to England, Spain, and Rome, Italy, so he has had many opportunities to view many artworks, for which I am grateful.

But that knowledge will never take the sting out of that punishment doled out to him in 5^th grade. Why can’t teachers see that withholding something so special from a child is a deprivation, something that might cripple a person’s budding interest in art. Looking back on the situation, I still don’t know what I would have done if I had been the leader, but I’m sure it would have involved a phone call to the parent and a negotiation over an appropriate punishment.

And, even now, I wish my son could visit here during this exhibit of Monet in Chicago. He would love it—and appreciate it in his own artistic way.

Works Consulted

Anderson, Jonathan A. and Dyrness, William A. Modern Art and the Life of a Culture: The Religious Impulses of Modernism. IVP Academic, 2016.

Chagall, Marc. White Crucifixion. https://www.artic.edu/artworks/59426/white-crucifixion

Kandinsky, Wassily. Artworks. https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-1-d&q=kandinsky+art

Malevich. Art. https://www.google.com/search?q=malevich+art&client=firefox-b-1-d&ei=9AuwYMiNBrmZwbkP_Nm28AQ&oq=Malevic+art&gs_lcp=Cgdnd3Mtd2l6EAEYADIGCAAQBxAeMgYIABAHEB4yBggAEAcQHjIECAAQCjIGCAAQBxAeMgYIABAHEB4yBggAEAcQHjIGCAAQBxAeMgYIABAHEB4yBggAEAcQHjoKCC4QsAMQQxCTAjoHCAAQsAMQQzoECAAQDToECC4QDToCCAA6CAgAEAcQChAeOgQIABBDOgcIABCxAxBDOggILhDHARCjAlDYvg9Y2u4PYOr8D2gBcAB4AIABkQKIAeUUkgEGMC4xNS4ymAEAoAEBqgEHZ3dzLXdpesgBCsABAQ&sclient=gws-wiz

Scholz, Georg. Small Town by Day.  https://www.artic.edu/artworks/234972/small-town-by-day-badische-kleinstadt-bei-tageps://www.artic.edu/artworks/234972/small-town-by-day-badische-kleinstadt-bei-tage

Grandma Corrie

I never called her that; she was just “Grandma” to me, my mother’s mother. The next generation down called her “Great-Grandma” and loved her dearly just as we of our generation did. But Grandpa Andy, who was living with us, always called her “Corrie” when she came to visit us in Indiana from her home in Dayton, Ohio. Very pleasantly he would ask how she was doing and then retreat to his chair; that was the extent of their interaction.

Really, I don’t know how “Corrie” should be spelled, since I never saw it spelled out. Her name was Cora Belle Oliver Hartman, although I never heard her called Cora Belle, nor did she refer to herself as an Oliver, her maiden family.

What fond memories I have of going to her house on Haynes Street in Dayton to stay for a few days. When my sister Judy and I were very young, we always asked permission to go to the bedroom beyond the attic room beyond Uncle Ira’s room on the second floor of the house. We scurried through Uncle Ira’s room so that we didn’t disturb any of his belongings, and then we scurried through the dark, windowless “attic room” that was just a storage area, and finally we arrived at the front room with a window that faced the street. We could look down at the stoop below us and out beyond the long narrow sidewalk that skirted the bigger house just to the front and side of Grandma’s house. But the room itself held our attention most: a daybed covered in a red and green and yellow flower-patterned chintz, a stack of old magazines (the fun kind like Life and Variety), and pillows to lounge on.

But we would also dream of the supper she would have for us, with a proper dessert like strawberry ice cream—unless it was summer, when the proper dessert changed into ice cream floats, made with Nehi crème soda. Nothing had ever tasted quite so good as those summertime floats. Sometimes, those summer evenings, if he were around, we would see Grandpa Andy, who had a section of the garage to live in, fitted out with a cot, a table, a heater, a light. Judy and I never thought about that being a strange circumstance. I don’t think at the time we recognized Andy and Corrie as husband and wife. They were totally different entities who lived in separate buildings on the same property.

On most visits to Grandma’s house, we were treated to a visit to her neighborhood shops. She would grab her rolling shopping cart that would hold the groceries and whatever treasures we might find, lead us out the back door, which she carefully locked (an oddity for us since our doors never had locks), and down the alley to the cross street. Two blocks on, we arrived at a street seemingly full of interesting shops. One was a shop that just held trinkets of all kinds. If we were lucky, and we usually were, Grandma would buy each of us a treasure. One which I kept till it broke was a black china mother poodle with her four puppies strung on a metal chain behind her. It was my best possession because I had an obsession with poodles at the time and because it had wrapped in it all the memories associated with Grandma and her house.

Do all Grandmas look alike? I’m sure at the time I thought so. Her brown hair was graying, but she kept it perfectly coiffed with waves in the back and a little roll at the nape of her neck. She never had bangs or fuzziness around her face; the hair swept backwards into that classic style, more associated with the 30s than the 50s when I first remember her. She always wore a spot of rouge on her cheeks and a little lip color, making her a glamorous grandma. But her most notable features were the deep dimples that were almost always apparent because she always seemed to be laughing or chuckling about something. And what a chuckle she had; it was pure music, like the tingling of a bell. Even when she was just talking, her voice lilted as if she were a bird about ready to burst into song.

But the best memories of Grandma are the ones where I took for granted her steady presence. When I graduated from college and found a teaching job in Dayton, Ohio, she offered to let me stay with her. No longer on Haynes Street, but a one-bedroom duplex on Old Orchard, Grandma really didn’t have room for me to stay, but she graciously gave her couch in the living room to be my bed. Night after night, the two of us would make up the “bed,” and most mornings she would tell me not to bother with putting away the covers; she would do that. This, of course, was after she had fixed a hearty breakfast for me and sent me off to school with that same lilting voice. Every evening she would fix a “supper” for us. I especially loved her chili and her mac-n-beef casserole. I’d never known anyone else who could cut vegetables in such uniform squares: every onion piece in her chili was exactly the same size as the next one I could find. I still have her original recipes for those two dishes with her handwritten comments. That distinct curly handwriting, so prim and proper, still makes me smile in remembrance of the great lady Grandma was.

I lived with Grandma the whole first year I taught in Dayton, Ohio. She never seemed tired nor grumpy. Surely my staying there was an imposition—she didn’t even have her living room to herself! But as I remember that year, we seemed perfect companions. She made my life so much easier than it otherwise would have been, and I saved money so that I could buy a car and afford an apartment the next year, an apartment just a few blocks away from her duplex. And every night I could recall my day while she remained the perfect listener and supporter.

I’ve thought lately about how fortunate I was to have lived with both my grandparents—Grandpa Andy when I was a teenager and Grandma Corrie when I was a young adult. I only had the two grandparents because my dad’s mother and father had died in the years before I was born. But to be able to live with two grandparents, to see them close-up at all times of the day and night, to see them, not as visitors or those I would visit, but as close family members who accept a person just because she is family—that’s a privilege that not all grandchildren have.

It took a few adult years and conversations with other family members to sort out some of the history that tore my grandparents apart, but, in reality, that hadn’t affected me much, if at all, when I lived with either of them—they were just beloved grandparents.

Ah, but those early—and late—memories of Grandma can never be wiped from my mind—even now I can see that lovely face with the deep dimples and hear that voice that was nothing but pure music and laughter.

“Risk confessing,” said our professor Dr. Mark Quanstrom last week to the pastoral care and counseling class. Ha! Easy to say, but much harder to do when you’ve been in some Wesleyan holiness tradition church for your whole life and you’re “of an age” like mine. When I was growing up, no one wanted to be accused of “backsliding,” so no one wanted to confess to anything. Instead, all of us kept our mouths shut and tried to act like we had the whole Christian life under control. If I remember myself correctly, I had quite the temper in those days, often raging at some person (usually a teacher who had “unfairly” given me a grade lower than what I thought I deserved). Did that rage need confessing? Oh, I think I can admit it did.

And through the years, I have many things that I could confess to, most of which I have “confessed” to a counselor or, on occasion, a trusted friend, but rarely have I confessed to a group of fellow believers—it was just too risky. What would they think of me? I wasn’t the stellar person they thought I was. No, I wasn’t stellar; I was a quite ordinary Christian, saved only by the grace of God and not because of any good works that I had done and certainly not because I had achieved some measure of holiness through my own actions.

A list, then, of things I should confess all the time: I am selfish, I am critical, I pre-judge people, I don’t love as I ought, I fail to do the good I should and do other things that are definitely not worthy of a follower of Christ (sins of omission and commission), I am in love with my own opinions to the exclusion of seeing the good in others’ opinions, I waste lots of time (Wesley would have hated that!), I covet such things as expensive cars and pretty items of clothing, I tell white lies to smooth over situations, I am too often grumpy—oh, and a myriad of other things that I’m not confessing here.

I doubt my list is much different from many others—when we want to “safely” confess our faults—but, rest assured, I know those things that I need to confess, and I am trying to confess them and to trust the Lord to make my life more Christlike as I open myself to God’s grace in my life daily.

Now, for another confession: I don’t like Psalm 45. It’s a warrior king poem. Perhaps it’s the idea of the praise of a king—it’s so effusive in its praise. Perhaps I should just admit that it is poetry, and, therefore, it is written in a fashion that is “flowery” and exaggerated—no king deserves such praises, even on his wedding day. I’m really put off by the princess bride who is bringing with her a passel of virgins. Too much patriarchy! Of course, I know, that I am supposed to acknowledge the other king who is the second subject here: Jesus Christ. You can look up commentators who will give you all the references you need to understand the poem in that light. I looked up one in The Enduring Word Commentary, and, sure enough, most of the commentary was on the second king, Christ, not the first king, who was the subject of the poem on his wedding day. Regardless of what others say, I still bristle every time I am called upon to read Psalm 45 as part of the daily readings.

And, yet, another confession: I have never liked the 23^rd Psalm. I think I have never liked it because I associate it with death and funerals. It so often is included on the memory card of the one who has passed. It has always seemed to me to be a passive poem where the little lamb is just supposed to stay put in those green pastures.

Now, after hearing my pastor Dr. Mark Quanstrom (yes, the same one who is the professor) preach from this little well-beloved (by most) and most familiar psalm on Sunday, I have to confess I see the psalm in a totally different light. I have no idea what translation he used or whether it was one of his own devising, but it changed my attitude completely. I can see that Psalm 23 is quite an active poem, and not one for the dead, but for the living.

I will not try to re-preach the sermon, but I do want to point out a few highlights that changed my mind:

1) The end of vs. 1 can be translated in positive terms: “I have everything that I need.” Oh, yes, I might not have all that I want, covetous as I may be, but I have everything I need to live this day—I have the breath of life which God grants me each day.

2) Vs. 2 is the part about the green pastures and still waters: according to Pastor Mark, that’s a sure sign that God wants me to be able to rest. I don’t need frenetic activity or frantic thoughts; I can just rest and allow my body to be renewed and restored.

3) Vs. 3 makes the comment that the “right paths” on which I am led are all about the Lord’s doing: it is “for his name’s sake” that he is leading me on those paths. He is always trustworthy and will never lead me astray on a wrong path. I just need to follow his lead in everything.

4) Vs. 4 doesn’t have to be translated “the valley of the shadow of death”; instead it can be translated “a valley dark as death.” I may have to walk through several dark valleys, but they don’t necessarily have to end in death. And because it is the Lord who has the “staff” and the “crook,” it is he who “protects” me as I actively walk through the dark valley.

5) Vs. 6 usually contains the words “goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life,” but the active translation says that God’s love and goodness will chase after me, always pursuing me, throughout my life. What a difference that one word can make: “chase” is such a strong verb, implying that the Lord will always be right there, ready to scoop me up and protect me—and he will never give up on me, whatever I confess!

Perhaps you were hoping I would confess some deep, dark secret, in these words I have written. Instead, I have confessed that I am never too old to learn a new, deep, meaningful thought from looking at the ages-old scripture. And it’s all that I need.

Works Consulted

Guzik, David. “Psalm 45: The Annointed King and His Bride.” The Enduring Word Commentary. https://enduringword.com/bible-commentary/psalm-45/

“Psalm 23.” New English Bible translation, 1970.

“Psalm 45.” New English Bible translation, 1970.

Quanstrom, Mark. “Class Lecture, April 26, 2021.” CMIN/CHED 674-01. Olivet Nazarene University.

Quanstrom, Mark. “Sermon, ‘Psalm 23.’” College Church University Avenue, Bourbonnais, IL., April 25, 2021.

I’ve been wrestling with resurrection. That’s what I said all through Lent; I said I really wanted to write on the idea of resurrection in a reflective way, but then I just couldn’t do it. Any wrestling that occurred was almost subconscious.

Of course, I know the dictionary definition of the concept: rising from the dead, as Christ did on Easter or as believers are to do at the last day. I also know the relevant part of the Apostle’s Creed: “I believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”

It’s one thing to know the concept and the words, but sometimes it’s a totally different thing to know at a “gut level” that what the Bible says is true. I, at times, have doubts, as, no doubt, some of you readers also do. And so I was searching for answers. Factual answers that somehow felt like that “gut reaction.” And I felt stymied. I was, however, reading and listening, and I had my internal antennae working.

The first idea I came across was Pascal’s Wager, mentioned in a book by Jon Meacham. Blaise Pascal, a seventeenth century, mathematician, physicist, theologian, and philosopher, believes it is only rational to believe in God, and, therefore, the resurrection.  His argument can be summed up as follows:  “. . . a rational person should live as though (the Christian) God exists and seek to believe in God. If God does not actually exist, such a person will have only a finite loss (some pleasures, luxury, etc.), whereas if God does exist, he stands to receive infinite gains (as represented by eternity in Heaven) and avoid infinite losses (eternity in Hell)” (Wikipedia, source noted on page). Rational, yes, but the wager sounds like a gamble, or, as some would say, utilitarian or useful. I didn’t want useful—I wanted something more concrete.

I found what I considered a good explanation of why the “wager” might work in an article by Antony Aumann, published in 2011. He likens the wager to the thought that goes into a marriage vow, one that all of us, on the front end, fully intend to keep. He concludes with these words:

As a result, the ideal wagerer is not very likely to arrive at the conclusion that he or she is ill wed to the religious life. For he or she continually works in the opposite direction. If this is correct, we need not worry very much about the threat of a ‘bad marriage’” (p. 14).

Aumann says that it’s like “crossing a point of no return”; thus, the wager isn’t so much a wager as it is “a stable course of action” (p. 14). I really liked the idea of the “stable course” which argues, basically for a total shift in our thinking, something we do in conversion. Still, I didn’t think this helped me get to the point I wanted.

The next ideas came from my pastor and theology professor Dr. Mark Quanstrom. At the end of an evening in which the class was covering how pastors deal with funerals, he said the following statements: “We have to live forever because love is eternal,” and “Death can only be redeemed in the resurrection.” Ah, these were words I could latch on to: if God is love (I already believe in God) and love is eternal, then God will always be loving us, regardless of what happens to us at the point of death. The other statement follows suit: if Jesus, God the Son, loved us so much to go through death, then that, indeed, is redemption.

At the end of the class session, I wrote down these lines from the old hymn: “My Hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’s blood and righteousness.” At that moment I realized that I didn’t need to “wrestle” with the resurrection; I just needed to accept it in faith, as I always have.

Then I went back to Meacham’s book on the last words of Christ from the cross. In his conclusion he quotes the early church father Athanasius who was answering his own question about why Christ had to be crucified:

 [I]f the Lord’s death is the ransom of all, and by His death the middle wall of partition is broken down, and the calling of the nations is brought about, how would He have called us to Him had He not been crucified? For it is only on the cross that a man dies with his hands spread out. Whence it was fitting for the Lord to bear this also and to spread out His hands, that with one He might draw the ancient people, and with the other those from the Gentiles, and unite both in Himself (qtd. in Meacham, pp. 105-06.)

His hands spread out to reach his Jewish forefathers and all Gentiles who would subsequently believe: for the redemption of all—and for resurrection for all—Jesus paid it all: Love paid it all.

Works Consulted

Aumann, Antony. “On the Validity of Pascal’s Wager.” The Commons. Northern Michigan University, 2011.

https://commons.nmu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1315&context=facwork

“Blaise Pascal.” Wikipedia. Last update: Jan 13, 2021.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blaise_Pascal

Meacham, Jon. The Hope of Glory: Reflections on the Last Words of Jesus from the Cross. Convergent Books, 2020.

Quanstrom, Mark. Lecture Notes for CMIN 594/674, April 5, 2021.