7-7-2018 Elijah and the Ice Cream Truck

Then the Lord said to Samuel, “Behold, I am about to do a thing in Israel at which the two ears of everyone who hears it will tingle. —1Sam 11.

Now I know for certain that there is a spiritual realm with forces outside of my control, good, evil and…well, I just don’t know. But you do, so help me figure this one out, Lord.

The day following our confrontation with an “unfriendly” at the Christ Church gate and our border crossing challenge related to the Tour D’Italy bike race, we charged on with anticipation. The itinerary was well mapped out with a trip up to Cesarea Marittima, Elijah’s Lookout and Megiddo. Two of the destinations I had previously visited and so was confident in guiding our group in discovery. The other, Elijiah’s Lookout on Mt. Carmel was a new opportunity for me as well. I had studied up, best as I could on the mapped routes to each and had boned up on their histories. Now was my chance to demonstrate my acumen for your land. This would be a good and well-orchestrated journey.

In other words, I had not counted on your Spirit’s intervention—other plans, not exactly matched to mine. We were destined for glitches right from the start. Once arrived at Caesarea, we eagerly approached the entrance gate. I had already heralded this site as extra special because it was the home of the first recorded Gentile convert in the book of Acts, none other than…Cornelius! As I chattered on about Paul’s imprisonment experience in this place as well, the gate attendant mentioned nonchalantly, “It’s a good thing you got here when you did.”

We all turned our heads immediately her direction and she took the cue, “The Tour D’Italy will be running their bicycle race through the town starting at noon.”

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. We had just been alerted by this unassuming watchwoman that we had exactly ninety minutes to walk through an excavation site more than two miles in circumference. The look on everyone’s faces (and I was informed by others that my countenance too was evident) said it all. We did NOT want to be forced-spectators two days in a row. 

Our gang quickly came together and we discussed the options. Lord, I confess that I probably had built up the anticipation of this place significantly, but I claim your inspiration in the matter. You had turned me on to the history of the stadia, the amphitheater, the dwellings, the aqueduct and the culture of this place. You infused a sense of connection in the concept that perhaps, just perhaps, that first Cornelius and I have a blood and certainly a spiritual connection. You gave me a love for the seaside and a curiosity for antiquities. I perhaps zealously passed this on to our crew and they wanted to take in as much as possible before our rushed exit.

On that note, trying to regather seven eager explorers who had independently dispersed was an act I liken to herding cats. Still, we all made it back to our van and out of the area prior to the two-wheeling onslaught. Our next stop: Elijah’s Lookout; a spot on Mt. Carmel noted to be the location where the man of YHWH took on the Baal prophets in a demonstration of your supremacy. I know what a sticky issue this remains to this day, Lord, as many people have tried to dilute your authority by claiming God is all gods. It seems in our efforts to be inclusive; we are reluctant to consider the same thing the Baal worshipers failed at—that, perhaps, just perhaps, there may be One who is clearly identifiable as HaShem—The Name—and that denying you as Sovereign might turn out as badly for us as it did for those folks. Some people don’t like to hear me say stuff like that, Master: What’s a believer to do?

Back to our travels that day—the challenge, we discovered with Mt. Carmel is that it is better described as Mts. Carmel with numerous peaks and speculation rather than demarcation as to where the sacrificial flaming took place. GPS had just as much trouble figuring out the likely location as we did, and with no historical markers to suggest otherwise, we pulled in at a remote highland spot where we noticed some parked cars. It turned out to be a nicely shaded campground and we could imagine Elijah nodding his head that this would be a good place to show the world that you are Elohim Echad.

Under the covering of a broom tree, I felt inspired to read the account in 1 Kings 18 to the group and that’s when you showed up, again in the strangest of ways. A woman from one of the camp sites invited herself into our midst with a plate of dates, ginger, and sweet spices, offering each of us a taste. Her name was Shoshana which translates as Rose, and so she was, Lord. Her warm hospitality spoke to the beauty of your people, a contrast to the reading which suggested at one time, great division. The verbal communication in our day, with our newfound friend, was clumsy, but the message was clear, Israel is a place of fresh, renewed invitation.

Just as we were delighting in this moment, you raised the bar. Somewhere in the background, music began to faintly tinkle. It was familiar, but oddly out of place in this venue. The tune slowly grew in volume and I could make out the Blue Danube Waltz by Strauss. Lord your sense of humor is so vast. It was not the music that was strange, but the producer. Up and around the corner of this isolated mountain vista appears a bright aqua-blue ice cream truck (and I bet all of you reading along can hear in your minds not only the music, but the timber of the truck speakers, the slight warble of the recording—what joy can be found in one’s memories)! All of the Hebrew inscriptions on the sides of the vehicle were unnecessary—pictures instead announced the perfect message of cool refreshment on this warm day.

Everyone, including Rose, was lured by the waltz to its terminus and we each eagerly purchased our preferred portion of (what do you call Americana in the land?)…Israelana. In this strange way, we were able to repay the generosity of our new friend, offering to buy her frozen treat. God of the universe, you own the unexpected and teach us by it, that you give your messengers the power to light fires on logs saturated with water, and you provide clever ways to join people in international fellowship to the purpose of your glory. How do I know that your purpose was and is served in this day? Your word was spoken out loud in prayer by all of us surrounding the ice-cream truck; simple, edifying; unifying us all and affirming that you too can share a good time.

Our day concluded with an odyssey to Megiddo, one of the most provocative places on the planet where more wars and conflicts have been manifested than anywhere in the written records. I have written of this hotspot before, now a peaceful, dormant monument; yet awaiting The Day prophesied to come; a culminating battle when you will speak your final word to a rebellious world. Knowing that, as a child in Nazareth, you could observe this place and know its future significance astounds me, and impressed our group in that moment. We left the place awed by the vastness of your plan; you being ever present even in orchestrating the lessons we were absorbing…

—And to give us that extra time to consider these things, you managed another comical wink. Exiting the Megiddo archeological site, we were immediately enveloped in a two-hour traffic jam caused by Tour D’Italy enthusiasts returning from Caesarea Marittima to Jerusalem. I hoped they had as profound an experience as we had—but I suspect not.

Even with the traffic, the travel time seemed to pass quickly as we reviewed the excursion, sharing laughter and song. You, the God of unpredictable paradoxical interactions; you the joiner, the forgiver and the judge; you the Father and the son, were there in the van with us, your Spirit preparing us for even greater adventures to come.

Thanks for the day, Lord. Thanks for the prize and surprise of it all.

Amen,

Mark C.

6-30-2018 Tour D’Jesus

Some trust in chariots and some in horses,

but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.      —Psalm 20:7

 “Why?”

“Because those are the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

These were the basics, Lord, of the discussion going on in my head, the first day of our group’s engagement in the land. It was pre-Shabbat Friday, our first full day in the city of the Great King and I wanted to feed on the energy I felt from these excited folks. They were ready and willing to experience all that Jerusalem had to offer, so we started early.

This was the day that we ran into Ron the condemning Rabbi. “You Christians are not welcomed here,” he proclaimed in front of the Christ Church entrance.

This was the day we learned of and saw the hidden room where you had been sequestered prior to your trial before Pilot.

This was the day when I saw the eyes of seven people who have not been to the land, opened with wonder and expectation for more. What better time to prepare for Shabbat.

You would think that might have been enough considering all were still adjusting to an 8 hour time difference. But not these sturdy folk, they were hungry to learn your history, touch your roots; encounter your people.

And we were just getting familiar with one another, so a family meal and study seemed a right next step. Some volunteered to cook and prepare while others offered to go get groceries and necessities for the gathering. At 1 pm in the afternoon, five of us set off to find the local grocers and load up. Oh, Lord: did I mention that as we had walked about the streets of modern Jerusalem that morning, on our way to the Old City, we saw much preparation on the streets for what looked like some kind of citywide festival?

We learned as we headed out from our apartment that the event was nothing less than the Tour D’Italy Bike Race, an international extravaganza which is held in a different country each year. This was the first year it was to occur in Israel and the crowds gathering along the sides of the pyloned streets testified to its significances.

This was not why we had come to the land, and it seemed an interesting sideshow to we weary travelers, nothing more. We were primarily focused on grabbing our goods and hustling back the 3 city blocks to our sanctuary where we might watch some of the goings on from our comfortable balcony above.

As we crossed the last major street before our intended target, the grocery store, I noted behind us that some official looking guards planted more orange pylons across where we had just trudged. No worries, I thought, we’ll be a few minutes and then hustle right back, they have to let us back across to get to our domicile. We found the store and stocked up on goods we anticipated needing for a portion of our two-week stay. Three cases of water, numerous can goods, many boxes of food and supplies later, we were ready for our trek back. By then, the race had officially started. We arrived back at the cross-street headed toward our apartment and gave a friendly nod to the pylon guards. They did not smile back.

“You will have to wait. We cannot allow passage,” said one fellow sternly.

“But we live just a block up on this side of the street, we need to get over there to prepare for our Sabbath meal,” I pleaded. We were politely refused, though not a bike was in sight. “Where can we cross,” we asked. There was discussion among the uniforms and one suggested we walk up the cross-street—a healthy incline without our totes—and that perhaps there would be a way to negotiate our passage at the next major intersections, a good half mile in the wrong direction. We were willing to do anything at this point in order to return to our waiting friends and so took the bait.

Lord, I forgive those guards because I suspect they knew it was bait—our departure from the encounter with them was their only intention. As we lumbered on we noted that others were as confused as we as they tried every means to egress the island we were all now trapped upon. One man tried to ignore the refusal of the authorities and their handling of him was equally aggressive and un-pretty. We chose not to follow his example. Finally arriving at the next junction, we were informed that there was no passage available, no tunnel, no bridge, and that we must wait until the completion of the repetitive circuit the cyclists must perform.

“How long might that take?” We implored. The answer was even less attractive as the handling of the rebellious man we observed earlier...

“—Three to four hours; sorry.” I did not hear sorrow in their voices.

What? Were they joking? We with our heavy parcels and backpacks full of sundries were not amused, but no one seemed to care. After sitting for a few moments and watching the occasional bike speed by, we all decided to head back down to our original crossing location to see if any options were left out. After an hour of inquiring and beseeching, we concluded that the only two possibilities seemed to be to wait-it-out, or circumnavigate a two-mile hike, up King David Street (in the opposite direction of our desired location), then over to the Old City, over across a bridge and try to egress through at an intersection at the starting point of the race. Maybe, just maybe the “head-officials” would be more understanding.

Nearly an hour, much

sweat and not a few consumed bottles of water later, we arrived at our hoped for objective-point. Here we encountered no-less resistance. Ironically, from this vantage point, we could stare 30 yards ahead and directly up to see our goal, the comfort of our apartment dwelling, taunting us. Frustrated and tired we all decided to simply enjoy the show. Now, as a captive observer I couldn’t help but marvel and the precision with which riders would breeze through, followed almost instantaneously by a motorbike with passenger cameraman perched daringly on the back seat leaning out precariously in search of the money-shot, that picture which the various tv networks would pay extra for. In final pursuit followed the sponsorship car, emboldened with logos and bold adverting murals that announce the bike builders. Of course, strapped to the roof were at least six to twelve additional bikes for that particular rider, I guess in case he or she had a tremendously bad run of misfortunes. My mind was racing too; could someone have that many debacles to need twelve bikes for the circuit? If so, would the rider not be injured to the point that by number 4 or possibly 6, the rest of the cycles would have become pointless? Not being a bike touring enthusiast, I’m sure someone who is could explain the operation of a trial and race to me…but now I’m thinking Lord, this blog has gone on too long, as did the Tour itself.

The competition did finally end and we were allowed to cross the street, access our apartment and enjoy our much-desired meal. I realized as we relaxed and reviewed the strange day that it is so easy to complain and get worked up about the uncontrollable, much as it is easy to argue against another’s opinion, rather than consider, observe and then seek alternative routes to the desired destination. The same might be said of our relationship, Lord God. How often do I try to plow a path of my choosing, when you already have prepared the best route for the best result—if I will just stop debating long enough to consider my circumstances from your point of view?

The Tour D’Israel bike race had far more impact on our trip then I realized at the time. In fact, the very next day’s itinerary was also impacted—but that’s another blog entry altogether.

“Why?”

“Because those are the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

Yours, of course, Lord. I rest in the knowledge of your plan for me; a plan based on a much more significant future, unseen by me, perhaps filled with what I consider inconveniences, but with an extraordinary life-outcome by your design.

I pray for your continued patience with me as I continue to figure out the rules, how to trust you in that journey, how to Tour my own destiny…

—in you, Jesus.

Mark C.

6-10-2018 Apprehended

 Apprehended

I appeal to you, kin, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment. 

For it has been reported to me by Chloe’s people that there is quarreling among you, my brothers. What I mean is that each one of you says, “I follow Paul,” or “I follow Apollos,” or “I follow Cephas,” or “I follow Christ.” Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul? 

I thank God that I baptized none of you except Crispus and Gaius, so that no one may say that you were baptized in my name. (I did baptize also the household of Stephanas. Beyond that, I do not know whether I baptized anyone else.).

For Christ did not send me to baptize but to preach the gospel, and not with words of eloquent wisdom, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power. For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.                               

1Cor 1:10-18

A special day: Starting off with a wonderful breakfast at the Christ Church kitchen and then some shopping in the Jewish Quarter. That was the plan anyway, but something got in the way.

I will not call him by his real name, let’s just say I perceive that he thinks he’s important, Lord, and I don’t want to even chance a contribution to those thoughts. So, his name will be Ron.

As we approach the entrance to the Christ Church compound, just inside the Jaffa Gate of Jerusalem’s Old City, there he stands.  Nothing threatening about his demeanor, mind you, but he has certainly strategically planted himself in our path, ready to engage. And it works.

“Shalom,” we state politely as we walk toward him.

“Are you Christian?” He replies with a serious countenance.

“We are here to see the land,” I reply, sensing there is an issue about to arise.

“If you are Christians, you are unwelcomed here,” He warns, his face remaining stern. “I am of the Torah and we do not believe the same as you.”

“What is it we believe?” I ask.

“Trinity.” He replies immediately. It appears he has had this conversation with others before and his practiced attack continues. “Our God is not a Father, son or Spirit. He is one.

“Yes, Echad,” I return. I am thinking he and I are one—echad— in our belief that you, YHWH are one, with characteristics that present themselves as you and only you deem necessary. Ron now looks at me with a puzzled glare after I offer the Hebrew word-form for unity: so I carefully continue. “We agree. God is only One.” It would take all day (maybe an eternity) to elaborate and distinguish the totality of that statement. We only have this moment. “God created the world to love in unity, in relationship, did he not?”

“God is not of this world, he is separate of the creation,” mater-of-factly replies our new acquaintance. Then he turns to a woman member of our group, a Messianic believer who has expanded, not rejected her Jewish heritage by recognizing you, Yeshua, as her Messiah. “Are you a Christian?” he points at her as he demands an answer.

My traveling companion stares Ron right in the face and states. “I am Jewish and believe in YWHW the one true God. I am also a follower of Yeshua HaMashiach.”

“Then you are a heretic.” Our adversary can’t accept that a Jewish believer with deep roots would be associated in any form with we Christian scum. Lord, I don’t want this confrontation, but here it is. Ron is no questioner, contrary to many rabbinical students I’ve dialogued with. He is one who believes in setting the record straight and according to his line of attack, we are nowhere near being on the same path as he. I sense it might be a good time to offer an olive branch of peace.

“Isn’t this a good moment then? We’d love to hear about the differences in Jewish ideas about Torah.”

“There is no difference in Jewish belief. We all believe the same thing and there is no disagreement concerning scripture.”

Really? I don’t disagree with the idea that scripture does not contradict or disagree with itself, but as for humane wrestling with the word? My mind raced back to conversations with many of my Jewish friends in faith and I recall many who would not only disagree with this man but would point out the healthiness of point and counter-point in exploring and debating the nuances of scripture. So I pressed, “What about Mishna?” I realize I’m opening a can of worms, bringing up the well tested Hebrew method of seeking agreement and deeper truth through the contrasting and comparison of ideas. I hope it will invite a better way for us to learn from one another. Ron thwarts in my ambition.

“You do not know Mishna—how it solidifies the law. You are twisting the concept,” Ron reacts.

I find it interesting that he is accusing me of twisting a word when all I had done was ask a question. And then you lead me, Lord, in your most patient of ways, to offer a deeper consideration.

“I’m probably not qualified to dialogue with you, but there is one thing I’ve been studying and maybe you can help me with the answer to a very puzzling question. Why would God do such a thing as creating, and then not relate directly to his creation? Why would he even bother creating if he didn’t plan on loving his work?”

Ron looked at me long and hard. He then spoke about his upbringing and how important his father was in the community and how Ron himself had studied in depth. But for some reason, he ignores my question.

I sense in my spirit that you are doing a work and feel encouraged to let the questions continue to fly. “What about when the scriptures speak of God loving and hating and crying and rejoicing? Is that not a God who sounds passionate about a relationship with his creation?”

“God does not have emotions; those writings are personification,” Ron answers.

“So the scribes are transferring their emotions to God? Are those emotions not actually written attributes of God, written in the Psalms and other places? I’m honestly really confused because I thought you had said scripture can’t be debated.”

“Your words are killing me, you are not my friend. I will hear no more of this. You do not believe in our God.” And with those condemning words, meant not to invite but divide, Ron turns and walks away. It appears that today we will not be of one accord.

“Go with our love,” I shout after him, but I’m pretty sure you, Lord, have been shouting your charged desires after him for quite some time.

It was quite an experience for our first day in the Land, particularly for the others in the group, none of whom had previously experienced any sort of theological attack from a Jewish perspective. Me, Lord? You seem to have made me a magnet for such encounters, and that’s fine. I just pray that you guide me in ever-increasing understanding of how to dialogue while avoiding disparagement. It would have been so much more fulfilling to continue the discussion with Ron; discerning how he arrived at his opinions; comparing rather than condemning ours to his. Instead, I personally felt apprehended, baited into a hostile confrontation in which there could be no fruitful outcome; no hope of restoring the shards of our shared spiritual heritage back into the perfect vessel you once fashioned. It will come, it will happen, you have promised it. What an amazing thing it would have been at this moment for all of us to have received it together…

—as one. 

As for this day, it had just begun and you supply a great comparison in the next moment. We enter into the Christ Church courtyard and encounter some other amazing people. Alex Wolfe, on staff at the Archeological Museum walks us through a methodical explanation of the engineering and substructure which lay beneath the temple mount, including a schematic description of where you, Jesus would have been held at Pilot’s quarters within Herod’s palace: He then reveals that this room was not at the “traditional site”. Most folks are directed to visit those tourist locations because they are convenient and set up for display, but I have learned in my travels that the “actual” event localities, though not as alluring, often offer a more profound and realistic experience when visited. Wolfe leads us to such a site this day; incredibly, a place below the foundations of a coffee shop next door.

We have to climb down a steep and ancient stairwell, into a dark vault which we learn was once a water cistern, converted into a holding cell. The foundation stones of much earlier times speak to the authenticity of this place. Lord, I can almost hear your anguish from when you were once chained in this chamber, or one like it, awaiting the terrible fate you willingly took on. Even knowing that it lead to the greatest spiritual victory of all time; humanity’s…my salvation by your suffering and resurrection.

Being in this place and this time…I draw from your example. These walls tried to close you in, imprisoning your love which you courageously share not only with the oppressed but with your oppressors. They decried you as a heretic for your efforts. My own recent experience,—being unwelcomed as a heretic, so minuscule in comparison to your experience—comes flaring back to memory. It happened not even fifty feet above where we now stand; fifty feet from the very spot where you were held captive prior to your trial and execution. And I’m again saddened that our dialogue with Ron ended on such a dark note. You too were apprehended, baited into a hostile confrontation. But you knew there would be a different and magnificently more fruitful outcome; planned by you to restore the shards of our shared spiritual heritage back into the perfect vessel you had originally fashioned.

I’m astounded at how a particular piece of ground, like a belief, can become someone’s fortress through which none are allowed to pass. For others, The Christ Church neighborhood is a place of welcome, lively discussion and fellowship, regardless of affiliation. My wife reminded me of a man we encountered on our last journey there, who had been outcast from his home and who was recovering from accusations of abuse. He was not there to be judged but to seek repentance and recovery. Both were offered and received—praise to You!

Many other examples flood my mind, Lord, your people reaching out to invite, not to condemn, and that gives me hope even for a strong-willed theologian threatened by counter concepts to the point where pursuit of Truth through honest exploration is refused.

Let me not be that man, Lord: As strong as my belief in you has become, let me hear others. Let me try to understand them, and if we disagree, let me not apprehend—imprisoning them within walls of condemnation; just as I would pray they not condemn me. Let us seek together what eludes us both, the completeness of your Kingdom: It will come, it will happen, you have promised it. What an amazing thing it might be for all of us to receive it together…

—as one. 

Shalom echad,

Mark C.

5-28-2018 Miracling

            Who is like the LORD our God, who is seated on high,

            who looks far down on the heavens and the earth?

            He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the              ash heap, to make them sit with princes, with the princes of                his people. He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children.

            Praise the LORD!                  —Psalm 113:5-9

There are so many encounters related to this latest trip to your land, Lord—I’m anxious to share them all, but also want to be obedient to your spiritual stirrings. I sense that you too are anxious to share, so I’m going to take the path that is encouraging me most at this moment. You, I’m sure will have more to reveal on the matter as the events unfold.

The reason for my immediate inspiration is due to a book I’m reading, Cup of Salvation, penned by an orthodox Jewish rabbi, Pesach Wolicki. What does the writing have to do with my adventure in Israel? It actually started with my previous trip when our group attended a Bible study organized by the Center for Jewish—Christian Understanding and Cooperation. This unique group, which I’ve spoken of before, is founded by a number of rabbis whose vision is to dialogue with, study deeply and seek common understanding of your word. I was amazed by the first encounter and hungered for our most recent group to form their own opinions of the experience.

Because of scheduling and location challenges, a unique opportunity presented itself. I made contact with Rabbi Pesach (having never met before) and he offered to lead a small group study at the apartment we were staying at in Jerusalem. What a gracious man, you placed in our path, Adonai, how could we refuse such an intimate teaching moment? In a preliminary phone conversation, Pesach asked me, “what would you like me to teach on?”

So many things! I laughed inwardly, but knew we needed to focus our time and so suggested he help us examine prophetic verses in the Tenach concerning the Nations—most often referred to in the Old and New Testaments as Gentiles—and how they shall come to the land, committed to serve the people of Israel.

I heard the man on the other end of the line chuckle slightly and then he replied, “That’s perfect because I recently finished writing a book which includes a great deal about those prophecies.”

Well of course, I mused, you, Spirit, are doing a work, why should I be surprised?

Our study time arrives and Rabbi Pesach knocks on the door. We welcome, him, introduce and then laugh and banter a bit about the strange address of our apartment (we were in unit 208… on the 4^th floor of the building). There is an in immediate connection with our group. Sure we have differences: The elephant in the room? Has our Messiah already made himself know in the physical—you Lord Yeshua. But debate on that is not the purpose of this moment—you have something special in mind. Tonight we will share our common desire to understand the roots of your redemption plan for your people.

Pesach offers a great many insights which we eagerly absorb. Are we listening using different filters? Certainly so, that’s the human condition, but what he unpacks includes powerful insight into your sovereign yet personal involvement throughout our past history, our present and our future…

—“The last person to recognize that a miracle is happening,

is him to whom the miracle is happening.”

I’m really beginning to like this guy. While I’m digesting that morsel, he asks what seems an innocent question.

“Can anyone here offer a definition of what a miracle is?”

We all take stabs at the answer. Now I watch the rabbi nod, complementing each on their explanations, and then a smile plays on his lips. You have given this man wisdom I haven’t considered and he’s about to offer it up. My pen is poised and ready to mark the moment.

“A miracle happens when God, who created the natural laws of the universe,

acts outside those laws to produce an un-natural outcome.”

I’m paraphrasing on purpose, Lord because the conversation in that upper-room of ours involved much more back-and-forth, much more testing. The rabbi’s premise was powerful and made such simple sense. It spoke volumes about how we tend to think of miracles as being sometimes normal occurrences directed to help us and others. Sometimes they even seem like random acts, allowed by you. But they are not allowed or accidental at all. Quite the contrary, in order to act outside the predictable order of things, one must have and actively use, the power to act unpredictably… otherwise. That One, the only One who ca

n do that, is you, and therefore, you, Creator of the universe, are involved personally, directly and relationally in every truly miraculous event.

It was at that moment of realization that I perceived perhaps a miracle was happening right then and there. Maybe I was the last of those to realize it. We had come together with beliefs that were similar, but frictionally diverse enough whereby we might very well have sought argument and division as our course. Instead, we had come to agreement. We were of one accord, behaving outside the normal operating parameters of the universe!

A small miracle perhaps: Perhaps not. That’s the other dimension to miracles. They are not for our pleasure or purpose, but yours, Lord. They most certainly demonstrate testimony and can be used to sway the unbeliever, but it would be a mistake to think miracles are only an evangelistic tool.

Your miracles are mysteries of love. There I was, in a room of seekers and you presented yourself in full glory, not because of a word or some special formula of words, but because you desired us to spiritually know…Yadah…you, and each other, better.

Pesach was so generous with his time and passion for you—thank you, Teacher-of-all for instilling that purpose in him. Thank you for the miracle of all those people being in that room at that moment, for that is one more subtle truth about miracles. They sometimes look like conveniences—that’s probably why we don’t always recognize them until long after they occur—but you had to alter the natural laws for us to be there, I have no doubt. I know how miraculous was my own attendance and your effort that went into arranging the appointed time.

Which brings me to another realization about miracles. Once recognized—late or early on—I need to respond to their power, react to your intervention, worship and praise the enactor. OK, I don’t need to, but I should want to. Why would I not want to sing that song of appreciation? After all, miracle, in the Hebrew language is a verb. It is active so it might inspire activity by its receiver. I suppose then, Lord, the true nature of our fellowship, you and I, me and my brothers and sisters and neighbors, is one of Miracling.

So now perhaps, the readers of this blog will understand the connection of Rabbi Pesach’s book to our encounter. Cup of Salvation is a commentary on the Hallel (Praise) Psalms (113 through 118). I’m not going to shamelessly plug the rabbi’s writings; that is his job (and I risk that bit of comedy, believing I have now come to know the man at least enough to recognize we share a sense of ironic humor). I pray to and appreciate you Lord, for continuing to weave small and great miracles into our lives, joining us together for your greater miracle unfolding…your kingdom come.

Happy Miracling,

Mark C.

(Released with permission of Rab. Pesach Wolicki)

5-20-2018 Messiah

Go on up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good news; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good news; lift it up, fear not; say to the cities of Judah, "Behold your God!"

―Isaiah 40:9

OK Lord, I didn’t even know it was on my bucket list. It was not by my design. Now, it is a part of my spirit’s heart: Accident? Coincidence that this gift is discovered? Hardly.

Our group heard about an evening performance of Handel’s Messiah that was to be held at the Garden Tomb area of Jerusalem, a very special composition in an intimate terraced paradise that I love to visit whenever in your land. The concert had already been rescheduled once due to weather and now was an invitation not to be denied. So our venture began…

―We arrive into this nighttime paradise. Perfect; almost. There is a mild wind chilling the air, and we looked forward to the entertainment as we enter the peaceful courtyard. I explain to the others, who have not been, that this was not the “traditional” site thought to be your temporary resting place after the crucifixion. Instead, it is a fair re-creation of what the area might have looked like in your time. Regardless of its authenticity, the surroundings are beautiful, with stone walkways meandering side to side, stepping up and down alone a terrain lavished with flora which the breeze wafted, intoxicating my soul in preparation for what was to come.

We arrive early and disperse, each of us seeming to have individual preferences of seating location for the event. To my amazement, there is a second-row bench opening just behind and to the right of the conductor who is preparing to warm up the orchestra and choir. I eagerly take my place and happen to look above me. I am sitting directly under a beautiful olive tree that canopies out in peaceful protection of any who seek its sanctuary. I embrace the invitation and give you thanks for this tranquil moment.

It is enough, but you are not through with the blessing. The conductor raises his arms, the musicians become alert and then the air and my ears receive the melodic prelude of one of man’s most earnest attempts to honor you, reflecting your word in music.

An immediate sense of completeness floods my soul. Each note, each chord resonates in cause of reflecting your presence. Here is where I belong. As the soloists and choir join in, I too want to sing, but instead let their voices be mine, rising up in offering a sweet incense of song.

Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned, that she has received from the LORD's hand double for all her sins. A voice cries: "In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD; make straight in the desert a highway for our God.                                               

―Isaiah 40:1-3

And not only upwards does your word soar, but outward to the world. Interestingly, the dissonant tones of recorded evening prayers offered to other gods occasionally compete, invading from outside the garden walls. They are respected, the orchestra and singers stop, wait patiently with us, eagerly anticipating the finale of the chants and the restarting of our worship. Handel knew, I can hear it in his composition, that all mankind, if we will only consider the potential, can find you in song, in common prayer, in joined communion, recognizing that even in our best attempts, you are the Completer of our symphony.

         

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this.

―Isaiah 9:6-7

The songs continue and then the wind also begins a crescendo, it is a very cool breath considering this is May. Everyone around me shivers and we huddle, struggling to focus on the beauty of the notes rather than the increasing intensity of the weather. The musicians wrestle as well, their paper music flapping in the breeze and the gusts becoming a part of the concert, wanting to rush what we hope to savor longer.

At a point, however, after the Tenor Contra duet is ended, the conductor turns to us with a smile. “I would also like this to continue, but alas, our God has a different concert to share with us.” We all laugh and he tells of the unique nature of this evening’s work: The first time for a symphony concert in this garden (promising there will be many more); the context of Handel and the first of its kind translation, sung in Hebrew. O what a glorious night. I’m saddened by the shortening of the evening but am rewarded with a final requiem―of course, no Handel’s Messiah ever dares leave out the Halleluiah Chorus, and this is no exception. The choir and the audience suddenly become one; it’s the same with every Messiah concert I’ve ever participated in; the exultations of our hearts cannot be interned, rushing out in harmonies and voices of different countries and cultures. Hebrew, English, Korean, Dutch, and so many others: It is the same word―we all live the exclamation; we all pour it out with understanding of its origins and it Originator.

Halleluiah, Halleluiah, Halleluiah!

For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.

Halleluiah, Halleluiah!

                                                ―Revelation 19-6

Please don’t let it stop, Lord. Let this be that eternal moment when you return to rule us with your love.

But I know somehow in my heart of hearts, this is not that moment. It will come, but tonight it is just the most perfect and sweetest of reminders. Your kingdom is approaching, its antiphonal procession sung in practiced hope and joy, by your creation in this garden of your creation. Our gang as one had set out to be entertained. Instead, we were enveloped into a symphony of Spirit. You had foreseen it and placed us in the moment; an invitation and feast unexpected and magnificently orchestrated―just as a future day will come when there will be another, last invitation when each of us must a choice, accepting or rejecting your song of love. It may be today, or yet one more. Only you know that final moment.

I can’t wait another day. My heart chooses you now, Lord God, today and maybe yet one more. I long for that day when you shall reign forever and ever.

Amen, Halleluiah!

Mark C.