5/26/2006
DUTCH IRIS
NUMBER 146
Dutch Iris
When I was a child I was very interested in the Netherlands. My father’s father was born there and came to Grand Rapids, Michigan in his early 20’s to work in the furniture factories. He was a finish wood carver. He never spoke much about the “Old Country” but I knew I was half Dutch and paid a good deal of attention to the place.
For me Holland was a fairy tale land wrested from the sea and kept dry by a race of sturdy Calvinists. A land of picture postcard farms, beautiful cows, windmills, women who scrubbed their front steps daily and the streets as well from time to time.
It was the land where men named van Ruysdael, Rembrandt, Vermeer, van Gogh, Mondrian and de Kooning had done wonderful things on canvas with oil paints and the legislators governed with one eye firmly on the Bible. It was the land where a boy in wooden shoes had stuck his finger in the dike and saved the nation.
That was then and this is now. The Netherlands has gone from moral uprightness to legal prostitution and legal soft drugs. In the Netherlands you still cannot get an abortion after 23 weeks, but you can get a doctor to help Granny on her way to the great beyond if she becomes inconvenient. (Soon Australians will be able to send Granny as a tourist--it will only take a one-way ticket). Dutch legislators now have bodyguards and govern with one eye on the Homicidal Sons Of Allah--knowing, as infidels, one wrong move and they may be put to the sword. The artists now create with one eye on these same Muslims, knowing that if they offend, they may well end up with their throats cut.
For me as a Dutchman, there is still at least one thing I can be proud of—the flowers. Hollanders still raise and export the most wonderful tulips. And the Dutch Iris’s outside our kitchen window are the loveliest of things. These rose up straight and tall. They bloomed magnificently as if brand new for over two weeks, resisting wind and rain storms several times, before they began to fade. Out back, others, have come to take their place.
“They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die.”
Shakespeare, Sonnet 94, l. 7
Dutch Iris
When I was a child I was very interested in the Netherlands. My father’s father was born there and came to Grand Rapids, Michigan in his early 20’s to work in the furniture factories. He was a finish wood carver. He never spoke much about the “Old Country” but I knew I was half Dutch and paid a good deal of attention to the place.
For me Holland was a fairy tale land wrested from the sea and kept dry by a race of sturdy Calvinists. A land of picture postcard farms, beautiful cows, windmills, women who scrubbed their front steps daily and the streets as well from time to time.
It was the land where men named van Ruysdael, Rembrandt, Vermeer, van Gogh, Mondrian and de Kooning had done wonderful things on canvas with oil paints and the legislators governed with one eye firmly on the Bible. It was the land where a boy in wooden shoes had stuck his finger in the dike and saved the nation.
That was then and this is now. The Netherlands has gone from moral uprightness to legal prostitution and legal soft drugs. In the Netherlands you still cannot get an abortion after 23 weeks, but you can get a doctor to help Granny on her way to the great beyond if she becomes inconvenient. (Soon Australians will be able to send Granny as a tourist--it will only take a one-way ticket). Dutch legislators now have bodyguards and govern with one eye on the Homicidal Sons Of Allah--knowing, as infidels, one wrong move and they may be put to the sword. The artists now create with one eye on these same Muslims, knowing that if they offend, they may well end up with their throats cut.
For me as a Dutchman, there is still at least one thing I can be proud of—the flowers. Hollanders still raise and export the most wonderful tulips. And the Dutch Iris’s outside our kitchen window are the loveliest of things. These rose up straight and tall. They bloomed magnificently as if brand new for over two weeks, resisting wind and rain storms several times, before they began to fade. Out back, others, have come to take their place.
“They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die.”
Shakespeare, Sonnet 94, l. 7
5/19/2006
CHALLENGE
NUMBER 144
CHALLENGE
Recently Fuller Seminary’s Theology, News and Notes (Spring 2006) did a whole issue on the changing sound of worship. It runs the gamut from Bach to Hip Hop. I read it with interest and found a few gems scattered through a large heap of pretentious blather. For my readers who struggle, or have struggled, or certainly will at some point in the future struggle with music in the church, here is one of those gems.
A Stirring Charge: Dear Professor Shasberger, from Harold Best
The charge given to Michael Shasberger upon becoming the new Adams Chair of Worship and Music at Westmont college by veteran scholar Harold Best who challenges all who have been called to lead worship or train leaders for worship.
(This is the paragraph that caught my eye)
“Remember that style, aesthetic quality, and creative genius notwithstanding, the heart and soul of church music is congregational song—the music of the people of God. Teach young and old that there is but one worship leader: God’s Holy Spirit who purges and carries the song. There is but one worship team: the congregation, engaged in song-ridden worship. Teach this without any musical style in mind. Remember that the sole purpose of the arts in corporate worship is to serve the liturgy, but only those liturgies that unconditionally serve the Word of God. Remember that artistic excelling is not the means serving the end, the means becoming the end, or the end trampling the means. It is simply and uniquely the unceasing process of becoming better than we were yesterday as we make artistic offerings to the One who in his Triune and eternal completion is Means, End, and Everything-in-Between. Remember that while you must dip deep into the artistic treasures of humankind, you do so as a highly specialized but willing and emptied servant who knows what countless others do not yet know and humbles himself to enhance their knowing. Do not mistake their ignorance or hesitation for poor taste. Remember that the bridge from artistic ignorance to your artistic treasure house is spanned ever so gradually, humbly, and discerningly. Try to remember that artistic poverty and spiritual richness can be simultaneously welcomed by a Savior who understands that faithfulness is not abetted by artistic good works. Remember likewise that artistic excellence has no standing before the Lord unless chaperoned by faith, hope, and love. All the while, do not forget how to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
Harold M. Best (DSM) is professor emeritus of music and dean emeritus of the Wheaton College Conservatory of Music. He received his DSM from Union Theological Seminary and is the author of Music through the Eyes of Faith (Harper San Francisco, 1993) and Unceasing Worship: Biblical Perspectives on Worship and the Art (InterVarsity Press, 2003) as well as numerous articles on faith and art. Active as lecturer, consultant, and workshop leader, he also composes choral and organ compositions. He is past president of the National Association of Schools of Music, past chairman of the Commission on Accreditation, and member of the ASCAP Standard Awards Panel.
The whole article is available at http://www.fuller.edu/news/pubs/tnn/2006_Spring/Harold_Best.asp
+++++++
In a lighter vein, here is something Chesterton said that is equally applicable to politics and music in the church:
“The whole modern world has divided itself into Conservatives and Progressives. The business of Progressives is to go on making mistakes. The business of Conservatives is to prevent mistakes from being corrected. Even when the revolutionist might himself repent of his revolution, the traditionalist is already defending it as part of his tradition. Thus we have two great types—the advanced person who rushes us into ruin, and the retrospective person who admires the ruins."—G. K. Chesterton
+++++++
And finally,
“Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies.”
Philippians 4.8-9
CHALLENGE
Recently Fuller Seminary’s Theology, News and Notes (Spring 2006) did a whole issue on the changing sound of worship. It runs the gamut from Bach to Hip Hop. I read it with interest and found a few gems scattered through a large heap of pretentious blather. For my readers who struggle, or have struggled, or certainly will at some point in the future struggle with music in the church, here is one of those gems.
A Stirring Charge: Dear Professor Shasberger, from Harold Best
The charge given to Michael Shasberger upon becoming the new Adams Chair of Worship and Music at Westmont college by veteran scholar Harold Best who challenges all who have been called to lead worship or train leaders for worship.
(This is the paragraph that caught my eye)
“Remember that style, aesthetic quality, and creative genius notwithstanding, the heart and soul of church music is congregational song—the music of the people of God. Teach young and old that there is but one worship leader: God’s Holy Spirit who purges and carries the song. There is but one worship team: the congregation, engaged in song-ridden worship. Teach this without any musical style in mind. Remember that the sole purpose of the arts in corporate worship is to serve the liturgy, but only those liturgies that unconditionally serve the Word of God. Remember that artistic excelling is not the means serving the end, the means becoming the end, or the end trampling the means. It is simply and uniquely the unceasing process of becoming better than we were yesterday as we make artistic offerings to the One who in his Triune and eternal completion is Means, End, and Everything-in-Between. Remember that while you must dip deep into the artistic treasures of humankind, you do so as a highly specialized but willing and emptied servant who knows what countless others do not yet know and humbles himself to enhance their knowing. Do not mistake their ignorance or hesitation for poor taste. Remember that the bridge from artistic ignorance to your artistic treasure house is spanned ever so gradually, humbly, and discerningly. Try to remember that artistic poverty and spiritual richness can be simultaneously welcomed by a Savior who understands that faithfulness is not abetted by artistic good works. Remember likewise that artistic excellence has no standing before the Lord unless chaperoned by faith, hope, and love. All the while, do not forget how to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
Harold M. Best (DSM) is professor emeritus of music and dean emeritus of the Wheaton College Conservatory of Music. He received his DSM from Union Theological Seminary and is the author of Music through the Eyes of Faith (Harper San Francisco, 1993) and Unceasing Worship: Biblical Perspectives on Worship and the Art (InterVarsity Press, 2003) as well as numerous articles on faith and art. Active as lecturer, consultant, and workshop leader, he also composes choral and organ compositions. He is past president of the National Association of Schools of Music, past chairman of the Commission on Accreditation, and member of the ASCAP Standard Awards Panel.
The whole article is available at http://www.fuller.edu/news/pubs/tnn/2006_Spring/Harold_Best.asp
+++++++
In a lighter vein, here is something Chesterton said that is equally applicable to politics and music in the church:
“The whole modern world has divided itself into Conservatives and Progressives. The business of Progressives is to go on making mistakes. The business of Conservatives is to prevent mistakes from being corrected. Even when the revolutionist might himself repent of his revolution, the traditionalist is already defending it as part of his tradition. Thus we have two great types—the advanced person who rushes us into ruin, and the retrospective person who admires the ruins."—G. K. Chesterton
+++++++
And finally,
“Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, will work you into his most excellent harmonies.”
Philippians 4.8-9
5/11/2006
FIFTY YEARS
NUMBER 143
FIFTY YEARS
In September 1979 I wrote this poem. Having just returned from the reunion of the Wheaton College Class of ’56, I can say that we are truly thankful for all those “golden possibilities” that have come to fruition in the last 50 years. And we are thankful too that there are still many golden possibilities out there ahead. A wag has said that life really begins when the kids have all left home and the dog has died. For the servants of Jesus Christ, whatever their age or circumstances, life begins anew every morning and every day is filled with golden possibilities.
TESTIMONY
The summer I was eight
When today was forever
And tomorrow pregnant
With golden possibilities,
I saw the truth--
Saw it on Mount Zion
Among innumerable angels
In the assembly of the firstborn
In the midst of just men,
Not yet made perfect.
They said my simple, childish sins,
Those little grey transgressions,
Were all a part of one black stain
That's spreading still from Eden's womb
To every mother's child
The day the cord is cut.
They also told the way
To cleanse the stain
And make things new again:
So calling Jesus Lord,
Believing all his work for me,
By the Grace of God alone
I joined just men, not yet made perfect,
Staked a claim on Zion's hill
And added the ultimate certainty
To all those tomorrows,
Pregnant with golden possibilities.
9/79/5/06
026
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
and do not return there until they have watered the earth,
making it bring forth and sprout,
giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,
so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
For you shall go out in joy,
and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you
shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
Isaiah 55.10-12
FIFTY YEARS
In September 1979 I wrote this poem. Having just returned from the reunion of the Wheaton College Class of ’56, I can say that we are truly thankful for all those “golden possibilities” that have come to fruition in the last 50 years. And we are thankful too that there are still many golden possibilities out there ahead. A wag has said that life really begins when the kids have all left home and the dog has died. For the servants of Jesus Christ, whatever their age or circumstances, life begins anew every morning and every day is filled with golden possibilities.
TESTIMONY
The summer I was eight
When today was forever
And tomorrow pregnant
With golden possibilities,
I saw the truth--
Saw it on Mount Zion
Among innumerable angels
In the assembly of the firstborn
In the midst of just men,
Not yet made perfect.
They said my simple, childish sins,
Those little grey transgressions,
Were all a part of one black stain
That's spreading still from Eden's womb
To every mother's child
The day the cord is cut.
They also told the way
To cleanse the stain
And make things new again:
So calling Jesus Lord,
Believing all his work for me,
By the Grace of God alone
I joined just men, not yet made perfect,
Staked a claim on Zion's hill
And added the ultimate certainty
To all those tomorrows,
Pregnant with golden possibilities.
9/79/5/06
026
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,
and do not return there until they have watered the earth,
making it bring forth and sprout,
giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,
so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
For you shall go out in joy,
and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you
shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
Isaiah 55.10-12
5/03/2006
MY LIFE FOR YOURS
NUMBER 142
My Life For Yours
The Coats Off Their Backs
The ragged mother carefully removed her baby's outer sweater, tucked the child inside her thin cotton jacket and carried the sweater to the growing pile of clothing on the communion table. Outside a bitter wind cut thru the frozen streets and alleys of Taegu, South Korea. Inside the church a thousand refugees from the war in the North sat crowded together on the floor in semi-darkness--the temperature was eight degrees.
Bob Pierce watched amazed as a steady stream of worshippers made their way to the altar, each carrying an offering of clothing from off his back, for the new refugees, daily joining the million already in the city. Many had walked 200 miles, escaping only with what they could carry on their backs. That man coming now, Bob was told, spent eight weeks hiding in a pigpen to escape execution for the crime of being a seminary student. All the pastors in his city had been killed. He caught pneumonia and is only now recovering- and he gives his jacket at great price.
The church was packed full--no surprise to the refugees living nine or more to a room in the poorest parts of a city without heat or light. They sat on the floor. They prayed. As they sang, small tongues of steam rose above them--a Pentecost of ice, Bob thought. They gathered strength and encouragement from the communion of the saints. There was no complaining, no bitterness, and no anger.
But there was fear in the room. The Chinese had entered the war, crossed the Yalu River and were moving south. The Americans were in retreat. To be a Christian in Korea in those days was to be a target. In the first five months of 1950, 439 pastors, evangelists and Christian leaders had been martyred. The Communists were powerful and merciless. They had made promises to exterminate all Christians, and they were coming.
He watched another man with a broad smile on his face. This man had sung louder and stronger than many around him. He had reason to sing. The soldiers had come for him. He had hidden for weeks in the eaves of his home, been shot at by the searchers, and finally escaped with his wife and two small children. His family looked very proud and very thankful as he added their small contribution to the offering of clothing.
Earlier they had sung, "I must tell Jesus all of my troubles. I cannot bear my burdens alone. I must tell Jesus, I must tell Jesus. Jesus can help me, Jesus alone."
In spite of the cold that cut like a knife, in spite of the fear and the sickness and the semi-darkness of the bitter winter morning, they sang the songs of Zion with shining eyes and lusty voices.
When they had sung, and prayed, and their pastor had spoken to them, the guest was invited to say a few words. Bob Pierce never found it easy to say just a few words, but this early morning in Taegu he was almost at a loss. In the midst of war and bitter winter and grinding poverty this community of believers had lived out for him the magnificent truth of that we remember each time we break the bread and share the cup; "My life for yours." They had taken Jesus literally on all counts and lived his Word today, and found it true and Him faithful.
My Life For Yours
The Coats Off Their Backs
The ragged mother carefully removed her baby's outer sweater, tucked the child inside her thin cotton jacket and carried the sweater to the growing pile of clothing on the communion table. Outside a bitter wind cut thru the frozen streets and alleys of Taegu, South Korea. Inside the church a thousand refugees from the war in the North sat crowded together on the floor in semi-darkness--the temperature was eight degrees.
Bob Pierce watched amazed as a steady stream of worshippers made their way to the altar, each carrying an offering of clothing from off his back, for the new refugees, daily joining the million already in the city. Many had walked 200 miles, escaping only with what they could carry on their backs. That man coming now, Bob was told, spent eight weeks hiding in a pigpen to escape execution for the crime of being a seminary student. All the pastors in his city had been killed. He caught pneumonia and is only now recovering- and he gives his jacket at great price.
The church was packed full--no surprise to the refugees living nine or more to a room in the poorest parts of a city without heat or light. They sat on the floor. They prayed. As they sang, small tongues of steam rose above them--a Pentecost of ice, Bob thought. They gathered strength and encouragement from the communion of the saints. There was no complaining, no bitterness, and no anger.
But there was fear in the room. The Chinese had entered the war, crossed the Yalu River and were moving south. The Americans were in retreat. To be a Christian in Korea in those days was to be a target. In the first five months of 1950, 439 pastors, evangelists and Christian leaders had been martyred. The Communists were powerful and merciless. They had made promises to exterminate all Christians, and they were coming.
He watched another man with a broad smile on his face. This man had sung louder and stronger than many around him. He had reason to sing. The soldiers had come for him. He had hidden for weeks in the eaves of his home, been shot at by the searchers, and finally escaped with his wife and two small children. His family looked very proud and very thankful as he added their small contribution to the offering of clothing.
Earlier they had sung, "I must tell Jesus all of my troubles. I cannot bear my burdens alone. I must tell Jesus, I must tell Jesus. Jesus can help me, Jesus alone."
In spite of the cold that cut like a knife, in spite of the fear and the sickness and the semi-darkness of the bitter winter morning, they sang the songs of Zion with shining eyes and lusty voices.
When they had sung, and prayed, and their pastor had spoken to them, the guest was invited to say a few words. Bob Pierce never found it easy to say just a few words, but this early morning in Taegu he was almost at a loss. In the midst of war and bitter winter and grinding poverty this community of believers had lived out for him the magnificent truth of that we remember each time we break the bread and share the cup; "My life for yours." They had taken Jesus literally on all counts and lived his Word today, and found it true and Him faithful.
