Teach Us To Number Our Days

No. 13,953

The 90th Psalm is unusual, in that it was written by Moses himself. It is a meditation upon how small a thing human time is, compared to the eternity of God.

(1) Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations.
(2) Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.
(3) You return man to dust and say, “Return, O children of man!”
(4) For a thousand years in your sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night.
(5) You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream, like grass that is renewed in the morning:
(6) In the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it fades and withers.

(10) The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.

(12) So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.

This final verse from our reading is intriguing. Moses suggests that there is wisdom to be found in numbering our days. Let’s take Moses at his word. Today marks the 13,953rd day of my life. What wisdom is found in this?

1. Numbering my days reminds me of how blessed I have been. Isn’t it interesting that Moses tells us to number our days rather than our years? If I number my years, 38 doesn’t seem like that many. Were I to find out tomorrow that I had a terminal illness, I might be inclined to feel cheated, or short-changed, at such a small number as 38.

But when I number my days, it is a different story entirely. What a big number 13,953 is! And when we stop to think about it, what an extraordinary gift just a single day is! Each day comes with a sunrise and a sunset, and with a span of hours in between to make of what we will. Each day is so chock full of possibilities and excitement, of beauty and grace. Each day provides new opportunities to love and be loved. Rightly did the Psalmist (118.24) declare: "This is the day that the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

When we number our days, it is impossible not to realize how extravagantly blessed we have been. This much is clear: having bestowed almost 14,000 of these amazing gifts upon me already, God does not owe me even one more day! If the Lord were to end my earthly days today, how could I possibly complain? When I have been blessed 14,000 times already?

2. Numbering my days reminds me that I cannot change the past. Today is the 13,953rd day of my life; that means there are 13,952 days that I cannot do anything about. These are the days gone by. They are full of regrets … full of words I wish I could unsay … full of mistakes I wish I could unmake … full of sins I wish I could un-sin — but of course, I cannot. Not only are there the bad things I have done, there are also the good things I have left undone. One of the most humbling things about numbering my days is the realization of how many of them I have squandered — of how little I have to show for God’s investment of 14,000 days in me. I can do nothing about the days past, except lay them at the feet of Jesus. Can there be any doubt, from numbering our days, that we need a savior?

3. Numbering my days reminds me that I am mortal. The anonymous writer of Hebrews states, in 9.27, that “it is appointed unto man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” When I count up my days, this point is driven home. I am forced to realize that I am getting closer and closer to my appointment with death with each passing day.

In the 90th Psalm, Moses gives us a rule of thumb concerning the human life span, when he says “the years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty.” I find it absolutely fascinating that Moses’s estimate from 3500 years ago corresponds so closely with our average life spans today! To me, this is a proof that Moses was receiving divine inspiration as he penned these words.

But these are averages; they are not promises. We have seen too many people die much younger than 70 to delude ourselves on this point. This is a dangerous world. How many of us in the last month have ridden in a vehicle traveling 55 miles per hour or more? Have you ever realized how inherently dangerous that is? How many of us have ridden with a driver who was on their cellphone? Studies show that drivers who talk and drive are about as impaired as those who drink and drive, and that those who text and drive are actually more impaired! The point is, there is no real safety on this side of the grave. Truly, we can say with David, “there is but a step between me and death.” (1 Samuel 20.3)

Because of that, none of us know how many days we have left. Solomon observed, in Ecclesiastes 9.12, that “man does not know his time.” While it is relatively easy for us to number the days which are past — (especially if you use a computer spreadsheet!) — only God can number the days ahead of us.

4. Numbering my days reminds me that today must be put to good use. I can do nothing about the days past. I cannot depend upon being here tomorrow. This may be my last day. Therefore, if I am wise, I should make the most of today.

The Roman poet Horace coined the phrase, “Carpe Diem” which means “Seize the day!” I love the way that a more recent poet, Rudyard Kipling, expressed the same idea:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Nor am I the only one who likes Kipling’s advice. One of the most aggressive American generals of the Second World War — or of any war, for that matter — was George S. Patton. He once said that this passage from Kipling was the “whole art of war.” (Patton certainly understood the idea of covering distance quickly, as the Germans found out the hard way.)

“Seizing the day” — or “filling the unforgiving minute” — is very much a Biblical thought:

• Jesus said in John 9.4, “We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work.”

• Paul, in 2 Corinthians 6.2, declares, “Behold, now is the favorable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

• In Ephesians 5.15-16, Paul adds — in the words of the Old King James: “See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.” (I particularly like quoting this verse to my students, as I am keeping them to the bell, or just a little bit after, with my lectures; I’m not sure, on those occasions, that my students are as appreciative of the teachings of Paul as they should be!)

One of Satan’s most devastating weapons is his ability to tempt us to procrastinate. We intend on doing so many good things — but we’re going to do them tomorrow, as if, somehow, they will be easier to do tomorrow than they are today. And then tomorrow comes, and we put these good things off ’til another day, and another week, and another month, and they don’t get done — and “the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” as the old saying goes.

As we’ve just seen, in the Bible, the emphasis is always on today, not tomorrow. To borrow a phrase from Martin Luther King, Jr., the Bible speaks of “the fierce urgency of now.”

• Today is the day to start that big school project you have looming over you …

• Today is the day to share a cup of coffee with an old friend, or with a new one …

• Today is the day to tell your loved ones that you love them …

• Today is the day to make amends with those you’ve hurt …

• Today is the day to repent of an ensnaring sin …

• Today is the best possible day to be baptized into Christ …

My late grandfather had, hanging in his study, a meditation written by Dr. Heartsill Wilson, entitled “A New Day.” It is an especially appropriate passage to share with you, as we bring our remarks to a close:

This is the beginning of a new day. God has given me this day to use as I will. I can waste it — or use it for good, but what I do today is important, because I am exchanging a day of my life for it! When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever, leaving in its place something that I have traded for it. I want it to be gain, and not loss; good, and not evil; success, and not failure; in order that I shall not regret the price that I have paid for it.

Moses said, “So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.” Of course, he was right; there is wisdom to be gained in numbering our days. Numbering our days reminds us of how blessed we have been; reminds us that we cannot change the past; reminds us of how mortal we are; and reminds us to make good use of today.

Some time ago, I went into a grocery store to pick up an item or two. It was morning. The lady running the cash register was mature in years. As I concluded my business, I offered an banal “have a good day.” I was not expecting a life lesson, but I will never forget what she said. She kindly explained that over the years she had learned that you don’t really have good days; you make good days.

And so, as we take leave this morning, make a good day! You are dismissed.

(Note: I delivered this in chapel the same day.)

Louisiana Maneuvers

Last week I took a road trip down to Louisiana, taking in some sites pertinent to American military history, a subject I am slated to teach this fall at Harding.

Vicksburg Battlefield. I left Monday morning, stopping at Vicksburg, Miss., en route to New Orleans. I had been to Vicksburg before, back in 1994, on a field trip led by my former teacher, now colleague, Paul Haynie. Vicksburg was a Confederate stronghold on the Mississippi River which, after a lengthy siege by U. S. Grant, finally fell on July 4, 1863. The most poignant thing about this particular visit to Vicksburg was that every grave was decorated with a little American flag, because it was Memorial Day (May 25).


Chalmette Battlefield. The next morning I visited the site of the Battle of New Orleans, fought in January 1815. The battle occurred a few days after the Treaty of Ghent had been signed, but news traveled slowly in those days and no one realized it yet. The battle took place on the Chalmette Plantation. (Like Vicksburg, Chalmette is administered by the National Parks service.)


The photo here depicts the American line during the battle. The British attacked this line, rather futilely, and were forced to withdraw. I was especially interested to learn that the carriages of the American cannon were painted light blue during the battle, in accordance with military regulations of the time.

National WWII Museum. My next stop was at the National World War II Museum in New Orleans. The late Stephen Ambrose, noted World War II historian, was the driving force behind this museum. The website says to allocate at least two and a half to three hours for your visit; I spent about five hours, and felt a bit rushed!

Throughout the exhibit, there are oral history kiosks where one can listen to firsthand accounts of the war from survivors. They also play two documentaries throughout the day; one, on the Pacific War, entitled Price For Peace; and D-Day Remembered, about the Normandy invasion. I was particularly impressed with D-Day Remembered, which is narrated by the always-impressive David McCullough.

There weren’t a lot of vehicles at the museum, though there was a Sherman tank (pictured), a German 88-millimeter gun, two landing craft, and four aircraft rather majestically hung from the ceiling: a C-47 Skytrain, a Messerschmidt 109, a British Spitfire, and a Dauntless dive-bomber.

U.S.S. Kidd. My next stop came Wednesday morning, at the U.S.S. Kidd, which is anchored in the Mississippi River at Baton Rouge. The Kidd is a World War II-era destroyer (Fletcher class) which suffered a kamikaze attack off of Okinawa in April 1945. Although the Kidd is the most prominent exhibit, it is not the only one at this museum; there is also a P-40 Warhawk (of “Flying Tigers” fame) and an A-7 Corsair jet fighter.

This was also my second visit to the Kidd; back in my sportswriter days, during an S.E.C. conference track meet at L.S.U., I also toured the old “tin can.”

8th Air Force Museum. My last stop was in Shreveport, at the 8th Air Force Museum, located at Barksdale Air Force Base. I arrived Wednesday afternoon, but was turned away because I got there too late. So I spent the night in Shreveport, which gave me the opportunity to attend midweek Bible study at the University Church of Christ, which I found enjoyable. Thursday morning I went back to Barksdale. I found that the museum building was again closed, this time because of water problems — but the air park was open, and that was the reason I had come, anyway.

There are several notable old warbirds out in the air park, including a B-17 Flying Fortress, a B-24 Liberator, a B-29 Superfortress, a couple of B-52 Stratofortresses, a P-51 Mustang, and an SR-71 Blackbird (pictured). I was particularly impressed with the British B.2 Avro Vulcan they had on display; the Brits sure know how to build a pretty airplane!


There was something a bit sad, though, about walking through the air park, looking at these old warriors slowly deteriorating out in the elements. The B-29 was particularly rough; it was missing its entire tail. In stark contrast to these rusting relics, however, were the B-52s still on active duty, located just a few hundred feet away across the fence. I got to see two of them take off.

The B-52 never ceases to amaze me. It first flew in 1952, some forty-nine years after the Wright brothers made their initial flight in Kittyhawk. Fifty-seven years later, the design is still flying. This means that the design of the B-52 is closer, in time, to the days of the Wright brothers than to our own time — and yet the venerable old bomber is still absolutely relevant.

A Man Called Intrepid

I just finished reading William Stevenson’s A Man Called Intrepid. Published originally in 1976, this is a gripping account of the World War II service of British spy-master William Stephenson. (In spite of the similarity of their names, the two men are not related.) The Allies clearly out-spied the Germans during the war, and this was in no small part due to Stephenson, whose code name was “Intrepid.” (The Soviets may well have out-spied their own Allies, but that is another story.)

There are a couple of passages which particularly caught my attention, both from Intrepid himself. First, on the necessity of spying:

The weapons of secrecy have no place in an ideal world. But we live in a world of undeclared hostilities in which such weapons are constantly used against us and could, unless countered, leave us unprepared again, this time for an onslaught of magnitude that staggers the imagination. And while it may seem unnecessary to stress so obvious a point, the weapons of secrecy are rendered ineffective if we remove the secrecy. One of the conditions of democracy is freedom of information. It would be infinitely preferable to know exactly how our intelligence agencies function, and why, and where. But this information, once made public, disarms us. (p. xv)

Stephenson made this argument during the Cold War, when the threat of nuclear war seemed ever present — hence the reference to “an onslaught of magnitude that staggers the imagination.” But the end of the Cold War — (it did end, didn’t it?) — has not brought an end to the threat of terrible onslaught, as the events of September 11, 2001 made so very clear. In some ways, the threat is worse. The beautiful thing about the Soviets was that they did not want to die, and thus could be blackmailed into peace. But Islamic terrorists desire death, and want to take you with them.

Not all Muslims are terrorists, of course; but a distressing number are, and it does not take many to cause great evil. (Nineteen, I think, was the number.) There are too many today who want to pretend that there is no threat, that claims to the contrary were merely a pretense by an evangelical president to settle old political scores and spy on his own people. Another passage from Intrepid is, I think, applicable to this sort of nonsense:

The easy way out is to pretend there are no crises. That’s the way to win elections. That’s the way we stumbled into war in the first place — there were too many men in power who preferred to see no threat to freedom because to admit to such a threat implies a willingness to accept sacrifice to combat it. There’s a considerable difference between being high-minded and soft-headed. (p. 466)

For all of its political appeal, we cannot afford soft-headedness in the Long War we find ourselves now in.

The Same War

I’m back in Fayetteville this week on “spring” break, though there is nothing particularly spring-like about the weather of the past couple of days. With a little downtime on my hands, I thought I would update my blog. In part, this is prompted by a remark from my brother today, who said that he was going to be removing dead links from his blog, and threatened to remove mine, since it has been so long since I have posted.

Although it has heretofore gone unremarked on my blog, I am now teaching history at Harding University. This is not entirely unconnected to the fact that I have not been posting; teaching four classes — with a total of about 180 students in them — does keep me pretty busy. But it is a very happy kind of busy. 

Several months ago, during a dark time, I complained that youth ministry seemed like an unwinnable battle. As a teacher at a Christian college, I actually feel like I’m in the same war, against the same enemy. But the fight no longer seems unwinnable — perhaps a bit like the difference between being in the Polish cavalry in 1939, and the 1st Polish Armoured Division in 1944.

Garden of Beasts

I just finished re-reading Jeffery Deaver’s novel, Garden of Beasts, set in 1936 Berlin, as the Germans are preparing to host the Olympic Games. Deaver tells a riveting story, featuring two very compelling characters.

One is Paul Schumann, the main character. Schumann is an American hit man (“button man”), who is arrested and given a chance at redemption. If he will go to Berlin and assassinate Reinhard Ernst, the man in charge of re-arming Germany, then his past will be forgiven. Schumann is a surprisingly moral hit man who adheres to a code; he kills only the guilty. He is good at his job and hard to catch; think Jason Bourne vs. the Nazis.

No less compelling is Willi Kohl, a quick-witted and humane German policeman charged with finding Schumann. (If Schumann is Bourne-like, then Kohl is a German version of Chief Inspective Foyle.) Kohl’s humanity is clearly on display as he and his young assistant, Konrad Janssen, are called upon to investigate a murder. Janssen makes the mistake of complaining about exerting so much “effort for a fat dead man.” This earns a reprimand from his boss. The victim was not just a “fat middle-aged man,” Kohl tells him, he was also “somebody’s son.” Kohl continues:

And perhaps he was somebody's brother. And maybe somebody’s husband or lover. And, if he was lucky, he was a father of sons and daughters. I would hope too that there are past lovers who think of him occasionally. And in his future other lovers might have awaited. And three or four more children he could have brought into the world. So, Janssen, when you look at the incident in this way we don’t have merely a curious mystery about a stocky dead man. We have a tragedy like a spiderweb reaching many different lives and many different places, extending for years and years. How sad that is … Do you see why our job is so important? (pp. 122-123, paperback version)

Kohl is not the only good German in the book. Another, heartsick at what the Nazis were doing to her country, mourns:

I don’t understand what has happened. We ware a people who love music and talk and who rejoice in sewing the perfect stitch in our men’s shirts and scrubbing our alley cobblestones clean and basking in the sun on the beach at Wannsee and buying our children clothing and sweets, we’re moved to tears by the ‘Moonlight’ Sonata, by the words of Goethe and Schiller — yet we are possessed now. Why? (p. 291)

Garden of Beasts is both a gripping page-turner and a brooding meditation on the subject of good versus evil.

Piece of Cake

I recently watched Piece of Cake again, a British-made miniseries about the Battle of Britain. I originally watched it several years ago while I was in high school, when it played on PBS’s Masterpiece Theater. I enjoyed it then, and enjoyed it again.

The six-part series details the service of the fictional Hornet Squadron during the first year of World War II. The pilots — Churchill’s fabled “few” — find themselves in a near impossible battle for survival.

The series is based on a novel of the same title by Derek Robinson, which I also read — several years after watching the series the first time, but several years before watching it the second time. These gaps of time are sufficient to make it hard to compare the two works, though I do remember there being significant differences between book and movie concerning my favorite character, the American pilot Chris Hart.

Without giving too much away, the title is ironic. Stopping the Luftwaffe was anything but a piece of cake.

The Teammates

At my brother’s suggestion, I recently read The Teammates by David Halbertstam, a book about the remarkable friendship between four ballplayers, Johnny Pesky, Dominic DiMaggio, Bobby Doerr, and Ted Williams.

Halberstam was not your typical sportswriter. He won a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting during the Vietnam War, and published a famous book about Vietnam entitled The Best and the Brightest, which I probably ought to read. Tragically, Halberstam was killed in a car wreck in April, 2007.

Luke has already blogged about the book, so I won’t cover the ground that he did. But there are a couple or three other things which also stood out to me. One was the fact that Williams — who is one of two finalists for the distinction of Greatest Hitter Of All Time, with Babe Ruth being the other — was a quarter Latino; his mother was half Mexican.

Williams and Joe DiMaggio are the two great icons of 1940s era baseball (though I think I would take the amazingly classy Stan Musial over either of them; but that is another story). Dom DiMaggio had the unique distinction of being the brother of one of these icons and a very close friend of the other. No slouch of a baseball player himself (a .298 career hitter who played a magnificent center field), Dom had a more successful life than either Joe or Ted, according to Halberstam. He quotes Dick Flavin, who observed, “I think both Ted and Joe were aware of it, how well he had dealt with his life, and what a complete life it had been, and Ted to his credit admired him for it, and Joe, I am afraid, resented him for it.” (p. 22)

The Sox met St. Louis in the 1946 World Series. The climactic Game Seven was tied 3-3 going into the eighth inning, the Cardinals’ half of the inning. With two outs, Harry Walker was up, trying to advance his teammate Enos “Country” Slaughter, who was at first. Walker hit a bloop to left-center, which the official scorers recorded as a double, even though Walker himself admitted it was a “dying seagull.” Slaughter, who had broken for second with the pitch, managed to come all the way around to score what would prove to be both the game-winning and series-winning run.

Sportswriters would blame the run upon Pesky, the Sox shortstop, who, they felt, hesitated before throwing an errant relay throw home. More at fault than Pesky, however, was back-up centerfielder Leon Culberson. Culberson was filling in for Dom, who had injured himself earlier in the game, and failed to position himself appropriately for Walker, who had a penchant for punching the ball to left-center. Making matters worse, Culberson approached the ball tentatively and then made a throw to Pesky that was both soft and low. A third Sox player, hurler Bob Klinger, also deserves a measure of blame for the play, because he neglected to hold Country Slaughter at first in the first place.

Perhaps the play was caused not so much by what the Sox did wrong, but by what Slaughter did right. It was Slaughter who had broken with the pitch; it was Slaughter who had blown through the stop sign that his third base coach had thrown up. Marine general Archie Vandegrift, hero of Guadalcanal, once noted, “God favors the bold and the strong of heart.”

But in the hands of sportswriters, all of the blame fell upon Pesky. Rather than giving up Culberson — the most culpable Sox player — Pesky simply shouldered all of the blame himself. “By the time I turned and picked up Slaughter, he was virtually home,” he finally admitted in 2002, fifty-six years after the play, and several years after Culberson’s death. “They decided to make me the goat afterwards, and I decided I could take it — I could live with it. If they want to blame me, they can blame me. Because none of it changes what happened on the field.” (pp. 157-158)

How refreshing to those of us who live in an era where accepting personal responsibility is the exception, not the norm.

Horse Soldiers & Youth Ministers

On the first day of World War II, September 1, 1939, elements of the Polish 18th Uhlans Cavalry regiment attacked German infantry in a delaying action. In this they succeeded, but they soon encountered German armored cars, which hit the Polish cavalrymen with machine gun fire. About a third of the cavalrymen were killed or wounded before they could retreat. This story was exaggerated in the press to the effect that the cavalrymen had attacked German tanks (not armored cars) with their sabers and lances. This was an exaggeration, but still: Polish cavalrymen were no match for German armor.

Though these cavalrymen have been ridiculed throughout the years, I have nothing but the profoundest respect for them. Two things stand out. First, they realized they were in the presence of vast evil. Second, even though they were unable to turn back that evil tide, they proved for all time — many of them at the cost of their lives — exactly where they stood. This was not true of everyone who lived in lands invaded by the Germans.

This week I completed my career as a youth minister at the Bella Vista church of Christ. For the past seven years, it has been my job to keep teenagers out of alcohol, drugs and sex, and to keep them in the church. It has been a near-hopeless task. I can identify with those Polish cavalrymen.

Though I have largely failed as a youth minister, I am comforted by two thoughts. I realized evil forces were at work trying to destroy the teenagers I love. And, though I was unable to keep these teens from making terrible decisions — they knew exactly where I stood.

Indescribable Gift

I love the story of the woman in Mark 5 who had a hemorrhage of blood. She had gone to many physicians of her day and spent all of the money she had but the problem had only grown worse. In her desperation she turned to Jesus. She only touched His cloak (vs. 27), but this was enough to instantly heal her.

It seems, from reading the text, that Jesus did not purposefully heal the woman. Think about that! What the human experts of her day could not do no matter how hard they tried, Jesus did without even trying.

It is doubtful that Jesus was born in the month of December, much less on December 25th. In a sense then, the association of his birth with this season is unintentional on his part, much like his healing of this woman’s issue of blood was unintentional.

And yet, just as he brought healing to this desperate woman in Mark 5, so too he brings love and peace and goodwill to this season.

Because we associate this time of year with his birth, this is a time when family ties are strengthened and when gifts of love are given — an imitation of the presents brought by the magi given so long ago.

But the ultimate gift associated with the birth of Christ was not the gold, nor the myrrh, nor the frankincense. It was the child Himself.

I like the way the Amplified Version renders 2 Corinthians 9.15: “Now thanks be to God for His Gift, [precious] beyond telling — His indescribable, inexpressible, free Gift!”

Sixty-Four Thousand Words

On Wednesday I wrapped up the rough draft of my dissertation, the working title of which is “Quick On His Feet, And Even Quicker In His Brain”: Lightning Joe Collins at War. Collins served as the commander of the 25th Infantry Division in Guadalcanal, before shifting to the European Theater and heading up VII Corps. He was the commander at Utah Beach, captured Cherbourg, and later busted the Allies out of Normandy.

Dr. Sutherland, my advisor at the University of Arkansas, has informed me that major revisions will not be needed. There are a few revisions I want to make, but hopefully it won’t be very long before I am ready to defend.

For what it’s worth, the rough draft was 64,004 words long, and 311,230 characters (not counting spaces).

As of November 7
Written: 196 pages; 10 chapters
To Go: 0 pages; 0 chapters

Unmet Goals

It was about the spring of 2004 that I began research for my dissertation. But work progressed very slowly, so slowly in fact that by the first of July I had only about 63 pages written. But suddenly I was spurred on and, however, and in the subsequent four months I have almost tripled that total.

Back in early August, after about five weeks of my suddenly frenetic pace, it occurred to me that I had a chance to finish the rough draft by Halloween. That was my goal.

Today is Halloween, and frankly, I have failed to meet that goal. My rough draft manuscript stands at 180 pages (with roughly 20 to go); eight of the ten chapters are written.

In spite of not meeting my goal, I am anything but depressed. Giddy would be a better description. I should be able to wrap up the rough draft by Thanksgiving. If you would have suggested to me that this was possible back at the beginning of July, I would have thought it was too good to be true.

There is something to be said for almost meeting lofty goals.

As of October 31
Written: 180 pages; 8 chapters
To Go: 20 pages; 2 chapters

Dissertation-o-Meter

Obviously I have not been blogging for the past few months. During this time I have (finally!) been making progress on writing my dissertation, a biographical study of the World War II career of Lightning Joe Collins, who commanded the 25th Division at Guadalcanal before commanding the VII Corps in Europe.

Though I realize this is a bit irrational, I am not real comfortable blogging while I am trying to wrap up my dissertation manuscript, as if my writing output is a zero-sum gain and blogging will delay completion of the dissertation.

My goal now is to complete the rough draft by Christmas. (Perhaps then I will blog again.) After the rough draft is finished, I will have to make some revisions, of course, but hopefully I will be able to walk and receive my diploma in May.

As of October 14
Written: 157 pages; 7 chapters
To Go: 43 pages; 3 chapters

As of September 25
Written: 144 pages; 7 chapters
To Go: 56 pages; 3 chapters

As of September 10
Written: 140 pages; 6 chapters
To Go: 60 pages; 4 chapters

As of August 21
Written: 124 pages; 5 chapters
To Go: 76 pages; 5 chapters

As of August 5
Written: 103 pages; 4 chapters
To Go: 97 pages; 6 chapters

As of July 20
Written: 82 pages; 4 chapters
To Go: 118 pages; 6 chapters

Superhuman Speed

One of my former students at the University of Arkansas, Tyson Gay, is currently the fastest man in the world in 2007. He recently ran the 100-meter dash in 9.84 seconds into a headwind.

Not only is this the fastest time in the 100-meter dash by anyone in the world this year, it ranks as the second-fastest time ever run into a headwind. The fastest time ever run into a headwind was by Maurice Green in 2001 when he ran a 9.82 into a headwind of 0.45 mph. Tyson ran his into a wind of 1.12 mph.

Tyson took my Western Civ II class in the spring of 2005. I gave the class the assignment of reading the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, in order to illustrate the Romantic time period. One of the interesting aspects of the novel is the way that Shelley actually portrays her monster, in contrast to the way the monster is perceived in popular culture. In our class discussion we talked about the monster’s characteristics. Tyson raised his hand; the thing which stuck out in his mind, naturally enough, was how fast the monster was:

“As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; …” (Frankenstein, Chapter 10)

Tyson Gay knows a thing or two about speed himself.

If Christians Were Like Christ

Ronald Sider, in his 2004 book The Scandal Of The Evangelical Conscience, writes that “evangelical” Christians are about as likely as the population at large to view porn, have sex outside of marriage, exhibit racism, get divorced, and abuse their wives. Sadly, Jesus can still say, as he did in the days of old, “This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far away from me.” (Mark 7.6)

The word Christian carries the name Christ embedded in it. Peter said that Christ “suffered for you, leaving you an example for you to follow in his steps.” (1 Peter 2.21) How might things be different today, if Christians behaved more like Christ, and less like themselves?

What if Christians actually led lives of moral purity? Peter says in 1 Peter 2.22 that Jesus “committed no sin, nor was any deceit found in His mouth.” What if there were no more public scandals involving famous evangelists?

What if Christians, instead of dealing in gossip and obscenity, actually let their “speech always be with grace, as though seasoned with salt”? (Colossians 4.6) If gracious words fell from our lips, as they did from Christ’s, would not the world also speak well of us, and wonder? (Luke 4.22)

What if Christians actually placed no faith in earthly things? Jesus once told a rich young ruler to sell all that he had and to give to the poor. We try to rationalize away this scripture, forgetting that Christ himself was homeless and owned only the clothes on his back. What if we cared little for material possessions?

What if Christians actually turned the other cheek? This is another commandment we like to soften. But Peter says of Jesus that, “while being reviled, He did not revile in return; while suffering, He uttered no threats.” (1 Peter 2.23)

What if Christians had the same burning sense of urgency that their Lord possessed? “We must work the works of him who sent Me as long as it is day;” Jesus once said; “night is coming when no one can work.” (John 9.4)

What if Christians actually went about doing good? What if they spent the night in prayer? What if they actually told the truth, no matter the personal consequences? What if they were so familiar with scripture they could recall passages to help them fight daily battles? What if they reached out to the desperate?

Mahatma Gandhi once said, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike Christ.” But what if Christians really were like Christ?

When Freemen Shall Stand

Sixty three years ago today, some of the finest young men that the democracies of Britain, Canada and the United States have ever produced were hurled against Adolf Hitler’s vaunted Atlantic Wall on the northern coast of France.

They did so at awful cost. On Omaha Beach (one of five landing sites) Americans lost 2,000 casualties that sixth day of June, in 1944. Casualties in the opening wave at Omaha Beach were especially appalling.

Many of the Americans killed that day and on days to come are buried in the American cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, on a cliff overlooking Omaha Beach. (The French government has turned the cemetery grounds into sovereign American territory, proof that the French are not as ungrateful as we sometimes suppose.)

A bronze statue representing the “Spirit of American Youth” stands guard over the 9,387 dead Americans, whose graves face westward to the country they left to defend but would never see again. In the unfamiliar fourth verse of the Star-Spangled Banner, Francis Scott Key speaks of occasions “when freemen shall stand between their loved home and the war's desolation.” That is what happened that deadly morning.

But it was not just for their own loved homes that these men of D-Day spilled their blood. Europe had fallen into "the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister … by the lights of perverted science," to borrow words from Churchill. That the Nazis had brought about a new Dark Age is undeniable; it is estimated that they murdered as many as 6 million Jews and as many as 5 million non-Jews. Such evil had to be stopped.

One of the most dramatic moments of the invasion came at Ponte du Hoc, when members of the 2nd Ranger Battalion scaled cliffs a hundred feet high to seek and destroy powerful German artillery pieces. Forty years later, President Ronald Reagan commemorated the event with a speech in which he said:

Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs. And before me are the men who put them there. These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc. These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war.

Gentlemen, I look at you and I think of the words of Stephen Spender’s poem. You are men who in your “lives fought for life ... and left the vivid air signed with your honor.”

It is now 23 years since Reagan spoke those words and 63 years since the boys of Pointe du Hoc and their thousands of comrades stormed ashore and delivered a continent. We are left with the reminder that overcoming evil will always require the blood of good men.

Memorial Day

It is Memorial Day. We have much to remember, and much for which to be grateful. We live in a land of unsurpassed liberties and unparalleled riches. These have come at a heavy price — a price we did not have to pay. We enjoy good lives today because of what our our soldiers and sailors, airmen and Marines were willing to endure. Montgomery Gentry sings a song about a returning Vietnam veteran who asks:

Didn’t I burn? Didn’t I bleed enough for you? I faced your fears, felt pain so you won’t have to.

Not all veterans returned. Many gave what President Lincoln once referred to as the “last full measure of devotion.” A few days ago Paul Greenberg penned these eloquent words about our honored dead:
They are beyond it all now, the dead. They are beyond all the words, even beyond the slow, mournful sound of taps. They are beyond the muck and blood, too, thank God. Beyond the pain and death, the blood and pus, the anguish spoken and unspoken, the horror and, perhaps worse, the horror anticipated. They are beyond it all now, they who went down to the sea in ships and found themselves in peril on the sea. They are beyond the acrid smoke and heart-stopping fear, the calm courage and wild rage, the sweetness of life, the sorrow and pity of its loss. They have passed all that. They have passed.

Kohima, in northeast India, was the site of an important British victory against the Japanese during World War II. Many soldiers from the British Commonwealth, including large numbers of Indian troops, gave their lives in the fighting. Now there is a cemetery at Kohima, situated on a hillside and ringed by pine trees. In the cemetery there is a monument which contains the following inscription:

When you go home tell them of us and say for your tomorrow we gave our today.

How inadequate are the words "thank you." But what else is there to say?

Consequences

A couple of years ago I was driving my jeep (her name is Gracie) around on some back roads near my parents’ house. It was a beautiful day, I had the top down and was frankly driving faster than I should have been. I was driving on a gravel road and when I attempted to make a left-hand turn instead of turning I skidded pretty hard into a ditch.

Thankfully I was not hurt, though the same could not be same for Gracie. The most immediate problem was that rocks had been lodged between my tire and rim, giving me a flat tire. I had to put on my spare and take the tire in to get it repaired.

A problem of a more long-term time, however, occurred underneath the jeep. I bent a stabilizing arm which was connected to the front passenger-side wheel assembly.

I drove the jeep like this for the past couple of years, until finally the stabilizing arm broke loose several days ago. This necessitated a trip to the mechanic’s shop, and left me with a bill for $315.91.

That was $315.91 that would not have had to be spent on my jeep had I not been driving like an idiot. That amount of money would have purchased:

• 319 songs on iTunes

• 53 upper pavilion tickets at Turner Field for Braves Games

• 39 evening adult tickets at the Pinnacle Hills 12 Theater

• 37 meals at Panera Bread Company

• 23 adult tickets to the D-Day National WWII Museum in New Orleans

• 1 round trip airline ticket from Tulsa to Denver (with $41 to spare)

• all but $15 of a new 80-gig video iPod

Actions have consequences. “Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, this he will also reap.” (Galatians 6.7)

Replacements for Jesus

In the novel Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor, there is a street preacher named Hazel Motes who preaches the “Church Without Christ” and speaks of the need for a “new jesus”:

“What you need is something to take the place of Jesus, something that would speak plain. The Church Without Christ don’t have a Jesus but it needs one! It needs a new jesus! It needs one that’s all man, without blood to waste, and it needs one that don’t look like any other man so you’ll look at him. Give me such a jesus, you people. Give me such a new jesus and you’ll see how far the Church Without Christ can go!” (p. 80)

A follower of Hazel’s named Enoch takes it upon himself to bring a “new jesus” to Hazel. The new messiah? A shrunken, 3-foot-long embalmed corpse, of a “dried yellow color.” (p. 56) Needless to say, the Church Without Christ did not go far.

Oh, but don't we like to try and find replacements for Christ? Don’t we place our trust in stock portfolios and IRAs? Don't we give our time to reality television, or shaving a couple of strokes off our golf games? Don't we seek happiness in buying more knick-knacks and baubles for our already cluttered houses?

And some of the things we try to replace Christ with are even worse, things such as drunkenness and carousing, porn and illicit sex—the very sorts of things which Paul warns in Galatians 6.21 will keep a person from inheriting the kingdom of God.

Whether a thing is wicked in its own right (porn) or merely neutral (shopping), when we turn to it in place of Christ, it becomes just as ugly and dead as the shrunken corpse which Enoch brought to Hazel. God said, of Jesus, “This is my beloved Son… hear ye him.” (Matt. 17.5)

“Go and tell John...”

In Matthew 11.2-3, we read these words: “Now when John heard in prison about the deeds of the Christ, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?’”

John the Baptist has been put in jail by Herod. The depraved Herod had stolen his brother’s wife and married her, and John—being a man of God—naturally condemned this wickedness. And so he found himself in prison.

It must be especially hard on John being cooped up in jail. He has spent his ministry out of doors, breathing in God’s good air and feeling the warmth of His sunshine. Now he is confined between four walls.

He has had a remarkable career; he has done magnificent things for God; he has prepared the path for Jesus himself; but John’s career, and his life, are almost over. And now he does something which is startling, something which almost disappoints us.

He sends messengers to Jesus to ask if Jesus is really the Messiah after all.

Some find this troubling. Why would John doubt now? Some even think that John wasn’t really doubting himself, but was simply asking on behalf of his own disciples, so they will start following Jesus. Others think John knew that Jesus was the Messiah but was impatient for him to reveal Himself and establish His kingdom.

But probably the best explanation is the most obvious. In the dark of night, in the narrowness of his cell, as he fears for his life, in a small dark corner of his mind, John begins to have doubts. He had gambled everything on Christ. Had he gambled his life for nothing?

There is no indication that Jesus was offended or troubled by John’s question. Though Christ was never shy about pointing out lacking faith when he encountered it, He does not accuse John of a lack of faith. Rather, Jesus soon launches into a discourse praising John, referring to him as something “more than a prophet” and declaring “among those born of women there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist.” (vss 9, 11) Jesus did not hand out compliments lightly; His admiration for John was real.

The answer which Jesus gave to John’s question is particularly moving. When John’s emissaries asked if Jesus was the Messiah, Jesus replied:

“Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them. And blessed is the one who is not offended by me.” (11.4-6)

This was a coded message, containing snatches of Old Testament prophecy, from the book of Isaiah (chapter 35 and 61). This was the job description of the promised Messiah. John would have understood exactly what Jesus meant.

Jesus was affirming that He was indeed the Messiah. So John had chosen right. His gamble had paid off. He had risked his soul on Jesus and, though he was about to lose his life, he was about to gain everything. John’s career, his life, had not been in vain.

And so we are reminded of the trustworthiness of Christ. We too can build our lives upon Him—stake our souls upon Him. Thus Paul, not long before his own appointment with the executioner, could say:

“I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day.” (2 Timothy 1.12/KJV)

Stake everything on Jesus. Peter assures us that “there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved.” (Acts 4.12)

Used Book Store

Several months ago I went through a self-righteous anti-materialistic phase, the main feature of which was getting rid of about a third of my books. Most of the books I don’t miss. But one of the books I divested myself of was Clark Emery’s The World of Dylan Thomas, given to me by my kid sister on my 23rd birthday, when she was a precocious 17. I discovered that I missed the book, not so much for its scholarly merit, but because of its sentimental value.

Yesterday I went to the used book store on Dickson Street where I had sold the book, and there it was, with my name still written inside. The price was $7.50, and I bought it back. I don’t know how much credit I was given for the book when I sold it to the store, but I’m sure that I suffered a net loss of three or four dollars.

Would that all mistakes were undone so cheaply.