A Lesson from Dr. Manor's Traveling Archeology Show

Sitting cross-legged on the print carpet in my family’s den sometime during the latter days of the Nixon administration, my father mused, “Some day, if the world goes on, I will no longer be here…and if the world goes on even longer, there’ll come a time when no one remembers that I ever was.” There was more to that conversation, but that particular moment is frozen in memory—perhaps because, to a child, any thought of a parent’s death is startling, and perhaps because Dad said it so matter-of-factly. He wasn’t given to melodrama, but he thought deeply about great truths and didn’t back down from sharing with a kid after he’d ruminated on them for a while.

Tonight was what, being a history teacher,  I have affectionately dubbed “Biblical Archeology Wednesday.” For six weeks, my church has been the recipient of lessons at our mid-week meeting from the intrepid Dr. Dale Manor, a professor of archeology.  He arrives each week wearing a memorable tie, with a laptop and slides and a stainless steel case, foam-lined. In it, he transports artifacts, which he displays with little labels on a piece of fabric on the communion table. It’s a dog and pony show he’s done many times before. One thing I have learned from him:  it’s a cliche of the trade, but for guys in his discipline, one man’s trash truly becomes another's proverbial treasure, if it’s buried for a millennium or two. In a way, looking at someone's discards from long ago compels us to put our own lives into perspective.

For thousands of years, people have contemplated their own demise, as Dad did that night.  Tonight’s presentation by Dr. Manor explored how people of the ancient world viewed the idea of an afterlife. He surveyed Canaanites, the Mesopotamians, and Egyptians – all of whom clearly believed that they would live somewhere after death. The evidence? Burial artifacts and cultural documentation, such as the Egyptian scroll depicting the scene of final judgment – the “weighing of the heart” ceremony. The Egyptians believed that there was a correlation between our worthiness and our eternal destiny, the end of which would be revealed in a ceremony where the heart was weighed against a feather on a scale of justice to reveal one’s fate in the afterlife. An impossible standard.  Not many would pass the test, I’m thinking.  Perhaps none.

We looked at some signals the Hebrews had given us in scripture; there were signs that they, too, believed that somehow they would go to rest “with their fathers” after death. David the king took comfort in the belief that he would see his dead child again. Various figures in the Old Testament are described as being “gathered to their people” after death. Job said, “after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.”  Christ reminded the Sadducees that God claimed to be “the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob,” and that He was clearly not the God of the dead, but of the living.  Of course, the New Testament is filled with resurrection talk and promises of an afterlife.

The most fascinating tidbit tonight was an artifact found in a Jerusalem escarpment burial cave called Ketef Hinnom. In the burial trappings of a Hebrew family was a silver amulet, and inside was a rolled-up sheet of silver which, when unrolled, revealed the “Priestly Benediction,” Numbers 6:24-26:

The LORD bless you and keep you; 
the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
 the LORD turn His face toward you and give you peace.

This find was significant for dating the writing of the Old Testament and for confirming the reliability of existing manuscripts. At the time it was found, it was the earliest occurrence of a Biblical text in an extra-Biblical document, significantly predating the earliest of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Tonight it is significant to me for another reason. We were encouraged by Dr. Manor to consider this scripture that we have read and sung as a benediction for so many years -- not as a parting blessing from an assembly-- but as a processional for loved ones who stand on the doorstep of the next life, waiting to see the Lord’s face and confident that they will be graciously received. If we all relied on the weight of our hearts to balance some supposed scale at that time, we would surely be without hope. But through the Lord’s provision in the perfect sacrifice of Christ, Christians can have faith that we will be seen as “holy and blameless” by the loving Father who greets us there. Yes, someday you and I may die, and no one here may even remember that we lived.  But there is something better waiting through that door.

The American Taliban Prequel

Tonight I’m thinking about John Philip Walker Lindh, who was caught and imprisoned by the U.S. during the 2001 invasion of Afghanistan.  I’m  also thinking about my childhood experience at Maywood Christian Camp.  I think it must have been in 1968, although I can’t prove it.  Mothers were not nearly as obsessed with documenting childhood then, and my memories are vague.  I was perhaps eight years old and had never been to any kind of camp, or much of any place else,  before. I think it was in Tennessee, although I can’t prove that, either. I do think these events actually happened, however, because I can prove it with dental records.

We boarded a bus at Northwood Hills Church of Christ in Florence, Alabama, and off we went to the hardship of the wilderness, much like the Isrealites, who were also God’s people.  When we arrived,  they divided us into cabins which were named, I think, for the cities in Canaan.  I was in Shechem A.  There was a Shechem B as well.  There was a cabin named Gilgal, and one called Bethel, and Shiloh.  I don’t recall the others. 

I remember they served us cold chocolate milk in glistening aluminum pitchers at breakfast, and that I ate eggs for breakfast with great relish, which was odd because my mother’s eggs on the breakfast table at home nauseated me.  I remember that I won third place in the archery contest.  I remember that I made some kind of wooden box with tiny square tiles on top, and a lanyard, although I didn’t quite know what one was supposed to do with a lanyard.

I dived into the swimming pool one day and somehow chipped my front permanent tooth on the concrete, leaving half of it at the bottom of the pool.  No one called my parents or a dentist, or tried to retrieve the lost part.  I don’t really know if I called it to the attention of anyone in authority.  Today insurance and physician information along with signed liability waivers would be required before participating in an activity during which I could potentially have disfigured myself, but back then parents just put us on the bus and happily shipped us off, no questions asked, and the camp shipped us back on schedule, scratches and dents notwithstanding.

One thing I recall clearly, and that is that the showers were communal ones.  By that I mean they were not merely in a central location, but they were –- well—communal.  No stalls, no walls, no curtains.   I recall my complete mortification at the idea that I was expected to disrobe right there in front of God and the older girls with body parts I did not have yet – and tend to my personal hygiene.  So I refused.  I swam every day, but  during shower time I made myself scarce, and not once during the week did I join the other girls who were less modest and more conscientious about their personal toilette.

I also recall saving my one clean sweatshirt, a white one, to wear back home.  The last morning of camp I donned the sweatshirt, brushed my chlorine frizzed hair -- which was, by this time, a bush -- put on my glasses and headed down toward the bus, tripping over a root and tumbling head-over-heels down a clay embankment to land in an untidy heap at the bottom where the bus was parked.  

When I arrived back at the church, after riding the entire way with the bus windows open and the wind blowing through my ever-expanding hair,  singing "Kum Ba Yah" and "Michael Row the Boat Shore" all the way back, I bounded to the door of the bus to greet my mother with a gap-toothed smile, the red clay of Canaan's land covering both my clothes and my face. She hugged me and took me home as if nothing were out of the ordinary, for dental intervention the following day.

Flash forward to the American invasion of Afghanistan, when the U.S. army captures an American citizen named John Philip Walker Lindh. He is wearing the garb of the enemy and aiding the Taliban. There was a great outcry about his treason, and a photo of "The American Taliban” was on the cover of Time magazine. 43 years later, my saintly mother’s only comment when she saw his photo on CNN?  "He looks exactly like you when you got off the bus from Maywood Christian Camp, dear."  Ouch.

Lamb of God

She always sits on the last pew – right on the aisle. She wandered into our midst from some run-down rental property downtown, looking as if she were in need – of some basic hygiene instruction, perhaps of some medical care, perhaps even a case worker. She wandered in, as many people do in our downtown church neighborhood; they come in need of a bus ticket or a meal or with broken down cars. Many times, they come less to meet a spiritual need than a physical one, but they come nonetheless and we try to minister to those needs. They come bringing invisible baggage, and leave with -- "a cup of water," as it were. And then, usually, they move on.

But this one kept coming back. Poorly educated, probably learning disabled. Hard to say whether she actually had basic cognitive skills to understand a lot of things. Many times she had not bathed, sometimes she looked as if she might have some sort of infection on her skin. Did that need to be covered with a bandage? Her hair was a greasy, wavy mess. Eventually someone cut it short, but by that time I wondered if head lice had led to the new look. Eventually someone gave her some “Sunday” dresses that were more “appropriate.”

Her social skills were childlike. She spoke much, much too loudly. If she were sitting alone and a thought occurred, she might speak it out into the air, as if hoping someone would seize her thread of thought and engage. Many people gave her polite nods; many knew her by first name only; some avoided her completely, passing by on the other aisle. She was odd, after all.

She began to attend almost every function at church, especially the potlucks. She would stay behind to help clean up, making sure people knew she was available when any leftover food was parceled out. “I sure could use that for my lunch tomorrow,” she would say too loudly.

At church this morning I sat in back, because I needed to leave a few minutes early. The congregation of 500 where I worship sings congregationally, without instrumentation, and I usually like to find a sweet spot - close enough to the front to be able to follow the worship leader without lagging behind, but not so close that my eyes cross trying to read the screen, so I was a little annoyed at my seating arrangements going into the service today. The service opened with Twila Paris’ “Lamb of God.” And then I heard it from over my shoulder --  an unpleasant, harsh sound which drowned the beautiful harmonies of the song, to which her singing bore only a vague similarity. It was almost comical; I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think with that right behind me. This would get old by the end of the service...I wished I had sat somewhere else. I completely stopped singing; I couldn’t find my note over that noise anyway.

Your only Son no sin to hide
But You have sent Him from Your side
To walk upon this guilty sod,
And to become the Lamb of God.

She painstakingly sang each and every word far too loudly, as a preschooler might sing. It was an innocent, awful, ernest rendition.

Your gift of Love they crucified
They laughed, and scorned him as he died.
The humble King they named a fraud,
And sacrificed the Lamb of God.

She continued without missing a beat, visibly concentrating on the screen, unaware that her dissonance might be a distraction to the worship of others. I heard each word for the first time in a long time.

Oh Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God --
I love the Holy Lamb of God;
Oh wash me in His precious Blood
My Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

I was so lost I should have died
But You have brought me to Your side
To be led by Your staff and rod
And to be called a lamb of God.

Oblivious to the appraisal of those around her, she drew me reluctantly and ashamed to a gift of worship this morning. I was reminded of Isaiah 64:6, “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” She reminded me that Christ longs for each one of us -- poorly dressed and dirty, whatever infects or infests us. No refinement or wisdom or pedigree or eloquence or elegance impresses him –- the holy one needs nothing from me. He benefits not at all from the beauty of my performance, from the appropriateness of my clothing, from the insightfulness of my presentation, from the tightness of our harmonies. We each come to him the same way -- helpless and hopeless in sin. But he cleanses and heals and nourishes and offers peace and reconciliation, and when it is all said and done he sees us, each one, as holy and blameless, and as worthy. Then he takes even “the least of these,” and empowers us to minister to those around us, as she did for me today, to his glory.

Thank you, sister.

Lessons from The Halflings

From my files: This is an homage to the only 7th grade class I ever taught, back in 2008.

I met the Halflings, as I call my first 7th grade class—exultant at the move from cubbies to their first lockers, which they promptly festooned with an explosion of personal memorabilia— with some trepidation. Even at our smallish private school campus, they were obviously concerned as to whether they would be able to find their way, wide-eyed, from class to class with only four minutes between. Since then, we have written in hieroglyphics, witnessed the Barbarian attacks on Rome, survived the Black Death, wrapped our Arkansas tongues around "Après moi, le deluge," and most lately, been horrified by the conditions in the trenches on the Western Front.

Tonight I am grading history test papers, feeling at once ready for this school year to end and reluctant to let this group of 7th graders move on. In some ways, a group of 7th grade boys can be like a litter of Labrador puppies, all arms and legs and braces, snorting at the inside joke, poking one another, making bizarre noises, falling over one another in the hall, launching paper hornets at the unsuspecting student -- and drumming, always drumming on the desktop. The girls, their uniforms carefully accessorized to define their personalities, do their homework with big loopy handwriting, some dot their i’s with hearts, and all carefully walk the tightrope between childhood and womanhood, baffled at the joy the boys take in the flight of an errant paper hornet, yet interested in them just the same.

As I grade their test papers on The Great War, I'm amused at young Will, who has listed among the causes for World War I "individualism" -- which can be a problem, I guess, if taken to the extreme, although I have never thought it dangerous enough to create global conflict. Perhaps he was searching for "imperialism."

He was not alone in his momentary confusion. Someone said “artilliarism” was one of the causes. Another reached back and pulled out “Inquisition” and thought perhaps the Catholic Church had contributed to the war. One student recounted “materialism” and another listed “manism.” I hardly knew how to respond to that. My favorite by far was "metabolism" instead of militarism. Those who wage perpetual war against fat could probably make a decent case for that one.

Then there was the student who said the “Automan” Empire was one of the belligerents. Reminded me of a franchise place you go to have your oil changed in 30 minutes or less. An otherwise very bright student started out on the wrong foot on this test-- by misspelling his own name. Perhaps it had something to do with the full moon. Or fatigue. The school year grows to a close, and we are all weary.

This wiggling mass of 7th grade humanity has been a delight to me this year. They have challenged me, surprised me, occasionally horrified me, inspired me, and made me laugh. They reminded me what it was like to be at the border crossing between twelve and the land of the teens, without the muscles of the big boys yet, but with the heart of a lion and the gifts to contribute so much, whatever they decide to do when they lay down their paper hornets. I will always remember them.

Just a Cup of Water...or a Juice Box!

VBS 2010. Joseph: From Prison to Palace


Our VBS this year is, for our non-megachurch, a four-day mini-extravaganza of singing, drama, and moving little people from one center location to another. We have envisioned, created, and constructed. We have painted, adorned, and finessed. Talented, focused hands appeared from nowhere, and over a period of weeks an Egyptian palace appeared in the small auditorium. My friend Cindy and I hit the jackpot at the closing of the "World of the Pharaohs" exhibit at the Arkansas Arts Center, procuring a large number of ridiculously over-the-top Pharaoh-type headpieces at bargain prices to festoon the volunteers, thanks to the kindness of the gift shop director. We are pretty much all "walking like Egyptians" this week.


As usual, it has been stressful for me, and -- as always -- everything did not go as planned. The schedule had a typo in the time rotation (my oversight, 0uch) and the air in the upstairs classrooms was not working at full capacity. We had an overflow crowd in the 2-year-old group and we will remedy that tonight...We decorated sarcophagi (a hit -- they contained the applicable memory verses for the week) We learned about the preservation of scriptural wisdom on papyrus and parchment, and about the Dead Sea scrolls, we were reminded that God gives us different talents for use in his kingdom. More to come.


All good activities, and fun for the kids. Lots of work. Kind of stressful. As always, the issue is balancing the sound and fury with the content and the benefit. And as in everything, we should ask ourselves, "Are we doing what God would have us do?" After all, we have no record of VBS productions among first-century believers. Of course, they had no vacations, either...


This just in: this morning, Lisa Mahan's Facebook post informs the world that "Landry's favorite part of VBS tonight was the juice box!!!"


And a little child shall lead them.


So here's the lesson I have learned: it's all about that "give a cup of water to the least of these" principle. For all the production value that we can add to VBS, the important thing is when we can meet a child's personal need in the name of Christ, and it is easy to lose sight of that fact when we are overwhelmed with logistics. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could also teach Landry that his juice box came to him because of our relationship with the Savior-- a juicebox mission of love, not an obligation or an item on the schedule? Whether or not Landry realizes it, if WE act out of that most compelling love of Christ, God has been glorified in the process.


For me, one objective of VBS should be to remind the smallest members of the Kingdom that they are important to God and to our faith family. It would be grand if they absorbed the content lessons fully: that God gives them hope, wisdom and abilities for their hard time, whatever it may be, and that He has a plan for each of them, as He did for Joseph. But in the end, what most of the very little ones will take away is that this church family is a place where they matter, and where someone gave them a cold juice box when they were really hot and sweaty. And for a 2 year-old, perhaps that is lesson enough.

What about the lesson for adults? We are neither the Lion's Club nor the Junior League, although we can learn valuable lessons from both organizations. We are the family of the living, merciful God, and the things we do and the activities we plan should be self-consciously motivated and inspired by our love for the Father, as a gift to him in response to His great love and grace toward us. So tonight, when you are handing that juice box out, try to consciously remember that you are being His hands to that sweaty child. I'll bet that thought will make it a sweeter experience.