What an Entry!

large_the-problem-of-palm-sundayWhen it comes to early April in Michigan, today is a perfect springtime Saturday. Sixty degrees with clear skies is a gift to be relished. Such days beckon many to scour garages and sheds seeking gloves, rakes, yard bags, and pruning shears.

As buds and bulbs re-activate, tomorrow begins a week of death. A time of remembering when Hope was pierced by thorns, hung with iron, and sealed with stone. But before we thumb to week’s end, let’s dwell in chapter one. Let’s celebrate a King in royal procession on branches of palm.

In preparation for Palm Sunday, I return to an excerpt from my March 26, 2015 post titled “Colt Rider.”

—————

[It was] the arrival of a King, marked indelibly on history’s pages with hoof-crushed palm fronds. Wobbling with the jagged tempo of his bare-backed donkey, fanatic accolades bombarded Him: “Hosanna! Messiah! Deliver us! Lead us into freedom’s peace! Usher in your prosperous reign!”

Immersed in His passion, the Rider acknowledged their good and right desire, well aware that days later these same mouths would erupt with rage-filled screams of “Crucify!”

Like them, we can be fickle rebels. Hapless self-seekers, unsatisfied in our quest to satiate our longings. Toiling in a barren sin-winter we are worn, feeble, sick, and lame. We long for the rejuvenation of springtime. A fresh breath for our soul.

Mark Buchanan writes, “Springtime brings the consolation of hope.” (Spiritual Rhythm, p.84) A hope not for new blooms and warm breezes, but the surety of an ever-fresh springtime of heart. A glorious hope embodied by the colt-riding man from Nazareth. The Lord of spring, King Jesus.

And they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. And many spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut from the fields. And those who went before and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in the highest!”
Mark 11:7–10, ESV

 

Sappy and Green

I enjoy making new from old. dripping_tree_sap

Last summer in an unplanned flash of creativity, I crafted an outdoor iPod music station. I had a riot pairing my imagination with a stack of wood from weathered apple crates. Today, that music box stands erect, like a soldier at Buckingham Palace, ready to deliver play-listed tunes into the springtime green of our backyard.

Last week, as I unpacked my musical re-creation from it’s winter storage, my mind recalled a recent conversation with a friend. He and his wife are battling cancer — again. The situation is fragile. Emotions are volatile. The future uncertain. Questions ooze from every conversation. Predominant among them is: “Why is this happening, again?”

Life is seasonal. In my friend’s case, cyclical. The chapters of our living stack side-by-side and layer a story. Some of the chapters read with discouragement and despair in our pursuit of happiness. Others have plot lines wrapped around self-affirmation and high-minded morality. And some are penned while walking the slender path that’s illumined step-by-step with a sanctified glow.

We all wander and weave a journey that brings us to lung-burning climbs and leg-aching descents. None are immune from life’s frustrations and setbacks. Each of us cycle through joy and sorrow, breaking and building, closed doors and open.

Hindsight is the gift of reflection. A glimpse backward helps us piece together personal themes, the development of relationships, and circumstances that are more purpose driven than random. In our looking back, we see the progression of being torn down and built up. We see Someone at work.

For those who follow Jesus, our life is a steady plodding toward restoration. In every circumstance, our hope is immovably anchored in the surety of God’s plan of renewal. Deep within, we’re “ever full of sap and green.” * We’re alive and growing by the Spirit of grace.

As you page through your story today, be it joyous, painful, or commonplace, remember that every moment is an opportunity to worship. Believe that your life is not a fate-driven tragedy. A hopeless endeavor. A cycle of needless pain. We are all being broken down and built up. We are green, sappy, deeply loved people being transformed from the old and broken into fruit-bearing newness. In all things, may we be vibrant ambassadors who step with trust into the wonderful mystery of the story God is writing.

* “The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the Lord; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green, to declare that the Lord is upright; he is my rock, and there is no unrighteousness in him.”
Psalm 92:12–15, ESV

The Good of Friday

lonely-man-appI felt trapped. Separated from home by a landmark bridge and 500 miles, my studies at college were the loneliest of my life.

Buried in snow and differential equations, I had tapered. My existence seemed shunted, bound by the limit to which the frigid atmosphere of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula could carry my warbled pleas. I was singular, distanced from the familiar, the enjoyable, the comfortable. I felt unprotected and undefended. Monsters of despair bullied my self-talk and clawed at the empty space of me.

Still, in the dim of self pity I desperately tended a flickering hope. My spirit stretched toward Spirit as neediness found readiness in another. In a Man who knows rejection and isolation, for there was a time that He was lonely, too.

Lonely because of me. I’ve said ‘no’ to Him. Deserted Him. Ignored Him — over and over. You have, too. Even His Father distanced himself in this Man’s most desperate moment. Together, we have turned our collective back and willingly cast this Man aside.

Today we remember our rejection of Him. In my remembering, I want those college days near me. To feel fresh the pain and longing. To sit again in the desperation and frustration of wanting to be wanted. To be connected, known, and loved.

We are not trapped on a celestial orb, abandoned and alone, traversing in elliptical nothingness. We have been rescued from isolation. We need no longer be lonely. That is the “good” of this Friday.

Because of the Man, Jesus.

“He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.”
Isaiah 53:3, ESV

New Day

An epilogue to Cock Crows, New Day reflects
on the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Resurrection Morning by James R.C. Martin

New Day

The dust of yesterday settles
while the weary repose.

Morning and evening;
rising and setting;
incessantly desperate we trudge.

Another day in a monotonous strand?
Heaven says no.

A morbid cavern relents;
The Revelation wakes.
His all-seeing eyes flutter with acclimation.
Stark is the light after suffocating darkness —

Our darkness.

In the amber still of dawn
a benevolent breeze blows
bending tawny stalks
in happy syncopation.

O soul, breathe deep —
respire the air of redemption!

The Merciful One stands
to Creation’s applause.
He steps forth triumphant,
ears fully delighted —

with a cock’s exultant crow!

Copyright © 2015 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.

Cock Crows

A poem of reflection on Luke 22:54-62
and the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.
Peter’s Denial — Carl Heinrich Bloch, 1873

Cock Crows

Again,
and again,
then again.

A cock crows with mocking validation —

Traitor.

Fear clubs the faithful
scattering them to disillusionment.

Demagogues posture and pose
seeking fault in the presence of Truth.
Their justice is blind to the Just.

End this!

Showers of spit and vociferous rage;
yesterday’s hero now naked spectacle;
shamed, abhorred —

Abandoned.

Brutes count their rhythmic flagellations
and tire their fists in His flesh.

Humanity’s whipping boy.

His spike-dangled frame,
striped with blood rills of mercy
and broad cuts of grace,
jolts with atonement’s tremors.

And there we stand,
crowing like self-loving cocks —
once, twice, three times and more.

Traitors.
God-killers, we are.

Against our rebellious schemes
redemption’s momentum builds
tilting history on the fulcrum of His Cross.

From death’s grim hollow
this story crescendos to
a revelatory dawn —

when the cock will crow
in exaltation!

Copyright © 2015 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.

Colt Rider

I finally caught the fever.

I did well avoiding it most of the winter season. February is a month of particular weakness, but I resisted. Then early in March, my immunity cracked. I was infected, almost to the point of delirium. In fact, one night I dreamt that despite the cold reality of a four-inch snow pack my underground sprinklers had sprung into action. Yep, that’s the fever for sure.

Spring fever.

My kids caught it, too. Their behavior tipped me off. The trickle of melting snow and the first 40-degree day triggered a fever-induced donning of shorts and running in flip-flops through slush. Or maybe that’s just typical of Michiganders in March?

Even so, the return of migratory birds and clumps of budding Crocus – signals of spring – we welcome you!

During this season we reflect upon another ancient welcome. The arrival of a King, marked indelibly on history’s pages with hoof-crushed palm fronds. Wobbling with the jagged tempo of his bare-backed donkey, fanatic accolades bombarded Him: “Hosanna! Messiah! Deliver us! Lead us into freedom’s peace! Usher in your prosperous reign!”

Immersed in His passion, the Rider acknowledged their good and right desire, well aware that days later these same mouths would erupt with rage-filled screams of “Crucify!”

Like them, we can be fickle rebels. Hapless self-seekers, unsatisfied in our quest to satiate our longings. Toiling in a barren sin-winter we are worn, feeble, sick, and lame. We long for the rejuvenation of springtime. A fresh breath for our soul.

Mark Buchanan writes, “Springtime brings the consolation of hope.”* A hope not for new blooms and warm breezes, but the surety of an ever-fresh springtime of heart. A glorious hope embodied by the colt-riding man from Nazareth. The Lord of spring, King Jesus.

*(Spiritual Rhythm, p.84)

Act Two

A human life delivered
extraordinarily into the ordinary.
A curious entrance.

Like a single grain of silica on a sandy shore.
Familiar yet undistinguished.
Unremarkable but unmistakable.

God — we anticipated more, really.
A powerful show.
A victor’s parade.

You know we love celebrity.
We wanted to cheer and party and flaunt.
This is about us, isn’t it?

No doubt, we resist your directing this cosmic drama.
Right from the start we sabotaged the script.
Act one was a diabolical mess.

But this show must go on — You promised.

So You opened Act Two with your Son, wrapped in humility’s cloak.
Crowded out of comfort, He greeted his world with wordless screams.
An omnipotent, infant voice at which beast and brush shiver with joyful resonance.

Parental eyes, innocent and expectant, lock upon divinity’s gaze.
So ordinary, normal, loud, and messy — like them.
Another grain of sand on the beach of humanity?

No.
Read the script.

This child is living, breathing prophecy.
The Word who word fulfilled.
Our story’s Hero.

Scandalous.
Mysterious.
Miraculous.

Jesus.

Food Fight

I was so brave. So confident. So altruistic.

So naive.

Thirty days? I can do anything for a month. Determination is my middle name. I’m the poster child for the strong willed.

Out of deep affection for my wife I agreed to a 30-day restriction in our diet. We forewent all dairy, sugar, grains, and certain cooking oils. I bid adieu to my familiar fare and boldly embraced a new menu. Good bye, bread and pasta. So long cream in my coffee. See ya in a month, Mr. Big Bowl of buttery popcorn. With eager anticipation I began a month-long tune-up of my digestive engine. Vroom-vroom!

Cough…sputter….stall.

Riding the smells of ‘normal people food,’ the first whisper of resignation wafted temptingly into my thoughts day three. I squashed those thoughts with some…squash. (gag)

The onslaught of new, fiber-laden offerings made my colon angry. Our relationship is still unstable.

I began counting days like a child counts-down to Christmas. I obsessed over my all-too-far-away reentry into food freedom: sharp cheddar cheese, bacon, Greek yogurt, and a big slab of heavily frosted cake. Such indulgent fantasies accentuated the unsatisfied yearning within my bloated gastronomy. In a frustrated moment I blurted to my wife, “I’m so hungry I could eat dandruff!”

I didn’t. Instead, I sidled-up to plate after plate of earth-grown offerings, salt and hot sauce at the ready.

Well, my 30-days are over. I’ve left my mealtime time-out chair and am again on speaking terms with my tastebuds. Yet the effects of my journey into dietary barrenness linger. Effects more broad than the physical.

I’m reflecting upon the collision of desire and denial. I’m thinking about submission, choice, abundance, and pleasure. I’m considering how I react to being thwarted, hindered, restrained, or delayed. I’m contemplating how my strong will and disciplined life might find expression in virtuous ways. How love should be more often my motive instead of compulsion or duty. And could there be other areas (beside food) that need restriction to bring forth a greater good?

Am I making too much of my dietary experiment? I don’t think so. Everything we do is inherently spiritual because we are spiritual beings. Each moment is an opportunity to worship something or Someone. So while snacking on dried dates instead of Moose Tracks, the expression of my soul can be either gratitude or resentment. Peace or anxiety. Joy or bitterness.

Consider this thought from Thomas Watson: “If Jesus Christ should have said to us, ‘I love you well, you are dear to me, but I cannot suffer, I cannot lay down my life for you’ we should have questioned His love very much; and may not Christ suspect us, when we pretend to love Him, and yet will endure nothing for Him?” (All Things for Good, p.85-86)

I willingly (and imperfectly) endured a time of restriction to encourage and support my wife. And now that I’ve backed-up my pre-diet bragging, she knows an expanded sense of my commitment and care for her. Those thirty days were as much about wrestling and redirecting my desires as they were the resetting of my internal food processor.

My thoughts, words, actions, and attitudes are in continual need of tuning and re-tuning toward a fuller expression of my commitment to Jesus. I need to grow in wisdom with using my “yes” as well as my “no.” Love requires that I give-up, to gain.

Just like He did.


“Yes, all the things I once thought were so important are gone from my life. Compared to the high privilege of knowing Christ Jesus as my Master, firsthand, everything I once thought I had going for me is insignificant—dog dung. I’ve dumped it all in the trash so that I could embrace Christ” (Philippians 3:8, The Message)

Free to not be Free?

As a child, I thought my parents had limitless freedoms. No curfew, plenty of money (at least from my no income other than birthdays perspective) and the ability to have ice cream whenever they wanted. I couldn’t wait to be released from the chains of childhood. I craved freedom to decide when to call it a night, purchase without constraint, and consume half-gallons of ice cream just because.

Well, two decades into my marital journey and more than seventeen on the parenting path, my ice cream dreams have melted. My modest income is redirected to car repairs, home maintenance, vacations for my orthodontist, and allergy medication for the dog. And even with a late evening dose of caffeine, I can’t stay awake past 9:30pm.

Am I the victim of a cruel trick? A bait and switch? The adult freedoms I pined for in my youth seem but a ruse.

But they aren’t. They’re still there. The crucibles of marriage and parenting are recasting my vision of ice cream gluttony. The incessant heat of life’s tensions work to soften self-centered entitlements into realistic expectations. With those new expectations I’ve come to understand this maxim: True freedom is the freedom to not be free.

What does that mean? An example…

To start, a confession. At best, I’m a fair weather fan of table games. Perhaps I was scarred by too many Uno ‘Draw-Fours’ or overly frustrated by random banishment into Candy Land’s Molasses Swamp. The source of my aversion is unclear. The result is the need for self-administered pre-game pep talks so I can to engage family game time with adequate enthusiasm.

Go ahead. Say it. I’m weird. Even so, I do play. But be forewarned – I play to win!

So, when confronted with the opportunity for gaming, what’s my response? I have the freedom to say “no.” Yet, as a father of five, many are the times when the proposition to play is presented. Certainly, there are legitimate times for giving my “no.” But a “no” that is consistently self-serving is wrong. It’s an abuse of my freedom. True freedom isn’t the unbounded pursuit of personal peace. It’s not Patrick Henry’s, “Give me liberty, or give me death!” True freedom is the willful setting aside of personal desires so that others might flourish. It’s sometimes exchanging my wish for a quite evening of coffee and a good book for a rowdy night of Ticket to Ride, Life, Euchre, or Settlers of Catan.  

Such relinquishment is no easy feat. Even in my best moments, self-willed efforts fade quickly. I need the help of our divine Freedom Fighter, Jesus Christ. He’s the perfect example of sacrificing personal freedom. From forever past, He chose to give-up what was rightly His so that we might regain what we lost. When humanity turned its collective back on God in Eden, we were not abandoned. Love never wavered.

Although infinite in His freedom, Jesus choose to let loose of what was His to restore us to our Father in Heaven. He insured that we would complete our predestined good works for God’s glory. Because He was free to not be free, mercy and grace and redemption through love are ours.

What wondrous love this is. Love that draws us to live in God-centered freedom. Love that emboldens us to joyfully prioritize our desires below the needs of others. To hold loosely to what we could do so we can freely do what we should do. To give and serve and love – like our death-conquering Freedom Fighter.

So, anyone up for some Scrabble?


“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” (Philippians 2:3–8, ESV)

Humble Earth Dweller

Our Lord Jesus~

Creation’s Conductor.
Master of Angels.
Heaven’s sweet Prince.

A servant of boundless perfection.
Obedient and kind, you gave for our gain.

A glorious submission.
Immaculate incarnation.
Salvation’s hero.

Uncompromised humanity and full-dosed divinity.
Oh, mysterious oneness!

You shared our air and toiled in our thorns.
Wrestled frustrations and fought disappointment.
Knew hunger and need.
Tasted betrayal.

You wept.

For us and with us as one of us.
A humble earth dweller.

Pioneer of grace. Embodiment of Truth.
Our wounded healer.
Our champion of love.

Love unbroken. Unqualified. Undeserved.
Abundant in application.
A merciful draught for withering souls.

We drink deep.

We remember your advent.
We yearn for your justice.
We exist by your goodness.

And we celebrate.

You.

Long expected, our only hope in life and death.
Once humble babe now ruler and King.
Our Savior. Our Lord.

Our Emmanuel.