The Lion of the Tribe of Judah

1 Kings 7:36

The Voice (VOICE)

³⁶ Hiram carved winged creatures, lions, and palm trees onto the braces wherever he found space, and he surrounded them with garlands.

Dad and Mom drove up from Zambia to visit us at Ikizu in Tanzania in their VW Microbus. We spent a couple days driving around the Serengeti National Park. We encountered lions frequently around Seronera, and often, especially in the early mornings, we could spot a pride of 10 or 15 lions clustered around a kill they had made during the night hours. Later in the day we would find them under the shade of a great tree lying down, their bellies fat from eating.

One afternoon we came upon a pair of lions lying lazily in the shade. It became obvious that the lion was interested in the lioness in a much more romantic way than merely as a partner during the hunt. As we watched, he tried to mount her, but she got up and moved a short distance away. He followed after her, eagerly smelling her pheromones. Again when he tried to mount her, she moved away.

When I was a child, Dad and Mom always appeared to be asexual. One time when I was quite young I asked Mom why she wore an undergarment with lots of lace and then put on other clothes to cover it up and no one could see it. She looked at me and responded simply, “Your father likes to see me in it.” I never gave it much thought after that.

Mom was very interested in the lion pair. When the lioness finally allowed the lion to mount her, Mom exclaimed in a hushed voice full of awe, “Isn’t this beautiful and special?” She continued to watch spellbound, as did we all. For Sylvia and me, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, although we spent many happy days amongst the animals in the Serengeti.

The Bible often represents God as a lion. We felt privileged to witness lions in a loving, tender moment as well as in their proverbial swiftness and might.

Thank You, God, that You are loving and tender towards us as well as defending us with Your unmatched power.

Love Her As Yourself

Ephesians 5:33

Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB)

³³ To sum up, each one of you is to love his wife as himself

Alice[i] once told me this about her pastor father. He had a cupboard near the ceiling in his house. It was locked and he carried the only key on his person at all times. Whenever he ate bread, he would go to the cupboard, unlock it, take out a jar of jam, and spread his slice of bread generously with his jam. Then he would take the jar and lock it up again. Neither his wife nor children ever got any of Father’s jam.

I still remember the sense of shock I felt over the father’s callous selfishness. How could a minister of the gospel read Ephesians 5:33 and not apply it in such an obvious case as allowing himself to savor the sweet jam and not allow his wife to enjoy the same delight?

A decade or more later, our family visited Plimoth Plantation south of Boston in Massachusetts. The historic village illustrates life in 1627. Each person employed at the plantation represents one of the villagers of so long ago. He or she has studied everything there is to know about that particular pilgrim. Like actors, they try to never step out of character. If you have never visited there, you owe it to yourself to see how our ancestors lived. 

[ii]

We walked into a house where a man was sitting and carving on a piece of wood. I asked him what he was making, and he replied, “A spoon. Do you have a spoon?”

I laughed and answered, “Yes.”

“Does your wife have a spoon?” he asked.

Catching the spirit of the times, I replied with a knowing grin, “No!”

“Neither does mine. She and the children eat their food with their fingers.” He vouchsafed.

I gained an insight into how, in the past, such commonplace necessities as spoons were not readily available, and often the women and children went without, even though the husband might have one. They represented my ancestors. No wonder Paul had to encourage believers, like me, to practice the equality each person deserves under the grace of Christ.

Thank You, Lord, for elevating us all to the same level: Your brothers and sisters.

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[i] Not her real name, although the incident is very true

[ii]  Picture from Google images for Plimoth Plantation

Spring

Song of Solomon 2:12

The Voice (VOICE)

¹² The flowers are unfolding in the fields; the birds are warming up their songs,
    The cooing of the turtledove is heard throughout the land.

In 2008 we flew into Cape Town for our first visit to South Africa in almost 30 years. Long time friend Lincoln met us at the airport, and we spent the first couple nights with his family. The first morning I awoke to kuk-COORRRRR-uk repeated over and over again. The cooing of the ring necked dove sounded something like a concerned query “How’s father?” repeated endlessly.

Immediately, a thousand memories swept over me, memories of awaking in the early hours of a fresh spring Cape morning. After a brief breakfast of Weetbix and fresh, non-homogenized Jersey cow milk rich with a thick layer of cream, I would walk up the slopes of Helderberg Mountain on which we lived. A brightly colored green and yellow pair of Bokmakieries would be calling each other in a loud and musical “bok-bok” and an immediate response of “makierie.” They repeated this often just to express their love for each other. 

At my feet and into the dense bushes of the fynbos that stretched all around me, often impenetrable but hid a wealth of beautiful flowers unrivaled in variety anywhere else on earth. The magnificent protea blossoms attracted the sugarbird iridescent sunbirds anxious for a deep draught of nectar.

Occasionally we would startle a huge family of guinea fowl chicks that would dash away in a dozen different directions and suddenly disappear as though transported into the ether by a cosmic Scotty.  An occasional duiker fled into the dense bush with our excited collie, King, in hot, noisy pursuit.

When I returned home I often had my arms full of a bouquet of watsonias and arum (calla) lilies just for Mom—a treasure of beauty.  And all these wonderful memories called up by the cooing of a dove!

Watsonias on the slopes of Helderberg Mountain 

Thank You, Lord, for the chance to grow up in a place so close to paradise.

How Did This Blog Start?

Jeremiah 2:31

The Voice (VOICE)

³¹ People of this generation, consider again the word of the Eternal.

How did this blog start? I was sitting in a funeral of an acquaintance of mine. As people spoke about him, I realized that he had been a good influence in many people’s lives. At the time I realized that my Christian experience had reached a plateau and stagnated there. In the silence of that funeral I pondered what might give a boost to my experience.

Something I had read from Ellen White swam into my consciousness, “We have nothing to fear for the future, except as we shall forget the way the Lord has led us, and his teaching in our past history.”[i] Thinking back over the past years, I could see many instances in my life where God had led. At times I had followed, but at other times I had chosen not to follow His leading.

My wife, Sylvia, had been reading a devotional magazine called Guideposts and kept some back issues of the annual devotional books Daily Guideposts sitting in the bathroom. Leafing through a volume, I found that writers took a verse of scripture and wrote about a portion of their lives somehow related to that verse.

So I experimented with writing about my own experiences in relation to various passages of Scripture. This practice has renewed my faith and enriched my own experience. I have saved several hundred of these writings on my laptop. A number of them I have shared on this blog site. I like to write about my experiences rather than give an exposition of the verse because this helps me remember the way the Lord has led me.

The very process of writing about a specific incident or idea helps my mind to organize my thoughts about it. I often discover that this process of writing will start in one direction and lead me in a different−and likely more spiritually profitable−direction. You may wish to give it a try yourself. You definitely don’t need a computer to do it. In fact there appears to be a greater benefit in writing something by hand than entering it on a keyboard.[ii]

 [iii]

Lord, thank You for the way You have led me in the past. I know You can and will continue to lead me today.

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[i] Testimonies for the Church v9, p10 quoted from Life Sketches, p196

[ii] http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/a-learning-secret-don-t-take-notes-with-a-laptop/

[iii] http://thxthxthx.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/thx_606.jpg

We Know Not the Hour

Matthew 25:13

The Voice (VOICE)

¹³ So stay awake; you neither know the day nor hour [when the Son of Man will come].

When I was eight or ten, a college student taught my Sabbath School class. He did an excellent job of holding our attention. I vividly remember how he looked at us in all seriousness and said, “We don’t know exactly when Christ will come, but I guarantee you that it will be less than five years before He comes.” He showed us in detail how all of the conditions Christ mentioned in Matthew 24 had been fulfilled. He certainly had me convinced, and I’m sure he believed it just as much as I did.

My view of Jesus’ coming was one of absolute grandeur and magnificence: The entire sky filled with untold millions of heavenly beings, each one shining brighter than the sun, and the redeemed all rising upwards drawn by an irresistible force like a magnet attracting iron. Of course, every one of these people rising heavenward was a great saint and had lived a perfect life before the Lord.

My view of the whole thing was always from a spot solidly on the earth. My teachers and preachers proclaimed this marvelous, perfect character that I must obtain. As I looked at my own life, I knew I was selfish. What kid isn’t? I was deceptive, not harmfully deceptive, but none-the-less not transparently honest. Some of my friends were even more deceitful, but still I hated myself for both of these faults.

A Superman program came on the radio every afternoon around five o’clock. I sat transfixed, listening to the episode. I would imagine it was me flying around and saving innocent people and defeating unthinkably powerful villains. Then Mom would sit me down and ask me if I thought Jesus would listen to Superman if he were a boy in my house. By her very demeanor I knew that, of course, Jesus wouldn’t listen to it. I would admit that Jesus certainly wouldn’t, and I would swear off the program. For weeks I kept the radio off. Then some friends would come over and want to hear that program, and before I knew it I was hooked again. This listening—hearing Mom’s logic—restraining myself cycle would begin again.

No. There was no way that I would be with that ransomed throng rising inexorably to Jesus. He knew too much about me and certainly couldn’t save me. So this persuasive promise the devout college student made to us about the imminence of Christ’s appearance filled my young life with dread. My nights were haunted by the terror of being lost.

As I think back of those long ago days, I don’t remember this teacher being excited about Christ’s return any more than I was. He very ably brought out a sense of urgency. He could talk about the marvels of heaven and the new earth. He stressed that being ready for Christ was absolutely necessary, but I fear that he didn’t have the thrilling hope of redemption. He, too, was burdened with guilt. He had never experienced the marvelous certainty and peace that God’s grace makes possible for each heart who accepts Him. I wish he could have assured me that Jesus died to make me ready for translation and a place with the ransomed.

Lord Jesus, thank You for saving me. Thank You for Your grace that provides me with the marvelous hope You have given me. Thank You that Jesus is coming when I least expect it. Come! Lord Jesus.

Silence Can Be Golden

Amos 5:13

Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB)

¹³ Therefore, the wise person will keep silent at such a time, for the days are evil.

We had been called to teach at Ikizu in Tanzania. I finished my Master in Mathematics degree in January 1967. The mission board was anxious to get me out to Africa because the school year starts in January there. Only one thing was lacking: a Tanzanian work permit. The mission board was also anxious to get me on African soil because my salary would be cut to a third of what they were paying me in the U.S. They discovered that American citizens didn’t need a visa to go to Zambia, which is adjacent to Tanzania, and, furthermore, my parents were working at Rusangu in Zambia. So they flew us out to Zambia.

I was getting very restless sitting at Rusangu and twiddling my thumbs. We had been there six weeks already with no sign of progress in getting the work permit. The mission board had not paid me anything for six weeks because they weren’t sure whether I would actually get the permit and didn’t know which organization to charge my salary to.

Then by the action of some personal acquaintances in Dar es Salaam, they at last got the permit and faxed me a copy. I had to go from Rusangu down to a Zambian consulate in Livingstone to get a Tanzanian visa. It didn’t make sense to me then, nor does it make sense to me now. With very few kwacha in my wallet, I took the train down to Livingstone

It was nine o’clock, opening time, when I walked, permit in hand, into the consulate. It was one very large room with one small ancient wooden desk over near the window. Four straight-back wooden chairs sat over against an adjacent wall. Otherwise the room was bare. I walked up to the consul, greeted him politely, explained my mission, and handed him my permit. He smiled warmly, took the permit, and told me to return at four o’clock (closing time) to pick up the visa. Not yet used to recently independent African countries’ bureaucracy, I was disappointed. Nevertheless I thanked him and walked out the door.

Since I hadn’t been paid for over six weeks, I barely had enough money for one night at the hotel, the train fare back to Monze (Rusangu), and a meal or two. No one used credit cards in that part of Africa at that time. So I felt concerned but not overly so.

The consulate closed at four o’clock, so I arrived at 3:45. I walked in and greeted the consul cheerfully. He returned my greeting cheerfully and told me that it was impossible to get the visa today; I needed to come back tomorrow. I explained my financial problems to him, and he listened sympathetically.

“Sorry!” he said, “It’s impossible to get it today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” He turned back to his desk and sat staring vacantly at it. Stunned, I didn’t know what to do. It was obvious that more talking would probably just get his back up. After standing silently near his desk for a couple minutes, I walked over to one of the chairs against the wall and sat down and prayed.

About two minutes before closing a South African truck driver walked in. He requested his permit to transport goods up to Lusaka. He waxed eloquent in how badly the load was needed at the capitol. The consul rifled through a pile of papers on his desk and pulled out the one for this shipment. He looked at it briefly and said, “I’m very sorry, but this one is not ready. Come back tomorrow.”

The truck driver explained how he had been coming in there for three weeks now, and things were getting desperate. The consul was sympathetic but unyielding. My heart sank into my boots as I read what my future might be. I prayed silently as I sat there. It was obvious that he expected a bribe but equally obvious that he couldn’t blatantly ask for one.

Closing time came and went. I sat, prayed silently, and looked at the floor. The consul sat silently and stared at a bare part of his desk. Finally about 4:20, he began to get fidgety. It was obvious he wasn’t used to having someone just sit there silently. It was also evident that he didn’t know how to get me to leave his office.

He picked up his phone and dialed one digit on it. After waiting an appropriate length of time he said, “What is the number for Clarke?” He listened some more, and it was obvious that this was purely an act. He pulled out my paper from the pile, wrote a number on it, stamped it. Then turning towards me he smiled, “Your visa is ready.”

Thanking him profusely, I picked up the visa and permit and walked out the door.

Truly, Lord, there is a time when silence is the only appropriate action. Grant me the wisdom to know when that is.

Birds Neither Plant nor Reap

Matthew 6:26

      The Voice (VOICE)

²⁶ Look at the birds in the sky. They do not store food for winter. They don’t plant gardens. They do not sow or reap—and yet, they are always fed because your heavenly Father feeds them. And you are even more precious to Him than a beautiful bird. If He looks after them, of course He will look after you.

Sylvia and I left the U.S. to work in Tanzania right after I finished my master’s degree in Mathematics. We went to Ikizu Secondary School where I taught mathematics and a long list of other subjects that I was less prepared for.

At the beginning of our second year, we received a letter from the mission board chiding us for not pointing out that they weren’t taking rent out of our salary. I pointed out that I was very new and had no idea what things were deductible from my salary. That, of course, didn’t matter. They wrote us back stating that they were going to deduct present and past rent from our current salary explaining that I owed them more than several months’ salary. They wrote further that they understood that we probably couldn’t live on nothing for several months, so they would be sending us the equivalent of $20 a month until the back rent was paid. Even in 1968 in the heart of Africa, this was not much money!

For the next six months we lived on $20 a month. We had no children. We bought no clothes. We did no traveling. We had no vehicle and its related expenses. Fellow missionaries chipped in by taking us to the open-air market in Musoma to buy food. We lived mostly on the 3-B diet: beans, bread, and bananas.

Toward the end of that time, my parents, who were missionaries in Zambia, drove up in their VW Microbus to visit us. Mom looked at me critically and encouraged me to go see a doctor. She insisted I was way too thin and probably had some tropical parasites feasting on my insides. I didn’t have.

Actually, during this time we lived well and healthfully. We got sufficient sleep and never went hungry. As Christ promised in His Sermon on the Mount, God looked after us just like He looks after the birds of the air. We learned faith in Christ’s promises.

Thank You, Lord, that You look after us so well in spite of financial and other setbacks.

Thanks to BareFootRunning.com for the picture