Hidden Treasures

I will give you the treasures of darkness

And hidden riches of secret places,

That you may know that I, 

the Lord,

Who call you by your name,

Am the God of Israel.

Isaiah 45:3

My newly grown children balance on the cusp of the rest of their lives.  It's so hard to have no answers for them.  They stare alone into a future blurred by endless choices and narrowing prospects.  They long for concrete decisions and an iron clad contract.  They struggle to deal with the reality that they can barely glimpse past the next season.

I remember that terror of being just out of school.  I remember nights of wondering where I was going from here, of questioning how could they give me a diploma?, I don't know anything.  

If we're honest, it's really no different later in life.  We're just better at pretending we know what we're doing. We set long term goals, open retirement accounts, and plan our careers as if we're really in control of any of it.    

Yet, the greatest treasures rarely come from the plans I make and the goals I set.

The greatest treasures are hidden in the mists of unknown,  in the darkness of the future, in the secret places of the future I could never have imagined.  I never could have dreamed of the places I've been, could never have planned out the life I've had.  Those unexpected blessings, the joys of the unimagined gifts of God; that's where we learn to really look to Him, and acknowledge His hand on our lives.

     

The Temple of God

He began to build on the second day of the second month in the fourth year of his reign.

2 Chronicles 3:1

David longed to build a temple to honor God.  He drew up the blueprints, he assigned the roles of the priests and Levites, and even determined the weight of the gold and silver for the lamp stands and utensils. It was his most cherished dream, but it would be left to his son to fulfill.

Solomon had to have been thinking about it since the day he took the throne.  Maybe it had been the backdrop of his whole life.  Did he pour over the plans with David as a young boy?  Did he listen to his father's dreams and expand them in his own mind?  Did he examine beautiful buildings and sculptures and take note of the artists to recruit for the temple work?

Even after taking the throne, he didn't just rush into throwing it together.  All those years of planning and pondering and it's been three years now that he's had the authority to do something about it.  I'm not sure I'd be that patient.  I'm way too good at getting an idea and plunging into it with the plan of figuring it all out as I go along.  There have been many emergency calls to plumbers that way. 

Solomon began with a foundation.  He organized crews of thousands to cut and carry stone, then wrote to the king of Tyre requesting lumber and woodsmen and artists.  He negotiated payments and sent workmen of his own to join them.  He gathered the supplies and assigned the crews.

Finally it was time to build.

They built walls lined with gold.  They created woven tapestries and engravings of palm trees and chains. They crafted columns and porches and enormous sculptures.  They brought in the gold and silver holy items for the worship rituals.  

For seven years, the crews of Solomon worked to create a place of magnificence and beauty.  For a lifetime, David planned and sketched and dreamed.  All that time, all that manpower and devotion went into preparing a place to meet God.  

The buildings are long gone now, just as Jesus prophesied.  Today, God meets us where we are.  Our bodies have become His temple. So what have I done to prepare?  

Botanical Gardens

I wonder whose job it is to create these designs.

I guess it would get tedious after awhile.  There are rows and rows of them.  It seems like such a peaceful calming way to spend a morning though; trailing a rake in swirling lines around the rocks and bushes, outlining the borders of the gardens, and smoothing away the imprint of animals and leaves and limbs from the previous day.

It's as hushed as a world apart here.  The knobby pebbled sidewalk scarcely registers my steps.  Birds call back and forth across the wooded path.  In the distance is a splash of water and the muffled chatter of children tossing fish food to the enormous koi and the interloping geese.

Even the roar of the city traffic beyond the fence seems low and subdued; present, but unobtrusive, not really a part of this realm.

I wandered from plot to plot, tracing the smooth designs in my mind and imagining the creation of each.  It was only at the end that I wondered how the artist would feel tomorrow.

Is it frustrating to find all that work disturbed, or is it a joy to have a fresh canvas to create.

Art Hill

We went by the rule of "follow the crowd".  It seemed like a reasonable choice as there was a steady stream of humanity winding their way over the streets and trails and sloping fields of the huge city park; all traveling in the same general direction.  The parking spot I quickly and easily found made me very suspicious that I was going to regret the choice when it was time to leave again, but time was short and I really wasn't sure where I was going.

My daughter told me about it; a weekly old movie in July, shown on a giant screen on the hill beneath the art museum.  The night was cooling, the full moon was rising and I had thirty minutes to drive downtown, inch through the traffic, and hike from whatever parking spot I could find to the screen.  What could go wrong?

Actually nothing.  Aside from the niggling worries about that way-too-convenient parking spot, it was a pleasant easy trek to art museum.  My daughter actually had other plans that night and didn't go, but my oldest son is always up for an adventure and helped me lug lawn chairs up to the museum grounds.

The gigantic screen towered at the bottom of Art Hill.  Fountains splashed in gentle constant arcs reflecting in pool behind it.  The Princess Bride spooled out on the tiny sliver of screen I could manage to glimpse through the crowds splayed out across the hill.

It didn't matter, watching the movie didn't really seem to be the point.  There were food trucks and picnic baskets.  One family in front of us even brought along a low table for their snacks.  Children bounced and played and occasionally watched the screen.  I could almost quote the movie as it played; a  number of people did exactly that at the favorite scenes.

Through a short intermission for equipment repair, I watched the fountains below and the lights of the planes overhead.  I wrapped up in my throw as a cooling breeze floated in over the pond and the movie resumed.

A few minutes of restless chatter, a roar of cheers and applause at the vanquishing of the six fingered man, and the movie was done.

In the midst of family scrambles of gathering bags, and blankets and sleepy children, we found ourselves among the first down the hill and back to our car.  We drove easily out of the lot I had expected to be stuck in, comparing our favorite scenes and already planning to return next week.

crossing the line

So I'm officially obsessed I guess. I actually bought a subscription to a bicycling magazine today. Most of the articles, and all of the ads, are way beyond my skill level of course.  

The articles about training regimens and speed trials and serious competitions didn't really move me. Neither did the fancy and highly expensive equipment. Clipping my shoes to my pedals inspires only visions of some very spectacular crashes, and those tight little outfits on my way-to-close-to-fifty body are out of the question. 

But I loved it anyway. There were pictures and stories of amazing trails and haunting back country roads.  None of them, in this issue, were close to where I live, none were really particularly likely to be places I could ever travel, but still they were just enough within the brush of possibility to dream. 

Best were the articles about casual riding for the joy of the open air and the slow motion peepshow of the world in motion.  It sends me out again day after day in the longing to feel the pull of my muscles, the wind on face, and the peace in the spinning of my tires.  

For His invisible attributes,

that is, 

His eternal power and divine nature,

have been clearly seen since the creation of the world,

being understood through what He has made. 

Romans 1:20

There's so much beauty in the world we touch and hold; the spray of an ocean wave crashing at my feet; the tumbling rolling hills cascading through a valley; the tiny geometric precision of wildflowers clinging to a bluff.  

Beyond our reach, stars sweep the sky in seeming immutability until they implode into black holes or burst into glorious novas.  The heavens expand, galaxies hurtle through space, grasping into eternity.  To lay in the grass on warm summer night, to stare into the depths of the infinite field of stars, is to brush the train of God, to teeter on the brink of glimpsing all He is.  

It's a symphony in celebration of it's greatest master; with the heavens the irrepressible conductor.

Sunset Glow

Rippling circles interlocking in the lake

Giggling toddler bouncing on the shore

Pudgy fingers swaying to toss another stone

Safe in the circle of his father's arms

I'm watching the sun go down and watching my gas gauge descend while sitting at yet another red light.  I'm desparately hoping one of the two doesn't end my quest for an evening ride before I can even get to the park.  The first park I try is closed for construction, the bridge to the lake is still out, and every signal between here and my detour route is red.  The gas gauge is still sinking.

Pink tinged clouds glow across the lake as I finally manage to pull in.  If the trail is closed, no one has managed to convince the rest of the city yet, so I pull into the first spot I see in the crowded lot.  Bikers and walkers, dogs and toddlers, teenagers on roller blades, and small children proudly teetering on tiny bikes weave together in the evening breeze.  It's warm and muggy still, in the clinging heat of the day, but the slightest hint of cool air brushes in from the lake.

The crowds thin on the far side of the path.  Birds skim the grasses defending their nests and a heron sits frozen at the bank waiting for his catch.  The day slows down in the spin of my wheels, and dusk descends with the splash of the waterfall as I wind back around to the entrance.  I even manage to coast safety into the gas station down the hill.

Faith in the News

First, 

I thank my God

 through Jesus Christ 

for all of you

 because the news of your faith is being reported

 in all the world

Romans 1:8

Today's news isn't quite so uplifting.  A murder trial, a plane crash, and a an angry mob consume the space on every news site.  A quick search for "news of faith" didn't yield much better.  There was a story of an arrested missionary, a preacher who shot his own son, and two bishops accused of child abuse.  

As I understand it, Paul had never been to Rome at this point, he didn't even know these people he was writing to.  Yet everywhere, he was hearing about them, hearing about their faith.  He was encouraged and filled with gratitude by the reports.  So what exactly was being reported?  Was it a church growing in numbers or growing in strength under persecution?  Was it a giving spirit reaching out to the poor or sending missionaries to other cities?  Or was it quiet lives lived with such honor before God that even their persecutors had to take note?  

What ever it was, it had to be spectacular.  I can't imagine that people really have changed all that much.  For all we complain about the barrage of bad news, for all we question why the media can't just focus on something positive for a change, the truth is, they only sell what we're buying.  Anger, violence, and chaos capture attention.  They bring us back minute by minute, to check out the latest updates and pull in the audience to pay the advertisers.  

So what would it mean to wake up tomorrow and see that the news was all about people of faith?  Would we listen, would we honor the stories with our focus and praise?  What would the story be, how would the world respond,  be if the cameras followed the church for a day?