Simple Things

We are in chapel again. Our speaker is from Sri Lanka originally, But he was a student here in Dehradun many decades ago at Doon Bible College. Later he got a PhD from Fuller—as you may know the seminary home of Uncle George, our sainted founder, and of myself and many friends.
He took the mic in his hands so he could wander a bit as he spoke. He made some comments in sympathy with the students, recalling the 1000s of pages he had to read each 10-week trimester and the 20 page research papers, that sort of thing.
He lit a candle on the pulpit as an object lesson for his remarks on John the Baptist, likening our ministry to the wax (our gifts and talents given through the image of God in us), the stand (our character), and the flame that burns for the Lord (our passion for ministry lighted by our love for people.) Twice he had us doing hand gestures to underscore certain points about leadership in ministry.
He sprinkled in some jokes and used a light touch. Students were definitely with him and applauded after the benediction.
I saw something of myself there. And frankly I did not like what I saw.
What a contrast to the plain earnest proclamations of student preachers we have been sitting under these past days. No gimmicks, no cute stuff, no studied tugging on the audience. Just from the heart, in stilted English. No shooting from the lip. No trying to impress.
I know this man is a true servant with years of accomplishments here in India. But somehow God failed to move my heart. In fact, God told me quite plainly—you are that man in some respects. So my unease with him was in reality unease with myself. I can easily give a good sermon. But that does not mean I have been used of the Holy Spirit.
I am reminded of a parallel.
Leo Tolstoy, that superlative Russian novelist (War and Peace; Anna Karenina, etc.) remarked about the effect music had on him. He was a guest at a grand evening with the nobility. They had dined on the finest in a magnificent setting. A live chamber orchestra had performed the latest Beethoven masterpiece—brilliantly executed and applauded by all.
Traveling home by carriage, Tolstoy passed by peasants harvesting grain. As they bent their backs to their work they were singing a folk song to keep their rhythm. As the sun lowered in the west, soon to mark the end of another day, they sang their way through the hours, toiling by the sweat of their brows.
It struck the great author how moved he was by their simple melodies, hovering pure and clean in the hazy air, in contrast to the busy almost tortured cacophony of the great Ludwig van Beethoven, the toast of every European salon. He found in the peasant song authentic beauty and even truth that moved his soul towards them and towards God. Beethoven may have been an impressive showman of what man can do with sounds and rhythms. But something profound and even ethereal came to his heart through unaffected music, conveying emotions of universal brotherhood.
Tolstoy has a point. It came clear to me in contrasting the polished Fuller grad and the eager students. Some messages are powerful through cleverness; others through the Holy Spirit.
St. Paul, undoubtedly a gifted orator, bypassed his talent when he went to the great city of ancient Corinth. Here’s how he put it.
I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on men’s wisdom but on God’s power. I Corinthians 2:2-5
I had heard a well-executed message by a real pro, but left flat, and thinking in a way that I may have heard myself. Lord save us from our gifts and talents. God is working on me, and I am thankful.
Item: I am also thankful a safe return from a cycle excursion to Grace Academy.
As we were at morning tea, Shivraj offered to take me with him to fetch his 6 year old (I can tell cuz she has no front teeth) from school about noon. Otherwise she has to wait for the bus and get back at 3 PM. “You have a helmet?” I ask. “O Yes.”
So he comes on his Prisma to pick me up. “A helmet?” I ask. “We only need one for the driver as the law requires.” OoooooK.
“Hold these,” he says pulling four books wrapped for mailing out of the mesh on the back “seat.” So I hop on, holding the books in one hand and using my best knee grip from Ellie’s college horsemanship class of yore. Off we go.
Pretty tame, as top speed with me on back is 25 mph. We only had to lurch off pavement once to avoid a triple passing play on the opposite lane. I’m thinking, “If anything happens I know I’ll be a grease spot.”
“We’re going the back way to avoid traffic,” he shouts over his shoulder. Real nice drive on a posh private road, free of debris and smoldering trash piles. As we slow for the Speed Breaker (bump, to you) I can read the markers we pass every 100 yards. George Everest headquartered his survey work here in 1846, when he measured the highest of the Himalayas. Makes sense—Mount Everest. Another marker says something about 20 years of trigonometric measuring. He started at sea level a thousand miles south and triangulated from there.
Shivraj parks at the academy and disappears to find his little one. Other parents are picking up kids—all on scooters or bikes. One goes by with a pint-size kid clinging to Dad’s back like a monkey on its mother.
Here’s little Smriti now. “Say hello to Uncle.” “Hello Sweetie,” says I. She grins. He turns the bike around. Sweetie is on the gas tank in front of Shivraj, with her little backpack near the handlebars. I am on back once more, still clutching the books and the grip behind my seat. “Too much traffic to go downtown to mail the books. We’ll go back the same way we came.”
As we part, Shivraj asks if I would like to go again some day next week. Sure—why not?
Perhaps I should pray about it. Some of the weekend ministry teams were cancelled today. Hindu militants are now in this area—an incident a few miles away a few days ago. “Using wisdom”—that’s how the brass put it.