Good News:
He’s Not Making a List!
by Ken Miller
Growing up, one of my favorite Disney records featured Jiminy Cricket, or was it Gene Autry, singing, “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” The song was quickly committed to memory and hummed in my back yard as my frozen fingers and soggy mittens tossed another snowball at my brother.
The words carefully laid out Santa’s protocol for giving presents. He kept a list, and checked it twice. On that list, he kept track of when I was bad or good, naughty or nice. In early December, when he tallied up my deeds, the longest list determined my fate. If the nice list was longest, I’d get my presents. If the naughty list was longer, I could look forward to a chunk of coal. (Thankfully, my parents did not get that memo from the North Pole.)
Santa kept coming to town and soon I gave up my Cub Scout uniform for the one worn by the Boy Scouts. I was in awe of how many merit badges some of the older Scouts had earned. Setting my mind on a campfire merit badge, I studied the manual and within a couple weeks, I rushed home to ask Mom to sew my badge on my uniform. Oh, happy day! I had earned my first merit badge.
As time passed, I saw how much of life was based on a merit system. If I performed well in school, I’d get good grades. If I did well on the job, I’d get a pay check. Life was full of lists and lots of performance.
Then I met Jesus and He gave me some Good News. (This is not a direct quote, dear reader, but would you allow me a little liberty?) “I do not make lists—and if someone gives me one, I put it in the Divine paper shredder, (1 Cor. 13:5, Rom. 8:1, ) never to be seen again.” (Rom. 5:8, John 3:17, Ps. 103:12)
On the back cover of his book, What’s So Amazing About Grace, Philip Yancey reminds us, “There is nothing we can do to make God love us more. There is nothing we can do to make God love us less.” From his book, The Purpose of Christmas, Rick Warren puts it like this: “God’s love for you is based on His character, not your conduct.”
Composer, Annie J. Flint described it like this: “His love has no limits; His grace has no measure; His power no boundary known unto men. For out of His infinite riches in Jesus, He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.” And isn’t that what the first Christmas was all about? (John 3:16)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Grace of Thanksgiving
The Grace of Thanks-Receiving
by Ken Miller
Another bag of coins clattered as it disappeared into the machine to be counted and sorted, bound for the bank. Sales had been good. A smile crept across my face as I recalled the nursery rhyme, “Sing a Song of Sixpence.” The line bringing the grin declared, “The king was in his counting house, counting out his money…” Life is good, I thought. Then I heard a knock on my office door.
On my way to the door the knock came again followed by, “Hey, Miller, are you in there?” I knew the voice and, sure enough, when I opened the door, it was my buddy John from our Out-of-Sight club.
The first time I met John was on the ICC campus in the early nineties. He was returning to school after losing his job as a surveyer due to diabetes. At that time he was using a support cane. The disease had also taken a portion of his sight. As time passed, the relentless thief claimed more and more of his physical real estate. By the time he was knocking on my office door, he had traded the cane for a wheelchair. Diabetes had robbed him of both feet and one leg.
A flash of movement told me that he had something in his right hand he was offering me. “My son did well on opening weekend and I brought you some venison sausage.” Again my eye caught the movement I assumed to be the sausage.
My knee-jerk response was swift. In my mind John was flanked by Tiny Tim, the Little Match Girl and a host of Charles Dickens’ orphans. Surely, I should not take this sausage. Between unemployment, declining health and medical bills, this must represent food for his family. I’ll not take it.
So determined was my resolve, I almost missed His still small voice. He spoke of mercy, humility and His opposition to pride (Micah 6:8, 1 Peter 5:5-7). Yes, it was true. The Lord was using a chunk of venison sausage to show me His grace—and my pride.
Smiling, I grabbed the sausage. “I gotta go,” he said. “My ride is waiting.”
Paul quotes Jesus in Acts 20:35 when he tells us it is more blessed to give than to receive. I suspect John was blessed, but because of that exchange, I, too, was blessed. Blessed by a thoughtful friend and blessed by the intervention of His amazing grace.
by Ken Miller
Another bag of coins clattered as it disappeared into the machine to be counted and sorted, bound for the bank. Sales had been good. A smile crept across my face as I recalled the nursery rhyme, “Sing a Song of Sixpence.” The line bringing the grin declared, “The king was in his counting house, counting out his money…” Life is good, I thought. Then I heard a knock on my office door.
On my way to the door the knock came again followed by, “Hey, Miller, are you in there?” I knew the voice and, sure enough, when I opened the door, it was my buddy John from our Out-of-Sight club.
The first time I met John was on the ICC campus in the early nineties. He was returning to school after losing his job as a surveyer due to diabetes. At that time he was using a support cane. The disease had also taken a portion of his sight. As time passed, the relentless thief claimed more and more of his physical real estate. By the time he was knocking on my office door, he had traded the cane for a wheelchair. Diabetes had robbed him of both feet and one leg.
A flash of movement told me that he had something in his right hand he was offering me. “My son did well on opening weekend and I brought you some venison sausage.” Again my eye caught the movement I assumed to be the sausage.
My knee-jerk response was swift. In my mind John was flanked by Tiny Tim, the Little Match Girl and a host of Charles Dickens’ orphans. Surely, I should not take this sausage. Between unemployment, declining health and medical bills, this must represent food for his family. I’ll not take it.
So determined was my resolve, I almost missed His still small voice. He spoke of mercy, humility and His opposition to pride (Micah 6:8, 1 Peter 5:5-7). Yes, it was true. The Lord was using a chunk of venison sausage to show me His grace—and my pride.
Smiling, I grabbed the sausage. “I gotta go,” he said. “My ride is waiting.”
Paul quotes Jesus in Acts 20:35 when he tells us it is more blessed to give than to receive. I suspect John was blessed, but because of that exchange, I, too, was blessed. Blessed by a thoughtful friend and blessed by the intervention of His amazing grace.
You've Got the Power, Grandpa!
You’ve Got the Power, Grandpa!”
by Ken Miller
Summer sun warmed the yard while a cool breeze kept the day from becoming uncomfortable. Life is good, I thought, especially since two of my grandkiddies just arrived for a visit.
After being freed from the tangle of seat belts and car seats, Kendrick charged to the house for some juice and Taylonee raced past grandpa and headed straight for the swing set uncle Mike had built. Ignoring the slide, she grabbed a swing and called, “Grandpa, push me!” I was already sitting on my scooter (thanks, Ted!) so I cranked the speed control to halfway between the picture of the turtle and the picture of the rabbit. Born To Be Wild, don’t cha know.
I stopped that mighty machine near the A-frame support. Two spastic steps put my feet securely in position. A firm grip on the frame with my left hand provided the stability I needed to allow my right hand to push. “Grandpa, push me!” A gentle nudge got her started, and after a couple of serious nudges, she was airborne, soaring into the wild blue yonder. As her swing began its return to earth, she called out, “Grandpa, you’ve got the power!” My first reaction was to smile and stand a little straighter. In her world, at that moment, I did have the power. (I wanted to ask her what she wanted for Christmas.)
Then I thought, “Power? What power?” I have no bulging biceps with which to box a heavy bag. I have no protruding pectorals with which to bench press 500 lbs. My quads could never carry me over the triathlon finish line. I don’t even have the power to cross the room without my walker! So what kind of power does grandpa have?
In chapter 24, verse 15, Joshua gave the Israelites the power to choose. Jesus gives us the power to choose to open the door to Him in Rev. 3:20. John Ortberg invites us to exercise our power of choice when he wrote, If You Want To Walk on Water, You Have To Get Out Of The Boat.
She was right. I did have the power. No--wait. WE have the power. You and I, beloved of our Father, we have the power to choose. We can hand down a verdict or extend a helping hand. We can condemn or forgive. We can turn away or get involved. As the saying goes, we can curse the darkness or light a candle. Today, let us choose to be the light of the world (Math. 5:14).
by Ken Miller
Summer sun warmed the yard while a cool breeze kept the day from becoming uncomfortable. Life is good, I thought, especially since two of my grandkiddies just arrived for a visit.
After being freed from the tangle of seat belts and car seats, Kendrick charged to the house for some juice and Taylonee raced past grandpa and headed straight for the swing set uncle Mike had built. Ignoring the slide, she grabbed a swing and called, “Grandpa, push me!” I was already sitting on my scooter (thanks, Ted!) so I cranked the speed control to halfway between the picture of the turtle and the picture of the rabbit. Born To Be Wild, don’t cha know.
I stopped that mighty machine near the A-frame support. Two spastic steps put my feet securely in position. A firm grip on the frame with my left hand provided the stability I needed to allow my right hand to push. “Grandpa, push me!” A gentle nudge got her started, and after a couple of serious nudges, she was airborne, soaring into the wild blue yonder. As her swing began its return to earth, she called out, “Grandpa, you’ve got the power!” My first reaction was to smile and stand a little straighter. In her world, at that moment, I did have the power. (I wanted to ask her what she wanted for Christmas.)
Then I thought, “Power? What power?” I have no bulging biceps with which to box a heavy bag. I have no protruding pectorals with which to bench press 500 lbs. My quads could never carry me over the triathlon finish line. I don’t even have the power to cross the room without my walker! So what kind of power does grandpa have?
In chapter 24, verse 15, Joshua gave the Israelites the power to choose. Jesus gives us the power to choose to open the door to Him in Rev. 3:20. John Ortberg invites us to exercise our power of choice when he wrote, If You Want To Walk on Water, You Have To Get Out Of The Boat.
She was right. I did have the power. No--wait. WE have the power. You and I, beloved of our Father, we have the power to choose. We can hand down a verdict or extend a helping hand. We can condemn or forgive. We can turn away or get involved. As the saying goes, we can curse the darkness or light a candle. Today, let us choose to be the light of the world (Math. 5:14).
The Attack of the Possessive Pronoun
The Attack of the Possessive Pronoun
by Ken Miller
On a recent trip to the Twin Cities, I was poking the scan button on our car radio trying to find a weather forecast, when a song from my past filled the vehicle. In an instant, I was back in my dorm room at Moorhead State. The stereo was blasting: “You’ve made me so very happy. I’m so glad you came into my life.”
Leaning back in my seat, I continued to listen to the brass and the full voice of David Clayton Thomas, when that little bitty possessive pronoun, my, interrupted my bliss as I listened to my radio in my car. (My is a form of the possessive case of I used as an attributive adjective. Okay, okay, I can hear you, dear reader. “Ken, have you fallen off your lily pad? This is a church newsletter, not a grammar lesson.” Sorry, but it is important to catch the significance and power of that little two- letter word.)
I recall my own motivation for becoming a Christian. I wanted Jesus to heal my blindness so my life would be better. I was what musician, Michael Tyrrell, would call a “meople.” A “meople” believes Matt. 6:33 reads: “But seek ME first…” A good “meople” believes it’s all about ME.
A number of years ago, Elmer Johnson, a retired Alliance pastor, asked me if we could sit down for a short chat over coffee. At that point in my life, my healing was all I thought and prayed about. “I wonder, Ken,” he said, “if God isn’t more interested in getting to know you, than He is in healing you.” His question gave me pause and put the first chink in my “meople”. He continued. “Have you ever heard the hymn, Himself, by A. B. Simpson?” I had not. “May I recite some of the lyrics?” I nodded. (Note: The entire hymn can be found on page 248 in our hymnal.) “Once His gift I wanted, Now, the Giver own; Once I sought for healing, Now Himself alone.”
In the years that followed, a subtle shift began to take place in the way I thought about that little possessive pronoun. The Scriptures are very clear about ownership: we belong to God (1 Cor. 6:20, 1 Peter 2:9 ). As the chink in my “meople” grew, I started to see it was all about Him. Like the movie title asks: Whose life is it anyway? I re-wrote the lyrics in the first paragraph to say: “I’m so glad You invited me into Your life!”
Now when the possessive pronoun attacks, I don’t think of my “wood, hay and stubble,” (1 Cor 3:11-13) but rather how “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” (Song of Solomon 6:3) It’s no longer me possessing my life, but He possessing me.
by Ken Miller
On a recent trip to the Twin Cities, I was poking the scan button on our car radio trying to find a weather forecast, when a song from my past filled the vehicle. In an instant, I was back in my dorm room at Moorhead State. The stereo was blasting: “You’ve made me so very happy. I’m so glad you came into my life.”
Leaning back in my seat, I continued to listen to the brass and the full voice of David Clayton Thomas, when that little bitty possessive pronoun, my, interrupted my bliss as I listened to my radio in my car. (My is a form of the possessive case of I used as an attributive adjective. Okay, okay, I can hear you, dear reader. “Ken, have you fallen off your lily pad? This is a church newsletter, not a grammar lesson.” Sorry, but it is important to catch the significance and power of that little two- letter word.)
I recall my own motivation for becoming a Christian. I wanted Jesus to heal my blindness so my life would be better. I was what musician, Michael Tyrrell, would call a “meople.” A “meople” believes Matt. 6:33 reads: “But seek ME first…” A good “meople” believes it’s all about ME.
A number of years ago, Elmer Johnson, a retired Alliance pastor, asked me if we could sit down for a short chat over coffee. At that point in my life, my healing was all I thought and prayed about. “I wonder, Ken,” he said, “if God isn’t more interested in getting to know you, than He is in healing you.” His question gave me pause and put the first chink in my “meople”. He continued. “Have you ever heard the hymn, Himself, by A. B. Simpson?” I had not. “May I recite some of the lyrics?” I nodded. (Note: The entire hymn can be found on page 248 in our hymnal.) “Once His gift I wanted, Now, the Giver own; Once I sought for healing, Now Himself alone.”
In the years that followed, a subtle shift began to take place in the way I thought about that little possessive pronoun. The Scriptures are very clear about ownership: we belong to God (1 Cor. 6:20, 1 Peter 2:9 ). As the chink in my “meople” grew, I started to see it was all about Him. Like the movie title asks: Whose life is it anyway? I re-wrote the lyrics in the first paragraph to say: “I’m so glad You invited me into Your life!”
Now when the possessive pronoun attacks, I don’t think of my “wood, hay and stubble,” (1 Cor 3:11-13) but rather how “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.” (Song of Solomon 6:3) It’s no longer me possessing my life, but He possessing me.
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