The Stanford Prison Experiment

Last month marked 42 years since of one of the darkest and most controversial experiments in the history of American research—the Stanford Prison Experiment. This article provides an excellent short summary and this article gives a more detailed analysis. The heart of the experiment was a simple idea: for $15 a day male college students and a team of researchers acted as either prison guards or inmates. The experiment quickly descended into chaos as "guards" and "inmates" went well beyond mere role-playing. Decent young men suddenly turned into abusive guards who humiliated and assaulted the inmates. The prisoners started to break down under the stress and degradation. The lead researcher, who played the warden, also lost himself in the experiment. A colleague had to intervene and finally stop the experiment which had gotten completely out of control. It's a sober lesson right out of Jeremiah 17:9—"The heart is desperately wicked."

Enemies

If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Divorce Builds Character, but Religion?

Here's an insightful blog post from Cardus regarding perceptions about religion. In the NHL draft last month, Ryan Nugent-Hopkins became the first overall pick. The sports commentators carefully noted that Ryan's character was forged for the better through his parents' divorce. In a completely unrelated story, Rocco Grimaldi, the 33rd overall pick and also a committed Christian, was interviewed and asked if his faith might lead to divisiveness among his teammates. Cardus writes: "Character shaped by having to deal with a family breakup is so routine that it is self-evident how it helps a kid mature. Character from [faith in Christ] is so out-of-the-ordinary, it needs to be questioned for its potential divisiveness." Apparently, we get family breakdown, but we don't get strong faith in Christ.

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What's Better—Great People or Great Teams?

Here's an utterly brilliant article about the power of teams and the need for community. Starting with Mark Zuckerberg's purchase of Friendfind, the article asks the question: "If you are building a company, would you prefer one standout person over one hundred pretty good people?" Many business models prefer the one great person route, but this article argues for the team approach. For example, the Boston Bruins (NHL champs), the Dallas Mavericks (NBA champs), and Barcelona (the world's best soccer team) all had one thing in common: exceptional teamwork. You can easily see the connection between the author's conclusion and the life of the church: we don't need "Free Agents" and "lone wolves"; instead, we need a "well-assembled team that may not dazzle with individual brilliance, but overwhelms with collective capability."

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A Rough Week for Atheist Richard Dawkins

In the world of atheist blogs (and there are plenty of them), one of their heroes—Richard Dawkins—got hammered by other atheists (and here's an excellent summary of the brouhaha). If you think just Christians have nasty fights about doctrinal issues, read these articles. Apparently, a female atheist objected when one of her male colleagues propositioned her in an elevator. Dawkins replied to her blog post, basically telling her to stop whining because women around the world have it rougher than she does. Now some atheists-agnostics-skeptics are calling people to boycott Dawkin's books. This debate raises huge, emotional issues about the treatment of women in our culture, but it also provides insight into the human heart. One blogger wrote, "That's skeptics: Rational about everything except themselves."

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Husband Drives Away and Forgets His Wife

The story, published in a British newspaper, began with the following sentence: "Heartfelt commiseration to Dorothy Naylor of Plymouth, whose recent daytrip to Bridgewater was spoiled when her husband, Oliver, left her on the forecourt of a garage … and drove 17 miles before noticing his wife was not in the car."
"I couldn't believe he'd gone without me," Mrs. Naylor told the Western Morning News. "I usually sit in the back because I can move around more, but normally we talk to one another."
The couple, both in their 70s, had pulled into a garage to change a tyre. Mr. Naylor drove off and didn't notice his wife's absence until he had arrived in Bridgewater. After stopping in town, he asked his wife, "Where do you want to get out?" When she didn't answer, he turned around and discovered that he had left her behind. The paper added that the couple had been married for 40 years.

Rico Tice, "What Shall I Do With Jesus?" Sermon at All Souls Church, Langham Place, London

Young Man Finds Christ through an Imperfect Christian Family

Jim Petersen tells the story of Mario, [a friend from South America] with whom he had studied the Bible for four years before Mario became a Christian. The Bible studies reflected the fact that Mario was a Marxist intellectual who'd read all the leading Western philosophers. A couple of years after his conversion, Jim and Mario were reminiscing: "Do you remember what it really was that made me decide to become a Christian?" Mario asked.
Petersen thought of all their Bible studies and philosophical discussions. Mario's reply took him by surprise. "Remember that first time I stopped by your house? We were on our way someplace together, and I had a bowl of soup with you and your family. As I sat there observing you, your wife, and your children, and how you related to each other, I asked myself, 'When will I have a relationship like this with my fiancé?' When I realized that the answer was 'never,' I concluded I had to become a Christian for the sake of my own survival."
Petersen did remember the occasion. He remembered his children behaving badly and his frustration at having to correct them in front of Mario. Yet Mario saw the grace of Christ binding that family together. Years later, Petersen would comment on this incident:

We tend to see the weaknesses and incongruities in our lives, and our reaction is to recoil at the thought of letting outsiders get close enough to see us as we really are. Even if our assessment is accurate, it is my observation that any Christian who is sincerely seeking to walk with God, in spite of all his flaws, is reflecting something of Christ.

 

Tim Chester, A Meal with Jesus (Crossway, 2011), pp. 95-96

Boy Forgets How to Stop His Bike; Father Learns to Slow Down

[My son] Kyle had mastered riding [a bicycle] with training wheels and was eager to try [a two-wheeler] …. That sparkling blue Schwinn bike with the chrome handle bars wasn't exactly a Harley, but it went fast enough for a five-year-old to be simultaneously scared to death and higher than a kite.
After some false starts and a few erratic swerves that just missed the neighbour's mailboxes, he eventually got the hang of controlling the bike …. Soon enough the side streets of our little neighbourhood were his speedway. With every lap he looked a little more sure of himself, and I began to wonder if he would ever quit and give it a rest.
Then I noticed that he was not so sure of himself. The anxious look on his face grew more serious with each lap. Something was wrong. Suddenly, he ran the bike up the curb and onto the grass in front of our house and leaped off, tumbling head over heels, while the bike careened to a halt.
I ran to see if he was okay, and he looked up at me and said, "Dad, how do you stop?" He had known how to use the brake when still on training wheels, but in the rush of being free of the constricting training wheels he forgot what he used to know how to do. So after another lesson on stopping and several more crash landings, he eventually remembered how to slow down and stop.
My [life] looked a lot like Kyle's first bike ride. Hooked on the fast pace of [life], I got dangerously out of control. It took a crash to help me slow down and learn to stop.

Keith Meyer, Whole Life Transformation (IVP Books, 2010), pp. 97-98

Woman Idolizes Her Parents' Approval

In his book Counterfeit Gods, Timothy Keller writes, "Idols generate false beliefs such as 'If I cannot achieve X, then my life won't be valid' or, 'Since I have lost or failed at Y, now I can never be happy or forgiven.'" Then he illustrates this point with the following illustration:

A young woman named Mary was an accomplished musician who once attended my church. For many years she had battled mental illness and had checked in and out of psychiatric institutions. She gave me permission as her pastor to speak to her therapist …. "Mary virtually worships her parents' approval of her," her counsellor told me, "and they always wanted her to be a world-class artist. She is quite good, but she's never reached the top of her profession, and she cannot live with the idea that she has disappointed her parents."

Medications helped to manage her depression, but they could not get to the root of it. Her problem was a false belief, driven by an idol. She told herself, "If I cannot be a well-known violinist, I have let down my parents, and my life is a failure." She was distressed and guilty enough to die. When Mary began to believe the gospel, that she was saved by grace, not by musicianship, and that, "though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord shall take me in" (Psalm 27:10), she began to get relief from her idolatrous need for her parents' approval. In time her depression and anxiety began to lift, and she was able to re-enter her life and musical career.

 

Timothy Keller, Counterfeit Gods (Dutton, 2009), pp. 148-149

The Privilege of Having the Holy Spirit Live Within Us

One recent summer, in a large urn that sits outside the front door of my house, a blue swift made a nest in which she laid six eggs. This beautiful, shy creature had made her home in (almost) my house. I felt privileged that I had been honored by her presence, even if my cat viewed it entirely differently.
If I felt privileged when a bird nested by my door, how much more privileged should I feel knowing that the Holy Spirit has taken up residence in me? Our hearts should well up with gratitude and song at the mere thought of it. It is staggering.
Some of us take photographs when distinguished guests visit our homes. I love to glance through a "Visitor's Book" to see who has stayed in our home. On occasion I see the name of a well-known [person] or a dear friend. But none of this compares to having the Spirit permanently [dwell] in our hearts.

Derek W. H. Thomas, How the Gospel Brings Us All the Way Home (Reformation Trust Publishing, 2011), p. 35

Max Lucado's Daughter Asks Him to Sell Snow-Cones

When my oldest daughter was about six years old, she and I were having a discussion about my work. It seems she wasn't too happy with my chosen profession. She wanted me to leave the ministry. "I like you as a preacher," she explained, "I just really wish you sold snow cones."
An honest request from a pure heart. It made sense to her that the happiest people in the world were the men who drove the snow-cone trucks. You play music. You sell goodies. You make kids happy. What more could you want? (Come to think of it, she may have had a point. I could get a loan, buy a truck, and … hah, I'd eat too much.)
I heard her request but didn't heed it. Why? Because I knew better. I know what I'm called to do and what I need to do. The fact is, I knew more about life than she did. Same with God.
God hears our requests. But his answer is not always what we'd like it to be. Why? Because God knows more about life than we do.

Max Lucado, Max on Life (Thomas Nelson, 2010), p. 42

A Faith Worth Emulating

Inspiration from the life of Samuel Logan Brengle 

by Gordon MacDonald

Many years ago, I became acquainted with the writings of Samuel Logan Brengle, a commissioner in the Salvation Army. I found his pattern of faith in Jesus Christ attractive because of its joyfulness, toughness, and genuineness.

Brengle was born in the Midwest and, in his growing-up years, dedicated himself to Christian ministry as a Methodist preacher. In his youth, he dreamed of occupying a prestigious pulpit and becoming an influential voice in American religion.

An unlikely path

Because of his natural gift as a speaker, Brengle might have realized his ambition. But when a big church opportunity came, a Methodist bishop scotched the appointment. Years later—with greater insight—Brengle reflected on that moment.

Losing that city church was the best thing that could have happened to me. If I had gone to that appointment to work among those cultured and refined people, I should have swelled with pride, tried to show off my spread-eagled oratory and doubtless would have accomplished little. But out among the comparatively illiterate and uncultured farmers of my circuit, I learned the foundations of true preaching: humility and simplicity.

One morning, while a divinity student in Boston, Brengle experienced, in addition to his sense of conversion, a "second blessing," as my holiness friends describe it. Of that moment, Brengle wrote:

On January 9, 1885, at about nine o'clock in the morning, God sanctified my soul. He gave me such a blessing as I never had dreamed a person could have this side of Heaven. It was a heaven of love that came in into my heart. I walked out over Boston Common before breakfast, weeping for joy and praising God. Oh, how I loved! In that hour I knew Jesus, and I loved Him till it seemed my heart would break with love. I was filled with love for all His creatures. I heard the little sparrows chattering; I loved them. I saw a little worm wriggling across my path; I stepped over it; I didn't want to hurt any living thing. I loved the dogs, I loved the horses, I loved the little urchins on the street, I loved the strangers who hurried past me, I loved the heathen, I loved the whole world.

Brengle's biography, Portrait of a Prophet, has been a valued part of my library, and I have read it several times. When I reflect on the life of this man, I gain refreshment for my soul. In the biography's early pages comes the fascinating story of Brengle's journey to England for training as an officer in the Salvation Army. It is said that the General and founder of the Army, William Booth, was disdainful of Brengle because he sensed in the young trainee's demeanor a conceit which he felt would make the young man incompatible with the unique culture of the Salvation Army. William Booth was hard to please.

But Brengle persevered. Booth finally accepted him conditionally and sent him to an Army "outpost" where his first task was to polish the boots and shoes of Salvation Army officers. This Brengle did obediently, even gladly, as a service to Jesus.

When the General and other superiors were convinced that he was ready, Brengle returned to the United States where he spent most of his life, first as a corps officer (pastor), then as an evangelist and spiritual life teacher for other Corps officers in every Salvation Army territory. Wherever he preached, people committed themselves to Jesus or experienced powerful rededications of their lives. Several of his books remain in print and are read by many Salvation Army officers today. At the age of 76, Samuel Logan Brengle was, as the officers like say, promoted to glory.

Heart of humility

If Brengle lived today, I wonder how he would have coped with the celebrity status that often adorns gifted communicators and clever authors who are packaged by marketing, development and publicity strategies. Toward the end of his ministry, Brengle wrote:

If I appear great in their eyes, the Lord is most graciously helping me to see how absolutely nothing I am without Him, and helping me to keep little in my own eyes. He does use me. But I am so concerned that He uses me that it is not of me the work is done. The axe cannot boast of the trees it has cut down. It could no nothing but for the woodman. He made it; he sharpened it; and he used it. The moment he throws it aside, it becomes only old iron. O that I may never lose sight of this.

Brengle's view of himself (humility comes to mind) as God's servant might not make it in the celebrity-driven venues today. But I believe that we could use a dose of his humble spirituality in our contemporary Christian world.

One night in Boston Brengle was attacked by a street person who hit him on the head with a brick. The injury side-lined Brengle for almost two years. For the rest of his life, he struggled with periodic depressions and vicious headaches. But Brengle never lost his sense of calling and fervor for proclaiming the powerful gospel of Christ. He never complained or whined about his misfortune. And he never lost his power to persuade people.

When a Salvation Army officer wrote to him admitting that he was in such despair that he wanted to quit the ministry, Brengle responded:

You say in your note to me: "I was born to fight" and now that you are in a real fight you feel that you are absolutely "useless." No, no, you have often been on dress parade when you thought you were fighting. When you were at the head of a lot of shouting men and women, cheered by thousands, the Devil may have sat down, crossed his legs and watched it all as a pretty performance. But he is on the job now. I imagine that I hear him hiss; "Now I'll crush him! Now I'll smash his helmet of hope! Now I'll rob him of his shield of faith. Now I'll break his sword of the Spirit! Now I'll quench his spirit of prayer;"—and what a Devil he is. Don't imagine that you are out of the fight. You are in it, and you must fight the good fight of faith now, in loneliness and weakness. But you will triumph … you were indeed born to fight.

I have always liked this man, Brengle. When I grow up, I wouldn't mind being like him. 

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Chris Seay's Father Demonstrates How to Love the "Unlovely"

In his book The Gospel According to Jesus, Chris Seay mentions a profound lesson he learned from his father about loving the "bad people":
Growing up, we didn't have a lot of money, so we used to get outfield deck seats (aka "the cheap seats") to see the baseball games at the [Houston] Astrodome. Most of the people buying the cheap seats did so to save more money for beer. After the first few innings, they were drunk, and by the time the seventh-inning stretch rolled around, there would be beer mixed with peanut shells on the floor, spilled beer down your back, and a brawl two rows over and back to the left. It was ugly out there. As a kid, I learned from a lot people that we were sitting with the "bad people."
There was one consistent drunk fan named Batty Bob. He was a self-proclaimed Houston Astros mascot. He'd come to all the games wearing a rainbow wig, and he'd lead slurred cheers in the stands. I remember one time my dad went out to sit and talk with Batty Bob. He spent the whole game with Bob, then walked him out to the parking lot to bring him home with us. I was more than confused, because this guy was one of the "bad people."
When we got home, my dad came to me and explained how God loved Batty Bob. I remember thinking, Really? Batty Bob? And he stayed with us for a few days to get back on his feet. This is when I started to realise that God did not despise these people; he dearly loved them.

Chris Seay, The Gospel According to Jesus (Thomas Nelson, 2011), p. 147

Visually Impaired Woman Ignores Her Guide Dog

In his book Resolving Everyday Conflict, Ken Sande tells about observing a visually impaired woman who resisted the repeated warnings of her loyal and protective guide dog:
One day during my morning run I noticed a blind woman walking on the other side of the street with her Seeing Eye dog, a beautiful golden retriever. As I was about to pass them, I noticed a car blocking a driveway a few paces ahead of them. At that moment the dog paused and gently pressed his shoulder against the woman's leg, signalling her to turn aside so they could get around the car.
I'm sure she normally followed his lead, but that day she didn't seem to trust him. She had probably walked this route many times before and knew this was not the normal place to make a turn. Whatever the cause, she wouldn't move to the side and instead gave him the signal to move ahead. He again pressed his shoulder against her leg, trying to guide her on a safe path. She angrily ordered [the dog] to go forward. When he again declined, her temper flared.
I was about to speak up … when the dog once more put his shoulder gently against her leg. Sure enough, she kicked him …. And then she impulsively stepped forward—and bumped square into a car. Reaching out to feel the shape in front of her, she immediately realized what had happened. Dropping to her knees, she threw her arms around the dog, and spoke sobbing words into his ear.

Ken Sande, Resolving Everyday Conflict (Baker Books, 2011), pp. 99-100

Christian Scientist Francis Collins Befriends Atheist Christopher Hitchens

The Telegraph, a newspaper based in Great Britain, reported on an unlikely bond of friendship and trust between two very different people: Francis Collins, a Christian scientist, and Christopher Hitchens, perhaps the world's most famous atheist. Their popular book titles reveal their profound differences: Collins wrote The Language of God: A Scientist Presents Evidence for Belief; Hitchens wrote God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything.
Even so, a March 2011 newspaper headline announced, "Atheist Christopher Hitchens could be 'saved' by evangelical Christian." The article went on to report, "The two had often met in the past as adversaries in the debate about whether God exists. Against the odds they [have] become friends." This improbable friendship started because Hitchens, a cancer patient, became part of an experimental treatment program that involves genome sequencing. Doctors plan to map Hitchens' genetic makeup so they can target and treat his damaged DNA. It just so happens that this experimental treatment is being pioneered by Dr. Francis Collins.
Hitchens has spent years blasting religious faith and religious believers. In his book There Is No God, he argues that "Organised religion is violent, irrational, intolerant, allied to racism, tribalism, and bigotry …." But when asked about his friendship with Dr. Collins, Hitchens spoke with only respect and admiration. "It's a rather wonderful relationship," he said, "I won't say he doesn't pray for me, because I think he probably does; but he doesn't discuss it with me."

Richard Alleyne, "Atheist Christopher Hitchens could be 'saved' by evangelical Christian," The Telegraph (March 26, 2011)

John Stott on How the Cross Speaks to Injustice and Suffering

How does the cross of Jesus speak to a world of pain, poverty, and injustice? After explaining the full range of biblical ideas of the atonement, Stott concludes his book with a chapter entitled "Suffering and glory." He describes the miserable conditions of millions of people who live in shanty towns of Africa and Asia, the barriadas of Latin American and the favelas of Brazil.
Then he tells a story about an imaginary poor man from the slums of Brazil who climbs 2,310 feet up the mountain to the colossal statue of Christ that towers above Rio de Janeiro—"The Christ of Corcovado." After the difficult climb, the poor man finally reaches Jesus and says,
I have climbed up to meet you, Christ, from the filthy, confined quarters down there … to put before you, most respectfully, these considerations: there are 900,000 of us down there in the slums of that splendid city … And you … do you remain here at Corcovado surrounded by divine glory? Go down there to the favelas … Don't stay away from us; live among us and give us new faith in you and in the Father. Amen.
Stott asks, "What would Christ say in response to such an entreaty? Would he not say '[in the suffering of the cross] I did come down to live among you, and I live among you still'"?
Then Stott adds,
We have to learn to climb the hill called Calvary, and from that vantage-ground survey all life's tragedies. The cross does not solve the problem of suffering, but it supplies the essential perspective from which to look at it … . Sometimes we picture [God] lounging, perhaps dozing, in some celestial deck-chair, while the hungry millions starve to death … . It is this terrible caricature of God which the cross smashes to smithereens.

John Stott, The Cross of Christ (InterVarsity Press, 2006), pp. 320, 333

Headless Snake Points to Satan's Demise

As a kid, I loved Mission Sundays, when missionaries on furlough brought special reports in place of a sermon …. There is one visit I've never forgotten. The missionaries were a married couple stationed in what appeared to be a particularly steamy jungle. I'm sure they gave a full report on churches planted or commitments made or translations begun. I don't remember much of that. What has always stayed with me is the story they shared about a snake.
One day, they told us, an enormous snake—much longer than a man—slithered its way right through their front door and into the kitchen of their simple home. Terrified, they ran outside and searched frantically for a local who might know what to do. A machete-wielding neighbour came to the rescue, calmly marching into their house and decapitating the snake with one clean chop.
The neighbour reemerged triumphant and assured the missionaries that the reptile had been defeated. But there was a catch, he warned: It was going to take a while for the snake to realise it was dead.
A snake's neurology and blood flow are such that it can take considerable time for it to stop moving even after decapitation. For the next several hours, the missionaries were forced to wait outside while the snake thrashed about, smashing furniture and flailing against walls and windows, wreaking havoc until its body finally understood that it no longer had a head.
Sweating in the heat, they had felt frustrated and a little sickened but also grateful that the snake's rampage wouldn't last forever. And at some point in their waiting, they told us, they had a mutual epiphany.
I leaned in with the rest of the congregation, queasy and fascinated. "Do you see it?" asked the husband. "Satan is a lot like that big old snake. He's already been defeated. He just doesn't know it yet. In the meantime, he's going to do some damage. But never forget that he's a goner."
The story [still] haunts me because I have come to believe it is an accurate picture of the universe. We are in the thrashing time, a season characterised by our pervasive capacity to do violence to each other and ourselves. The temptation is to despair. We have to remember, though, that it won't last forever. Jesus has already crushed the serpent's head.

Carolyn Arends, "Satan's a Goner: A lesson from a Headless Snake," Christianity Today (February, 2011)

Leaving Peace Ledge

A new home awaits us . . .

by Gordon MacDonald

We are moving. Not very far, mind you. It's only a 14-mile move that will bring us closer to the city of Concord, New Hampshire, and into a more manageable living space. Reasons? The pursuit of a down-sized lifestyle, less home maintenance, and shorter driving distances to church, shopping, and (most of all) good friends.
The home we are leaving (we've called it Peace Ledge) has been ours for almost 35 years. Originally, it was built as a getaway place where my wife, Gail, and I might find quietness to pursue a more vigorous spiritual life and for me to do my weekly sermon study. All of my books have been written at Peace Ledge in a writing space that measures eight by eight feet. Ten years ago, when I resigned from institutional leadership, we enlarged this home and made it our permanent residence. Now it is about to pass into the hands of new owners.
In 1978 I took a three-month leave of absence from my church and participated in the building of the home at Peace Ledge. I was there when the foundation was poured (black fly season). I was there during the framing sequence of the construction. And I was there during the days when the finish carpenters and the tradesmen did the moulding, the wiring, and the plumbing. I sweated out the drilling of the well (300 feet down) and the building of the septic system (no small thing to do up in the woods).
I know every nook and cranny of this house we are leaving. I can guide you to every bent nail, every joint not perfectly mitred, every tiny stain in the plaster where a mid-winter ice-dam caused a temporary leak in the ceiling.
Peace Ledge has been the place where we have experienced our highest "highs" in life and our lowest "lows." Our family has gathered at the dining table in the great room for every Thanksgiving in the last 33 years. We have celebrated every Christmas there. When life fell apart for Gail and me 25 years ago, we ran to Peace Ledge and found it to be a place where we could hear God speak graciously into our lives and help us to put things back together again.
Over the years, many men and women whose names are equated with Christian leadership around the world have come to Peace Ledge to visit. Some of them arrived in total exhaustion, spiritually drained, in marital trouble. Others came while in the midst of great life-changing decisions or while struggling with faith-threatening thoughts. Many came just to relax, to try out one of my kayaks on a New England river, or merely to walk in the woods. (I have loved guiding some people to a place not far from Peace Ledge where the pathway divides. I've asked them to stop and listen. Then I step a few feet away and begin to quote Robert Frost: "Two roads diverged in a yellowed wood … and" … (then its familiar ending) "I took the road less-traveled by … and that has made all the difference."
Peace Ledge was once a farm where draft horses were bred and trained. The topsoil barely covered the rock ledge (6 inches down), and so its 18th and 19th century farmers could barely scratch out a living. Their only crop was pasture grass. What was once clear-cut land in the 19th century has all returned to timber (a 100-year growth). Stone walls lace the acreage, and you occasionally stumble across rusting farm implements that were abandoned more than a century ago.
One family—the Findleys—owned the farm for almost 100 years. Town records show that on several occasions they were delinquent in their taxes and the farm was put up for public auction. But for reasons unexplained, the Findleys always managed to hold on to the land. Old timers in our area refer to Peace Ledge as the Findley place (which makes me wonder if new old-timers will someday refer to Peace Ledge as the MacDonald place).
Here and there in the forest are small, annually maintained grave yards that mark the final resting place of early New England farming families. It is not uncommon to find the graves of a man and his two or three wives. Nearby: the graves of children. People were much more accustomed to death in those days.
Perhaps it is my imagination, but I have found Peace Ledge to be, well, a place of peace. It has always seemed to me that when I drove on to the property, I entered something like a spiritual enclosure—a place of tranquility and restoration. Perhaps I sound a bit over the top when I say that I have never left the house at Peace Ledge without thanking God one more time that he has allowed Gail and me to live there. Even in the midst of the worst New England blizzards when the power went out (we've had several this year), I have never lost my love for this place.
As the son of a pastor, I had no notion whatsoever of "home." I grew up in houses owned by churches and was constantly reminded that our "home" belonged to someone else. We were not free to paint our own choice of colours nor alter the property without approval from some Board of Trustees. Moving from place to place, congregation to congregation, left me with an unformed view of both "place" and "friendship."
Peace Ledge ended all that. It became home in every sense of the word. At Peace Ledge, I began to appreciate the words of another of Frost's poems (and I paraphrase): "Home is the place where they have to take you in …"
When it comes time in a few weeks for us to leave Peace Ledge, I imagine that Gail and I will walk through the empty house and try to remember one special thing that happened in each room. Perhaps, we'll recall tucking our two children into their beds at night, the games and puzzles that challenged us in the family room, the groups of younger men and women we've mentored in the great room, the things we learned in our personal study spaces, the many nights we drifted off to sleep entwined in each other's arms in the master bedroom.
There will be tears when we make that last room-by-room tour. And there will be prayers of gratitude.
Then I imagine that the tears will turn to anticipation as we drive to our new condo. Even now—weeks before the move—Gail is thinking about where she'll put various pieces of our furniture. She already knows where the family pictures will hang, what colour the bathroom will be, what "discardables" will end up at the Salvation Army thrift store. And me? All I want to know is what my new study space will be like.
Perhaps this anticipated day of moving is not unlike getting ready for the ultimate day when we move to Heaven. I am listening to the new swirling debate on heaven and hell and take note that most of the voices are those of younger generation people. Wait until they reach my age and the stunning awareness that Heaven, and whatever hell is, are just over the horizon (and there's no detour). Eternity is not a doctrinal construct to me. It is an emerging reality. Like so many of my friends before me, I am headed into it in the not-too-distant future.
I take Jesus' comment, "I go to prepare a place for you," seriously. Of course I am tempted to want to ask, "Lord, how many square feet? Is there a basement? AC? Hard water or soft? How about taxes? Bookshelves?"
I hope that when that ultimate "moving day" comes, it will parallel the more immediate one I'm anticipating right now. Packing up, shedding the unnecessary and unneedful, gathering grateful memories, and anticipating the new place down the road. As I said at the beginning, this move is about simplifying and being closer to our friends. That final move will be about eternal discovery and being with Jesus and his friends.

An Unlikely Friendship Opens a Door to Share Christ

Kary Oberbrunner, author of Your Secret name, shared a story about his encounter with an older man named Bob. While Kary was at the local gym, trying to stay focused on his exercise routine, he noticed an elderly man fumbling with an MP3 player and headphones. At first, Kary tried to ignore the man, but as the man was becoming more frustrated with the technology, Kary reluctantly introduced himself and asked if he could help.
The man dejectedly explained, "Hi, I'm Bob, and I love jazz, but I can't get it on this dumb player."
When Kary asked Bob if he had heard of iTunes, Bob shot back, "'I' what?"
It slowly dawned on Kary that God had placed Bob in his path for a reason. So they set a date when they could spend some more time unraveling Bob's MP3 troubles.
Kary continues the story:
Against his initial wishes, I visited him at his apartment. Turns out his wife had died a couple years before, and all his earthly possessions were crammed into a small apartment. She had been their main breadwinner, so the bank repossessed his house when he was unable to make payments.
Bob and I made a makeshift space in his back room near his desktop computer. One at a time I imported his jazz CD collection onto his hard drive, intending to transfer the MP3s eventually to his player. While importing his music, Bob and I talked about life, his wife, and God.
The weeks following I checked in on Bob often. Kind of funny how two guys who are complete opposites can become the best of friends, all because of an MP3 player.
Bob is 71. I am 32. Bob is black. I am white. Bob doesn't have much money. I have more than I need. Bob is an ex-convict. I've never been to jail. Bob is a widower. I'm married. [In short], we're opposites.
A short time later I invited Bob to church, deeply desiring for him to meet Jesus. After a few invitations, he eventually accepted and sat with my wife and me last spring. If he felt awkward sitting in our mostly white church, he didn't let on.
After the service … [we] knelt near the altar, and Bob told Jesus that he wanted to follow him. Bob confessed that he wanted to stop trying to control his life and invited Jesus to take over …. Bob wept and when I looked into his eyes I noticed the distinct peace that now defined his face.
Bob changed my life and the life of my church. I get more joy from him than he'll ever understand. Whenever I say goodbye to him at the YMCA or hang up the phone after talking with him, he always tells me to "give his love to my family." He wants me to baptize him this June at our next baptism.
I'm saddened by the reality that I almost missed Bob simply because I was too engrossed in my own little world.

Kary Oberbrunner, "'What About Bob?' How That Question Changed My Life," New Man eMagazine (April 14, 2009)

Overconfident Naval Officer Loses His Way in the Fog

During a 1923 training exercise, a naval destroyer called the USS Delphy led a flotilla of seven vessels down the California coast. The USS Delphy was captained by Lieutenant Commander Donald T. Hunter, an experienced navigator and instructor at the Naval Academy. Without warning, about half way on their training mission, a thick blanket of fog descended on the ships. In the midst of the fog (Hunter claimed it looked like "pea soup"), Hunter couldn't get an accurate evaluation of his location. Contrary to Hunter's calculations, the lead ship was headed right into Devil's Jaw, a scant two miles off the California coast. But that didn't stop Hunter from ploughing ahead. That is not surprising, for Hunter was known for his self-confident decisiveness and what others called his "magic infallibility" to guide his ship.
Traveling at 20 knots, suddenly the USS Delphy smashed broadside into the rocky Point Arguello shoreline. The force of the massive collision of welded steel and jagged rock split the hull of the USS Delphy in half. One by one, the other destroyers followed the Delphy's lead and smashed into the rocks. Twenty-two naval men died. The accident resulted in the loss of all seven ships. It still stands as one of the worst peacetime naval disasters in history.

Sources: Robert McKenna, The Dictionary of Nautical Literacy (McGraw Hill, 2003), p. 97; Charles Lockwood & Hans Christian Adamson, Tragedy at Honda (Naval Institute Press, 1986), pp. 29-49