Faith in Bronze

 

When Shishak king of Egypt attacked Jerusalem, he carried off the treasures of the temple of the Lord... He took everything, including the gold shields Solomon had made.  So King Rehoboam made bronze shields to replace them… (2 Chronicles 12:9, 10)

 

        King Reheboam, his resources depleted and under pressure from powerful nations around him, could not afford the luxury of replacing his stolen gold shields. They were only ornamental, after all, a symbol of royal status. Bronze was the answer. It was something, at least, to offer hope to his people that their nation would someday know again the glory of olden times.

         Russian friends have told me that in the summer of 1941, as Nazi forces were approaching Leningrad, the staff of the Hermitage Museum packed up tens of thousands of art objects and shipped them east. There was safety in the vast expanses of the Russian land. But they left the frames hanging on the walls. Pedestals that had held sculptures remained in place.  It was an act of hope, a trust that someday it would all be returned. The museum staff gave up priceless art, but they did not give up hope.

        The German army besieged the city for two years. Employees of the Hermitage moved into the basement to try to preserve museum buildings. Citizens of the city helped clean up damage from artillery shells and cover broken windows to keep out the snow. To say thanks, the staff conducted tours of the museum for these good people, though the art was not there. Photographs from the time show docents conducting tours among piles of snow on parquet floors. Small groups of visitors stand in front of empty frames, listening to descriptions of Rembrandts and Van Goghs that once hung there. The guides remembered every detail of that which had been lost, filling in the blank spaces of their magnificent museum with their own memories, commitment and love.

        Faith is being certain of what we cannot yet see. Like Reheboam with his bronze shields, these Russian curators made do with something—where there had been nothing—to demonstrate their assurance that there was a future for art, for their beloved Hermitage and for themselves.

Bronze is not gold, and an empty frame is not a Picasso, but faith fills in the blanks. When opportunity goes lacking and fulfillment is missing, when joy hides its face, faith believes they will surely one day return. Meanwhile it acts—every moment—as if they were still around.

 

Copies of Mike’s book, You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 faith-related reflections, can be ordered through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

 

What’s in a Name?

 

I summon you by name and bestow on you a title of honor, though you do not acknowledge me. (Isaiah 45:4)

 

        These words were spoken for the benefit of Cyrus, king of Persia, who conquered Babylon in the 6th century B.C. and then permitted Israelite families who had been captive there for fifty years to return to their homeland. Cyrus was not a believer in the God of Israel and had only political and economic reasons for his acts. Nonetheless, the prophet and people saw him as a hero, an unwitting servant of God, and gave him a title of honor: Cyrus the Liberator.

        Titles used to mean something, but today informality rules. Hardly anyone uses even simple titles like “Mr.” or “Mrs.” anymore. New acquaintances are immediately addressed on a first-name basis. So a telemarketer was taken aback the other day when I stopped her from calling me by my first name.  “We don’t know each other that well yet,” I said.

Titles still have significance to me. In the old Swedish immigrant community that was my heritage, titles were added to names just to distinguish one Olson from another. There seemed to be a shortage of surnames, and one didn’t want to confuse Model T Anderson (who drove Fords) with Packard Anderson (who wouldn’t be caught dead in one—though his wife rode to choir practice with Mrs. Model T). My grandfather was known as Texas Johnson because of where he had lived as a boy, and it distinguished him from Seventeen-Years-in-Alaska Johnson who obviously boasted too much about his missionary experience. Curtain-stretcher Swanson took out a loan with Big Money Swanson (both did well on the deal), and of course Gravestone Peterson sold you his wares after Gravedigger Peterson had finished his work.

        I doubt that we’ll be returning to a more civil approach to names anytime soon, but how about at least adding some of that color as these old-timers did? I’m thinking of you, Tiger Johnson (red hair), Slapshot Schultz (hockey player), and Earlybird Livingstone (never late). How could a woman with the name of Sojourner Truth have anything but a meaningful life? How could a man called Possibility Brown find anything but hope, even in unfortunate circumstances and unlikely people.

        Cyrus the Liberator was a modest figure at best in world history. Yet twenty-five hundred years later he is remembered while a thousand other rulers more powerful than he have been forgotten. Whether or not our names live on after us, the effects of the encouragement we offer and the love we give surely will.

What title identifies you? Hopeful Jones…Faithful Smith…Craig the Peacemaker…Sharon the Befriender? There is something in a name.

 

 

 

Copies of Mike's book You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related  meditations, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Kin to the Cupbearer

 

The chief cupbearer, however, did not remember Joseph; he forgot him. (Genesis 40:23)

 

        Steve was a high school classmate who shared pre-law classes with me when we were university undergraduates. We spent hours in the Great Hall of the library, helping each other memorize names and dates for upcoming tests upon which we imagined our futures to depend. I dropped out of pre-law, but he went on, ultimately becoming a respected judge. At a class reunion I asked if he remembered studying together. He did not. Steve, the cupbearer’s kin, barely even remembered my name.

        Ron was my study partner when I went from pre-law into education. He too was going to be an English teacher, so we sat in that same Great Hall helping each other identify rhyme schemes in Romantic poetry and character development in Russian novels. Ron spent the better part of that year trying to persuade me to join his fraternity. He went on to become a radio news writer and producer. I called to congratulate him when I read of his retirement. He didn’t remember me at all. Ron, the cupbearer’s kin, never heard of me.

         Jon stood in the back hall of his home on a Saturday morning and gently tapped his finger against my chest. “If you want to teach,” he said, “why don’t you teach something that you know is the most important thing in the whole world?” The words struck home with the force of a hammer. It seemed God was speaking out loud to me. About to graduate and embark on a career in education, I knew at that moment that I was going to be a minister—and that I wanted to be a minister. Thirty years later Jon stood in the door of my office in a church in California. I reminded him of that Saturday and his words that had had such a profound effect on me. He passed by them with a shrug. “Sorry, but I don’t remember,” he said. “You were in my home?” Jon too was kin to the cupbearer.

        The same moment is often significant in the memory of one, utterly forgettable to another. God’s whisper can be a shout to one ear, a dull buzz to another. That seems to be for the best. God can use any of us as cupbearers when we are not aware of the impact we have. When self-consciousness is erased from the equation, pride has no footing.

So Katherine called a few weeks ago, recalling some important conversations and occasions we shared while returning from Europe as exchange students long ago. I too am kin to the cupbearer. I had forgotten them. I had forgotten her.

 

Copies of Mike’s book You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related reflections, can be ordered through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.