THE BODY OF CHRIST

The year was 1968, and I was a student at one of several denominational bible colleges; in central Florida.

I was enrolled in a New Testament class, and my professor was a light-hearted English woman named Ruth Breush; (who interestingly enough was married to a light-hearted Australian man named Percy Breusch).

If I live to be a 103 I will never forget one day in particular. Mrs. Breush began the class with, to say the least, an unusual story.

“Last night I had a dream. In the dream I was somehow transported to heaven. And I stood beneath the throne of none other than our Lord Jesus Christ.

His brown eyes were piercing to behold. Every strand of His auburn hair was in place. His countenance was radiant. And then,

… then I looked downward.

And what I saw horrified me. For you see, His chest was sunken. His arms were emaciated. Every rib shown through His parchment skin.

And then it occurred to me.

… The Body of Christ.

While the Head is fine and wonderful to behold, thank you, the Body is unhealthy, and in need of attention.”

Christ’ Body. His believers on earth, at least a great many of them, leave much to be desired.

Fickleness, In-fighting, Temptations, Immaturity, Abject Sin.

As scripture reminds us. “These things ought not to be.”

I have often wondered if I am, by chance, my professor’s last surviving student who has recalled and passed on this story to the generation who will follow after me.

If so, I count it a distinct calling, honor and responsibility to do so.

By William McDonald, PhD

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO WORLD NEWS?

 Before cable news networks existed, there was such a thing as "world news."

Nowadays, if you watch CNN, MS-NBC or FOX, you will be exposed to a 24 hour a day tirade for or against Pres. Donald Trump, (of whom I will withhold my opinion, as it is not relevant here).

However, I have theorized that the liberal anchors and their producers at CNN and MS-NBC will (strangely enough) vote for Donald Trump, since they have a large lineup of "Bash Trump" programs in place, and the advertisers to go with it, and would prefer not to change their lucrative programming. And I have theorized that the anchors and producers at FOX will (strangely enough) vote for Joe Biden since their viewership and profits are likely to rise if he wins the election, and they suddenly can go into a 24 hour a day "Bash Biden" format.

God forbid if two of the three cable news networks actually returned to a world news format. However, I think you are likely to see it if Joe Biden wins the election, and CNN and MS-NBC no longer have anyone left to bash.

WITH THESE CANDLESTICKS I BUY BACK YOUR SOUL

There is a scene in both the book and every version of the movie, “Les Miserables” (by Victor Hugo and set in early 1800’s France) in which an escaped convict knocks on a priest’s door, and explains that he is hungry and needing a place to lay his head for the night. Father Myriel invites Jean (pronounced John) Val Jean into his humble abode, much to the consternation of the kindly priest’s housekeeper. As the unlikely trio sit down for supper, we notice the convict’s eyes widen as a set of ornate silverware is laid out before him, and a contrastingly small, but evil smile appears on his lips.

The supper over, Bishop Myriel and Jean Val Jean sit before the fire awhile, before eventually retiring for the evening. As the stars navigate their evening circuit across the sky, and the fireflies flit here and there throughout the nearby pastures, the criminal opens his eyes, and looks around his borrowed room. Jean silently dresses, and steals into the kitchen. Emptying his own knapsack of a few worthless odds and ends, he helps himself to the sterling silver plates and utensils.

It is a full moon, and as Jean Val Jean walks across the open threshold of Father Myriel’s room, the old priest opens his eyes and immediately understands the import of the scene that is playing itself out in his presence. But after an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and a knowing smile, the parson closes his eyes, and is soon overtaken by slumber.

The morning dawns bright and fair, and there is a shriek as the housekeeper opens the silver cabinet for the breakfast meal, and becomes all too aware of what has taken place in the night.

“Bishop, dear Bishop, that man you allowed into your home has robbed you of your silver! Quickly Sir. We must contact the magistrate.”

The kindly priest walks into the kitchen, and merely says,

“Well now, good woman. He must have needed the stuff more than we.”

and

“After all, the silver is not ours, but God’s.  It is best used for the poor. And was our dear brother not poor in both goods, and spirit? It is well. It is well.”

Shortly afterwards there is a loud banging on the door, and the harried housekeeper hastens to open it. Before her stands a middle aged man adorned in the clothing of the city magistrate. He holds a dirty knapsack in his hands. Behind him stands, well, you guessed it, Jean Val Jean; iron shackles adorning his hands and feet. A slightly built police sergeant holds him by the arm.

“Excuse me, Bishop Myriel. A moment of your time, please. This wicked fellow here, well, we caught him with a sack full of silver, and when we asked him where he got it, he claimed, well, he claimed you gave it to him.”

The kindly priest smiled and responded,

“Well, yes, I gave him the silver. Please release him. You were only doing your duty, sir, but he did nothing wrong.”

The magistrate was incredulous. “You mean he was telling us the truth?” And he couldn’t quit shaking his head in disbelief.

There was nothing else to do but release the poor shackled soul. And the magistrate gave his assistant instructions to do so.

As the chains fells off Jean Val Jean’s hands and feet, the kindly bishop whispered to his housekeeper. She hurried off into the house, and quickly returned with something in her hands.

The priest accepted two similar items from her, and thrust them into the hands of the escaped convict.

“And my dear sir, you forgot these silver candlesticks. Didn’t I remind you to pack them before you left this morning?”

The magistrate was aghast, and could only shake his head, and say,

“Well, Bishop Myriel. We will take our leave now. Thank you very much for clearing this up for us, Sir.”

And then they were left alone. Without a word, the kindly bishop motioned Jean Val Jean to step into his humble home.

As they entered the small living area, neither man sat down. The bishop starred unblinking into Jean Val Jean’s eyes for what seemed the longest time, and Jean could not help but returning his gaze.

The priest knew the convict’s story. The big brute had unraveled the tale for him the night before. His sister and her little son, and he were without work, and desperately hungry. And in a moment of desperation Jean Val Jean had gone looking for,… for bread. Oh, he’d found it, he’d found it behind a bakery display window. The hungry man had picked up a rock and smashed what lay between him and his prize. A single loaf of bread, and as a result of that momentary decision, he’d spent 19 years in prison.

The bishop finally spoke,

“Jean Val Jean. You have been tried and convicted for a crime of passion. A passion that is common to all of us. Your stomach ached for food, and your relatives suffered from the same temptation. You have suffered a great wrong perpetrated by a callous judge who stole a third of your life from you, and understandably your soul is dark with vengeance.”

It was at then that the kindly bishop grasped Jean’s two hands with his own. The hapless convict still clung to the silver candlesticks in those over-sized hands.

“Jean Val Jean. You are no longer the man who knocked on my door yesterday. A sinner and a stranger stepped across my threshold yesterday. Before me now stands my brother in Christ. You are changed, you are purified. With these candlesticks I buy back your soul. And as often as you look at them, you must remember this day. You must spend the rest of your life doing good, as Christ our Lord also did good.”

And the kindly priest’s words seemed at the same time a weight and a grace to the rough-hewn Val Jean. And the years of pain and bitterness escaped him in a torrent of tears. Suddenly, the convict dropped to his knees, and a wail escaped his lips that might have easily been heard outside the house.

Bishop Myriel stooped down, and took the repentant man by his burly arms, lifted him to his feet, and lovingly embraced him.

“Jean Val Jean, my brother. Go now. Go in peace.”

And Jean stepped out of that old cottage door; a changed man.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

 

 

SOMEBODY HELP THE BOY

Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once had the privilege of meeting and speaking with), once told a humorous personal story on his “Focus on the Family” radio program.

It seems when his son, Ryan, was maybe four or five, he toddled up to the back of a pickup truck, and decided he would climb up on the back bumper. Unbeknownst to him, his father was standing a few feet behind him; in case he needed assistance.

By now Ryan had one hand on the tailgate, and one foot on the bumper. However, one arm and one foot were suspended in mid-air, and he was left dangling “between the heavens and the earth.”

Realizing his dilemma, Ryan screamed,

“Somebody help the boy!”

In so many ways and on so many days, I think we have all been in the place where Ryan found himself.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE WRITTEN WORD

The spoken word races away as quickly as the next can be sent in pursuit, and so each word flees into oblivion. The sounds which we call ‘words’ are momentary, and passing things, for once articulated, they have their demise.

Not so with the written word. It lasts as long as the paper, or the stone on which it is inscribed. It has the availability to be called up as often as the reader desires. Black marks on white paper. But such strokes of the pen have preserved intact the memoirs of a thousand mighty men, the prose of a parcel of poets, and the leanings of limitless leaders. The men have passed away, but their words remain. And these words, thoughts and grand illusions live a second time, and a twenty-second time.

Lincoln’s “Four score and seven years ago” reverberates anew off well-worn headstones which were new and polished a hundred years hence. For though a century of deterioration now ‘decorates’ the stones, and the orator’s voice is muted, the word lives, and lives and lives again with each new issue of the printed page.

Common men, royalty, masons, parsons, prophets and slaves. Though gone a thousand years; they live. For their words remain; words of frustration, hope, warning and expectation.

Oh, the blessing of the written word. Not sparrows falling to the ground, as the spoken word. No, but the written word takes wings and soars into the future to lite afresh beneath a student’s eye.

With each written offering we pour a little of our mortal wine into a more permanent cup. Future generations will drink from this fountain.

And what of today? The written word provokes the unlearned, inspires the faint-hearted, strengthens the weak, and enables the ignorant. Best of all the written word is a traveler’s garden. A place to visit when a few stray minutes are strung together like pearls. A place to rest when the world has been unusually cruel. A place to relax at the end of an unseasonably rainy day.

Whether tis Eugene Field’s “Little Boy Blue,” Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea,” or Shakespeare’s “MacBeth,” our world is richer for the written word.

How many of our written words will live on, and what insight, admonition, or encouragement will they minister to those who drink from its fountain?

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

WHAT IS YOUR NAME?

I took my 16 year old grandson, Noah, for a test drive today on the expansive parking lot of a local community college; the same stretch of asphalt where I taught his mother to drive in the mid-90's. Afterwards, we headed to Arby's to buy one of their new "Classic Cheesesteak" sandwiches.

Donning our masks, we stepped out of the car, and walked into the front door of the restaurant. Noah proceeded to sit down in a booth, and I stepped to the counter to order.

The cashier behind the plexiglass, (almost) Corona-proof barrier spoke to me in a somewhat muffled voice, and through her own heavy black mask.

"Hello Sir, what can I get for you?"

To which I responded with my order.

She continued,

"And what is (indistinguishable word, indistinguishable word)?"

To which I answered,

"I'm sorry. What was that?"

She tried again.

"What is (indistinguishable word, indistinguishable word)?"

By this time I was a bit embarrassed, and now I responded with,

"I'm sorry I don't understand. You'll have to yell at me."

And suddenly, this little wisp of a twenty something year old girl shouted with a voice that shook the ground, rattled the windows, caused several pigeons to flutter from the roof, and might well have summoned George Washington from the grave...

"WHAATT ISSS YOOUR NAMMME!!!"

If you see a bedraggled old guy, who looks strikingly like the portrait on a one dollar bill, walking around in a "somewhat worse for the wear" Revolutionary War uniform, tell him it's okay to go back to sleep.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

BARABBAS IS ME. I AM BARABBAS

Having made a decision to follow Jesus, too few young Christians ever receive any formal mentoring.

Granted, they pick up on the theology, tenants and traditions of our faith ‘hit and miss’ as the result of sermons, interaction with clergy and seasoned lay persons, etc., and I cannot discount the value of it. Nonetheless, having never had a mentor in my own life, I perceive the inestimable worth in this discipline, and have made a priority of reaching, keeping and teaching those whom I refer to as “potential persons of excellence.”

In my capacity as a pastoral counselor, it has been my privilege to mentor dozens of young and not so young adults over the years, and   to create a wealth of theological and practical teaching resources.

Lately, I have been teaching a topical series on the “9 Things a New Christian Should Know and Do.” This week’s topic focused on the Communion, or Eucharist.

And as I was engaged in a long-distance instant messaging session with ‘Nicole,’ who lives in the great state of Ohio, (and in whom I have the most profound respect and expectations for the future), and as we reached the bottom of Page 2, it ‘hit’ me.

“Then he (Pontius Pilate) released Barabbas to them.” (Matt. 27:26)

Of course, anyone who has been ‘in the Way’ for long has heard this story.

The Jews had handed Jesus over to the Roman governor for (a trumped up, quickie) trial, and as a result Pilate attempted to barter with them; in order to secure the release of our Lord. Surmising that if he offered to release a notorious criminal, an insurrectionist and murderer, or Jesus, there would have been no question of the logic of sending Barabbas to the cross; (rather than the notion of his being freed, and suddenly in their midst once again).

Of course, the Jewish leaders would have none of it. And thus, they shouted,

“Give us Barabbas.”

I had simply never seen it before.

Oh, of course I had read the words, but I had never experienced the inspiration behind the words. And as Nicole and I interacted, and I typed out one key stroke, after another, I wrote,

…”Barabbas is Nicole. And Nicole is Barabbas.”

Pt. 2

Yes, indeed. Barabbas is Nicole (and) Nicole is Barabbas.

But for that matter, Barabbas is Bill (and) Bill is Barabbas.

And not to wear it out, but

…Barabbas is Insert Your Name (and) Insert Your Name is Barabbas.

I have often wondered what the condemned insurrectionist, Barabbas, after having been set free, did with his life. Whether or not he realized how singular he was; having been rescued from physical death in God’s providential scheme to rescue millions upon multiplied millions from spiritual death. We have been left no account of it, but I like to think Barabbas experienced an epiphany and, ultimately, surrendered his life to the Lord Jesus Christ. 

I think he might have exercised an inestimable impact on his generation, and led countless persons into the arms of the Savior.

Old Testament scripture is clear about the providential, prophetic plan of God which was manifested in the sacrificial life and death of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Like Barabbas, each and every person who was ever conceived and privileged to experience life on this earth was born into sin; and they needed a Savior.

Granted, you and I may have never committed a hideous sin, as Barabbas did, but each and every one of us have inherited what might be referred to as a ‘Sin Gene.’ For you see, our first parents, Adam and Eve, yielded themselves to the evil one, and spiritually infected, as it were, their immediate and extended family; even to this very day.

But while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, and in so doing voluntarily accepted the punishment intended for you and me. And as a result, God raised Him from the dead and set Him at His right hand; to rule and reign forevermore, and to judge the quick and the dead.

Yes, Barabbas is Bill (and) Bill is Barabbas.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.

Pt. 2

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 3

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and adopted, and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.

While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.

I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.

And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.

And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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A BOX FULL OF KISSES

One day a little girl walked up to her father, and said to him,

"Daddy, I have a gift for you."

And with this, Susan handed her dad a small, white cardboard box tied up with a gold ribbon. And as he accepted the gift, he noticed that it was extremely light. Pulling the ribbon off, he opened the box, and realized that it was completely... empty.

It seems Susan's dad had a slight anger problem, and this little joke didn't make him happy. And he began to scold his little girl.

"Susan, when someone gives you a gift, there's supposed to be something inside!"

With tears in her eyes, the little girls responded,

"But Daddy, before I closed the box, and put the ribbon on it, I filled it full of my kisses!"

You could have heard a pin drop. Susan's father was heartstruck, could not stop apologizing, and scooped his daughter up in his arms.

"Please forgive me, Susan. I didn't know. Thank you for all those beautiful kisses!"

Now the little girl wiped the tears from her eyes, and a big smile appeared on her face.

Sadly, within months Susan passed away. Of course, her father and mother were stricken with inconsolable grief. 

Over the course of several decades that this dear father remained on earth, he would keep that little white pasteboard box next to his bed. And when he began to think about Susan, and long to hold her in his arms again, he would open the lid of the shabby, little white box, ... and pull out an invisible kiss. 

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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SEEING OR REMEMBERING?

Philippians 3:13-14 Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

We came across this story, about a man who was slowly losing his memory. After a lengthy examination, the doctor said that a risky operation on his brain might reverse his condition and restore his memory. However, the surgery would be so delicate that a nerve could be severed, causing total blindness.

The surgeon asked, "So, which would you rather have, your sight or your memory?" The man pondered the question for a while and replied, "My sight, because I would rather see where I am going than remember where I have been."

Our enemy is always trying to dig up the past and keep us all bound up in our failures. But be encouraged! Today is a new day! Today and every day we have a choice to make! Like Paul, we must choose to press forward and put aside our past. We must purpose to keep our eyes on the Lord, not on our successes or failures, but upon on what can we do for Him today!

Anonymous