January 2024
A Cup of Kindness
26/01/24 05:15
Last night, in pubs across Scotland, glasses were hoisted and shouts of Sláinte Mhath! resounded. That’s because every year on January 25, on the evening of the day of his birth, Scots celebrate their cherished poet, Robert Burns. (They also celebrate him on July 21, the anniversary of his death. Sláinte Mhath! one more time.)
“Rabbie,” as he is affectionately called, penned more than 700 poems in his lifetime, including one traditionally recited every year on Robert Burns Night: “Address to a Haggis.” And then they pass out the forks and knives and serve it up. (If you’re not familiar with this National Dish of Scotland, it consists of a sheep’s lungs, liver, heart, and other parts, mixed with oatmeal, onions, and suet, and baked in the sheep’s stomach — which some say is why the Scots invented Scotch whisky). See what you missed last night.
Back to Robert Burns. You might not be abundantly familiar with this rhymester’s repertoire, but I guarantee you’ve heard — and probably even sung — one of his lyrics. Even in Old English, you’re sure to recognize this:
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
A current-day translation of the Scottish words auld lang syne would be old long ago. The song is about fond memories of the past. Taking a cup of kindness refers to men and women sharing a drink to symbolize friendship that has lasted through the best and worst of times.
The poem has five verses. As outdoor enthusiasts, two of them engender countless fond memories of wilderness experiences Judi and I have had, with each other and with friends, at home and abroad. Here they are in standard English:
We two have run about the hills,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.
And the last verse goes like this:
And there's a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o' thine!
And we'll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.
I wish for the life of me that Christians could consistently have closure like that. Not necessarily the drinking part, but the simpatico part.
All my days I have been around ministry organizations, in the States and overseas, where staff and volunteers have come and gone. The coming part is always celebratory: New team members are often seen as saviors, surely able to fix what those before them broke. But in a relatively short time, expectations to excel exceed ability to perform. The rapid descent from the status of special to that of ordinary actually makes them appear less than ordinary. Parties are too busy, too proud, or too inept to seek a remedy for what has turned into a rocky relationship. By the time the termination or resignation is official, fellowship is broken, usually for good. There is no genial auld lang syne.
Did you know that more than half of the Christians who go overseas to serve as career missionaries never complete their first term on the field? They leave for reasons that could have been rectifiable — often conflict with other missionaries or their sending agency — and never go back into mission work. Again, no cordial auld lang syne.
The same thing happens in churches (and associations) where people possess a dangerous avidity that compels them to walk if they don’t win. When Judi and I were over here in 2016, we spent time in the Outer Hebrides — essentially the last stop going east until you run aground in Labrador. One Sunday, in a small village, we had a choice of attending the Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland Continuing, or the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland.
I asked a local to orient us. He said, “These different churches all came about because of fights and splits over one thing or another down through the years.” Shaking his head he added, “And they still don’t get along. That’s why church attendance is pitiful around here.” He then stared off at the rain clouds rolling in from Iceland and made this sad observation: “I don’t know how these people can think their faith will make any difference in the world if they can’t come together and love one another on this little rock in the Atlantic.”
You’d think that with all the legendary beverages in Scotland they would at least want to share a cup of kindness.
The truth is, Christians do not do closure well. And many believers carry for decades the scars of departure, be it from a full-time ministry job, a mission field assignment, or a church they loved.
Succession is the dominant subject these days in many Christian camps and city missions (and certainly other ministries). Even though I’m no longer officially in leadership capacity at an association, I continue to hear from association members — specifically outgoing CEOs — who see me as a trusted friend in whom they can confide about the pangs of departure. There’s a lot of hurt out there.
If you are involved in ministry on any level, I urge you to take some time — call it a Robert Burns moment — to think about closures that have happened in your organization over the years, and see if there might be someone who you suspect (or know for a fact) is still hurting because the closure didn’t go well—be it their fault or yours, or one of your predecessors. Consider reengaging and working to bring about the kind of closure that demonstrates ultimate Christian love and can alleviate the anger and anguish that is probably afflicting this person (or persons) like an incurable chronic illness.
And if not work related, you might want (need) to do this totally on a family level, immediate or extended.
What you can give those suffering is central to the Gospel. It’s what's talked about in Isaiah 61 — the attributes that Jesus’s coming to earth can bring to its inhabitants:
“Rabbie,” as he is affectionately called, penned more than 700 poems in his lifetime, including one traditionally recited every year on Robert Burns Night: “Address to a Haggis.” And then they pass out the forks and knives and serve it up. (If you’re not familiar with this National Dish of Scotland, it consists of a sheep’s lungs, liver, heart, and other parts, mixed with oatmeal, onions, and suet, and baked in the sheep’s stomach — which some say is why the Scots invented Scotch whisky). See what you missed last night.
Back to Robert Burns. You might not be abundantly familiar with this rhymester’s repertoire, but I guarantee you’ve heard — and probably even sung — one of his lyrics. Even in Old English, you’re sure to recognize this:
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
A current-day translation of the Scottish words auld lang syne would be old long ago. The song is about fond memories of the past. Taking a cup of kindness refers to men and women sharing a drink to symbolize friendship that has lasted through the best and worst of times.
The poem has five verses. As outdoor enthusiasts, two of them engender countless fond memories of wilderness experiences Judi and I have had, with each other and with friends, at home and abroad. Here they are in standard English:
We two have run about the hills,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.
We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.
And the last verse goes like this:
And there's a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o' thine!
And we'll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.
I wish for the life of me that Christians could consistently have closure like that. Not necessarily the drinking part, but the simpatico part.
All my days I have been around ministry organizations, in the States and overseas, where staff and volunteers have come and gone. The coming part is always celebratory: New team members are often seen as saviors, surely able to fix what those before them broke. But in a relatively short time, expectations to excel exceed ability to perform. The rapid descent from the status of special to that of ordinary actually makes them appear less than ordinary. Parties are too busy, too proud, or too inept to seek a remedy for what has turned into a rocky relationship. By the time the termination or resignation is official, fellowship is broken, usually for good. There is no genial auld lang syne.
Did you know that more than half of the Christians who go overseas to serve as career missionaries never complete their first term on the field? They leave for reasons that could have been rectifiable — often conflict with other missionaries or their sending agency — and never go back into mission work. Again, no cordial auld lang syne.
The same thing happens in churches (and associations) where people possess a dangerous avidity that compels them to walk if they don’t win. When Judi and I were over here in 2016, we spent time in the Outer Hebrides — essentially the last stop going east until you run aground in Labrador. One Sunday, in a small village, we had a choice of attending the Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland Continuing, or the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland.
I asked a local to orient us. He said, “These different churches all came about because of fights and splits over one thing or another down through the years.” Shaking his head he added, “And they still don’t get along. That’s why church attendance is pitiful around here.” He then stared off at the rain clouds rolling in from Iceland and made this sad observation: “I don’t know how these people can think their faith will make any difference in the world if they can’t come together and love one another on this little rock in the Atlantic.”
You’d think that with all the legendary beverages in Scotland they would at least want to share a cup of kindness.
The truth is, Christians do not do closure well. And many believers carry for decades the scars of departure, be it from a full-time ministry job, a mission field assignment, or a church they loved.
Succession is the dominant subject these days in many Christian camps and city missions (and certainly other ministries). Even though I’m no longer officially in leadership capacity at an association, I continue to hear from association members — specifically outgoing CEOs — who see me as a trusted friend in whom they can confide about the pangs of departure. There’s a lot of hurt out there.
If you are involved in ministry on any level, I urge you to take some time — call it a Robert Burns moment — to think about closures that have happened in your organization over the years, and see if there might be someone who you suspect (or know for a fact) is still hurting because the closure didn’t go well—be it their fault or yours, or one of your predecessors. Consider reengaging and working to bring about the kind of closure that demonstrates ultimate Christian love and can alleviate the anger and anguish that is probably afflicting this person (or persons) like an incurable chronic illness.
And if not work related, you might want (need) to do this totally on a family level, immediate or extended.
What you can give those suffering is central to the Gospel. It’s what's talked about in Isaiah 61 — the attributes that Jesus’s coming to earth can bring to its inhabitants:
…garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
the mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting
We all can be thickheaded and thin-skinned. And whether you, yourself, have been a victim of cold shoulders or heated words, the cause of Christ is worth the work—and make no mistake, it will be work. You might even need to engage professional help.
But don’t let that hold you back. Reach out and do it: Pour a cup of kindness — not just for auld lang syne, but because the world, more than ever before, needs to see that reconciliation is possible when Christ is part of the process.
Going Green
20/01/24 11:48
Proximity to the Atlantic is the primary reason snow accumulation is a rarity up here on Loch Carron. Thus the 20 centimeters or so that blew in from the Arctic this past week were enough to close the schools. Bus drivers didn’t want to navigate the network of sinuous single-track roads in the area — and parents agreed that a worry-free week was worth having their wee ones at home.
But -5°C and a few inches of powder is October weather for Coloradans. Clipping on the Yaktrax we hit the hiking trails, checking off Duncraig, Ob an Duine, and Coral Beach from our list of must-do rambles. With every step we took in crisp air and stunning views.
But our conversations kept returning to one thing: the greenery. We were fascinated by the January verdure — in the mountains, no less! The number of plants blooming far outnumber the ones dormant or dead. No matter which way you look, mixed in with the assorted evergreens you will spy a variety of broadleafs that proudly clench their emerald jewelry, even when wearing a snowy mantle.
Friends who have seen our photos have asked if those were really palm trees…in the Scottish Highlands?! Indeed. And there is also brilliant rhododendron, gorse, daphne, holly, koromiko, bracken, and even bamboo. The list is long. Wester Ross is certainly a region of bliss for botanists.
The New Christy Minstrels had a hit song in the 60s titled Green, Green. Barry McGuire and his accompanists would sing out:
Green, green, it’s green they say;
On the far side of the hill.
Green, green, I’m going away;
To where the grass is greener still.
Barry, if you’re going to the west coast of the Scottish Highlands, you’ll reach your destination.
The locals are swift to point out that there are two primary reasons for the perpetual vegetation. The first is the warm water of the Gulf Stream that makes its way out of the Gulf of Mexico, around Florida, and then up and across the ocean, eventually turning into the North Atlantic Drift. Where we are is as far north as the Hudson Bay in Canada — where the sea freezes over in winter. But not here, thanks to that curious flow. Grab a globe and ponder that. The science of it should make us all want to be more involved with creation care. We must not forget our stewardship obligation, entrusted to us by God.
The second reason our new neighbors say it’s always green is year-round rain. There’s an age-old adage in Scotland: “You know it’s summer because the rain is warmer.” It’s raining now. It comes and goes. The Scots all but ignore it.
A few hours ago I was working with a joiner — a profession you don’t hear a lot about in the States — on a two-century-old cast iron rain gutter. As we were moving a ladder, a momentary torrent blew through. The craftsman paid no mind to the rainfall. No duck and cover. Normal as the seagull’s squawks.
When you think about it, what many would consider an inconvenience actually brings the vibrance. And if it ceases to be bothersome, you’re only left with the beauty. I pray we all can, as much as possible, tune out life’s tolerable frustrations and focus on the splendor.
But -5°C and a few inches of powder is October weather for Coloradans. Clipping on the Yaktrax we hit the hiking trails, checking off Duncraig, Ob an Duine, and Coral Beach from our list of must-do rambles. With every step we took in crisp air and stunning views.
But our conversations kept returning to one thing: the greenery. We were fascinated by the January verdure — in the mountains, no less! The number of plants blooming far outnumber the ones dormant or dead. No matter which way you look, mixed in with the assorted evergreens you will spy a variety of broadleafs that proudly clench their emerald jewelry, even when wearing a snowy mantle.
Friends who have seen our photos have asked if those were really palm trees…in the Scottish Highlands?! Indeed. And there is also brilliant rhododendron, gorse, daphne, holly, koromiko, bracken, and even bamboo. The list is long. Wester Ross is certainly a region of bliss for botanists.
The New Christy Minstrels had a hit song in the 60s titled Green, Green. Barry McGuire and his accompanists would sing out:
Green, green, it’s green they say;
On the far side of the hill.
Green, green, I’m going away;
To where the grass is greener still.
Barry, if you’re going to the west coast of the Scottish Highlands, you’ll reach your destination.
The locals are swift to point out that there are two primary reasons for the perpetual vegetation. The first is the warm water of the Gulf Stream that makes its way out of the Gulf of Mexico, around Florida, and then up and across the ocean, eventually turning into the North Atlantic Drift. Where we are is as far north as the Hudson Bay in Canada — where the sea freezes over in winter. But not here, thanks to that curious flow. Grab a globe and ponder that. The science of it should make us all want to be more involved with creation care. We must not forget our stewardship obligation, entrusted to us by God.
The second reason our new neighbors say it’s always green is year-round rain. There’s an age-old adage in Scotland: “You know it’s summer because the rain is warmer.” It’s raining now. It comes and goes. The Scots all but ignore it.
A few hours ago I was working with a joiner — a profession you don’t hear a lot about in the States — on a two-century-old cast iron rain gutter. As we were moving a ladder, a momentary torrent blew through. The craftsman paid no mind to the rainfall. No duck and cover. Normal as the seagull’s squawks.
When you think about it, what many would consider an inconvenience actually brings the vibrance. And if it ceases to be bothersome, you’re only left with the beauty. I pray we all can, as much as possible, tune out life’s tolerable frustrations and focus on the splendor.
Suffering in Silence
16/01/24 07:53
The message from the minister at the Free Church of Scotland in Kyle of Lochalsh this past Sunday was from Luke, Chapter 8. It brought to mind a devotional I contributed for a Days of Lent book that M. J. Murdock Charitable Trust published in 2016. With the news from back home of friends of friends recently passing, I thought I would recirculate it.
The compacted crowd in Luke 8 would have made a claustrophobic hyperventilate. Despite the congestion, a woman with a chronic condition wormed her way through the throng and reached her intended target: the garment of a rabbi whose authority was to be her remedy. Instantly, he felt a discharge of power. Immediately, she felt years of hemorrhaging and hardship end.
The story of the afflicted woman is certainly one of faith and determination. But it goes deeper. Knowing what we do about her condition, and factoring in Jewish law, we likely have the saga of a woman who suffered in silence, living more than a decade in a culture that would have considered her unclean.
In this life there will be suffering, be it related to physical pain or mental anguish. It’s hard enough to endure when you have friends to fall back on, but to suffer solo amplifies the agony. We need to cast our cares on Christ, but we also need to be in community where we can seek solace and share the hurts of our heart. Ephesians describes this as “bearing with one another in love.”
I find it interesting that Jesus did not let the woman be cured incognito. He called her out from the crowd so she could tell her story. I’d like to think that she was quickly surrounded by peers with whom she could lose her cares and find her voice.
Christians should never suffer in silence—or allow others to do so.
PRAYER:
Loving Jesus, no one understands suffering like you do. Thank you for enduring the agony of the cross and the devastation of separation from your Father so I can embrace sacred assurances in the midst of my infirmities and grasp divine hope in the midst of my heartaches. Open my eyes to others around me who desperately need my presence and your promises in their times of suffering. Give me a deep desire to serve them selflessly. I ask this in your powerful, abiding, and comforting name, Amen.
The compacted crowd in Luke 8 would have made a claustrophobic hyperventilate. Despite the congestion, a woman with a chronic condition wormed her way through the throng and reached her intended target: the garment of a rabbi whose authority was to be her remedy. Instantly, he felt a discharge of power. Immediately, she felt years of hemorrhaging and hardship end.
The story of the afflicted woman is certainly one of faith and determination. But it goes deeper. Knowing what we do about her condition, and factoring in Jewish law, we likely have the saga of a woman who suffered in silence, living more than a decade in a culture that would have considered her unclean.
In this life there will be suffering, be it related to physical pain or mental anguish. It’s hard enough to endure when you have friends to fall back on, but to suffer solo amplifies the agony. We need to cast our cares on Christ, but we also need to be in community where we can seek solace and share the hurts of our heart. Ephesians describes this as “bearing with one another in love.”
I find it interesting that Jesus did not let the woman be cured incognito. He called her out from the crowd so she could tell her story. I’d like to think that she was quickly surrounded by peers with whom she could lose her cares and find her voice.
Christians should never suffer in silence—or allow others to do so.
PRAYER:
Loving Jesus, no one understands suffering like you do. Thank you for enduring the agony of the cross and the devastation of separation from your Father so I can embrace sacred assurances in the midst of my infirmities and grasp divine hope in the midst of my heartaches. Open my eyes to others around me who desperately need my presence and your promises in their times of suffering. Give me a deep desire to serve them selflessly. I ask this in your powerful, abiding, and comforting name, Amen.
Who Do You Know?
13/01/24 13:00
The phrase living in community has become popular in recent years. I’ve heard it defined as “becoming family with the people around you.” Here in Scotland, we’ve decided to not just move into a cottage, but into a community. In the short time we’ve been here, we’ve gotten acquainted with probably 15 of the locals — which I think is about three percent of the population.
But word is circulating that outlanders from Colorado are holed up in Tigh-na-Dalach, down on Bank Street, and they plan to stay for a while. Who would be doo-lally enough to do that in January, the abyss of low season? Such notoriety will likely lead us to meet quite a few more folks.
The residents we’ve gotten to know so far are ordinary Scots…at first blush. But beneath those Rab jackets and plaid scarfs are friendly, hearty people with interesting tales to tell. Take Annag. She runs a croft at the top of the hill and raises Highland cattle, pigs, sheep, and chickens. She supplies the locals with eggs and chutney and serves takeaway farm meals to summer tourists. When she stopped by to check on us the other day, she said she had just been swimming. Judi wondered aloud where the indoor pool was. “In the sea, Dearie,” she proclaimed to our amazement. “I swim at Coral Beach all year long. I swam on Christmas and Boxing Day,” she continued. She usually stays in the ocean for 20 minutes, then gets out and walks home! We’ve been invited to go swimming.
Then there’s elderly Callum. We met him while trying to find the trail to Duncraig Castle. He was on his daily walk from his house, through town, and up the hill to the railroad station. He told us to go park our car and he would meet us on the road opposite the trailhead. We got back and there he was on the frosty sidewalk, pointing to the path with his white cane. Callum is blind. For years he ran the broadsheet (newspaper) shop in town. He greeted everyone who came through the door by name when they said hello because he knew all their voices.
Rhona and her husband live three doors down. They run the local brewery, which is in their backyard. He was a naval captain. When he retired, because there were no jobs to fit his needs or fulfill his desires, he found a new niche: supplying the area pubs with a local favorite. Rhona is showing us the best places to trek.
We’ve also met Angus, the butcher who taught us how to cook haggis; and Kirstine, who just moved to town to join the teaching staff at the primary school; and Rory, who instructed me as to which brand of coal burns hotter and cleaner. We’re getting to know them one by one. Maybe in church tomorrow we’ll get to know a few more. Who will you meet tomorrow that will join your community?
All names changed for privacy reasons.
But word is circulating that outlanders from Colorado are holed up in Tigh-na-Dalach, down on Bank Street, and they plan to stay for a while. Who would be doo-lally enough to do that in January, the abyss of low season? Such notoriety will likely lead us to meet quite a few more folks.
The residents we’ve gotten to know so far are ordinary Scots…at first blush. But beneath those Rab jackets and plaid scarfs are friendly, hearty people with interesting tales to tell. Take Annag. She runs a croft at the top of the hill and raises Highland cattle, pigs, sheep, and chickens. She supplies the locals with eggs and chutney and serves takeaway farm meals to summer tourists. When she stopped by to check on us the other day, she said she had just been swimming. Judi wondered aloud where the indoor pool was. “In the sea, Dearie,” she proclaimed to our amazement. “I swim at Coral Beach all year long. I swam on Christmas and Boxing Day,” she continued. She usually stays in the ocean for 20 minutes, then gets out and walks home! We’ve been invited to go swimming.
Then there’s elderly Callum. We met him while trying to find the trail to Duncraig Castle. He was on his daily walk from his house, through town, and up the hill to the railroad station. He told us to go park our car and he would meet us on the road opposite the trailhead. We got back and there he was on the frosty sidewalk, pointing to the path with his white cane. Callum is blind. For years he ran the broadsheet (newspaper) shop in town. He greeted everyone who came through the door by name when they said hello because he knew all their voices.
Rhona and her husband live three doors down. They run the local brewery, which is in their backyard. He was a naval captain. When he retired, because there were no jobs to fit his needs or fulfill his desires, he found a new niche: supplying the area pubs with a local favorite. Rhona is showing us the best places to trek.
We’ve also met Angus, the butcher who taught us how to cook haggis; and Kirstine, who just moved to town to join the teaching staff at the primary school; and Rory, who instructed me as to which brand of coal burns hotter and cleaner. We’re getting to know them one by one. Maybe in church tomorrow we’ll get to know a few more. Who will you meet tomorrow that will join your community?
All names changed for privacy reasons.
